"Sirvelon. Are you presenting to us... this experiment? - he said, and the word 'experiment' sounded like a death sentence.
"Venerable Archmage," Sirvelon recited, bowing deeply. "Before you stands Grumgh. The fruit of my years of research and proof of the theory of the great Ribtik of Burtharb! An educated, civilized, well-read orc. He is ready to answer your questions and prove that even the lowliest of races can ascend to the heights of knowledge under the right... guidance."
The Archmage nodded, and his gaze shifted to Grumgh.
"Very well. Orc. Tell us... what is your view on the metaphysical implications of high-order teleportation within the context of Ebb's theory?"
The hall fell silent. Sirvelon went pale as a sheet. This wasn't on his list of prepared questions. It was something he himself had barely touched upon in his lectures, and Grumgh certainly didn't understand it.
Grumgh felt his brain overheating. The words sounded familiar, but their meaning slipped away like sand between his fingers. He saw the expectant, mocking faces of the mages. He saw the panicked, silent plea in Sirvelon's eyes. He felt the velvet jacket becoming damp under the arms and the wire frame of his glasses digging into the bridge of his nose.
The silence in the hall became almost tangible, thicker than incense smoke and heavier than the golden frescoes on the dome. Everyone waited. For foolishness, for a stumble, for a spectacle.
Then Grumgh remembered one of the countless, sleepless evenings spent poring over volumes in Sirvelon's tower. He hadn't understood most of the words then, but he had memorized them, as he had been taught.
His voice trembled, deep and ill-fitting for his dressed-up figure.
"The... entropic instability of the ethereal matrix during multi-point translocation," he recited, slowly, as if spitting out stones, "must be compensated for by an inversional coupling with the astral plane, otherwise... local reality cavitation occurs."
The hall was still silent, but the mocking smirks had frozen. Several older mages leaned forward. The one with the grey beard raised his eyebrows.
"Interesting…" the Archmage murmured, steepling his fingers over the table. "And could you elaborate, boy, on the dangers posed by this 'local reality cavitation'?"
Sirvelon now looked like someone who had just seen his flagship, from which he expected glory, suddenly spring a leak and sink, but to his absolute astonishment, instead of going to the bottom, it began to… float? His mind was racing, trying to recall from which book Grumgh could have pulled those terms. Could it have been Foundations of Ethereal Engineering? Or perhaps the Scattered Thoughts of old Albrecht?
Grumgh felt sweat trickling down his back under the velvet. The wires of his glasses dug deeper, bringing tears to his eyes that he desperately tried to hold back. His mind, slow and methodical, searched shelves of his memory.
"The stratifi…cation… of causal dimensions," he stammered, feeling every syllable was like a millstone. "According to… the treatise by Gizbert of Liacar… a domino effect. The collapse of… sub-etheric string stability. Can lead to… an invasion of entities from parallel planes. Or… the creation of a stable, though unplanned, portal to…" He trailed off, having run out of memorized sentences. His last resort was what Sirvelon had drilled into him most often when the orc couldn't answer a question. "...to Hell. Usually to Hell."
The last words hung in the air, stark and absurd. For a moment, no one breathed. And then, one of the younger mages, sitting off to the side, cracked. His stifled snicker broke the silence like a hammer hitting glass. It was the breach in the dam. The other mages, initially surprised, now saw the absurdity of the whole situation. A dressed-up orc, quoting fragments of advanced treatises clearly without understanding, answering a serious question with the threat of opening a portal to Hell.
Laughter, initially hesitant, spread through the hall. It wasn't sincere laughter, but full of mockery, pity, and relief that they weren't the ones standing in the center of this circus. Sirvelon stood frozen, his proud posture crumbling into ruins, replaced by a mask of pure terror and humiliation. His great day, his moment of glory, had turned into a farce.
The Archmage with the grey beard did not laugh. His gaze, cold and penetrating, rested on Sirvelon.
"Sirvelon," he said, and his voice extinguished the laughter like a bucket of ice water. "You have presented us with a parrot. Perfectly trained to repeat complicated words whose meaning it does not grasp. This is not proof of civilizing the orc race. This is proof of your desperate attempt to mark your position using this poor creature. The theories of Ribtik, if I understand them correctly, spoke of understanding, not mindless memorization."
"But… Venerable Archmage… he… he reads! He calculates!" Sirvelon stammered, feeling the floor give way beneath him.
"Just like a trained magpie reads and calculates," the Archmage retorted dryly. "The experiment is a failure. Pathetic. And it ends now. Remove this… filth. And I suggest you return to studying the basics. Perhaps you can manage to cast a fireball without setting your own sleeves on fire."
The last sentence was a low blow, a public reminder of Sirvelon's greatest failure. The mages began to snicker again. Sirvelon stood paralyzed by shame and rage. His dream lay in ruins, and he himself had become a laughingstock.
As the doors closed behind them, cutting off the cacophony of ridicule, Sirvelon turned to Grumgh. His face was twisted into a grimace of something that was no longer pride or contempt, but pure, unbridled fury.
"You idiot!" he snarled, yanking Grumgh by the sleeve. "Stupid, green imbecile! You've ruined me!"
They were expelled from the guild not so much by words, but by eloquent silence and doors that slammed shut right in front of their noses. They stood on the cobblestones, beneath the majestic building that just moments ago was supposed to be the stage for Sirvelon's triumph. The mage turned, spat in the direction of the building, and then, without looking at Grumgh, growled,
"Get lost. I don't want to see you anymore. You are a worthless cretin."
And turning on his heel, he left Grumgh alone on the street, in his too-short trousers, itchy velvet, and with a wire frame on his nose that now seemed to weigh a ton.
Left to his own devices, Grumgh began to analyze his situation. The imperial capital, a hundred thousand inhabitants, a slim chance of work for an orc, an even slimmer chance of surviving on the streets.
"Assets: tunic, trousers. Potential threat level: High. Probability of employment: Negligible," he began to mutter under his breath, giving himself a report on the current situation. "Capital population: 80% human, 10% dwarves and elves, 10% minor races, primarily vagabonds, thieves, and beggars. Recommended course: emigration to more rural areas with a more favorable non-human population distribution."