The Scent of Magic

THE SCENT OF MAGIC

Jay Seaborg

Writers Club Press

New York Lincoln Shanghai

The Scent Of Magic

Copyright © 2001 by Jay Seaborg

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Contents

C H A P T E R 1

C H A P T E R 2

C H A P T E R 3

C H A P T E R 4

C H A P T E R 5

C H A P T E R 6

C H A P T E R 7

C H A P T E R 8

C H A P T E R 9

C H A P T E R 10

C H A P T E R 11

C H A P T E R 12

C H A P T E R 13

C H A P T E R 14

C H A P T E R 15

C H A P T E R 16

C H A P T E R 17

C H A P T E R 18

C H A P T E R 19

C H A P T E R 20

C H A P T E R 21

C H A P T E R 22

C H A P T E R 23

About the Author

For Maria, Erin, and Kristin

C H A P T E R 1

PONTICAR

The city of Ponticar squatted malignantly on the coast, a cesspool of power and corruption. For more than five centuries its squalid ugliness had grown until it had become the most infamous of the cities of Nestoria. Ponticar sent tentacles out into the surrounding countryside year after year, building a web of trading houses backed by an army and fleet, all dedicated to the same purpose; extending the influence of the city until it was the mightiest on the continent. Ponticar was envied for its riches and feared for its power.

Many caravans plied the trade routes between Ponticar and the interior. Her harbor was so crowded with ships that at times it seemed one could walk from one side of the bay to the other without getting wet. There were profits to be made in Ponticar, and its evil reputation did little to change its status as the leading trading city on the continent.

On one of the million days of Ponticar’s long life, a caravan approached the city from the interior. A youngster named Rolf Hynasson stood in the road and stared in open-mouthed wonder at the city that lay stretched before him. Behind him lay the Dark Forest, ahead the great trading road leading to the city gates. Streaming by him were the men and animals that made up the caravan that had been his home for the past two weeks. The Dark Forest was not a place to travel alone, unless one was very brave or very foolish. Rolf considered himself neither. He had purchased a place for himself in the caravan at Unstad. It had been expensive but he was here in one piece, and that was the important thing.

His hair, normally the color of cinnamon, was bleached a chalky white from the dust of the road. He shifted his bag from his broad shoulders with a sigh and rested it on the ground. Rolf had the stocky build, thick forearms and strong wrists of a farmer, an occupation he had spent most of his twenty years mastering. He had an open, pleasant face, one more suited to laughter than anger, with eyes that matched his hair and the beginnings of a beard. One of the first things to be done once he settled in the city would be to find a place to clean up. The discomfort he felt from the filth coating every inch of his body was forgotten momentarily, however, as he gazed at Ponticar.

Rolf could not tear his eyes away from the city that, until now, had been nothing more than a name to him. Legend had not outstripped reality; the metropolis was impressive beyond anything he could have imagined. He saw tall towers as high as mountain peaks, with bright pennants fluttering in the strong sea breeze. Huge trading roads led into the city in three different locations, each wide enough to accommodate thousands of men and animals at once. The dust from the traffic created fluffy brown clouds that hung for a moment over the roads before being blown to bits by winds from the Asperian Sea offshore.

Rolf could not take it all in at once. His home, many hundreds of miles away, was a small village in the Great Grasslands. Fewer than three hundred people lived there and he could see a hundred times that number moving on the roads, a sea of color and sound. Rumor had it that more than five million people lived in Ponticar, and now he believed it.

Move, boy, before you end up trampled, a guard said gruffly as he passed by. No time for daydreaming.

Rolf stirred himself, shifted his backpack to a more comfortable position and started down the long slope to the city. Despite the majesty of the view, or perhaps because of it, small fingers of doubt began to clutch at his gut. How would he ever survive in such a place? Where would he stay? True, he had letters of introduction from his teacher, but would that be enough? He had heard that the Magician’s Guild was very particular about applicants to the Institute. But that was why he had come after all, wasn’t it? He had successfully passed the first level of training, and he was ready for more. He had no delusions about his abilities compared to the skilled magicians of Ponticar, but he was not without some skill.

As he got closer to the city it became at once more impressive and more disappointing. The nearer he came to the great wall surrounding it, the larger Ponticar looked. It stretched out of sight in either direction as far as he could see, seemingly going on forever. However, in more than a few places the masonry was crumbling and badly in need of repair. Vines grew from the wall, anchored in small pockets of soil that had accumulated in the cracks and pits of the surface.

The breeze brought with it a peculiar odor unfamiliar to Rolf, a sour unpleasant smell. Ponticar reeked of the sea, fisheries, and an undefinable sort of miasma of corruption and decay. And something else, which caused him to wrinkle his nose and pray for a relief which would not come.

Rolf quickly forgot the stench as he entered the city. Passing through the great gates he stared in awe at the scene which greeted him. Crowded streets bursting with color and sound, thousands of people heading about on errands, shops and stores and buildings unlike anything he had ever seen. The city was so...alive, like some sort of vast organism that had settled on this land.

He was here at last, here in Ponticar. Who else from his village could say as much? He did not notice it, but his misgivings were washed away by the vibrancy of Ponticar. It might be a den of iniquity, as he had been warned by elders in his village, but it was undeniably interesting.

He trailed along with the caravan toward the center of the city. Although Rolf was no traveler he knew enough about the ways of Ponticar to know he needed identification if he hoped to avoid trouble. Here, he was just another faceless person until he had the proper papers. Even out in his village he had heard of how the authorities in the city were cracking down on illegal immigrants. Rolf in his innocence supposed that the authorities wanted to keep the size of the city down, but in reality it was because they were finding it difficult to collect the taxes that made the city run. It was relatively easy to enter the city. Rolf did not yet know how difficult it would be to leave.

Presently, he found himself in a small room facing one of Ponticar’s bureaucrats. The man wore a scarlet tunic with a sunburst over the left breast, the sign of a Ponticarian official. His close-set eyes scanned Rolf’s letters without any outward sign of emotion.

A magician, are you? he laughed softly. You’ll find no shortage of those in Ponticar. Every whoreson fancies himself a wizard. And what brings you to our fair city?

Rolf had never heard of magicians being spoken of in such derogatory terms, and it took him a moment to collect himself. I am here to study at the Institute for Applied Metaphysics.

Yes, I can see where a village like yours would need the services of a magician. The man’s eyes slid over Rolf from head to toe as he stroked his chin slowly. A fine looking lad like you should have no problem here. Still, it never hurts to have friends in high places. I, myself, have some pull here and would be happy to put in a good word for you. Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner.

No...no...that is, I mean I have an appointment with the Guildmaster... Rolf’s voice trailed off.

"Impossible tonight. He won’t see you until tomorrow at the earliest. That leaves you at least one night free to sample the pleasures that

Ponticar has to offer. I can promise you there is nothing to compare to it in the backward village you hail from."

No doubt you are right, Rolf said, frantically trying to recover his wits. The man stood and walked slowly toward him forcing Rolf to begin backtracking across the room. I still have things I must do to get ready for the interview.

The official seemed amused by Rolf’s nervousness. Pity, he said softly, reaching out to gently trace the curve of Rolf’s cheek with a pudgy finger. Another time perhaps.

Rolf was never so happy to leave a room in his life. He felt like he needed a bath, and it had nothing to do with the grime from the trail. He had experienced the first of many new things he would find in Ponticar.

Mayor’s Palace, Ponticar

Built on a hill overlooking the harbor, the Palace of the Mayor was an impressive building. The massive gray walls were made of granite blocks quarried in the Missark Massif and hauled overland from mines in the Central Highlands more than two hundred years before. The palace was an appropriate symbol for Ponticar, overpowering and overwhelmingly arrogant.

Gustav Feodorsson, Mayor of Ponticar, stood by a window built high in the wall, gazing at the surface of the slate-gray sea, his hands clasped behind him, and his ears listening to the babble from the council table. A tall man with an aristocratic face, he prided himself on his ability to retain his calm at all times, and he never needed that ability more than when it was necessary to call a council meeting. The skill had served him well in the past, but he could feel that it was slipping away at the moment.

Arrayed around the huge table was the City Council, a group that was made up of every Guildmaster in the city, plus the Commander of the Army and the Admiral of the Fleet. As Feodorsson turned back to his place they suddenly quieted, waiting to see what he would do. It was the first such silence in more than two hours.

The problem with being in charge, he thought, is that everyone automatically assumes you know much more about a given situation than they do. That was usually the case with this group, but now he was as troubled as his ministers. He took his seat and picked up the parchment laying on the table, buying time by re-reading the message he already knew by heart.

This was received three days ago? Good time getting it here, he commented.

One of our outposts near Arenal took it, General Erickson said. As you know, the last expedition we sent there never returned. We’ve kept outposts there ever since.

When was that? asked the Guildmaster of the Merchants.

Two decades ago. I was just a lieutenant then but I still remember it as if it were yesterday. Three thousand infantry, more than two thousand cavalry, just disappeared without a trace.

Why were they sent at all? Isn’t the Northlands home to Giants and Ogres?

The General and Mayor exchanged a look. Perhaps, the General replied cautiously. But only if you believe in children’s stories, Master Toomey. We wanted to make contact with whoever lives there. It doesn’t pay to have unknown territory on your borders. Too many nasty surprises that way.

As you say, General, Toomey replied. Still, despite children’s stories it would seem that there is something out there sure of its own power. How else to interpret that? This said with a small gesture toward the scroll in the Mayor’s hand.

How indeed? the Mayor asked. He began reading aloud. To the city which calls itself Ponticar, greetings. The Children of Heaven wish to establish diplomatic relations with Ponticar for the purpose of ensuring prosperity and security for both nations. Our ambassadors will arrive at the city called by you Arenal, five days after the full moon. We expect the relationship to be a cordial one, so only a minimal escort will accompany the mission. Your servant under the All Father, Cordon II, Lord of the North.

Bishop Tehice squirmed indignantly in his seat. The All Father? That pagan religion was stamped out centuries ago! What sort of people are these that follow an outdated heresy such as that?

I am more troubled by his title than his beliefs, the Mayor replied. Lord of the North? That has the sound of someone running an empire and therefore warrants our full attention. General, order the Third Legion to provide an escort for whatever emerges from the North. In the meantime, you might want to send a few men in to scout the roads. Information is our main need now.

I have already ordered all troops on standby alert. The Legion will be on the road at first light.

The Master of Shipbuilders, a stocky broad-shouldered man named Taalin asked, Are you planning any other steps? If you plan on building up the navy, we’ll need to decide quickly on a fair price for the ships.

Profit before defense, eh Taalin? the Admiral said sarcastically. He and the Master of Ships had butted heads on dozens of occasions over the years and there was no love lost between them.

I just don’t want this ‘crisis’ to be an excuse to gouge my Guild, Taalin replied coldly. Patriotism is fine for the masses. Keeps them in line and happy to work. But let us be honest in here at least. As a member of the Council I’ve a right to know what we are planning in any case.

There were murmurs of agreement from the other Guild representatives around the table. If this note meant an emergency, each was planning how best to exploit that for the benefit of their Guild. All had benefited from Ponticar’s rise to power, but that same rise had created friction between the various Guilds on one side and the military on the other, a rivalry that Feodorsson did his best to encourage. It kept the Council divided, which suited his purposes perfectly.

Don’t play that game with me, the Admiral snarled. We both know patriotism for you extends no farther than your wallet.

Why you pompous...!

Gentlemen, we have no time for this foolishness! the Mayor thundered, his patience snapping at last. The uncharacteristic outburst quieted the room immediately, extinguishing the argument like a bucket of water thrown onto a bed of coals. We may have the luxury of name calling at another time, but not now.

The Metalworkers Guildmaster said, I do not see the problem. We are to receive an ambassador. Surely we’ve practice enough with that. There are always a dozen or so here at any time.

True enough. But we do not often receive requests to establish relationships with nations entirely unknown to us, nations sufficiently informed to know the name of our principal cities, and located in an area that swallowed up five thousand of the Empire’s best troopers a scant twenty years ago. The Mayor paused to let that sink in before continuing.

We will, of course, plant agents in their entourage at the first opportunity. But it seems obvious that they have already placed agents amongst us and that puts us at a disadvantage. I do not like being at a disadvantage. We still need to know exactly what we are facing and quickly, so that we can plan our actions.

The meeting took on a different tone as they began discussing their options. Hours later, tired and frustrated from the strain of working together, the Council filed out of the palace and back to their respective Guild Halls. The Mayor watched them go with relief and began to make plans of his own. It was high time to dissolve the Council. Ponticar needed a system that allowed for quicker action, and he was determined to use this situation to implement one of his own long-range plans. If he was successful the Mayor would rule the city alone. As it should be.

Magician’s Guild House, Ponticar

Well past midnight a light burned in a window of the Magician’s Hall. Thorin Servinsson, Guildmaster of the Magicians, sat at his desk, idly twirling a quill pen between his long slender fingers. He had a thin face, with piercing eyes, looking as if a bird of prey had somehow been transmuted into human form. His secretary, Bruno, sat comfortably in a chair facing the desk, patiently awaiting a decision from his master.

Servinsson finally tossed the pen to the desk and rubbed his beard thoughtfully. It would seem the Mayor is doing everything a prudent man should do.

But... prompted Bruno.

Servinsson laughed. "There are times when it is a disadvantage having a longtime secretary. But this, then; I wonder if there is more here than a chance meeting between two nations. As you know, there are other things afoot out there on the borderlands that might be connected to this. If we know it, certainly the Mayor knows it as well. His methods may differ from ours, but we both know his information network is formidable.

Which is why I wonder that he did not bring any of this up at the meeting."

You mean those tales from the Yanico hunters? I thought we dismissed them as imaginings from men who had been too long in the mountains. Dragons in the Missark Massif? There have been no confirmed sightings in more than three hundred years. They must be extinct.

Perhaps. Perhaps not. We know almost nothing about the far north. There might well be some nest that has survived all these years. I admit I have not spent any time or energy worrying about the area until recently, a lapse I now regret. That should be a lesson to me in the future if I hope to remain Guildmaster. I, more than anyone, should know that everything matters, from the most catastrophic event to the most commonplace happening.

If you are that concerned, why not perform a Viewing? I would bet a year’s salary there is nothing to concern us there. It may be that there is, in fact, some sort of kingdom beyond the mountains, but Ponticar is not without resources of its own if we find it threatening to our safety.

So you would think. Let me show you something. Perhaps you will change your mind.

Servinsson reached to a shelf behind him and took down a Viewing Globe. Made of the finest grade crystal available, its natural characteristics had been magically enhanced so that a magician could use it to observe virtually anywhere he wished. If he desired, he could even view a specific individual or location, thought the rituals for that sort of accuracy were both time-consuming and tiring, and he did feel up to them at the moment. The Guild possessed a half dozen known Globes, used to link the outlying Lodges with the Guild Hall in Ponticar. What was a carefully guarded secret was that the Guild also had dozens of Globes which had been keyed to certain individuals of importance so that their actions could be monitored. For the good of the Guild of course.

Servinsson’s hands made a few quick passes, and he muttered the activating spell in True Speech. Within seconds, a light began to emanate from the globe, resolving itself into a picture of a deserted city street. They could just make out tall mountains in the background, with a black plain stretching out beyond the city walls.

Recognize this? he asked Bruno.

Arenal. I’ve been there. Not much to see out that way. Barbaric customs. Why, there was only one decent bath house in the entire city.

Imagine that, Servinsson said with a smile. Bruno was fastidious, and a frontier town like Arenal would no doubt strain his sensibilities. You are a snob, he said without rancor. Watch now. I am going to extend the range and move beyond the river. Let us see if that plain is as uninhabited as it appears.

The impression was of being a bird flying over the city as the scene shifted. They were above the city walls, then beyond them and moving into the territory beyond the river that twisted its way around Arenal’s walls. As they approached the river they could see in the moonlight that the plain was carpeted with short grass waving softly in the breeze.

The river flashed below them, swift-flowing and white with rapids as it made its way to the sea. There was a brief glimpse of the far bank as they shot over the surface of the water, then the globe went opaque.

What happened? Bruno asked in surprise.

A spell of some sort. Powerful. The entire Northland is warded against a Viewing. I find that curious and troubling. It means they have magicians of their own, and powerful ones at that if they can guard an entire region.

Bruno frowned. Can you not pierce this spell somehow?

Perhaps. I have not yet tried anything stronger than a normal Viewing. I think for the time being we shall allow whoever controls this magic to believe they are safe. Still think there is nothing to worry about?

What if they are viewing us? Bruno fretted.

I am not senile, Servinsson said as he replaced the globe. Of course, I have taken precautions here in Ponticar, and all Lodgemasters were immediately instructed to do the same everywhere in the Empire. A spell of Illusion to show normal activity. That should keep prying eyes from prying deeper.

What did the Mayor say about this? He saw the look on the Guildmaster’s face. You didn’t tell him? But he must know. This changes everything and makes the meeting all the more important.

It changes nothing. The Guild is more important than the present government of Ponticar. It may be to our advantage for the Mayor to believe we are stronger than is the case. I have seen subtle signs in Council lately that he would like nothing better than to have it out of his way. We both know he seeks total power and has imperial ambitions. This introduces new variables and we must see where they lead us.

As you say, Bruno said, sounding far from convinced. Anything you wish me to do?

Step up our surveillance operations. There are bound to be rumors flying about as this meeting approaches. Anything regarding the north, no matter how trivial, is to be brought to my attention immediately. See if you can find those Yanico hunters before they leave the city. We should have them back here for another chat. Maybe we missed something the first time. At the very least, we can make them into another set of eyes and ears for us.

It shall be done.

Good. Go and get some sleep.

Servinsson stared moodily into the fire after his secretary scuttled out. At the moment, he would have traded a good bit of the Guild’s wealth for some solid information concerning who or what was responsible for a protection spell powerful enough to cover hundreds of miles. Despite his assurances to Bruno, he was deeply worried about his own ability to erect a protective barrier against this new Power. This might be a time when old-fashioned human effort was more important than magic. He went to his bed, knowing full well that his dreams would be troubled.

Missark Massif

Six men were gathered around the small fire, holding their hands out for warmth. Mountains rose around them on all sides, and the fire itself was a mere pinpoint of light in the vast darkness. The men were hunters of the Yanico, the fleet-footed mountain goat of the high ranges whose soft fur was prized by the Lowlanders. The men were born and bred for life in the peaks and feared nothing about the mountains. Yet they were worried and frightened.

It’s a sign I tell you, and no good will come of it, said Mikita, the grimmest member of the little band. The others knew that Mikita could be counted on to put things in the harshest light possible. In his own way he performed a valuable service since things were rarely as bad as he pictured them to be. But this time no one spoke up to contradict him.

Could be so, muttered Loshita, the youngest of the hunters. Question is, what’s to be done about it, eh?

Silence greeted that question since it was the one foremost in all of their minds and the one for which there seemed no immediate answer. They had all seen the fiery trails in the night sky and had listened spellbound to the terrible roars echoing from hidden canyons somewhere farther to the north. Unlike the barbarians below, they knew full well that dragons still lived. Every decade or so a hunter would sight one of the ancient beasts, and most huts had some old scales that had been sloughed off in some long-forgotten molting season. They were used as cookware since they were fire resistant and durable. What had changed recently was the number of sightings, and there were unconfirmed reports of the great reptiles carrying off some of the hardy little cattle they raised for food.

Heard tales from my grandpap about something like this happening to his grandfather. Things came out of their hiding places for a few years then faded back again, offered another.

Dragons are huge and ugly, but they’s just animals all the same. Nokita was the leader of this band, and his word carried much weight. What troubles me is what’s driving them out of their nests. Might be that the Northmen are rising again. Heard that the Red Branch Clan saw soldiers moving on the roads. Roads that have been empty for years now. Moving south and east. Smells like trouble to me.

Let the Lowlanders kill each other says I, Mikita spat into the fire. Then we can be left alone.

Your head is in your arse again, Mikita, Nokita said as the others laughed softly. Who would buy our pelts? Where do our tools come from? Lowlanders. Our best weapons? Lowlanders. Nothing is as it was in the old days you keep harping about. Like it or not, we’re tied together and if they fall we won’t be far behind.

What can we do about it? another hunter asked.

Keep our eyes open. We may not trust the Lowlanders and they are not like us, but we’ve never had any luck at all with the Northmen. Or have you all forgotten the raids a few years back? At least with the Ponticarians we have historic ties, and they won’t let the Yanico trade fall easily. As long as they want and need our furs they’ll have a stake in our survival too. Better the devil you can live with than the one you can’t.

Maybe this time the Northmen would open trade as well, Loshita offered.

Our range used to extend all the way to the Northern Sea. Northmen pushed our people back farther and farther into the mountains. We now live more than a hundred miles from the ocean. That’s how friendly the Northmen are. At least with the Lowlanders we are not shot on sight. Northmen burned us out and killed us off. Carried off our women. They are not to be trusted, not under any circumstances, Nokita said with the finality of command.

Either way, there’s bad times coming for us. Bad times, Mikita said darkly.

C H A P T E R 2

THE INSTITUTE, PONTICAR

The gate to the compound that housed the Institute was far plainer than Rolf had imagined it would be. There was nothing to distinguish the pillars other than a small brass plate with the full title upon it. He did not yet realize just how much time and energy went into concealing the workings of the school and of the parent guild, that of the Magicians. Rolf had expected opulence and found simplicity. His dreams of being looked at as something special were already dead. In order to find the school at all, he had been forced to ask directions three times, much to his embarrassment.

He needed no further humiliating. After leaving the official’s office he had gone in search of rooms, confident that in a city the size of Ponticar there would be hundreds of rooms available. He quickly discovered two things: one, that the people of the city regarded outsiders as unsophisticated rustics; and two, the rooms were much more expensive that he had anticipated. At least for rooms in a respectable section of town. The only affordable place he could find was located over a tavern near the harbor that apparently served as a center for every out of work seaman in

Ponticar. The drunken uproar from the taproom had kept him awake well past midnight and he wondered how he was going to get any studying done.

When Rolf had asked the way to the Institute it brought directions as well as condescending comments about his accent, the cut of his clothes, even the manner in which he wore his hair. In less time than it took to walk a mile he had developed a deep hatred of Ponticarians in general and the city in particular. He had no idea that he was merely experiencing the normal discomfort of the country dweller who is visiting the city for the first time. There was just no common ground on which he could meet the more sophisticated urbanites of Ponticar.

Rolf was thankful to finally locate the school. He paused for a moment to reflect that he was on the threshold of realizing the fondest dream of his life; to become a Magician. Once inside he would be a part of a whole new world. Rolf recalled the stories his teacher had told him about his own days as a student, tales that had fired Rolf’s imagination for years. Now he was finally here, and it all seemed just a bit unreal.

He walked confidently through the gates, only to be stopped short by a soldier who suddenly stepped from the shadows. Rolf recognized the insignia of the Home Guard, the unit charged with the protection of the city itself and with the safety of the Mayor of the city. A javelin pointed at Rolf’s heart kept the youngster at a distance.

What’s your business here, boy? he growled.

Rolf might have been more inclined to be insulted if he was not worried so much about being skewered by the weapon. Mustering as strong a voice as he could under the circumstances, he answered, I’m enrolled at the Institute for training.

The look the soldier gave him was far from complimentary. Hmmmph! Are you now? Papers!

Rolf hastily fumbled at his pouch and handed over the documents that carried his name and identification.

The soldier scanned it briefly. Padraic! Another soldier emerged and Rolf saw that there was a small guardhouse concealed behind one of the pillars of the gate. Go and inform Master Orinsson we have a new student.

Padraic loped off and the soldier motioned for Rolf to have a seat on a wooden bench. He did not seem inclined to conversation, so Rolf was left alone with his thoughts.

What if there was some mistake? His parents had given their life savings to send him here, betting on his ability to finish the course and emerge as a Master Magician. Rolf would then be in a position to provide for the family and get them off the tiny farm where they eked out their daily existence.

First he would have to be allowed in. He had not anticipated any problem in that area, assuming that the registration was already taken care of. It was another lesson in the danger of assumptions. Rolf had underestimated Ponticar so badly already that he began to wonder whether he was suited for life on his own at all. He promised himself that he would stay and be successful; the city would not beat him. Not that he had all that much choice in the matter since so much depended on him doing just that.

The guard had taken out a whetstone and was sharpening his sword with long, controlled strokes. He seemed perfectly content to attend to such a mundane task, and Rolf decided to at least try to imitate the man’s demeanor. No sense in betraying how utterly insignificant he felt at that moment.

Padraic reported back a few minutes later, panting slightly from his running. Trajan, I am to escort the visitor to the Main Hall. Master Orinsson wishes to see him privately in his study.

Trajan handed Rolf back his papers. Right. Off you go then and good luck.

Thank you, Rolf said in surprise, expecting at best another insult. He dutifully followed Padraic through a maze of buildings, lawns, and elaborately manicured gardens. He wondered how anyone ever found their way around. There were students of all ages and races strolling through the grounds as well, sometimes singly but more often than not in groups, hotly debating and arguing as they walked. He self-consciously noticed the looks they gave him and was intensely aware of how it must look to be escorted around by a soldier. He might as well have hung a sign over his shoulders that told the world he was a new, and therefore untried, student. There were no other soldiers anywhere on the grounds