The Grandmaster's Tale

The word slipped out before I could help it. The Grandmaster’s son would be born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Boscha had all the experience and connections to ensure his child entered society at a very high level, enough of both to make up for any … irregularities … in his birth. His son might be spoiled so rotten he could give Walter a run for his money when it came to being an entitled brat. Alan wasn't spoilt. He was a poor boy from the local orphanage, his mother dead and his father a mystery …

And yet, there was something oddly familiar about him.

“If that’s true,” Mistress Constance managed, “does Boscha know?”

“There’s no relatives listed in his file,” Madame Clover said. “I suspect not.”

I nodded. Boscha wouldn’t leave his son in an orphanage if he knew the boy existed. Even bastards had rights, in magical society. No one would fault him for not taking the child into his home, but … he should, at the very least, have ensured the kid was adopted by a decent couple and given a steady upbringing. There were quite a few common-born children whose so-called parents had been paid to take and raise them as their own. The lucky ones, I had often thought, were the ones who never realised they were adopted. The ones who did often had trouble coming to terms with the fact …

“He doesn’t know,” I muttered. Alan didn’t know either, or I was a monkey’s uncle. “Do we tell him?”

“No.” Mistress Constance’s voice was very firm. “Boscha doesn’t know. How’ll he react?”

I nodded, curtly. Boscha had no legitimate son. He wasn’t even married. He might … he might acknowledge the boy and take him into his household, or he might pretend the young man simply didn’t exist. Or … I hated to admit it, even of Boscha, but he might kill his bastard son. I knew at least one bastard who’d died under suspicious circumstances. No one knew for sure, but the general theory was that the poor kid’s stepmother had resented his presence and murdered him. Boscha had plenty of options if he wanted to dispose of his son in a manner that couldn’t be traced back to him.

A thought crossed my mind. He has the Grandmaster’s blood …

Someone knocked, hard. Madame Clover cancelled the privacy wards. “Come!”

A young girl peeked in, her eyes nervous. “The Grandmaster requests the presence of his senior tutors, immediately,” she said. “I …”

“Thank you,” I said, curtly. It was all too clear she expected to get in trouble for bringing bad news. I’d known tutors who’d punished the bearers of bad news … idiots. It was a great way to make sure no one told you anything they didn’t think they wanted to hear, including a battle being lost … a battle that could be won if you knew to send reinforcements before it was too late. “You may go.”

The girl fled, as if the hounds of all seven hells were after her. I groaned.

“Take care of Alan,” I said. “And Geraldine.”

Madame Clover nodded. I wondered, numbly, if she’d add the truth to Alan’s records. It was her duty, and yet it would be all too revealing, if someone looked at the scroll. Would Boscha bother to look? I didn’t know. There was no reason to think he knew or cared about Alan, even though Walter and his cronies had been using him as a punching bag for years. I scowled as we made our way up the stairs, the tension in the air so thick it could be cut with a knife. The last time I’d felt anything like it, my brothers and I had been trying to start a war …

“Ah, come in,” Boscha said. He was very genial for a man whose clients were on the verge of being expelled. I didn’t like the look of it. “Please. Sit.”

I sat, studying him thoughtfully. It was hard to believe he’d fathered Alan, but now I knew they were related I could see some similarities. The general cast of his face … there was at least sixty years between them, I was sure, but …

“As you know” —Boscha’s voice was so smug and self-assured I wanted to hit him and to hell with the consequences— “there was an unfortunate incident earlier today, in which a young man was gravely wounded. The person who cast the spell, Stephen Root, made a full confession to me. I do not believe he intended such harm; but the damage was quite significant, and there was a very real risk his victim would have died, if he didn’t receive proper attention. It was most unfortunate.”

My mind raced. Stephen had cast the spell? I didn’t believe it. Stephen wasn’t a bad student—he wouldn’t have clambered into fifth year if he hadn’t passed last year’s exams—but I’d been trying to bash advanced charms into his head for the last four years, and I knew he didn’t have the skill to cast a cutting charm under such circumstances. Sure, a panicked magician could lash out with immense force, but if that had happened Alan’s body would be splattered up and down the corridor. Boscha was lying. Or he’d been lied to.