Scholar of Magic (Art of the Adept #3) - Michael G. Manning Page 0,147

well-known face in the building. The only remark he received was a quick, “What happened to you?”

The one who asked was named Lawrence, a young man and a senior student who was aiming for a career in alchemy. Will glanced at his clothes and realized that although he was clean, his trousers were a shamble. His mother had cut one leg completely away when she worked on his thigh. “It’s a long story,” Will replied.

“It always is with you,” said Lawrence with a chuckle. “Things have been crazy since yesterday. I suppose you heard about the fires?”

“Yeah.” He wouldn’t have minded hearing more, but he was also in a hurry to get started. He dodged the rest of the conversation. “I need to get moving. Sorry.” Will breathed a sigh of relief when he finally made it to the private workroom he rented from Professor Karlovic. No one ever bothered him there, aside from the professor occasionally coming by to see what he was up to.

Wasting no time, he began setting up his largest vessel to boil the raw troll urine. It could hold several gallons of fluid, which was much more than most students needed for their projects. Will had bought it the previous year when he had been desperately trying to earn enough to keep from being put in prison.

Everything seemed harder than usual. His shoulders and arms ached, his hips hurt, and his leg was a constant misery of throbbing pain punctuated by sharp moments of agony whenever he accidentally bumped it or tried to use the muscles in his thigh. When he finally sat down and began doing the calculations to plan out the reaction ingredient masses, it seemed like a relief, but he discovered it was hard to focus.

There were several lamps in the room providing more than enough light, especially since he could adjust his vision, but the numbers and symbols on the page in front of him blurred in and out despite all of his squinting. Will put his pen aside for a moment and rubbed his face with his hands. Then he tried again.

The math wasn’t that complex, but he had a nagging suspicion something was wrong when he got to the end, so he repeated the calculation, starting at the beginning.

His answer the second time was different. Growling angrily, he tried again. Ten minutes later, he had a third and still different result. Will fought the urge to throw the journal across the room. He could hardly recall the last time he had felt so frustrated.

Taking a deep breath, he started again. This time his result was the same as his second attempt, but he still didn’t trust it. He had to be sure; otherwise he could ruin a lot of expensive materials. His fifth attempt confirmed his first calculation.

Will wanted to cry. He knew it was him. He hadn’t slept in almost two days, aside from his short, alcohol-induced coma, and during that time he had been in multiple fights. Add to that his wounded leg and he was obviously not in a fit state to do rational calculations.

A knock at the door startled him from drowsing. He hadn’t even realized his head had drooped and his eyes were half-closed. Will straightened up, grabbed his crutches, and hobbled over to the door. He had locked it so no one could interrupt him, though there was only one person likely to appear.

He opened it to find Professor Karlovic standing in the hall. “I thought I’d drop in and see what you were up to. You haven’t been in for a couple of days.” The professor gave him a curious look, studying him up and down as Will let him into the laboratory. “You look the worse for wear.”

“Don’t get me started,” said Will sourly, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t even do figures right now.”

“This kind of work isn’t safe when you aren’t at your best, William. I’m sure you know that,” cautioned the professor. “What happened to your leg?”

I got drunk and woke up pregnant with a troll-let, Will wanted to say, but he stopped himself, fighting back a semi-hysterical chuckle. “I had an accident while collecting troll urine.”

Karlovic’s eyes