Some, I have heard, call it joy. Some say it lives in a bottle of raki. Some know it as the daemon spirit of the countless taverns that line the harbour. I have never been drunk in my whole life. Thrice, perhaps, I have sipped alcohol from a glass and felt a few minutes later its inevitable effect on my head, accellerated by an empty stomach. My precious head! But what I feel now is other than drunken pleasure, for it is deeper, finer, more noble, and I will call it joy.I think I feel joy because I tread my wonderful path of bright light.I cannot be certain of this. I do not deal in certainties—though I do like them. Nogoth life is uncertain life and I have learned this lesson well. But it seems to me that joy is approaching, seeping down from the high strata of the citidenizenry, offering me hope, and, perhaps, though it seems unlikely, sustenance. And yet, why not? Why should the Mavrosopolis not recognise the potential that resides in me? I am sensitive to absurdity, and I find it absurd to think that the Mavrosopolis would ignore anyone so useful, not to mention so driven as myself.I am an apprentice now.
