Qasim Ahmad's Introduction to Magisterial Politics

Slowly, I walk into the large, central hall of the convention center. On my phone, I have the list I got of the different people who I am supposed to meet. Ever since I’d gotten more familiar with how Magister Scott tended to run things, it was much easier to maneuver. It’s a give and take, for certain, but thus far it feels more to my advantage than using me. That’s how they get you, of course, I have to remind myself any time I get too confident. Or start thinking about asking for favors more often than strictly necessary or even. Because if I were ever to end up owing too much, then she wouldn’t have to worry about losing me in the future by asking for big favors.

Looking at the list, there are a few names. Even though I’m planning on heading over to the DC area for my Magister position, I want to have at least one of the more well funded Villae to accept me to help me get better budgeting for living life in Washington. I have plenty of connections within the area that Great Maestro Devon and Greatest Maestro Jonkers can both easily justify a bump of stipend. Probably. But only if they are forced to be somewhat competitive.

As I’m walking through the hall towards Magister Tritten, I’m intercepted by a rather tipsy Mikayla. Despite being across the world, still my fellow advisees seem to be everywhere. Looking around, I see Paris, too. She’s engaged in a conversation with a few other Apprentices, all of whom seem to only be half paying attention. Likely telling a story of her own beneficence. Mikayla notices my scanning. “Yeah, I got bored of her story, then I saw you hanging out over here and wondered how your Convention’s been.”

I shake my head, though I do let the smile that’s lurking come forward. “It’s been fine, Mickey,” I reply to her unasked question.

“Shut up,” she mutters, complaining about the nickname Paris and I use mostly when we feel like irritating her. Then, shaking her head, she adds, “Besides, I didn’t see you at the get together last night? Are you sure you’re enjoying it well and all?”

I shake my head. “I just got in. Matthiassen had me helping him with his research last week, and some of us didn’t just mooch off of Paris for first class direct tickets,” I tell the half truth. I did get in last night, but it was such an exhausting day of travel I mostly just collapsed in my hotel room, after admittedly doing some cursory reading of the list Magister Scott sent to me. The only reason Maestro Matthiassen let me come was I reminded him of his own obligations here. He has to meet with several Magisters whose theses he’s reviewing, and the best place to find Magisters trying to weasel their way up to Maestrohood is at the Principal Mysticists Convention.

“That sucks. For you, the first class flight out here was great,” she jokes. Then, she notices something about my demeanor. “What’s with the face?” she asks, “Were you in the middle of something?”

I shake my head. “Kind of. But it’s not urgent. What about you?”

Mikayla shrugs. “You know how it is. Drinking with apprentices, flirting with magisters. Nothing too major. There is this cute guy I’ve been vibing with,” she notes. Without turning, she gestures at her own left shoulder, pointing through her body towards a mustachioed but otherwise cleanshaven, muscular man. I recognize him almost immediately, as I saw his picture last night. He’s the apprentice interning for the Great Maestro of the Stockholm Villa, one Acke Blomgren.

With an approving nod and smile, I remark, “Good on you for finally finding an age appropriate flirt.”

She looks offended. “He’s an apprentice?” she spatters out, surprised.

“Yeah. Is here as the intern for a kind of stable Great Maestro, but just an apprentice.”

She shakes her head. “That lying sack of shit. He told me he was already a Magister.”

I chuckle. “That explains your attraction,” I begin, adding mockingly, “Though I do have to wonder where his came from.”

She laughs, before taking the musing entirely seriously. “Seemed mostly to be an ass man,” she notes with a straight face, “But I can check with him when I go over there to chuck a drink in his face.”

“Please don’t,” I plead. Then, I add, “Or at least wait until someone else might feasibly have told you about him.

She looks at me, confused. “What do you know that I don’t?”

“His boss, that Great Maestro, is currently overfunded for his number of Magisters. So I was planning on befriending that doofus to get Great Maestro Nykvist to throw an offer my way,” I explain earnestly.

“That is a good plan,” she says, adding, “I’m going to steal it.” Then, she pauses before adding, “Wait, how do you know that?”

I look at her, letting her figure it out on her own. “How do you think?”

“Goddamned it, Qasim,” she complains, “I told you not to keep accruing debt to Miss Scott. Some day it’s going to bite you in the ass.”

I shrug. “Fortunately,” I joke, “My ass is a much smaller target to bite.” Shaking my head, I add, “Besides, just because you’re weird about Magister Scott’s conditional friendships doesn’t mean everyone has to be.”

“Paris agrees with me,” she insists.

I look at her, slightly judgmentally. “Paris has her family to do all the minutia for her,” I counter.

She chuckles. “Fair. Just tell me you’re careful about owing too much.”

I smile, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I do enjoy helping out my friends who help me out.”

She nods, then before stealing one of my plans, she adds, “You’re not counting on Acke, are you?”

I shrug. “Stockholm was plan B. Should be possible for both of us, but if you’re going to be laying the groundwork, I might just swoop in as your good friend when the Great Maestro finally finds her way here.”

She grins wickedly. “Oh, we’re good friends now?” Mikayla asks, jokingly.

“Of course, Mickey. What else could we be?”

She laughs as she heads back towards the other apprentices. I turn to look towards Magister Tritten, but he’s now in an intense conversation with Grand Maestro Purnama. Not at all important, but too powerful in the Magisterium to interrupt. But Magister Gongsun is free, chatting with her boss’s intern about something, by the snacks table. Perfect.

I head over carefully, making certain not to make too many waves. If anyone intercepts me again, I’m not nearly important enough to be socially allowed to walk away from them. I make it to the snack table as she’s finishing her discussion. My mandarin isn’t great, but I’m fairly sure she’s scolding her boss’s intern for getting too drunk last night. As I serve myself some cheese and crackers, I let my elbow bump into the Magister. Without looking, I say, “Um sorry, no wait uh, Entschuldigung, I think,” I say, trying to make myself seem less proficient in non-english languages, before looking up while saying, “Right?”

Magister Gongsun looks over at me and smiles. “I think that is correct,” she says, slowly, thinking about each word before she says them. “And it is not an issue.” She extends her hand, saying, “I am Magister Gongsun Yihan, and you are?”

I take her hand politely and softly. “Just an apprentice. I am Qasim Ahmad, here as the intern for Maestro Niels Matthiassen.”

She frowns. “Matthiassen. That is the Illusory theoretician, right?” After I nod, she adds, “I believe one of my fellow Magisters is presenting their thesis to him eventually.” Then, mumbling in Mandarin, she adds to herself, “If he ever gets his shit together.”

“Sorry, I did not catch that last bit?” I reply in English. “I think it was something about stability?”

“You speak Mandarin?” she asks, genuinely surprised.

I shake my head. “Not really, but a little. My major is counter-illusion, so reading is a necessity, as the Middle Chinese works are really only translated well into Mandarin Standard.”

She laughs a pleasant chuckle. “I suppose so. The official Magisterial translations do not truly capture the nuances.” She then adds, “Though if it is anything like the Mutation texts of Qieyun, even the Modern Standard translations miss some nuances.”

I nod. “I know, but it is very hard to learn ancient languages from cultures other than your own.”

She smiles. “I can probably find you some resources, if you are interested,” she offers.

“Of course,” I reply quickly, before widening my eyes and adding, “But I don’t want to be a burden or anything on you. You probably have much more important things to do.”

She shakes her head. “It is really nothing, most of the resources I would be providing are ones I already have for certain…other… people’s edification,” she says, looking vaguely upset towards Tritten. “Besides, Qasim,” she adds, her gaze softening once more as it falls back on me, “I am always happy to help people learn about our culture respectfully.”

“If it’s not trouble, Magister Gongsun, I would gladly accept your aid.”

“Of course, Qasim,” she replies, “And you can call me Yihan, if you like.” She smiles, adding, “I’ll be at the upper lounge around twenty-one o’clock, if you want to meet up.”

I smile and nod. “Of course, Magister Yihan. I will see you then,” I reply, letting her leave. She smiles as she gives a little wave, turns, and heads towards someone else in the crowd. I wait until she is several people away before I exhale. That went better than I thought it would, I muse as I begin to make my way back to Paris and the ever bored interns. It should be easy enough to get Magister Tritten to like me, as he needs Maestro Matthiassen’s approval for his eventual thesis. If both Magister Tritten and Magister Yihan are on my side, I can almost certainly get an offer from the Shanghai Villa. Then I don’t even need to worry about Stockholm.

As I am walking towards the interns, my phone rings. Unknown number. Always a terrible sign. I pick up. My dear advisor’s voice speaks to me. “Apprentice Ahmad, do you have a moment?” Magister Scott asks.

Of course she knows I used her information. And she probably is watching and knows I do have a moment of free time. “Yes,” I ask, “What is it, Magister Scott?”

“A dear friend of mine who is there needs a reliable but uniformed friend to help them out. Would you terribly mind visiting with them and doing what they ask?” she makes sure to phrase it like a question, even though it most certainly is not optional.

I smile. “I do have plans for the evening, but as long as it takes a reasonable amount of time, certainly,” I say.

“Worry not, Apprentice,” Magister Scott says flatly, “I would never wish to interrupt your hot date.”

“Not a date,” I mutter. Then I ask, “So who am I looking for?”

“Sure it isn’t,” Magister Scott replies, not believing me. Then she does answer my question. “Lovely tanned woman, should be in a flowing purple dress, currently looking sourly at her half-filled cup of some sort of alcohol at the far corner table of the hall.”

I look around, and do in fact see her. “Okay, heading over. What do I say?”

“Just say you have mutual acquaintances and ask if there is anything you can help her with,” Magister Scott states. Which means no names. Because of course she would be like that. Shaking my head, I turn about ninety degrees away from my previous path and make my way to the table.

As I approach, the woman shakes her head. “Not looking for any company, move along,” she says.

I furrow my brow, but try to give a somewhat pleasant smile. Not sure I pull it off, but the attempt is what matters. I add, “Not like that. I think we have mutual acquaintances, and I was going to ask if there was anything I could help you with?”

There is a spark of recognition, not of me, but of the phrasing. “Of course they would,” she mutters, clearly marking her as a friend of Magister Scott’s. “Don’t worry, it shouldn’t take too much time. One of the interns has something they really shouldn’t. I’d love to have it instead.”