The headmaster's office smelled of lavender and wood polish, and of the particular fear that only bureaucrats seemed able to produce: the kind that came from imagining terrible consequences which would only make themselves known two dozen steps down the line.
Lao Zhe sat with one leg crossed over the other, gloved hands caressing the silvery carved dragon head of his black walking stick. His expression had not changed once in the past hour. It didn't need to.
The headmaster — a gray man in a gray coat in a gray room — had been speaking for some time. As was common among civil servants in this country, he seemed to have next to no qualms about speaking to himself. At the end of every little paragraph of the speech he had prepared in his mind, the headmaster stopped, as if to verify whether or not Lao Zhe had anything to add. He, of course, didn't.
"…the application process was, of course, delayed. That was why we waited until today to welcome you. We tried to expedite the protocol, but to no avail. We don't make a habit of such measures. We hope you understand it was a matter of parliamentary protocol, as the relationships between our countries are strained. Naturally, we must also follow regulations regarding staff from foreign faculties, especially considering your background—"
Lao Zhe's gaze drifted to the window.
The sky above Weyer was a heavy, humid gray. Smog clung to the air just above the rooftops like the city was desperately trying to let go of it and couldn't quite manage. Beyond the inner courtyards, on the horizon, the old harbor cranes stood like rusting giants, one of the last visible reminders of what the city had been before it learned to burn foreign coal and its own inhabitants alike.
A faint click. The window opened on its own, the headmaster paused.
Lao Zhe turned back toward him, his face politely blank. "You were saying?"
"I was…" the man swallowed, eyes flicking to the scroll case hung by the professor's belt, "I was explaining our academic priorities for the year. We had to make a few modest, slight changes to our policies, following the election of the new house of representatives. Emphasis on practical archaeology. Fieldwork. Preservation. Not… not theory."
"Mm," Lao Zhe said. He uncrossed his legs. "Do you know what 'preservation' meant, in the Empire, before our new beloved Emperor took the throne?"
The headmaster frowned, but otherwise didn't answer.
"It meant gouging out a dead man's eyes and filling the sockets with mercury, cutting his tongue off and binding his limbs in eternal prayer so he couldn't curse his murderer," he gave a dry chuckle, "In the same way, 'fieldwork' was generally an euphemism for cracking open the door of some ancient tomb and going down, swords at hand, just to make sure nothing was moving down there."
Silence.
"I assure you," the headmaster muttered, "that's not what we mean here at all."
Lao Zhe smiled without humor. "Of course it isn't. That's because your blood has grown weak."
The clock on the wall chimed once. Not even the correct hour. The mechanism had lagged behind since he'd entered the room, possibly since he'd stepped off the carriage, maybe even before that. What he was carrying with him often had these kind of effects on machines.
"Professor Lao," the headmaster said, shifting in his seat, "I must ask. What exactly do you intend to teach?"
There it is. Zhe thought. The real question, at last. He could have asked this one hour ago and saved us both some time.
Even so, he took his own time answering, as if contemplating a satisfying response.
Instead of speaking, reaching in his coat's right pocket, he pulled out the letter — fine paper, scarlet seal — and placed it delicately on the headmaster's desk, beside ink and quill.
"A curriculum," he said mildly, "endorsed by Deputy Lechlade, as you'll see. He's quite progressive, I have to admit. Truly, a man of such large views is a rarity in this day and age."
The headmaster didn't move. Didn't even blink. His eyes were on the seal — the unmistakable, elegant sigil of the Parliamentary Council. Stag and crown. That was their symbol.
"I trust," Lao Zhe continued, "that everything is in order?" Although he had phrased it as a question, they both knew fully well the answer which would follow.
"Yes." the headmaster said, voice barely audible. "Perfectly."
A long moment passed.
Then Lao Zhe stood, brushing the scroll case with the back of his right hand and his walking stick with the other. The cane tapped once on the wooden floorboards.
"Then I'll take my leave. I have lectures to plan."
"Do you—" the headmaster cleared his throat, "do you intend to meet with the new Democratic House of Mystical Studies?" Fear was apparent in his voice.
The professor paused.
He looked at the headmaster, his face not betraying any sort of feeling.
"Only if they contact me first." he said.
Then he left.
The polished doors of the administrative wing finally creaked open.
Lao Zhe quickly stepped out into the corridor, expression dignified and composed, not sparing a glance for the four students who were now waiting in one of the alcoves across from the offices.
Adrian straightened the moment he saw him, elbowing Erika in the ribs with a hissed "There—!" before rushing after him.
The others followed suit.
Helge was the last to rise. He'd been crouched behind one of the marble columns, half out of sight, watching the office door in the same way he used to watch the ocean back when he still travelled on his father's ship. As Zhe passed, his attention snapped not to the man himself but to the cylindrical case he carried with him.
It was smooth, dark lacquered wood, but unlike any lacquer Helge had ever seen — not painted nor carved, and yet faintly patterned, as if the surface itself resisted observation. The further away the professor walked, the more the object twisted in Helge's memory. He blinked once.
"What's that?" he asked, mostly to himself.
"A scroll case," Erika said dismissively. "Scholars occasionally carry them. You'd think one would grow accustomed to such things after wasting three years of his life studying archeology."
"No, I mean—" Helge frowned. "Never mind."
They stepped into the corridor just as Lao Zhe began descending the stairway, boots quiet against the old marble. The click of his cane echoed sharply in the silence, setting the pace for his deceptively fast way of walking.
Adrian was once again the first to break into motion. "Come on—before he disappears again."
They hurried after him, Adrian a half-step behind. "Professor Lao?" he called out, keeping his voice formal, unsure whether to bow or just stand there like an idiot. He chose the latter.
Zhe stopped on the second step from the bottom and turned.
Adrian hadn't expected him to look so ordinary. Older, yes, and foreign — long dark coat, black gloves, dressed more like an eccentric old gentleman than a professor— but not strange, not spectral. He didn't look like the kind of man who kept a nation's secrets folded in his breast pocket, which was how he was routinely described by pretty much everyone that had ever met him.
And yet... the corridor felt a little colder now, a little too still.
"Yes?" Zhe asked, his voice low and precise. Not unfriendly. Not warm, either.
"We're students," Rupert said, stepping forward. "Third year. Studying comparative religious history. We just wanted to welcome you to—"
"To the university," Erika cut in with a smile that was somehow both gracious and lacking in warmth. "There's been no official announcement, so we had to rely on rumor to track you down. I imagine the lack of an official announcement to not be accidental."
"It never is," said Zhe.
They waited for more. He didn't oblige.
"I'm Adrian," the leader of the small group said quickly. "And these are Rupert, Helge, and Erika. We're part of a—well, how should we call it, a discussion group. For advanced topics."
Zhe raised an eyebrow, "Advanced topics?"
"Private study," Helge said. "We like to test for ourselves what the university teaches. Or what we come to find out on our own."
That got the faintest twitch of interest. Zhe's eyes flicked from one to the other, "And what do you expect from me?"
There was a pause — half a heartbeat too long.
Knowledge? Adrian wanted to say. Power. Recognition. A place where people like me aren't just background noise. Instead, he managed:
"A conversation, maybe? After you're settled, naturally."
"I am not here to settle, I will merely spend six months or so in this squalid place," Zhe said. And then, after a beat: "But I'll keep your offer in mind."
He turned and walked away, cane ticking against the marble. When he rounded the corner and was gone, the air seemed to relax around them.
"Well," Erika said, brushing an invisible thread off her coat, "that was about as warm as ice."
"I think he liked us," Rupert said.
"I don't think he likes anyone," Helge muttered. "But did you see—?"
"What?"
"That case. The scroll." He looked around, unsure how to phrase it. "It wasn't normal, was it?"
Rupert tilted his head. "I mean, sure, it looked fancy I guess..."
"It looked wrong. Like it's watching you. No, no, that's wrong. Like it doesn't want you to watch it."
They stared at him.
"Forget it," Helge said, clearly frustrated.
But he wouldn't manage to get it out of his mind.
And hours later, when the courier arrived with a second sealed letter written in Irvin's distinctive handwriting, the scroll would still linger at the edge of his mind.