Still, something was sprouting within him. He wasn't like the other orcs he remembered from childhood, brutish, quick to anger, proud of their scars. Grumgh was slow of thought, but stubborn. Sirvelon called it 'determination' but orcs would have called it 'the stubbornness of an idiot.' Whatever it was, it meant that instead of abandoning a book after ten failed attempts, he would sit over it until he dropped.
Many would say that educating an orc, teaching him algebra, arithmetic, classical literature, playing instruments, and even magic, is exceedingly difficult. Unfortunately, they would be wrong, terribly wrong. Teaching an orc such things is, in fact, a nearly impossible feat.
'Remember, Grumgh, it's not about understanding everything. It's enough that you memorize and repeat.' Sirvelon repeated this so often that the orc began to treat learning as the skill of memorizing things. Sirvelon taught him letters, simple arithmetic, and the basics of magic, not because he wanted to raise Grumgh, but so he could one day boast at the guild: 'Look, even an orc can read, so Ribtik's theories are true!'
His relationship with Sirvelon was fraught with tension. The mage treated him with a mixture of pride and contempt.
'You are my greatest work, Grumgh. Even if you understand nothing, you still prove me right.' he would say with a goblet in hand.
The orc usually responded with silence. He didn't know whether to feel gratitude or hatred. Over time, he learned that it was best not to feel anything.
Grumgh's idyllic life lasted until the 283rd Convocation of Neruram Mages. The sixteen-year-old orc was to be presented to the chapter and confirm Ribtik's theories once and for all. But Grumgh knew well that no matter how it went, his life would change irrevocably. Most likely for the much worse.
The Mages Guild building could undoubtedly be compared to the palaces of Neruram's minor princes, but this was no surprise. High-ranking mages command high fees even for utterly banal commissions. Finding a mage who won't try to squeeze the last copper coin from your purse is like finding a live dragon sitting on a hoard of gold. Highly improbable, as all the wealthy dragons were slaughtered to the last by adventurers, mages, merchant guilds, various warlords, and even cobblers. The average dragon nowadays focuses on consumption, not capital accumulation like its ancestors, but this thankfully limits its encounters with dragon slayers of all kinds.
Thanks to these character traits, the mages had amassed a considerable fortune, and the royal family could just as easily move into the guild and live on a par with the royal palace. Frescoes, golden ornaments, paintings, and sculptures adorned every room, and servants in livery circulated among the dignified guests, offering trays of dark, thick wine and tiny canapés, whose size was inversely proportional to the snobbery of the institution serving them.
Dressed up like a rat for the canal opening, Grumgh walked the guild's corridor, dragged by Sirvelon like a dog on a leash. His 'attire' consisted of a velvet doublet that chafed his armpits and trousers a good foot too short. He felt hundreds of eyes upon him. Mages in rich robes interrupted their conversations to stare at this peculiar pair. Whispers and giggles swirled in the air, thick with the scent of incense, magic, and an arrogant sense of superiority. Sirvelon puffed up with pride, certain this was his moment of glory.
"Remember, boy," Sirvelon hissed without turning his head. "Smile and be polite. And by the gods, say nothing unless asked. And then, only say what I taught you."
Finally, they stood before heavy oak doors adorned with silver runes. This was where the chapter convened. Sirvelon straightened up, adjusted his collar, and pushed the doors open.
The hall was enormous, circular, under a dome frescoed with great magical discoveries. Carved benches lined the walls, upon them dozens of the most powerful mages of Neruram. Their eyes, like vultures, immediately settled on Grumgh. The scent of the orc's fear mingled with the odor of old wood, dust, and power.
The council of elders, a group of old men with piercing eyes and robes betraying unimaginable wealth, sat behind a semicircular table on a raised platform. One of them, with a long gray beard and sharp blue eyes, raised a hand, commanding silence. His voice, when he spoke, was like the creaking of an old, wise log.