Paragon of Skills

Chapter 270

The Ashenmere Tutor Guild occupies a long stone building near the city's western quarter, with three flights of steps and a row of bored stone lions out front. The lions, by tradition, have their tongues out. Children climb on them.

Jacob walks up the steps with his hood down, his Primordial disguise tuned to its lowest forgettable setting, his face arranged in the bland polite expression of a small-time wandering Tutor.

Lancelot walks behind him, eating a fried bun.

"Lance."

"Mm."

"Stop eating in the Guild building."

"I'm not in the Guild building."

"You will be in a moment. Come on."

Lance considers the bun. He shoves the rest of it in his mouth, chews twice, and swallows.

"Now I'll not be eating in the Guild building."

Jacob sighs and shakes his head.

They reach the top of the steps. Jacob pushes one of the brass-banded oak doors and steps inside.

The hall is long marble, lined with wooden benches and reception counters.

Jacob walks toward the central counter. The sign overhead reads, in tasteful gold lettering, Token Retrieval and Apprenticeship Verification.

He has just placed himself in line when the laughter starts.

It comes from four Tutors near a side wall, carrying without being identified as targeted. Jacob identifies the speaker without turning his head.

"...and there were six on the eastern wall alone. Six. Like he was running a campaign for office. I asked the bookbinder and he said yes, the man came in with a stack of fifty flyers and left them everywhere."

"Fifty?"

"At least fifty. The bookbinder thought he was joking."

"What did the flyers say?"

"Tutor Ocabj. Mid-tier credentials. Inquire at the Sleeping Goose."

"What kind of name is Ocabj?"

"That's the best part. One of my students went to check with the innkeeper, who has been apparently calling him Mr. Cabbage."

More laughter.

Jacob exhales through his nose.

He turns his head, just enough to glance sideways. Four Tutors in the dark green robes of the Guild. They are full time Tutors, it seems. Unlike Knights, who specialize in eliminating monster and taking Quests, Tutor are more scholarly. This doesn't mean they can't fight; quite the contrary. A Tutor is a man who decides to stop taking risks. At the same time, on average, they are able to beat a similarly-Ranked Knight because they're in the business of amassing knowledge about Skills and training.

Three of the group do not stand out at all. The fourth is a tall young man, perhaps twenty-three, wearing the silver Apprentice-Master pin of someone formally certified as the chief disciple of a Diamond-rank Tutor.

Jacob briefly ponders where he'd rank with the Grimoire on his hands and smirks.

The tall one is the one telling the flyer story.

He meets Jacob's eyes briefly, and his expression flickers. His eyebrows go up.

"...wait."

The other three follow his gaze.

"Wait wait wait. Wait."

The young man steps away from the wall and walks toward the line, grinning.

"Excuse me," he says, loud enough to carry to the entire hall. "Excuse me. I'm sorry. Are you, by any chance, Tutor Ocabj? Of the Sleeping Goose?"

Behind him, Lance goes still.

Jacob turns and arranges his face into a polite smile.

"Yes."

"Mr. Cabbage?"

"Some of the locals have called me that, yes."

The young man laughs out loud. The other three laugh with him this time.

"Brothers," the young man says, gesturing for the rest of the hall to listen, "we are in the presence of the Tutor Ocabj. Whose flyers I have personally counted eighteen of, on the eastern wall alone, in the past three days."

"Twenty-two, on the south wall," one of the others offers.

"Twenty-two on the south wall. Mr. Cabbage, my friend, I have been a Tutor in this city for six years and I have never, not once, seen a man so committed to the noble art of paper distribution. It is inspiring. It is humbling. The Guild should commission a statue."

More laughter.

"It was an oversight," Jacob says, evenly. "My assistant got overzealous."

"An oversight."

"Yes."

"Forty flyers is an oversight."

"It was a misunderstanding about the word some."

The young man repeats it to his companions, a misunderstanding about the word some, as if it were the punchline of a long joke. They laugh on cue.

Behind Jacob, Lance has stopped chewing.

Taken from NovelBin, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The young man takes another step forward and plants himself in Jacob's eyeline.

"You know, Mr. Cabbage, I'd like to give you some friendly advice. From one Tutor to another. Tutor to Tutor."

"Please."

"A Tutor with self-respect does not paper the city with notices. A Tutor with self-respect is recommended. He is spoken of. He is sought out. He does not stand on a street corner shouting his own name. The fact that you have personally produced — what was it, brothers, fifty? — fifty handwritten flyers is, in the eyes of every member of this Guild, a complete disgrace to the title we share. It is the kind of thing that brings shame on the rest of us. You should be ashamed."

Jacob nods.

"You're right. I appreciate the advice. It will not happen again."

"It had better not."

"It will not."

"Because I have a reputation to protect, Mr. Cabbage. I am Apprentice-Master to Master Brendev himself, the most respected Tutor in Ashenmere, and I cannot have wandering vegetables — sorry, Tutors — making the rest of us look ridiculous."

"Of course," Jacob can barely hold his sigh.

"I'll be watching the boards. If I see another flyer with your name on it, there'll be trouble."

Jacob looks at the Platinum-Ranked Tutor and smiles warmly, "of course. I'm very sorry."

The young man turns back to his little group.

"See how you handle idiots?" The guy says. "That's how you teach them. You have to be stern. It's the same thing you do with dogs, essentially."

Jacob turns back to face the counter.

Lance looks at the ceiling.

"Boss, shouldn't we—"

"No."

"Boss, in fairness, they do deserve some—"

"Don't."

Lance closes his mouth.

The line moves. Jacob steps to the front.

The clerk is a thin man with pinched features and a bored voice . He looks Jacob up and down without any sign of recognition.

"Name."

"Ocabj. Tutor Ocabj. I'm here to retrieve my certified Tutor token."

The clerk flips a page in his ledger. Flips another. Finds the entry. Reads it. The pinch in his features deepens.

"Mid-tier wandering credentials. Issued through the Ytrial Academy verification network. Token reserved for pickup pending student certification."

"Yes."

"Pending student certification."

"Yes."

"You cannot retrieve your token until at least one student has formally pledged for your apprenticeship. That is the standard procedure for mid-tier wandering Tutors. You must have a student. You do not have a student. Therefore I cannot release the token. Next, please."

Jacob nods, "sorry, right. How soon could I complete the pledging once I have a student?"

"Same day. Bring the student. They sign here. The token is yours."

"Thank you."

"Next, please."

Jacob steps aside and turns toward the door.

He has almost reached it — Lance trailing behind him — when something at the side of the hall makes him stop.

A boy has come in through one of the side doors. Perhaps sixteen, in the gray practice robes of a Tutor's apprentice, moving with the careful posture of someone trying very hard to look composed in front of his master.

He walks up to the cluster of four and bows to the tall young man.

"Master Davren."

"Korim. You're late."

"I'm sorry, Master. I was finishing the morning routine," Korim says.

"And how did they go?" Master Davren smirks haughtily.

"They went well, Master. I have been working through the form exactly as you instructed. I think I am improving."

"Show me."

Korim hesitates, a little bashful of doing so in public.

"Show me. Right here. The Punching Form of the Iron Branch. Single repetition. Demonstrate how you have been spending your morning."

Korim swallows. He steps back, finds a clear space against the wall, and assumes the opening stance.

Jacob has stopped. Lancelot stops beside him, even though he does not know why.

Korim begins the Punching Form of the Iron Branch.

It is a simple and reputable form, a basic routine taught in dozens of schools. Four hundred repetitions a day is a heavy load for a sixteen-year-old but not unreasonable. The form itself is perfectly executable.

The way Korim is performing it is going to injure him.

Jacob sees it in the first three punches.

[Grimoire Analysis]

[Korim. Silver Rank. Punching Form of the Iron Branch.]

[13 Flaws detected. 1 Critical Flaw Detected.]

[Critical Flaw: Mana-channel routing through the Anvil Vein creates a feedback loop. Energy discharges outward and re-enters the joint simultaneously. The Anvil Vein will rupture under sustained repetition.]

Jacob's hand twitches at his side.

Come on, it's not your business, he tells himself.

He's here on a stealth mission and... he wants to go back to the Academy to deal with the rest of the problems he's got.

The mission is not a sixteen-year-old boy in a different Tutor's apprenticeship learning a different Tutor's wrong form. There are a thousand wrong forms being taught in a thousand halls across the kingdom. Jacob cannot fix all of them.

If Korim's elbow ruptures, he will be in agony for a couple of days and then recuperate in about six months or so.

This is what Jacob tells himself as Korim performs the eleventh punch.

The twelfth. The thirteenth.

Davren turns his head, sees Jacob still standing near the door watching, and smiles.

"Mr. Cabbage," Davren says, loud enough for the hall to hear. "I see you're admiring my apprentice's form. Korim is one of my finest students. Note the discipline. Note the consistency. Note the progress he has made under proper instruction. This, Mr. Cabbage, is what an apprenticeship looks like when the Tutor has not been ruining his own name with handwritten flyers."

The little group of Tutors chuckles.

Korim, hearing his master's praise, performs the fourteenth punch with renewed effort. His forearm is visibly red now.

Jacob's jaw tightens.

He looks at Korim. He looks at Davren. He looks at the door.

"Congratulations on your apprentice," he says. "You should be proud. He is clearly working very hard."

"He is."

"I hope his progress continues."

"It will."

"I'll be on my way."

He turns toward the door.

Behind him, Korim performs the fifteenth punch.

Lancelot leans in close to his ear.

"You've been in a real bad mood since Nimirea."

Jacob stops walking.

It is one step short of the door. The handle is right there. He can see the brass latch, the seam of light around the frame.

"Lance."

"You have, Boss. You haven't said her name once since we left the Academy."

"Lance."

"I'm just saying... I am wondering, Boss, what is in your head right now."

Jacob does not look at Lancelot. He looks at the door handle. His shoulders are very still.

Behind them, a heavy hand claps Jacob on the shoulder.

"Mr. Cabbage, my friend!"

Davren has crossed the floor while Lancelot was talking to Jacob. He is grinning down at Jacob now with the easy magnanimity of a man about to be generous to someone he considers very much beneath him.

"I have been thinking. And I have decided I should not be too harsh on you. You are clearly a man who is trying. The flyers are absurd, yes. Your reputation is in tatters, yes. But your heart, I see, is in the right place. So I will offer you something I do not normally offer to wandering Tutors of your station."

He pauses for effect.

"I will accept you as my disciple."

Jacob is still looking at the door handle. He has not turned.

"I have many apprentices already," Davren continues. "Korim is one of my finest. But I always have room for one more. Especially for a man like yourself, who clearly needs guidance. Under my instruction, Mr. Cabbage, you might one day rise above the public bulletin board and earn a real student. Wouldn't you like that?"

The hall is quiet.

Korim performs the sixteenth punch. His elbow is a deep wrong color.

Jacob's jaw clicks in place. Then, slowly, he turns around.