First Apprentice

Chapter 20 Part 1

Smoke mingled with a musky scent I associated with unwashed training clothes permeated the ill-fitting uniform Joel dug up from gods only knew where and ordered me to put on before our meeting. I wrestled with the urge to give myself and the uniform a good once over with a bar of soap. Judging by the way Joel's jaw tightened when I stepped out from behind the changing screen, the scent didn't agree with him either. Or maybe he knew the uniform's original owner. It certainly wasn't his.

It was a simple tunic and drawstring trousers combination, both in black twill, with a dark gray belt buttoned around the waist – plain, bordering on ugly. Twenty-four symbols embroidered in matching black thread around the yoke underlined by three finger width bands denoted my master sealer ranking. A small numeral one over my heart marked me as Terry's apprentice.

With the shoulders hanging halfway to my elbows, the sleeves tacked to a more reasonable length, and neck basted to my short stays to keep it from slipping off my shoulders, I felt like a child playing dress up.

We rounded the corner to Terry's office. The woman – Helen, I reminded myself – from last night was seated at a desk, guarding the hallway to Terry's suite. She nodded to Joel as we passed and eyed me curiously, a faint smile on her lips. Joel stopped in front of Terry's door, which was indistinguishable from the other three in the hall. No name plaques, numbers, or other markings indicating their occupants. A security feature or a remnant leftover from one of Rainer's bizarre attempts at imposing equality among the ranks, I wondered as Joel rapped on the door.

"Open," Terry shouted.

Joel turned the knob and tapped the bottom of the door with his foot. "The door sticks," he said softly. "Jiggle the knob," he matched action to word, "and then lift it up." The door creaked open.

"Why not fix it?"

"Because I don't trust people mucking around my office," Terry said. "I'll fix it eventually. Get in and shut the door."

"Before or after it falls off the hinges?" Joel quipped as he walked inside. I followed him.

Last night, Terry's office appeared almost tidy. As I eyed the stacks of paperwork covering every available surface save a tea cart laden with covered plates, I suspected some poor soul cleaned out Terry's office with a shovel and a wheelbarrow before our meeting last night.

"If it bothers you so much, you fix it," Terry said. He laid a document on his desk and gestured to the cart. "Grab a plate. Mitchel says you're versed in procedure."

When I nodded, Terry snatched a bundle of papers bound with black cloth tape off his desk and tossed it to me. "Your official record. Read it. Memorize it. When you lie, do not contradict it."

The ceramic covers rattled when Joel lifted two plates off the tray. He passed one to me and kept the other for himself. With his free hand, he pushed the papers on the couch into a pile and sat down.

"Sit," Terry said to me, inclining his head towards the spot beside Joel. He dragged his chair out from behind his desk while I perched gingerly on the edge of the couch, trying to balance my plate without knocking over any papers. "Her seals?"

In answer, Joel handed Terry the cloth bound journal he confiscated after Terry's meeting with Aric ended. Had he asked, I might have mentioned the original transcripts were tucked away in a warded trunk. The transcription he watched being written was actually an automated copy. A seal on one pen moved another pen, duplicating the work. Considering how many journals I'd lost over the last five years when an experiment exploded in my face, it was an absolute necessity. "The transcript matches what I heard through the other."

"No sound recording?" Terry asked as he opened the journal. His fingertip ran across the page as he skimmed, flipped, and skimmed the next.

Joel glanced at me. "I never saw a need," I said, raising the cover off the plate and setting it on the floor. Marinated venison – bloody and warm, not cooked – sweet potato hash, a watercress salad, and flatbread. A typical clan breakfast similar to what I usually fixed for myself.