Page 19 of The Deadliest Candidate

“I am Raphaël Baudet, previously archivist at the Reformed Vatican City Hall.”

A faint murmur travelled through the room, and Fern noticed the man anew. His ease of manner was arrogance, and that arrogance, it would seem, was well-founded. The Reformed Vatican was a powerful ally to have, and its records were some of the oldest in the world.

The man sat down, a slight smile on his face. He knew exactly the impact his introduction would have—doubtless, he’d rely on it.

Fern glanced up at the table where the Grand Archivists sat, watching impassively. She was surprised they had invited a candidate from the Reformed Vatican: Carthane was famously resistant to the influence of the church.

Perhaps they hoped to poach Mr Baudet, and with him, a more intimate knowledge of the Reformed Vatican’s records?

The next person to stand brought Fern’s attention snapping back to him.

He was a middle-aged man with long black hair tied in a knot. His beard was neatly trimmed and he wore a jodhpuri suit of blue brocade with gold embellishments at the collar and sleeves. His eyes were dark, intelligent and warm, his expression open and affable.

“Greetings. I am General Ravi Srivastav, from the Phoenix Battalion of the Jathvi Empire’s Army.”

This was the pyromancer Oscar had told Fern about.

Not any pyromancer—the greatest pyromancer in Eurasia, possibly the world. A true prodigy, wielding more power than most. For many, pyromancy was a delicate art, as deadly to the wielder as it could be the wielder’s opponent, but rumour had it that Srivastav was born with fire running through his veins.

As he sat down, Srivastav caught Fern’s eyes on him and responded with a genial smile that crinkled his eyes. Not the smile she would have expected from such a weathered militarian; Fern, caught a little off-guard, returned his smile with a respectful nod.

Following Srivastav were the siblings from the ship.

They were both dressed in radiant white, and both wore jewels and gold at their throats and fingers. Now that she saw them properly, Fern realised they were not only siblings but twins. Not perfectly identical, but perfectly harmonious in movement and expression.

They introduced themselves as Emmeline and Edmund Ferrow, alchemists.

“We are deeply honoured to be here,” Edmund said, and he bowed in the direction of the Grand Archivists, his sister perfectly mirroring his movement. “And we bring with us the greetings of the Poison Tower of Santa Velia.”

Fern’s heart quickened in a nervous flutter. The Jathvi Empire, the Reformed Vatican, the Poison Tower of Santa Velia. These were some of the world’s most powerful factions, factions who would do anything to get their foot in Carthane’s door.

These candidates, Fern could be certain of it, had not been sent to Carthane to falter or fail. The thought was chilling; Fern could not help but be reminded of the dead body in East Hemwick, the muttered threat outside her door.

Then the young man from the gate stood. In the bright light of the banquet hall, Fern could now see him clearly.

He wore black trousers and a crisp white shirt and waistcoat, with no visible jewellery or adornment. His black hair was combed back, and his pale skin was spangled with a faint dusting of freckles across the nose, cheeks and forehead.

“Mr Lautric,” he said. His voice was clear if weary, void of emotion. “I have just completed my doctorate in Transgressive Invocation.”

Fern blinked, looking at him as though she saw him for the first time.

Thiswas the Lautric candidate? It was the last person she expected him to be. The Lautrics were an old, aristocratic French family: ostentatiously conservative and staunchly nationalist.

But the youngest Lautric was clearly of mixed heritage—Fern guessed some Korean parentage—something Fern had not expected from a family she had always condemned as bigoted and intolerant.

Less surprising was the fact he was a student of Transgressive Invocation. It was the branch of the Arcane Arts that investigated the darker, more taboo forms of magic, such as Blood Magic and Death Magic. A topic of study Fern found particularly distasteful.

She narrowed her eyes on the young man. His youthful beauty and old-fashioned gallantry had been deceitful.She thought back to the fleeting touch of his hand on her arm earlier—right after he had worked out who she was—and a small shiver of dread coursed through her.

Chapter ten

The Banquet

Fern was next tointroduce 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.

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