They spoke a bit more, him mostly asking her questions. She was an indenture, like one of the ones he’d narrowly avoided. But not as hardened as the orphanage kids.

He was vague about his family, and downplayed his position. “Ah being Chosen ain’t all its cracked up to be. You gotta act all serious and scary all the time. But its all a loada bluster”

He visited her in the kitchens a few times over the next few days. Being friendly and keeping his hands to himself, learning from her about how the servants worked, and picking up bits of gossip.  

She slipped him extra food sometimes, which he didn’t really need now, but it was good to have a friend.  indicated she could be a reliable tool.

Later that week he knocked on the door of the chambers of one of the noble-born students. 

He had sent a note in advance, in carefully neat but simple handwriting, asking to meet. So he only had to wait while she slid back the grate at eye level, confirmed it was him, and removed the bars and locks from within. 

As he entered, she stepped back, keeping a few paces between them.

She had the broad solid build and rounded cheeks he associated with wealthy children. She had a few inches on him in height and tried to emphasize it with how she stood, head tilted to look down at him, affecting a bored and contemptuous air.  

From the corner of his downcast eyes, he caught glimpses of the room around her. A warm-looking quilt on the bed (embroidered with tasteful patterns of hunting devils, in red and black), smooth white paper on the desk, bottles of spirits and wine on the far shelf. All strictly against the rules. It pleases Asmodeus for those with power to enjoy it.

His mouth tasted of acid, his throat was full of hot coals, his stomach throbbing painfully. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to scream. He wanted to swing at her in jealous rage.

Slowly and deliberately, he bowed to her. Not the carefully rank gradated bows between priests, but on his knees in the abject supplication of a peasant before his Lord’s throne.

 “My lady, I come to seek your forgiveness for my transgressions.”

Strictly the title wasn’t necessary. She referred to herself as the Daughter of a Count, but from the gossip she was the fifth child of a third wife, legitimate, but far from inheriting. Raised in proximity to power but not having it herself.

“I spoke out of ignorance in our early lessons, and did not appreciate the nature of nobility, and wisdom of my betters. But scripture teaches us that even the least of Cheliax, the poorest peasant, the most wretched orphan, can serve our Lord well by devoted submission. I wish to offer you my service, and in so doing learn how best to serve our Lord.”

Now to see if he had judged her correctly. 

She didn’t smile. She was Chelish, and some peasant boy supplicating himself wasn’t going to flatter her into letting her guard down.

(But he might notice her posture shift slightly. More upright, more relaxed, still with tension in her arms.)

She’d paid the boy little attention previously, beyond joining in with the others in showing him his place. Such utter abasement was undignified for a Chosen, and a marked shift from his prior impudence. It could be a trick, but he was only a peasant boy. And she’d never had a servant of her own before. 

Before speaking she drew out the knife she’d concealed in her robe, and idly picked at her nails with it, looking down at him with aristocratic contempt.* 

“It is well that you have come to understand your place better, however long that might take it shows some capacity to learn. But I have concerns of my own, and little time to discipline a hound. Were I to grant you my patronage your behavior would reflect on me as well. What value do you bring that it is worth my effort? And why are you dirtying my floor, not that of another of your betters you insulted?”

*She'd seen a noblewoman in an opera do it, before flaying her treacherous lover with the same knife he'd gifted her. A love of the theatre was one of the few things she and her father shared. 

Because you are high enough to act as a protector, but low enough this is worth something to you.

Because none of the others with influence are staunch allies of yours. 

Because you've never abused the servants, so will likely be a soft touch with me as well. 

Because, judging by your unguarded expressions, you have no particular attraction to men. 

She would brush off the most obvious flatteries, she’s suspicious. Needs to be something that feels plausible, while still flattering her self-image. Not just birth then, or beauty, something she can credit to her own actions. 

He allowed a little more confidence into his voice: "I am ignorant of noble politics, so perhaps if I ought to have gone for others were I purely seeking patronage." A strike, but a deniable one, enough to demonstrate he was not an utter idiot. 

"But I do not merely wish protection. I meant what I said about learning to serve our lord best." I am an earnest and naïve peasant boy. 

"I observed your performance in class. You use the powers our Lord grants you with finesse and skill." You can cast an acid splash under the desks, near silently, narrowly targeted. 

"And you perform near perfectly in catechism, where my sadly limited education has left me at a deficit. I could learn these from you, and you could teach me to serve you better. I can serve you in whatever menial ways you desire, a Lady of your station should not be troubled to carry her own books, or clean up the mess after practical classes.” I will raise your status. Others will see you have another Chosen, even a lowly one, at your beck and call. 

“And being of little note to others I may pick up occasional tidbits that they would know to hide from one such as you.” And bait. 

That is such obvious bait. She’s not going to fall for that.

Still though, peasant boy is showing some glimmers of initiative, that should be encouraged right, Effective Tyranny means Cultivating Useful Subordinates. And all this scheming is such fun.

“Oh? What sort of things have you heard?”

“I know that Novice Jordi has not slept in his own bed for the last two nights.

That Deacon Ramona drinks herself to sleep every night and barely wakes up to pray for spells, and has Acolyte Laia write all her lectures.

Oh and Vicar Diego is sweet on you, but I’m sure you knew that one already.”

She is not rising to that one. She is not.

“You are not completely blind I suppose.”

She is Reasserting Control of the Conversation. Time to Pause to Emphasize Hierarchy, (she counts in her head, one devil, two devils, three devils, four devils, five devils).

And now the Magnanimous Gesture to a Promising Servant. 

“Oh and you may stand.”

He stands, making eye contact but maintaining his slumped submissive posture. 

“Seems you may be of some small use to me. Now swear to me that you have told me no lies and you intend to serve me truly." 

He paused for a few moments. It would be suspicious if he didn’t, they’d had all these classes about how important law and oaths and exact words are.

“I swear upon my honor, my Law and my Choosing that, to the best of my knowledge as a flawed and ignorant mortal, every sentence I have spoken to you today has been true.”

He'd checked them all beforehand after all.

“I swear to offer you service as described previously for the duration of our time in the seminary, or until such time as you release me, conditional upon you offering me such patronage, protection, and tuition as is appropriate recompense for my efforts. Provided it does not interfere with my service to our Lord.”

She kept her face impassive as was fitting. The words washed over her, the boy was mostly using the standard forms anyway, with a little divergence which was only to be expected from the barely literate. 

She had a servant of her own! Her own Chosen as a minion, that practically made her senior clergy already right. Her stupid sisters with their stupid babies and stupid spells would be so jealous.

“Your service is accepted.”

The change was surprisingly sudden and complete. 

The next day their classmates saw him carrying Vindenca's books, following behind her, and doing other little chores. And he found that suddenly his robes and notes ceased needing daily mendings. And the appearance, birth, or accent of another was more worthy of comment.  

When Vindenca spoke with the other nobleborn he was there in the background, not speaking unless spoken to naturally, but he heard their conversations and began to understand better how the nobility thought, and the ways the world worked. 

The other students warmed up to him too now he was no longer the designated victim. He even had some recurring acquaintances in the other students who’d chosen to become minions to the more powerful. Sharing occasional knowing glances and rolled eyes when their betters were talking about somethig particularly inane.

He traded information and favors, the old habits returning like the easy way a hand sits on a knife. He knew more than most because of his in with the servants (though he was careful to keep that quiet) and overhearing the noble brat’s conversations. 

He had a place here now, he was useful again, he was safe. But that wasn’t enough.

During his morning prayers he meditated on the nature of Domains. 

They were told that Lord Asmodeus would assign them domain spells and admonished for any thought of questioning his decision. Their materials also talked in passing about Clerics “choosing” their domains. And teachers would expound at length on what domains to “aim for” because they were most useful to the Church.* 

Trickery was not one of these. While it was encouraged in the abstract, for cleverly written contracts and so on, the spells were little valued. 

Reverend Sergi commented that being able to disguise oneself was, he supposed, a useful thing for those who had to operate in countries that their Lord had not yet conquered. But they were Chelish, a Priest of Asmodeus in Cheliax shouldn’t have to sneak around like a common criminal. The church preferred you to be able to fight their enemies more directly.

* This was a fairly normal level of contradiction for one used to the Chelish school system. 

Though Orgull had begun to question how much to listen to such things. The church hierarchy seemed often to want perfect little axiomites who would follow orders, and could be requisitioned on demand like shipments of a hundred identical breastplates for the front.  Not true Asmodians like him. 

Asmodeus would obviously want his servants to be strong, like Him, and pursue their desires, like Him. But the Church were too weak to properly enforce their will on their subordinates so wanted them weak. 

So he meditated on Trickery.

He had given Vindenca what she wanted, but for his own reasons, and gotten what he wanted out of it. The appearance of submission, but not the reality. 

Lord Asmodeus, isn’t that the best kind of Trickery? Someone thinks they’re strong but really you are? Does this not please you? 

He’d been careful with his words to promise nothing at all, while sounding like he promised everything. So his Law was safe when he traded away her secrets, or if he needed to betray her. A twinge in his stomach at that thought for some reason.

Wasn’t that a beautiful thing Lord? Wasn’t that the essence of Law?

He didn’t just want to be a little minion forever. He wanted to take what they had, he wanted to beat them, even if they didn’t know it, he needed to prove to himself and his God that he could do it. That they were weak and didn’t deserve power. That he was stronger than them. Better than them. That he was safe.

There was a feeling. Like when he’d first been Chosen.

A moment like looking up at a roiling storm consuming the sky, like plunging into the water of a roaring river, like standing on the edge of the orphanage roof, like staring into a bonfire, feeling the warmth sink into his bones, watching the pages crackle and curl as they burnt.

It was only the slightest moment. His Lord could only spare him the tiniest mote of attention of course, but he knew what that feeling meant, it was acknowledgement of his worth, it was approval, it was love. 

And he felt in his mind, alongside his other spells, like a finger on his hand that had always been there, something new he could do.

After a few days of discreet experimentation he was confident enough to begin the first stage of his plan. 

He put on the face of Novice Fernando, one of the leaders of the noble cliques. They were about the same height, and all the novices wore the same robes (black with a small red trim, none of the elaborate ornamentation of the higher ranks). So he just needed to focus on the other boy’s smug face in his mind as he cast the spell. 

Sneaking into one of the other nobleborn’s rooms was trivial enough for a boy who had grown up in the orphanage. The trick was being seen leaving. 

While he waited he moved some items around the room, just a little out of place, ruffling letters but not reading them (reading another students personal correspondence was forbidden). He tried a few dates from the bag hidden under the drawers, and pocketed a bottle of nice red ink. Both of which were only there because people looked the other way at luxuries smuggled in for nobles.

Being unlawfully possessed, it was no violation of Law to confiscate it. He’d checked. And Chosen are encouraged to take initiative in redressing violations, so it probably helped his Law even. 

Then when he could hear there were other novices down the hallway “Fernando” snuck out of the boy’s room. He was far enough away they wouldn’t be certain it was him, but enough to raise suspicion. 

(They’d had some brief tactical discussion of how to deal with illusory magic, it was generally felt to not be much of a threat, as a group of guards, or a single vigilant priest, would spot an imposter given a moment to look at them properly. Nobody else seemed to take the obvious lesson from that.) 

Over the subsequent weeks he tried a few more variations on the theme. Being sighted in one face or another where he shouldn’t be. And confiscating contraband goods where he found them. 

The little pleasures were nice, he enjoyed the foods he wasn’t used to, eating honeyed cakes for the first time, candied fruits, and marchpane (horrid stuff but it was a luxury so he wanted it). The drink he mostly traded on, poured into more discreet bottles, it didn’t do to have your mind clouded here. 

But what was more delicious was the suspicion. 

None of the nobleborn could prove their rivals had done anything, and they certainly couldn’t take it to the faculty, as that would mean breaking the plausible deniability that they had such luxuries to begin with. But they became colder to eachother, their barbs sharper, cooperating less and competing more.

Naturally that meant demand for secrets and intelligence grew, and if he exaggerated a few details, and mixed in some speculation, then well he was just an ignorant orphan boy getting swept up in all the suspicion and scheming, and was always sure to remind people how ignorant he was and that this was all not to be trusted. Soon enough he didn’t even need to, people were making up their own stories, and beginning real schemes in retaliation, or preemptive self defense. 

Vindenca had some kind of spat with her closest friend among the noble girls (he hadn’t even worn their faces). So started to spend more time with him, confided in him more, helped him with his studies more than the minimum amount that would fulfil their agreement.

He relaxed a little around her as well (because this sign of obvious weakness meant she was less of a threat). He didn’t share details of his life, she didn’t care anyway, but he told more jokes, expressed more opinions, and wasn’t shot down for the most part.