Summoner: Book 1: The Novice by Taran Matharu Page B

the night before, he had forgotten that his clothes still smelled like sheep.
    Jeffrey led him up to the first floor on the east side and down a corridor opposite the stairway. The walls were lined with suits of armour and racks of pikes and swords, left over from the last war. Every few steps they would walk past a painting depicting an ancient battle, which Fletcher would have to tear his eyes away from as Jeffrey pulled him onwards.
    They passed by a set of large glass cabinets, stacked with jars of pale green liquid. Each one contained a small demon, suspended eternally within.
    Finally, Jeffrey slowed down. The servant pointed to a huge mace hung up on the wall. It was studded with sharp stones, each the size and shape of an arrowhead.
    ‘That’s the war club that belonged to the orc chieftain of the Amanye tribe, taken as a trophy in the Battle of Watford Bridge. It was actually the Provost who struck him down,’ Jeffrey said with pride. ‘A great man, our Provost. Strict as a judge, though. You be careful of him; look him in the eye and don’t backchat. He hates both the spineless and the insolent in equal measures.’
    With those words Jeffrey stopped at a heavy wooden door and banged on it with his fist.
    ‘Come in!’ shouted a booming voice from inside.

17
    The room was stiflingly hot compared to the chilled corridors. A blaze crackled in the corner of the dim room, spitting sparks that were sucked up into the flue of the chimney.
    ‘Shut the damned door! It’s bloody freezing out there,’ the voice boomed again. Fletcher jumped to obey as he noticed a figure sitting behind a large wooden desk in the centre of the room.
    ‘Let’s be having you, step lively now. And remove that hood from your face. Don’t you know it’s rude to cover your head indoors?’
    Fletcher hurried into the room and pulled his hood down, revealing the demon that had taken refuge there soon after Fletcher had set foot in Vocans.
    The figure harrumphed and then struck a match, lighting a lamp on the corner of his desk. The glow revealed a walrus of a man with a white handlebar moustache and thick mutton-chop sideburns that dominated his features.
    ‘I say, that’s a rare demon you’ve got there! I’ve only seen one of those, and that wasn’t on our side, either.’ The man snatched some glasses from the desk and peered at the imp. It shied away at his gaze, causing the old man to chuckle.
    ‘They’re fragile little things, but powerful. Who gave it to you? I’m supposed to be informed whenever someone manages to summon a demon outside of the usual species,’ the Provost boomed.
    ‘Arcturus sent me,’ Fletcher said, hoping that answer would be enough.
    ‘Impress him, did you? We haven’t had a novice brought in by a battlemage for quite some time; two years now, I think. You’re lucky, you know. Most of the commoners are given weaker demons to start off with. Mites, usually. They’re easier to capture and, when we need a new one, a battlemage is chosen at random to provide it. Doesn’t put them in a generous mood, unfortunately. Not the best system, but it’s the only one we’ve got. In any case, I shall be having words with Arcturus about it.’
    Fletcher nodded dumbly, earning himself a stern glare.
    ‘There’s no nodding here. You say “Yes, Provost Scipio, sir”!’ the man barked.
    ‘Yes, Provost Scipio, sir,’ Fletcher parroted, standing up straight.
    ‘Good. Now, what do you want?’ Scipio asked, leaning back in his chair.
    ‘I want to join up, sir; learn to become a battlemage,’ Fletcher replied.
    ‘Well, you’re here, aren’t you? Be off with you. Registration is tomorrow, you can make it all official then,’ Scipio said, waving him away. Fletcher left, dumbfounded. He was careful to close the door behind him this time. It had all been so easy. Somehow, everything was falling into place.
    Jeffrey was waiting for him, an anxious look on his face.
    ‘Everything OK?’ he asked, leading