Read The Main Characters' Child (novel) :: Chapter 15: Being an undercover magician is hard; harder when your target's always fleeing.

Serhan panted again.

"Hey, now get the rakes and clean this alley, Markus." His boss for the day, old and annoying, was yapping in his ears again. "Gaila, it's like you've never done this. Are you sick?"

A slitting 'YES' wanted to leap out of his throat, however, Serhan knew tugging attention to him wasn't good on an infiltrate mission.

"I'm sorry, boss." He just nodded and begun raking the rocks again, to sort out the freshly cut leaves of the bushes of the white gravel.

He didn't knew what had crossed the mind of that despicable princess to bolt out of the castle in the middle of the night, but she had did. And now that Sun was oppressing him every second to spy on her, he did and had followed her into the servant's quarter with the same technique. Infiltration.

Did he felt weirded out watching—if not stalking since the word seemed a little harsh—a young child doing unhinged things?

Yes, of course.

But at the same time, it was funny. Like that time when she was in the middle of the room and made a T with her body just to finish awkwardly in the silence.

He chuckled a little, before he realized stares had landed on him and started raking again.

Servants of the imperial family were constantly working—with a castle around ten thousand foot square and a garden of twelve acres without even counting the training grounds—they had things to do.

Cleaning, washing, cooking, preparing for events, Gailadamn, those people had to be tired, or Serhan thought since that's how it was in Yka.

But here, they seemed happy and willing to work, not all the time of course, he had saw many take three-minute breaks, yet, as they stood up again, they grinned and worked harder.

When he cracked his back and heard the pain rush under his skin, Serhan understood he'll never grasp Mennesker servants living in the empire.

"...Markus. Markus!" The person had to repeat for him to jolt. "Can you stop a second?"

"Of course," Serhan left the rake on the wall and battled with the odd, blond strands crawling into his eyes.

As always in mission, he changed skin—a Soulo folk weird stain of black in a country where everyone looked alike ceramic dolls. This time, he had took the traits of a Markus, perfect boy, who was actual roped in the back of Fate's bookstore.

"Could you please give this to the washhouse." The maid handed out a napkin on which an arctic fox was sewed. "The eight princess dirtied it last night with juice and Yara forgot to take in her basket."

"Sure," he nodded, clasping the cloth," where is it?" He regretted instantly.

Her look narrowed and her head cocked. "At the same place as usual." She offered a side-eye. "Are you sure you're alright enough to go there and survive?"

"YES! Yes." Serhan hesitated on the survival part but restrained jerking in apprehension. Retreating seemed best, so he smiled and escaped on the lane of stones between the untamed varieties of flowers.

Washhouse, washhouse. Wasn't this the place where this little princess got assigned for the day?

Serhan should really learn to listen to what Sun said, after all those years.

He still remembered when they made the contract.

Only twelve, Serhan was growing with his humble family in Soulo, already helping with the business and cleaning the house everyday. Like every kid of the small village, he wasn't an exception to the rule of first born.
You have to care about all of your brothers and sisters as if you were the parent.
And this syndrome was accentuated when your parents are never home and your little sister, feeble.

When the war shattered Mirut and Narosi, bording country of Soulo and only land route to the rest of the continent, the small and poor village of Serhan became even poorer, and starving seized the whole country at the throat, apart the nobles, these never hurt like the people.

No need to say his sister died in the first week of the starving.

Ironically, Suncicek which was a weird ball of light at the moment, appeared in the middle of the funerals, if you could call searching between the remains of other famished villagers to bury the body of your sister a funeral.

A few words, a promise, and he had signed the magic deal.

What Serhan didn't plan was that the King laid down the law that every magician in the country should go to Yka for education and other garbage ideas the following week.
Never seeing the parents you didn't knew again wasn't the worst, but being send to grow as an adult into a hostile place was.

Bullying was an ordinary notion for the commoners of the Yka Academy, the majority of the students there being nobles and, as any aristocrat, kind of narcicist.

Serhan wasn't an execption to the rule. He was beaten four or five times before his first handling class, where his social status shifted from simple victim to main target of the school.

Handling classes were a course that every magician schooled at the Academy must attend. The concept was clear: teaching young magicians how to handle their power, with the basic spells and other techniques, like potion making, although nobody listened to this class.

The magicians, however, were split into group by magic potential—the size of the mana vessel, if you prefer—and not classed by years.

A second year could be in the same class as a third year.

And a first could be with a fourth.

And a fourteen-year-old's bones were usually not strong enough to resist an eighteen-year-old's spells or kicks.

Needless to say that Serhan landed with the fourth years, his mana vessel oddly grand for his age.
He became the most promising magician in a few minutes, and the Academy was a ruthless competition.

How could a boring commoner win it?

"Do you need something, young boy?" A tall woman detailed him from head to toe, the door half-open to not let him enter but to let her see the outside."

"Uh—" Serhan realized he had found the small barn of the washhouse and walked to it, his skin tiggling like when there's magic in the air. Strange, Menless was the mageless land.

"Uh-no? Or uh-yes?" A violet brow rose on her forehead.

"Uh-yes." Serhan's head shook up and down instantly. "Someone send me to give you this handkerchief. It's the eight princess' one."

The brow lowered and the door unclose totally. "Oh, of course." She signed him to enter, weirdly friendly now. "It's Yara that forgot it, right?"

A wave of panic slapped him. "Y-yeah." I should learn to listen when people speak.

'Yes, you should.' Sun mentally send to him, on which he tensed.

"Shut up."

The purple mane swiveled. "I beg you pardon?"

"No. Sorry." He awfully tried to chase the glare of the woman off her face. "I have a mosquito following me since this morning."

Her face twisted with doubt. "Yeah..."

"Almos!" A voice woke from the back of the barn. "The spell—"

"HOENIR!" The woman suddenly yelled. "There's someone!" An awkward grin lifted the corner of her lips as a boy stumbled into the barn.

"Hello— Hi." His voice fluttered when his sight met Serhan's. "The spelling Einar had to make is correct. I think we can make him learn sentences." He got a small paper out where sat unaligned words of all sorts.

"Fantastic!" The woman exclaimed with a truthful and abrupt happiness. "By the way, who's handerkerchief was it?" She spun to Serhan again who probably ressembled to a fish for a second after the question.

"The eight princess'."

"Oh." Her smile slightly faded. "I thought it was the tenth's."

"She doesn't use any." The boy sighed at her supposition. He seemed to know the little princess.

She chuckled. "Still annoyed she wants to teach you the alphabet while you already know it?" He held it silent at her comment. "You shouldn't have lied to her."

"But it's hard not to when you see the sparkles in her eyes." A pout grew on his face.

This guy knew the tenth princess personally. "What's your names?"

Both spun, surprised by the casuality of the question.

"I'm Almos." The violet-headed woman cocked her head.

"And I'm Hoenir." The boy did too. "Why though?"

I have to find a way to talk to this guy again. "Nothing. I'm Markus." Serhan bowed and waved in a goodbye manner, fleeing since raking the gardens was still on the list of task to complete. "See you."

"Y-yeah." Hoenir signed back. "See you..."

●●●

"See you again." Serhan was awkwardly sitting in front of a perturbed Hoenir, still chewing on the piece of lettuce he had the time to grab before this odd arrival. "Hi, Hoenir."

He tried an smile. "Hi... Markus."

"I was just wondering how you were doing." Serhan ignored the loud and embarrasing chewing of the vegetable.

"Fine since the last two hours we saw each other." Hoenir took another piece of his salad and chewed, clearly not favorable in pursuing this conversation, the rest of the dinning hall full and noisy filling the emptiness between them.

Serhan stared at him, hoping embarassement would make him crack a word, but instead he grabbed a glass and chugged it down.

"Where is the tenth princess?"

All the water burst out of Hoenir's mouth, Serhan and other casualities jerking on the attack.

"Are you... alright?" The undercover magician asked, offering a napkin for him under the glares of the neighboring victims.

"Yes. Yes, of course." Hoenir wiped off his mouth and humbled himself as Serhan took another napkin to dry his dripping self. A minute had to pass by before Hoenir could form a response. "Why do you want to know that?"

Because I have to follow her and I have no idea where she is right now. "I thought you would know where she is since you are one of her servants." He paused as Hoenir jerked up and begun cleaning up his tray to flee. "You are, right?" The need to check became pressing.

"I am." Hoenir attempted to run, but it'd looked weird in the middle of an immobile hall. His struts however led him fast enough to the trash and he spun, defying Serhan with the eyes. "Why are you interested?"

"I'm interested because she's an hermit but she's also the last imperial that doesn't have personal servants." He surprised himself with this smooth lie.

The boy slightly loosened and his eyes slid away as he walked away.
Serhan surely had to follow. Before he could understand, they were out of the hall.

"She won't ever hire you." Hoenir's steps looked like his feet were on fire.

The magician retained his pant—stamina wasn't a thing he possesed. "Why?"

"Because she hates hangers-on." A side-eye. "And you are one." A thin paper slid out of his back pocket as he continued marching.

Like any polite person, Serhan snatched it from the ground and held it out for Hoenir. "This is yours—"
However, the curious mix of numbers and letters gripped his attention.

Hoenir immediately bolted to get it back but too late.

"Is that a secret message?"

"..." He poorly nodded. "Yes."

"From who?"

"None of your business." He snapped, seizing the paper out of his hands.

"It seems like a corresponding word code." Serhan sighted straight into Hoenir's eyes which enlightened slowly at the words, telling him to go on. "Each line corresponds to a word." He justified, because he used it many time with the Chancelier's secretary to communicate. "For example, I did that with a book and each line—"

"Thank you!" Hoenir had beamed before Serhan could understand anything. "Thank you very much, Markus!" And he turned on his heels and disappeared.

"You're... welcome." Serhan said in the quietness, realizing he still had no idea where the little princess was. "And I better get ready to welcome Sun's scolding..."

'Yes.' The voice confirmed. 'Yes, you should.'

The poor magician only sighed, slumped and stretched. "Let's get back to work."

●●●

"Well," Almos stretched every fiber of her body, becoming even taller, as they arrived in front of the doors of the lunchroom, by which our writer had fled earlier in the day. "It was a great day! What did you think of it? Your first day in here, Nia?"

Afterwards, they return at one thirty of the noon; Einar and her had been propelled back to the riverbanks, Hoenir having disappeared from the barn and their boss in a mood for isolation.
Although he departed ten minutes later, the moment Einar and her had shared had been less dramatic than the tower incident. Not friendlier, but calmer at the very least.
Her afternoon had been peaceful, finally, since she didn't quit the river's border, too exhausted to run around to find other possible servants.

Until the bell had once again rung.

Her boss had instantly arrived to drag her from her shelter to the long corridors of the servant's quarter.

As Almos opened the door on the large hall filled with servants, Nia warily nodded, ultimately replying to her question. "Hectic, I would say, but my day has been great."

"Luckily!" Her boss claimed, saluting peers by grind and waves. "You'll stay here for a while!" She hugged her sideways before letting go of her for a seat.

Or maybe not.
After all, Jade had found three servants.

Nia's eyes met Trist's in the crowd, and a wide smile crossed both of their faces.
She'll talk to her after eating.

Close to Trist was a blue-eyed man staring. Probably a friend of hers she'll met afterwards.

Our writer and her boss had took seat one next to the other.

Nia's ability to pick what to eat between all the dishes served on the long buffet being close to inexistent, Almos spun to other people to chat while she decided.

When she finally decided on pasta and a piece of strawberry cake and took a first bite, the gates she crossed a few minutes ago flew open.

A trio of men stood on the threshold, hesitating to enter, their feet tilting between in and out.
One was young—with short floating fair hair, and the other old—with white beard peeking out from his helmet.

"WHERE IS NIA TRE?" The third middle-aged—with striking wrinkles all over the forehead—bellowed.

As unwilling as Nia was to reply, her boss raised her hand without permission and pointed an index on her.

"She's here. Why?" Almos cocked her head.

Our girl only had the time to feel her hands being shackled.

Wait, what?
Shackled.

"Nia Tre, I arrest you for the murder of the Duke of Bjørn, previous Master of the fourth duchy." The guard said. "You'll be jailed till the sentence of the Sun of the North falls."

Our girl turned to the brat who tightly gripped her, wrists turning white. "The fuck?"