Waylian had already proved his mettle more than once; surely this was nothing by comparison. Hells — he’d saved the city from an infestation of ravenous ghouls and come out the other side unscathed.
Well, almost unscathed.
It was time to step up and finally prove himself, to Gelredida, to his fellow students, maybe even to the Crucible. A fire was about to consume Steelhaven, a horde bent on slaughter and destruction, and Waylian had to play his part to avert the city’s annihilation. He trusted Gelredida, even if he didn’t always understand her actions. She had the city’s best interests at heart and he would do his utmost to aid her in any way he could.
So, when he finally found the orphanage, Waylian began to wonder what in the hells this could have to do with the safety of the city.
It was a plain square building surrounded by a high stone wall. The roof was covered in ancient slates, some skewed dangerously as though they might fall at any moment taking a dozen of their fellows with them. Waylian wouldn’t have housed pigs in there, let alone children.
He pushed open the black iron gate and walked inside the grounds. Stairs led up to a rotting oak door and as he took them he began to wonder if he was in the right place. The whole building looked just about ready to fall down. But then, this was Northgate where most of the buildings were in some state of disrepair. The place was still hard for Waylian to stomach, coming as he did from Ankavern, and the little town of Groffham with its affluent community of artisans and shopkeepers. It was a far cry from the sprawling hive of Steelhaven.
Girding himself for what he might find inside, Waylian raised the brass knocker and banged on the door. There was a bit of a wait, in which he rehearsed in his head how he’d introduce himself, how he’d display some of his magisterial authority. How he’d express his newfound courage.
When the door opened all that seemed to fade.
The man who stood there was huge, his gut hanging out from under a woollen shirt and dangling over his stripy britches. So faded and stained was the material that the stripes were barely visible, but Waylian tried not to dwell too long on the man’s nethers — although dwelling on his face wasn’t much better. His head was bald but for a crown of long lank hair that hung down past his ears in greasy locks. His teeth protruded over fat wormlike lips and here and there about his chin sprouted wisps of a ginger beard.
Waylian would not have put this man in charge of a scabrous donkey, let alone orphaned children.
‘Mister Fletcher?’ Waylian asked, all his former composure now fled.
‘Who wants to know?’ growled the man, his bloodshot eyes staring accusingly.
‘I’ve been sent from the Tower … of Magisters.’ Waylian feebly presented the sealed parchment Gelredida had given him.
Fletcher took it in one fat, sweaty hand and looked down at it, then up at Waylian, wrinkling his nose in suspicion.
‘What’s this about?’ Fletcher looked tense, like he was unsure whether to fight or flee, but then Waylian didn’t know which he wanted to do right now either.
‘I’ve come to take charge of one of your orphans. Josiah Klumm?’
At that Fletcher seemed to relax some. ‘Oh. Why didn’t you say so? Come in then.’ He turned and waddled off into the building.
The narrow corridor led into a massive hall. Rows of tables lined the chamber and sitting at them, busy with their labours, were scores of boys. Some looked almost in their teens whilst others were not that much older than toddlers, but each one was hard at work. It dawned on Waylian why the master of this place was called Fletcher, for each of the boys busied himself making arrows. Some whittled the shafts, while others fletched or affixed arrowheads. From the speed and industry they were displaying it looked as if they were trying to supply every unit of archers in Steelhaven.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Fletcher, gesturing to his charges. What, that you’re a profiteering bastard who makes coin from the labour of infants? ‘And no, they don’t like it in the Trades Quarter. But they can go shit. District commissioner says I can run my business any way I like and I’ve got the paperwork to prove it. Keeps these little fuckers off the streets anyway — so you could say I’m doing Northgate a service.’
Fletcher tousled the hair of one of the younger lads as he went by. The boy looked none too keen on being touched by those greasy hands, and Waylian couldn’t blame him.
‘So, is Josiah here or not?’ Waylian asked, only too eager to conclude his business and be on his way.
‘Dunno. Have to check, won’t I.’ Fletcher walked through the hall to a back room.
It appeared Fletcher didn’t even know the names of the children in his care. Seeing how they were being used, Waylian also guessed that the man couldn’t have cared less about any of them.
In the back room Fletcher grabbed a weathered ledger from a shelf and slammed it down on his desk raising a billow of dust. He opened it near the middle and began to paw it with his fat fingers.
‘Krumm, you say?’
‘No, Klumm,’ Waylian replied. ‘Josiah Klumm. I believe he’s around thirteen or fourteen.’
Fletcher turned a couple of pages until he found the one he wanted.
‘Ah yes, I remember now. Tall lad. Never said much.’ He looked up from the ledger. ‘He left a couple of years ago.’
‘A couple of years? Where’s he gone to?’
Fletcher consulted his ledger once more. ‘It says here someone from the Artisan’s College in the Trades Quarter took him. That’s all I’ve got.’
This wasn’t the news Waylian was hoping for. It appeared the first part of his mission was about to end in failure.
When back on the street Waylian thought about his next move. Gelredida had sent him to Northgate with two tasks. So far he’d failed in the first — but he wouldn’t report that just yet — not before he’d at least had a go at the second.
It was getting dark by the time Waylian found the other place in Northgate Gelredida had written down. An indistinct house on an indistinct terrace, the only thing that stood out about it was the pitch-coated lintel above the door. It had the word ‘Apothecary’ scrawled across in white spidery script.
Waylian paused at the door, glancing up and down the street. It was deserted. An apothecary located in this part of town was unusual in itself, but such a merchant should have been inundated with requests for tinctures and salves to remedy the numerous maladies caught from the insalubrious goings on around here. They should have been queuing down the street, but no — not a soul in sight.
Perhaps it was closed.
When he pulled the chain next to the door Waylian could hear a bell jingling inside. He didn’t have to wait long before a hatch in the door snapped back. A pair of piercing eyes stared at him through the iron grille.
‘Yes?’ The voice was deep, the word breathed out long and slow.
‘Hello,’ Waylian replied, starting to feel just a little nervous. ‘I’ve been sent from the Tower of Magisters with a … erm … request.’
A pause as those eyes regarded him unblinkingly. ‘What is the nature of this request?’
‘Can we talk inside?’ Waylian asked.
The hatch snapped shut and there was the sound of keys in mortice locks and the sliding snap of deadbolts being pushed open. The door slowly creaked open to reveal a tall man with dark, immaculately coiffured hair who duly moved aside to allow Waylian in. As soon as he stepped into the dark room the door was closed behind him and Waylian began to wonder if he should have stayed out on the street after all.
‘What can I do for you?’ said the man, lighting several more candles from the one he held in his long fingers.