“I—this is most unusual,” said the man at last. “But since you insist.”
“Thank you,” said Naomi.
The clerk slipped out from behind the lectern and up to the double doors. He knocked rapidly, then cracked the door open and slipped inside.
The weighted door swung shut behind him with a click.
Scorio crossed his arms, rested his weight on his heels, and waited.
“Nice stare,” said Naomi, leaning in. “I felt worried for the man.”
“With reason.”
One of the doors opened and the clerk slipped noiselessly back out. He insinuated himself behind the stand and smoothed back his immaculate gray hair. “The chancellor will be pleased to see you after he is finished with his current visitor. If you’ll step aside?”
“Here,” said a gray-haired man in military garb, his tone indignant, as he rose to his feet. “I’ve been waiting for three entire cycles. There’s rioting in the streets, people are dying, and now these students get to cut ahead of me?”
The clerk’s nostrils widened tremendously as the skin over his face seemed to harden and flush. He fixed the gentleman with wide eyes, and said in a deathly whisper, “I do not question the chancellor’s requests, Captain Neffen. I am but an instrument of order, which I seek to implement as best I can, when I can, under conditions that are not always optimal.”
“To hell with optimal conditions,” huffed the old man, but he sat back down. “Damned politicians.”
Scorio and Naomi stepped to one side, and for the next fifteen minutes stood in silence, studying a large painting that adorned the wall, its frame nearly as impressive as the canvas itself, which portrayed the culmination of a great battle in the depths of hell. A heroic figure limned in radiant light stood in the center of the chaos, gazing with bleak sternness at a dark figure that had fallen back against the rocks, a golden sword impaled in his chest. Around them, horrific monsters reared back in dismay, while handsome men and women, many of them gravely wounded, looked ready to cheer.
“The Death of Arch Fiend Marchon,” read Scorio quietly, the words engraved on a bronze plaque. “Anno 323.”
“Want to wager nobody even remembers who Marchon was?” asked Naomi. “I’ve never heard him mentioned, and that’s having sat in several years’ worth of history classes.”
“Arch Fiend.” Scorio rubbed at his chin. “Lianshi mentioned True Fiends, too. What the Imperators are fighting at the Pit?”
“That’s advanced material, though. You’ll not learn anything else about them in our introductory classes.”
“Do you know anything about them?”
Naomi shrugged one shoulder. “Not really. I’m not that invested in what’s happening on the other side of hell. Bastion’s been hell enough by my reckoning.”
The double doors opened, and a delegation of men and women emerged, all of them bearing the golden House Kraken crest on their robes. They had clearly just finished saying their goodbyes and turned as they emerged to walk down the hallway in a tight group, some of their expressions tight with annoyance, others serenely indifferent.
“Student Scorio,” said the clerk with a voice akin to octs being clicked down upon a counter. “Please enter.”
Scorio stared at the man as he walked by, and with Naomi stepped inside Praximar’s office.
Who was standing to one side of the large office, his huge desk illuminated by the bright light of Amber, its surface now busy with piles of documents and rolled-up scrolls. Praximar was at a sideboard, stoppering a cut crystal decanter, and turned with a genial smile to regard the both of them.
“Scorio and Naomi. What a delayed delight. To be honest, I had expected your visit weeks earlier, but I should not have underestimated your obstinacy. Please, be seated.”
Scorio stepped up beside the half-dozen chairs arrayed before the desk, but remained standing. “Chancellor Praximar. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”
“Oh, no thanks are necessary.” Praximar made his way back to his desk and sat in his chair with obvious relief. “You have been much on my mind, Scorio! A clever ploy, to speak to House Chimera before I could whisper sweet nothings in Selena’s ear. But I fear you’ve cut off your ear to spite your face. You’ve trained hard, I’ve heard, but not yet reached Emberling. That puts you at a disadvantage, does it not?”
“Perhaps,” said Scorio, schooling his features to grim neutrality.
“And Naomi! Now that is a surprise. I’d heard you’d fled our Academy for more suitable climes. You’ve missed a tremendous amount of schooling. I assume you’re here to beg for clemency?”
“I’d rather die than beg,” said Naomi sweetly, “so on that score you’re wrong.”
Praximar’s smile hardened. “That being so, I fear your academic career might be over. It’s imperiled by your truancy.”
“I’ve come to ask your leniency on that front,” said Scorio. “Naomi is to round out my team of four when we attempt the Gauntlet in two weeks’ time. Without her, I’d be at a disadvantage.”
“But only if you lack her presence? How amusing. Your other two companions would be Lianshi and Leonis? Solid choices, if uninspired. No, I’m afraid we must maintain standards here at the Academy. One simply cannot skip nearly a third of the semester and then expect to return as if nothing had been amiss.”
“Are you so sure, Chancellor?” Something in Scorio’s tone, his mild amusement, his confidence, caused Praximar’s eyes to narrow. “After all, it cannot be of great benefit to the Academy if the public learns that natural-born students are so disdainful of its utility that they choose to leave it of their own accord.”
“You apprehend the source of my annoyance,” said Praximar smoothly. “But this is the second time she’s walked away. We are not so forgiving or lenient with our reputation.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to have her wash out?” asked Scorio, running a finger along the top of the chair and then inspecting it for dust. “To have her take part in a compromised team, and fail to make the cut? To wash out with the lower half of the cohort, and to thus be discarded out of hand by the Academy, instead of the other way round?”
Naomi was staring straight ahead, lips pursed, jaw clenched.
“An interesting argument,” murmured Praximar. “But you are far too full of surprises, Scorio. I would not put it past you to reach Emberling before the Gauntlet run, and, with Naomi’s assistance, do sufficiently well to pass the cut-off mark.”
“Perhaps. But I’ve sworn an oath to Jova Spike that I’ll leave the Academy of my own volition if I don’t make it farther into the Gauntlet than she does.”
“Is that so?” Praximar sat up, eyes gleaming. “Well, that was an improvident wager.”
“So I propose the following. Allow Naomi to join my team, and if we fail to do better than Jova Spike, she and I will both allow you to frame our leaving the Academy in whichever terms you wish.”
“You would swear a Heart Oath to this?”
“I would,” said Scorio.
“Naomi?”
“Sure,” she said, voice dry, disinterested. “Another lie won’t make a difference.”
“Intriguing.” Praximar rubbed a finger over his lips. “Though I can’t help but wonder what your game is, Scorio. You cannot be in your right mind if you think you stand a chance against Jova Spike and her team. Foolish bravado, perhaps? Some desperate hope that she’ll suffer an accident early on within the Gauntlet, allowing your more average results to surpass hers?”
“Does it matter?” Scorio held Praximar’s gaze with utter disdain. “You want me out. You want Naomi out. My reputation is already in ruins. None of the four Houses will offer me employment. What better way to round out your victory than having us both agree to whatever tale you choose to spin? A more complete victory I can’t imagine.”