Page 20 of The Deadliest Candidate

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: Raphaël 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 easeof 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.”

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