Page 17 of Reluctant Wizard

Pressing her lips together, she shook her head, steadfastly not looking in the direction she’d indicated. Refusing to answer, he thought, not that she didn’t know.

“I’m not crazy,” she said, her harsh whisper beseeching.

“Of course you’re not,” he agreed easily, though the pitch of her emotions seemed off the scale. Alise had no reason to fear one of the academy proctors. Still, something had frightened the usually unflappable Alise and he believed her fear was real. “I believe you.”

The look she turned on him, the immense gratitude in her expression, was nearly as good as if she’d said she longed for him like he did for her. “Let’s try this. I count nine proctors,” he said, very quietly, just loud enough for her to hear him, “all of whom I know.”

She swallowed hard. “There are ten.”

Alise wasn’t one to make mistakes, especially careless ones. Acting nonchalant, Cillian sat back and counted again, backing up the visual scan with his wizardly ability to assess quantities. “I still get nine.”

Making a choking sound, she abruptly pushed back and stood, using enough force that her chair clattered to the floor. “I’m sorry, Archivist,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. She also punched the words loudly enough to silence the debate underway at the other end of the table. Alise flicked a glance at the place where her invisible proctor stood, then fastened a pleading gaze on him. “I appreciate the effort you’ve put into organizing my independent study, but I simply have no time. I cannot work on it. Period.” With that, she seized her coffee and her book bag and scuttled away before he realized her intent.

“Student wizards,” one of his colleagues commented, shaking her head in disgust. “No respect for faculty anymore.”

“Report her to the provost,” her companion advised. “Particularly that one. This isn’t her first transgression, as I’m sure you know.”

“Or even the second,” another said.

“Or the worst! Those Elals think they can get away with anything,” another added.

But Cillian was no longer listening, having barely listened to begin with. The lower-level faculty tended to resent the more powerfully talented and highly placed wizard students. It stuck in the craw of some people that these “ignorant kids” already enjoyed more wealth and influence than they would. Employment at Convocation Academy in the lower ranks would never lead to full professorships and endowed chairs, so the positions weren’t exactly highly sought. Cillian didn’t mind because he basically got paid to hang out in one of the best libraries in the known world.

Most of his peers resented their dead-end jobs, however, and the only thing those petty minds enjoyed more than seeing one of the student wizards suffer some kind of failure was witnessing the stumbling or toe-stubbing of one of the high-house scions. The same thing had happened when Alise’s sister, Nic, so widely believed to be the next head of House Elal, manifested as a familiar instead of a wizard. The unholy glee at her loss of prestige, power, and even basic citizenship had been frankly awful to witness.

Cillian fully understood Alise’s insistence on being called by her House Phel affiliation instead of Elal. Even if her father wasn’t a monster who’d committed his worst deeds against his own intimate family, being an Elal wasn’t doing Alise any favors these days. The gossiping faculty proved that, falling into an exchange of lurid tidbits about the Elal progeny and the house itself. Cillian ignored his colleagues and their callous remarks, taking his empty tray and Alise’s barely touched one to the discard station, which led him past the spot where she’d seen a proctor he hadn’t.

Though the hairs stood up on the back of his neck, Cillian otherwise sensed nothing unusual. And that reaction could be attributed to Alise’s markedly odd behavior. He’d watched her face down hunters and automatons wielding wheels of blades. And the sight of a proctor terrified her to speechlessness? No, something very strange was going on and he wouldn’t lose this opportunity to gather any information he could.

So he waved to Proctor Raya Hanneil, a friend from student days. She gave him an absent smile, brushing her brown hair out of her eyes before glowering at a group of young, uncategorized students in a rising shouting match. “Hey, uncats,” she called, “inside voices or I mute you for the rest of breakfast.”

They subsided sullenly, continuing the argument at lower levels. “Can you really do that?” Cillian asked, electing to take a moment for friendly chatting before grilling her.

She winked. “I can make them think I can do that.”

Laughing, he gave her a little salute. “Clever. I’m curious, Raya, are there always ten of you working the breakfast shift?”

Wrinkling her nose, she laughed. “Cillian, I know your curiosity knows no limits, but how could you possibly care about that?”

“I’ve been reading up on crowd control,” he answered on impulse. “Of course, students aren’t rioting mundanes, but…”

“They’re that not far different either,” she finished drily.

“Angry adults without magic are less dangerous than children with it,” he agreed amiably, “but I’m interested in the commonalities. I know House Hanneil has a contract with the Convocation to provide crowd control in certain circumstances.”

She slid him a sideways glance, clearly refraining from comment. Yeah, it wasn’t common knowledge, but not exactly a secret either. Still, high houses tended to guard proprietary information zealously, whether or not the secrecy mattered.

Cillian held up his hands in a peacemaking gesture, hoping his sideways approach hadn’t taken so long that it cost him his quarry. “That’s not something I need to know. What I’m wondering is, how it’s decided how many proctors should be assigned per expected student? For example, are there nine or ten of you here this morning? I think I counted nine, but…”

“Ten,” she answered with confidence.

“Are you sure? I only count nine.”

She rolled her eyes, confident in her authority now. “Ten, Cillian. Where’s your archivist’s ability to count?”

“I see you, Divya…” He pointed and recited the names, counting them off on his other hand. “That’s nine.”

“And Gordon Hanneil, right there.” She shook her head at him, grinning. “Maybe you need a Refoel healer to check your eyes.”

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