Page 10 of The Deadliest Candidate (The Last Grand Archivist #1)

Chapter ten

The Banquet

Fern was next to introduce herself. Her introduction caused no reaction, no shockwave of murmurs. She was simply a scholar and a librarian, with no greater affiliation. It did not matter—she much preferred conducting her candidacy in relative anonymity.

Better let her more notable rivals draw all the attention to themselves.

After her, there was Vittoria Orsini, a postgraduate from the Royal Arcane Institute of Paris and another candidate from a powerful arcane family.

Following her was the strangest of the candidates: an oddly ageless man with long black hair, his dark suit a little shabby, his limbs long in a way that seemed almost a deformity. He wore round glasses with shaded lenses, as though his eyes were sensitive to the light, and introduced himself in an almost off-handed way as:

“Vasili Drei. Professor of Arcane Arts from Druszke.”

After him, there remained only one candidate, an older woman with fierce dark eyes and a long mane of thick black hair turned almost completely grey at the top .

“Dr Anoush Essouadi,” she said, a delicate Arabic lilt in her accent, “from the World Infirmary for Arcane Injuries in Luxembourg.”

Fern looked at her with some surprise.

Dr Essouadi was a renowned physician, specialising in the creation and fitting of prosthetic limbs. She had retired a few years ago, and back then, rumours of illness had circulated. Had it been a cover up while Dr Essouadi worked on her Carthane application?

After the introductions were done, the Grand Archivists pronounced their formal welcome to the candidates and invited everyone to help themselves to food and drinks. Fern suspected this would give the Grand Archivists a good opportunity to observe the candidates; she would be doing precisely that herself.

She was hungry after her long journey to Carthane, so she heaped her plate with food and ate heartily. As she did, she silently observed her companions, taking mental notes.

Factions formed quickly amongst the candidates: Rapha?l Baudet, the archivist from the Reformed Vatican, and the twins from the Poison Tower all pressed closer to Lautric, offering to pour his drinks and plying him with compliments.

Lautric seemed to accept those with a sort of courteous impassivity; he was probably used to this sort of treatment.

And Fern could not even blame Baudet and the Ferrows. The truth was that if any of them should fail in their candidacy, they would need to return to the real world, potentially to the prospect of having no job to return to .

The power of the Lautric House was far-reaching; an alliance with them might prove invaluable.

“How’s your mother keeping these days?” Baudet asked Lautric, throwing him an arrogant smile from across the table. Fern guessed he was probably trying to impress the others by displaying intimate knowledge of the Lautric family. “I trust her health has improved.”

Lautric did not seem particularly impressed by this, nor did he seem to welcome the attention his tablemates were paying him. He gave a weary nod and spoke blandly.

“Lady Lautric is well, thank you.”

And perhaps Baudet realised it might not be such an easy task to ingratiate himself with Lautric because he soon turned to Vittoria Orsini, who faced him across the table.

“I saw you sing at the Santa Caterina Auditorium several years ago,” he said. His voice was lower when he spoke to her, his blue eyes shining dully. “The papers praised your precision, but it was your small moments of spontaneity which particularly impressed me.”

Vittoria Orsini was a woman of outstanding beauty: rich curls of dark hair, luminous brown skin, and fine, clever eyes. She scrutinised Baudet for a moment before making her reply, displaying a self-mastery, which Fern admired.

“I’m sorry, would you remind me of your name?” Orsini said, smiling sweetly. Clearly, she had heard the implied insult in Baudet’s words. “Oh, it was Baudet, was it not? You must excuse my ignorance, I’m not sure I’ve heard of your family? ”

Baudet’s smile widened, the dull shine in his eyes growing duller still. Despite his smile, colour had risen high in his pale cheeks.

“You might not have, Miss Orsini,” he replied. “But does it matter? We’re both sitting at the same table.”

“Whether we’re both sitting at the same table by the end of our candidacy is what truly matters, I suppose,” said Orsini with thorny affability.

“I look forward to calling you my colleague,” replied Baudet.

His attempts at forming his alliances were clumsy but audacious; Fern wondered how effective his methods were. She, too, should be thinking on alliances, but she would not consider doing so until she knew more about her fellow candidates.

Like every decision she ever made, her choice of alliance would be carefully thought out, sensible and calculated.

She wasn’t the only one exercising caution. Josefa Novak, the historian, also kept to herself, as did Vasili Drei, who barely touched the food on his plate and seemed to not care a whit for the attention of his fellow candidates, turning his attention to the archivists instead.

Down the table, General Srivastav, the pyromancer, had engaged Dr Essouadi in polite conversation.

“I was once myself a patient at the World Infirmary,” he said.

“Is that so?” Dr Essouadi’s interest was piqued; she leaned closer to the general, listening attentively.

“A long time ago, yes. In a moment of desperation on the battlefield, I resorted to using Wild Magic. It was so tempting, the ease of it, the abundance—ah, well, and as you can imagine, I drew too much and too hard. The Wild Magic read my despair and the flow became unstoppable; a deadly mistake when wielding fire.” He stopped, a shadow passing over his face at the memory. “Later on, I found out my blood vessels had burst from the pressure. At the time, I thought I would die; I thought my heart had simply exploded in my chest. But two of your colleagues saved my life, knitted me anew. I was told I was on the operating table for almost a hundred hours. Your colleagues, I think, must have fought the gods themselves to keep me alive in this world. Without them, my daughter would be an orphan now, and my beloved wife a widow.”

“Do not underestimate yourself, General,” said the doctor in a warm tone. “Wild Magic almost always kills its users, and pyromantic injuries are the worst we come across. Most of the time, surgery means nothing: the soul leaves the body because it simply cannot withstand the pain. You must have shown formidable strength on that operating table; I think it was probably you , in the end, who fought the gods themselves while the surgeons worked.”

Dr Essouadi’s words rang with sincerity, a stark contrast to the simpering of the handsome Ferrow siblings.

They were showering Lautric with questions about the ‘great’ and ‘noble’ work his family had done to advance the position of the arcane population in the eyes of society across the world.

Fern pinched her lips and narrowed her eyes.

The Lautric House was one of the oldest arcane families in the world: generations upon generations born with powers. A near-miraculous rarity—a genetic improbability. But if the Lautrics ever fought for the rights of the arcane population, it was only ever to serve their own interests.

The Lautrics would do anything for power—they had proven that many times over. They had orchestrated political coups, funded wars and made deals with crime syndicates and dictatorships alike. There were few political conflicts the Lautrics were not somehow involved in.

“Is it true the National Arcane Museum in Paris has a wing dedicated to the Lautric family?”

The beautiful Emmeline laughed airily in the face of the pale Lautric, her red hair catching the light so that it gleamed like flames.

Did she truly admire the Lautric House, or was she simply setting the pieces of her chessboard? She was an alchemist from the Poison Tower of Santa Velia—she would be no stranger to politics and social gameplay.

Would she use Lautric as a rook or a knight to her queen, to keep her safe and maintain her power? Or was she seeing him for what he was: the king on the opposite side of her board, whom she must trap into a checkmate?

“It is true; I have never visited it myself.”

Fern’s gaze slid from Emmeline to Lautric, who had just made his passionless reply.

She watched his eyes, light brown, almost limpid, the shape delicate and angular. The deep shadows beneath them. The pale skin, scattered with fawn freckles. The rosebud lips, almost feminine and disarmingly sensual.

A picture of contradictions: youthfulness belied by weariness, beauty hiding a peculiar inner tension .

He turned his head almost imperceptibly, meeting Fern’s gaze. Her chest constricted uncomfortably, but it was too late to look away. She held his gaze; his expression was curious, searching—not unfriendly.

Surprisingly open, in fact, given his family had made more than one attempt on Fern’s life in the past. He held a glass of wine in his hand; he raised it in the air, tipping it in her direction—a toast, or a promise, or a threat. And then he brought the glass to his lips and drank, eyes locked on Fern.

After the formal dinner, the candidates had the opportunity to mingle with the staff of archivists, but it was the Grand Archivists themselves Fern wished to converse with, and they largely kept to themselves, no doubt discussing their observations.

The archivists, in their blue sashes, were a quiet, courteous lot. They answered questions politely without showing much passion, and Fern could only wonder if this was a symptom of being desensitised to their own jobs or an affectation designed to keep the candidates at arm’s length.

The evening was, by and large, underwhelming; it drew to a close a little before midnight. Despite the late hour and the abundance of alcohol served at the banquet, the mood was subdued. None of the candidates had overindulged. Like Fern, they had probably all worked far too hard to get here to make fools of themselves on their first night in Carthane .

Housemistress Sarlet arrived five minutes before midnight to escort the candidates back to the Mage Tower. Fern lingered near the end of the file of candidates, making her closing observations for the night.

Josefa Novak, the historian, walked alone, as did the long-haired Vasili Drei. Vittoria Orsini, her cream satin gown trailing behind her across the marble flooring, was gallantly escorted by Baudet, who handed her his elbow with a curving smile beneath his blond moustache.

The Ferrow twins walked arm in arm, whispering to one another. Lautric walked a little ahead of them, hands in his pockets. Though he looked weary, his eyes moved sharply as they made their way to the Mage Tower, taking in his surroundings. Out of all the candidates, he seemed the most interested in the library.

Finally, General Srivastav and Dr Essouadi brought up the rear, walking right behind Fern, engrossed in their conversation, which seemed to revolve around their children—both of them had daughters.

The group had just passed the atrium when Vasili Drei stopped in his tracks, startling everybody else. He looked sharply up, the dark circles of his glasses catching the light of the candelabras above.

“What’s that?” he asked.

He had an accent Fern could not quite place, almost imperceptible but for a sharpness to the plosives, each ‘t’ pronounced.

Sarlet had paused and turned, and the candidates, as if by instinct, had spread out ever so slightly, clearing the invisible path between Vasili Drei and the housemistress of Carthane.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said .

Drei looked away from the ceiling. His gaze fell first upon Sarlet and then sank past her. Fern followed the direction of his eyes: he was staring straight at one of the Sentinels standing guard between two pillars.

“Forgive me,” he said abruptly. “I’ve had a little too much to drink.”

Sarlet watched him for a moment, then nodded and turned, crisply resuming the journey back to the Mage Tower. The other candidates followed suit, though every conversation had now fallen into silence.

Fern’s eyes stayed on Drei, and a frown now knit her eyebrows, for she had observed him throughout the banquet.

He had not taken a single sip from his glass of wine.

Back in the Mage Tower, Fern noted that the candidates were not all inhabiting apartments on the same floor. The Poison Tower twins were on the fourth floor, along with Josefa Novak and General Srivastav. Dr Essouadi and Vittoria Orsini and Vasili Drei were on the fifth floor. Finally, Léo Lautric, Rapha?l Baudet, and Fern were on the sixth floor.

As soon as she was back within the safety and privacy of her own room, Fern hurried to the desk, where she had left her books, papers, pens, and the notebook her colleagues at Vestersted had gifted her. Sitting at the desk, she opened the notebook, uncapped a pen, and got to writing .

Inkwell, who had been asleep at the foot of the bed, opened lazy eyes to watch her as she scribbled her notes.

She wrote everything she could remember: candidates’ names, occupations, appearance. Everything she had observed, everything she had overheard. The alliances already forming: the Poison Tower twins and Lautric; Baudet’s attempts at drawing in Vittoria Orsini; the general and the doctor, who were closest in age and shared a profound love for their daughters.

Finally, she noted the incident with Vasili Drei, who had heard or noticed something and then lied about it, as well as the incident before the banquet, the muttered threat.

When she was done, she sat back in her chair, dropping her pen onto her notebook with a sigh.

“Well?” she asked Inkwell. “And what do you make of this place?”

Inkwell tilted his head. His tail swished lazily from side to side. With a yawn, he stood, stretched, and curled in on himself to face away from Fern before promptly falling back asleep.

Fern let out a soft, tired laugh. “Goodnight to you too.”

After a quick night-time toilette in the bathroom, Fern undressed, unpinned her hair and climbed into her new bed. It had been a long day, but her mind was too full to allow her easy access to sleep.

Wedging her pillow beneath her head, she let her brain idly file away the events of the day. She was finally on the verge of sleep when a thought occurred to her, perhaps too late .

Ten candidates had been invited to Carthane, herself included. Ten had arrived and introduced themselves at the banquet.

So if the corpse in East Hemwick had not come from the village and did not belong to a candidate—then where had it come from?