The Grandmaster's Tale

I kept my face blank as the meeting wore on. Whatever had really happened, and I suspected I knew the truth, they’d gotten away with it. Worse, Boscha had been able to use the incident for his own benefit. It had worked. And I still didn’t know what he was really doing.

But I knew, now, how I was going to find out.

Chapter 7

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes,” I said, flatly. Pepper had offered to accompany me, but … there was no point in both of us ending up in deep shit, if the whole affair went horribly wrong. “If I get caught, you swear blind you don’t know me.”

Mistress Constance snorted. “No, I can’t remember the person I worked beside for the last umpteen years,” she said, dryly. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my rooms?”

I rolled my eyes. “You know what I mean,” I said. “Let me take all the blame, while you carry on with the plan.”

“The plan,” Pepper said. “We don’t have a plan. Do we?”

“No,” I said. If we knew what Boscha was doing, we might be able to come up with a plan to counter it. But all we had were theories. “If this works, we might be able to come up with something.”

I scowled. The last five days had been … difficult. The new prefects carried out their duties in a manner that seemed designed to provoke an uprising, although the combination of superior magic and the grandmaster’s unstinting support was enough to keep the revolt to sullen muttering … for now. I’d wondered if the plan was to provoke an uprising, perhaps to provide an excuse to kick the great unwashed out of the school, but it seemed a little pointless. Boscha might be a Supremacist, yet even the most snooty Supremacist knew the importance of adding new blood to the older bloodlines. It made no sense. What was I missing?

“Be very careful,” Mistress Constance warned. She held up a vial, turning it over and over so the liquid glinted in the light. “Once you drink the potion, you’ll have two hours—at most—before it wears off.”

“I know,” I said. I took a breath. “It’s time.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t come back early,” Pepper said. “We will try to warn you …”

I nodded as I took the vial, then left the chambers and made my way up the stairs. Boscha had left the building—I thought he’d gone to the brothel, judging by how carefully he’d slipped out—and there was no real danger of running into him unless he came back early, but there were other problems. The new prefects might notice something … or I’d catch them doing something I’d have to stop. I’d already caught one prefect meting out corporal punishment and another ordering younger students to write lines … I shook my head. Being a prefect was supposed to teach a student to be responsible, not give them a chance to indulge their sadistic side. If I had the power, I would abolish the position.

The air felt hot and heavy as I reached Boscha’s office, the heavy wooden doors suffused with powerful magic. It was an old tradition for students to try to break into the offices, but … very few ever succeeded. No one, as far as I knew, had ever broken into the Grandmaster’s office. It was regarded, with reason, as the hardest target in the school. I took the vial, opened the lid and downed the potion. It tasted ghastly, the magic making me feel a stranger in my own body. I gritted my teeth—for two hours, my magical signature would be practically identical to Boscha’s—and pushed open the door. It opened effortlessly, the wards drawing back smoothly. I was almost impressed. Boscha could have gone far, if he’d stayed with his studies.

And he could have kept his rooms safe, if he’d known he had a son who could be used as a source of blood, I thought. Alan’s blood was the key ingredient. It was close enough to his father’s to fool the wards, with a little fiddling. What you don’t know can hurt you.

I cast a night-vision spell and looked around. The office was surprisingly well organised. A handful of scrolls rested on the desk—some cheap parchment, some expensive—but otherwise there was nothing to suggest where I should begin. Three books rested on the bookshelf—it seemed wrong to have such a large shelf with only three books—and I took the time to check the titles. Two genealogical books—I’d had my fill of those when I’d been a child —and a detailed outline of the obligations and debts owed to Whitehall by Dragon’s Den. They were lucky, although they probably didn’t realise it. Whitehall didn’t demand very much from the town, unlike most aristocratic estates. I shook my head and examined the scrolls on the desk. None of them looked particularly important, except ....