Baltasar Rasmussen led Sif through a door to their left, then up a gently-sloping curved passageway.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
Rasmussen glanced at her over his shoulder, bushy eyebrow once again poking skyward. Sif got the sense he used that expression a lot. “Up,” he said. “The Septumvirate—the guild council—sits to hear your case.”
That was enough to sate her curiosity, along with the simple fact that she was inside a magiker guild for the first time. As they ascended, the passageway grew steeper and the curve sharper. At first, they passed closely-spaced doors on the outer wall—cells, Rasmussen explained, where aspirants or magiker in the city could stay—and classrooms, storerooms, and libraries on the inner.
They had been climbing for some time when they emerged into an open room. From the windows carved into the walls, Sif surmised it filled the whole width of the spire. A fire blazed on a massive round hearth in the center of the space, surrounded by long tables and chairs. Toward the walls, the tables grew smaller and the chairs larger. A few luftsmagiker lounged in small groups around the edges, bowing their heads deferentially as Rasmussen passed.
“The beating social heart of the guild, ordinarily,” the elder magiker explained. “Few of us are in the city now, with the war on.”