To Live Or Die At Lorelight Academy, page 10
“Oh, he’ll have opinions,” Russ muttered.
Inkidunn frowned.
Faculty were all too familiar with Archscholar Sampson.
Students knew little.
Sampson was past the point of lecturing.
He spent his time conducting his research—whatever that was—and complaining loudly at meetings about not getting the respect he deserved.
Sampson worked alone—but like all publishing academics and Archscholars, he was not exempt from review of his research by his peers.
Russ smirked.
If Russ were to guess, the phrase “peer review” must drive the Archscholar crazy, considering the man clearly thought of himself as above his peers.
At least I can annoy him a bit with that, Russ consoled himself. He shook his head.
No.
Best foot forward.
Professor Russel Kolbe?
Maybe that imaginary man would go tit for tat, snipe for snipe, bite for bite with the petulant Archscholar.
But Russ?
He would just have to force himself to be above all that.
A gentle giant.
A little, safe cabin in the woods in the form of a nearly-seven-foot, three-hundred-pound former strongman.
Russ inclined his head at his little committee as the students dispersed, and he knocked on the door and was bid entry into Albright Tower.
Sampson was waiting there at the ground floor, standing with arms folded in the entrance.
He never let anyone up to the second floor, or any of the other floors of his tower. He met visitors at the bottom floor.
A checkerboard of white quartz and black obsidian tile squares made the room look like a chessboard.
There was nothing else in the room.
No chairs.
No tables.
No coat rack.
Just black and white tiles, a staircase leading up to Sampson’s obsessions, and a dour, slighted man.
Sampson stood on a white square.
Russ found himself greeting the man and wandering over to stand on the black square opposite the Archscholar.
Russ wasn’t confrontational, but even a cozy little cabin had to withstand the harshest weather.
Russ wasn’t a pushover.
“You are, of course, aware of the insult of your presence,” Sampson said to start the conversation.
It was a statement, not a question.
Russ’s eyebrows rose of their own accord.
“No, Archscholar, I’m afraid I am not,” Russ said. “I sincerely mean no insult.”
If he was going to piss off Sampson, he was going to do it on purpose.
“Tell me,” Sampson said, still unmoving from his square. “What does the phrase ‘peer review’ mean to you?”
And there it was.
“Archscholar Joon has deferred her review of your research to me,” Russ said lightly, explaining, and not for the first time. “Because, although she’s certainly mastered more fields than I have, my particular expertise in the relevance to your research surpasses her. It’s meant to help you find the best person for the job.”
“…out of respect,” he added a moment later.
Sampson sniffed.
Sampson was average.
Average height.
Forty, maybe.
Brown hair.
Brown eyes.
Beady little fuckers, though.
And a tiny little upturned nose and a chin just a bit too pointed.
“Your feedback is late.”
That was as much of an olive branch as Russ was going to get from Sampson on the subject of respect, apparently.
“Yeah, well,” Russ said, and scratched the back of his full head of red hair before forcefully putting his hand at his side.
“Yes, Archscholar,” he tried again with a cough after catching Sampson’s beady eyes go wide.
“I assume,” Sampson continued with a stiff voice, “you are consistently late with all Archscholar peer review?”
Was he consistently late?
He thought about it.
No, not if an Archscholar’s research was what he’d been given. Russ was prompt and on time the few dozen times he’d been asked to peer-review Archscholar research. Had he ever been late to any of them, at any step in the process?
No, he hadn’t been.
But this was Archibald Sampson.
A walking pile of toxicity in the shape of a human being.
If Russ turned around and went out the door, he could probably trace his way back to Student Lounge #3 by following where the grass was cut into deep lines from dragging his friggin’ heels to get here.
The question caught Russ off guard, and he made the mistake of letting it show on his face.
Sampson’s face turned red in an instant.
“I’m so sorry, Archscholar,” Russ said, hanging his head.
He meant it, too.
“Sorry?!” Archibald spat. Spittle flew between them and landed on the latticed tile floor of the Archscholar’s tower. “Sorry?!”
“Yes, Archscholar.”
Sampson licked his lips and huffed out of his nose for a few moments.
“Apology NOT accepted!”
Russ tried to keep his eye from twitching.
“Okay. Well. Archscholar, I should be getting back to—”
“Perhaps,” Sampson interrupted, “Archscholar Joon could reestablish herself for peer review for my project.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Archscholar.”
“And why not?”
“Because your research involves the intersections of Air and Life magic, and I am the expert in that intersection. Apologies again for being late, but I am the expert, and I am available for peer review, so it makes sense for me to do it.”
“I don’t see why it matters,” Sampson said dismissively. “I’m sure Joon is passable.”
Russ had to keep the shock from his face.
Had to keep the accusation out of his voice.
Victims like Sampson would breathe anything you gave them into a balloon, inflate the offense as much as they could, and let it float up to the top of their brains and hang there forever.
“Do you want ‘passable’ peer review for your research?”
Sampson got close.
Not up in his face, the man was too short for that—but up in his ribs, at least.
“Scholar Kolbe, I don’t want any peer review at all.”
Russ frowned.
“What if you make a mistake?”
“I won’t.”
Russ laughed. “Well, ya might. I mean, we all do, and that’s part of the reason we—”
“I don’t see how the leading expert in the field can be relied upon for peer review, given your performance,” Sampson snapped, stepping away. “Inherently, I question your expertise and availability.”
“You submitted everything last minute, gave me ten days of work to do in seven. I did it in nine days, all while managing the welcome committee. Two days late.”
“Two days late,” Sampson agreed. “Perhaps you should formally reject the expertise Archscholar Joon has given you.”
“Would that satisfy you as an apology?”
Sampson’s face brightened.
“It would, actually.”
“Great, well, I’m not gonna do it,” Russ grumbled, and turned to leave.
He flicked out with his left hand, and a pile of papers scattered onto the tile floor.
“Your review,” Russ said.
“Get the hell out!”
“Already on my way,” he grumbled, shaking his head.
He stopped.
“You know, it’s not just peer-review for peer-review’s sake,” he said. “Air magic and Life magic are a secondary intersection—this is difficult territory. It isn’t harmless magic. There’s life in the air we breathe, you know.”
“Of course,” Archscholar Sampson said, smiling ingratiatingly. “Leave now, please, thank you!”
“No, really—my review of your work explains this,” Russ said with a sigh. “I’ve got research I’m doing, just like you. There is life in the air, Sam—Archscholar. I think the…the tiny things, the…micro-life, the microbes that live in pond water. I think some are even in the air. Tiny ones.”
“I don’t see any,” Sampson said, self-satisfied.
“Well they’re there.”
“Well they can get the hell out of my tower, too. Goodbye, Archscholar Kolbe.”
“I’m not an Archscholar, Archscholar.”
“I just thought you’d want to hear it once, now that I’ll ensure it never happens.”
“Yeah, well, I go by Russ,” Russ said, and slammed the door to the tower behind him.
Sampson.
He froze.
His student committee was waiting there, sympathetic looks on their faces.
“You hear all that?”
They shook their heads.
“Couldn’t hear a peep,” Inkidunn said reassuringly.
“Let’s get back, huh?”
“Yeah,” Dumaul said, nodding.
“Did you hear all that?” Russ asked Farah quietly.
She shook her head. “No…not a sound, actually. Like…magically, not a sound.”
Great.
More good news on the Sampson front.
The man’s behavior was getting worse. There was no doubt about that now.
But the secrecy in it disturbed him.
It was hard to tell sometimes if the Archscholar was getting better or worse, since people made their visits with him few and far between. Hard to compare data points. But Russ had seen enough to know now: Sampson was more defensive, more aggressive, and more self-isolating than he’d been even at the beginning of the summer.
The whole situation rankled him.
He didn’t like it.
Russ didn’t like the research he’d seen from the Archscholar either.
It was all sensible, all straightforward, and simple enough.
Of course, it was complicated—Air magic and Life magic.
But it was “typical” complicated.
Sampson’s research focused on simple stimulus-response relationships between structures and magic. The Archscholar’s research was a great grid, consisting of what he called the “Base Matter” and how it reacted to various forms of magic in various degrees. How the “Base Matter” reacted when burned. When frozen. When exposed to air.
The trick was the “Base Matter” itself.
Russ had no idea just what it was.
“Organic elements” in the Base Matter meant that the specialists called in for peer review were all split-discipline, like Russ. Air/Life, Fire/Life, Water/Life, and so on.
Clarity on the “Base Matter” was the primary concern Russ had highlighted in his peer review. It was too poorly defined—too mysterious, frankly—for the results to mean anything.
But that wasn’t what bothered Russ the most.
No.
The problem was the greater context of the research.
Why was it being done?
What purpose did it serve?
What did it mean?
Typical research would include this information. No—more than that—typical research would soapbox and preach how important the Scholar’s particular pet project was, how it helped this and that moral cause.
None of that with Sampson.
Just research findings, without context.
All contrived into a nice little box.
It felt…modular to Russ.
A piece to something larger.
Russ had a sneaking suspicion that if he asked around and tried to find out what other research projects Sampson was working on, he would find that each of them lacked a broader context, and were distinct from one another.
They were related, though.
Somehow.
Archscholar Yin-Gata was the only one who also had such suspicions about Archscholar Sampson.
I should really find a time to talk to her about it.
Russ and his student committee marched their way back to the Lounge.
“You know what would cheer you up?” Inkidunn asked.
“What’s that?”
“Baking something,” Dumaul chimed in.
“You always do seem to feel better when you bake,” Richardson added. Richardson was a rich SOB, which meant the kid had private chefs all his life.
Russ wasn’t overly fond of the kid, but when Richardson begged him to bake something, it meant a bit more than the others.
“Oh, well, I’m not hungry,” Russ feigned.
“Oh.”
“But I mean, if you guys are…”
“Oh, we couldn’t ask you to do that,” Dumaul said.
“And why the hell not?” Russ asked, and smiled. “I’ve been waiting on a sourdough for a while now…”
“How about cupcakes?” Farah asked.
“Cupcakes are celebratory,” Russ said, shaking his head. “When our little committee has accomplished our goal, then I’ll bake cupcakes.”
“Your cupcakes are infamous, Russ, I hope you know that,” Farah said. “Brille in third-year said you made them last year.”
“Brille was great,” Russ remembered fondly. “Yeah, I think I made a cherry frosting. Was thinking something a little different this year.”
“Why not just make them twice?” Inkidunn asked.
“This is really torturing you guys, isn’t it?”
“I’ve never had anything else in my life be subject to more rumor and infamy than Russ’s Cupcakes,” Farah said flatly.
He sighed.
“I’ll tell you what—we work hard, plan everything out, and if welcome day goes well, I’ll lock myself in the kitchen and bake all night. How about that?”
Chapter
Nine
The best weapon I can find is a particularly cruel-looking poker by the fireplace. Looks a bit like a trident, which is good. It would make a mighty spear, in a war waged by house cats.
Still—the middle prong goes out a few inches, and it’s got a grip. More than I can say for any other close-quarters weapon in sight.
The kitchen will have knives, which is a fact I’m all too aware of as I make my way down the hall in search of the door I missed during my stumble into the welcome banner.
A small archway and double swinging doors share a bronze plaque, bisected with half on each door.
“Kitchen.”
There are no handles to the door.
One can imagine the passing in and out of busy servants through these double doors, with such speed and busyness that the doors themselves rarely close.
Thanks to the heavy use of magic, Lorelight gets by with a relatively limited number of faculty, many of whom rotate out two or three times a year, and spend the rest of the time with their families outside the campus.
After what’s happened to the school, a small part of me is glad that the support staff numbers such a small skeleton crew.
Skeleton crew.
I take in a soft, quiet breath.
The kitchen door is fastened shut with a small growth of crystal, but I’ve brought a tiny purple crystal to drain and break it.
I’ve got my loaded crossbow in one hand, and the fire poker in the other. Thinking ahead, I’ve strung the second hand-crossbow and affixed it to my waist. Philip and Mitchell, I’ve named the crossbows. If I ever upgrade this fire poker to something strong like bear, I’m naming that thing Burta.
I don’t know what I’ll name after my grandfather.
Hopefully I can escape before I need to find out.
So Philip is in one hand, the fire poker is in the other, and Mitchell is strung and tense at my waist.
I bring my purple crystal up to the small cluster between door hinges. Both turn grey and inert, and the small cluster over the door falls quietly to the ground, not loud enough to disturb even the feral Infected students in their rooms.
So I’m ready, then.
Or at least the doors are.
There are no knobs to turn, no handles to twist.
Like a server with my hands full, I just have to push on through. The doors.
I tell myself I’ll count to three.
It’s an old trick.
First, you tell yourself you’re going to count to three.
One.
Two—
—Then, crossbow loaded and fire poker ready, I push into the kitchen.
Lights.
So many lights.
“Agh!” I can’t help but make a grunt in surprise as my eyes are dazzled by a hundred—no, a thousand—tiny motes of light floating throughout the kitchen.
Not even a flicker of light under the door! Not even a glimmer, and this!
My eyes blink to adjust, and as they do, a sound reaches my ears.
“H…hello?”
A voice.
A human voice.
My heart soars, and I no longer care about the bright lights in my eyes. I flutter them open, fighting against the pain and forcing my vision to adjust.
Over time, it does, and I notice just how strange these lights are.
The light doesn’t come from torches, or lanterns—
The dazzling lights come from hundreds, maybe thousands, of tiny motes of light, all hanging in the air, falling so slowly as to almost be hanging still.
And there, at the center of the shower of sparks, is a person.
A…
Gods.
Not just any person.
The largest human being I’ve ever seen is waiting for me in the kitchen.
He’s got to be scraping every single doorframe in this place! He could probably scale the gates! Go get help!
My heart soars again.
And just as quickly, it sinks.
Sinks down, and down, and down, and it drops.
Something is wrong.
Plainly wrong.
I make…observations.
And the observations begin to pile up to tell a story.
For one, the man is bowed and bent at a strange angle against the oven.
He’s halfway opening the door and staying conspicuously still. One massive hand is stuffed inside an oven mitt, and the other is pulling the handle of the oven itself.
Like a freeze-frame, like he was opening the oven to check on his…cupcakes, probably, and I simply caught him at an awkward moment.
