He arrived at the Curtin Forum, a wide-open room with bleacher seating at the edges. Many students were gathering at the bleachers, most of whom Veranix knew in passing.
Magic students.
All of them, it would seem. At least the third- and fourth-year ones.
Veranix went up to Delmin, who was talking to two others that Veranix knew but couldn’t remember the names of. Two fourth-year boys, a tall one and a blond one.
“So this is even stranger than I expected,” he said to them.
“That’s what we were saying,” the blond one said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Even the ladies’ school magic students are here,” the tall one said, gesturing toward the cluster of young women who kept themselves at some reserve from the boys. “That’s never happened.”
“I’ve never had any class with the girls,” the blond said.
“It’s very odd, indeed,” Delmin said. He looked at Veranix, and his eyes went wide for a second. “Been busy?” He made a gesture to his cheek.
Veranix touched his own cheek and felt something slightly wet. He wiped it on his sleeve and realized it was a bit of blood.
“A bit,” he said, sending a surge of magic to the sleeve of his shirt to clean the blood. A little trick he had gotten quite good at.
“Everyone, please sit down!” Professor Alimen approached the group with six men and women flanking him. Some of them, Veranix knew as other members of the magic faculty, including Madam Castilane, but others were strangers. Strangers with an odd bearing. “I apologize for the confusion, but if you can all sit and quiet yourselves, we can begin.”
The magic students went and sat on the bleachers. Veranix found a place between Delmin and the tall fellow.
Alimen cleared his throat. “I’d like to thank you all for coming here today. I know that none of you are used to this method of doing things, but . . . things are changing. And perhaps that change is for the best. We’ve been teaching magic the same way for decades, and when ‘tradition’ is the only reason not to do something, we should take stock in—”
“What Professor Alimen is saying,” one of the men behind him said, stepping forward. He wore something that put Veranix in mind of a Constabulary uniform, but gray and with a high collar. “Is we are no longer treating magic studies, in your practical usage here, like some sort of dilettante art.”
Veranix and Delmin shared a confused look. That would not be how he would have described the last three years of study.
“But rather,” the man said, “a craft that must be honed and tempered.”
Alimen coughed. “Students, this is Mister Dresser, he will be—”
“Major Dresser,” Dresser said. “I served seventeen years as a specialist mage before retiring from His Majesty’s Intelligence Service. I have earned my rank just as surely as you have, Professor, and I expect you to use it.” He looked to the students. “Children, you should also address me as ‘Major’ or ‘Major Dresser,’ although ‘sir’ is fine in a pinch.”
That was the bearing of Dresser and the two new instructors. Military.
Delmin’s hand went up, and he spoke before any of the faculty called on him. “Professor, is the major a member of the faculty, or is he here as some sort of consultant?”
“Name, son?” Dresser asked.
“Delmin Sarren, fourth-year and prefect. And my question was for Professor Alimen, sir.”
Alimen coughed uncomfortably. “Major Dresser, as well as Lieutenant Goodman and Missus Jacknell, will be teaching here as if they were visiting faculty, and will be treated with the same honors and respect due to anyone of professorial rank.”
“Now,” Dresser said, “this is how things are going to go. There are fifty-five of you, so you will be broken into eleven squads of five.”
Veranix immediately disliked the use of the word “squad” in this context.
“You will train every class day with your squad and your designated squad drill instructor.”
“Drill instructor” was even worse.
“You will learn to work as a cohesive unit, and you’re going to be training together in magical applications that can be used offensively, defensively, and comprehensively.”
“I like nothing about this,” Delmin whispered to Veranix.
“Your effectiveness will be scored and ranked. You will also be in direct competition with each other, as squads will go head to head in exercises.”
Veranix looked to Professor Alimen, who appeared pale and sickened over what was being said.
“Pardon the interruption,” Veranix said. “But all of this sounds explicitly militant in application. How is that appropriate?”
“You all could use a bit of military discipline, for one,” Dresser said. “I won’t tolerate another untimely outburst.”
“You are correct, Mister Calbert,” Alimen said. “We are adopting certain techniques, and while they will have a variety of applications for a professional mage, these . . . initiatives will give each of you certain tools which may empower you, should you seek a career as a mage militant.”
“And successful completion with acceptable scores will entitle you to an officer’s rank,” Dresser said.
“Entitle or obligate?” one student asked.
Dresser snapped his fingers, and with a flash of light, that student’s mouth was gone. Nothing but unbroken skin on the bottom half of his face. He clawed at the spot where his mouth should be.
“I said no further outbursts,” Dresser said. “Consider that an opportunity for advancement. Figure out how to repair yourself.”
Alimen waved his hand and the student’s mouth reappeared, with a sudden and desperate gasp.
“We do not do that to the students,” Alimen said. “Not even under the edicts of the Altarn Initiatives.”
Dresser shot Alimen an ugly look when he said “Altarn Initiatives.” Perhaps the specific name behind these changes was supposed to be kept secret.
Which made Veranix far more curious about what
