“I’m sorry, but what’s Vancouver?” said Hazel.
The master rose and brought over one of the maps. It was like a distant cousin to the world Hazel knew—like and yet not alike. He pointed to a coastal dot on a vast continent.
“Vancouver is a lost city from the Cataclysm, Your Highness. Until recently, scholars believed the civilizations of that time simply vanished. But earthquakes have uncovered ancient cities entombed under rock, oceans, even mountains. Some are hundreds, even thousands of miles from where they once stood.”
Sigga spoke up. “You’re aware this information is classified.”
The master looked mildly amused, as if he was too old to possibly care about obeying rules he considered arbitrary or stupid. He shrugged.
“I’m an archaeologist, Agent Fenn. My study is historical fact, not transparent fictions.” He looked at Hob. “Tell me, Mr. Smythe, do people in Dusk believe human civilization began with Impyrium? That everything before was simply a dark age?”
“Of course not,” Hob allowed. “I’ve seen Pre-Cataclysm films. I heard music played once on a machine like that one.” He pointed to the master’s phonograph. “But no one talks too much about it. You’d get in trouble.” He hesitated. “Someone told me that human beings once stood on the moon. Is that true?”
Hazel almost laughed, but the master nodded gravely. She was astounded. For her, the Pre-Cataclysm world was like gravity; she knew it existed but rarely gave it much thought. It was so long ago.
“Why aren’t people told the truth?” said Hob.
The master sighed. “Contrary to what some believe, it did not begin as a conspiracy. Muir were more susceptible to the spells that brought about the Cataclysm. When Astaroth wiped civilizations from the map, he also wiped people’s memories. As far as most muir were concerned, the world had always been the way he ordered it. They recalled nothing of the past.”
“But mehrùn could remember,” said Hob.
“Yes,” said the master. “The mehrùn living then were less affected. And to my knowledge, they told muir the truth. But few believed them. Eventually mehrùn decided it was pointless, even cruel, to keep trying. It was like correcting a senile relative. Over time, these little white lies took on their own life and were accepted as facts. Today, even mehrùn discount the idea of sophisticated Pre-Cataclysm civilizations. They’ve become almost mythological, but not because of some grand scheme to mislead the masses.”
“But the Cataclysm happened thousands of years ago,” said Hob. “Shouldn’t people have rediscovered what was lost or forgotten? Why aren’t we back on the moon?”
“Ah,” said the master. “That aspect is intentional—particularly where technology is concerned. Astaroth was a terrible enemy, but some believe his actions saved us from a disastrous course. When he was defeated, many wanted to resume that course and remake the world as it had been. Rowan’s leaders did not. Do you know who David Menlo was?”
“Impyrium’s first archmage,” said Hob.
“And chief adviser to Mina the First,” said the master. “David Menlo did not think human judgment could keep pace with human innovation. Since the Pre-Cataclysm Renaissance, groups like the Workshop had been pushing the boundaries of science, and making ever more dangerous discoveries. When the archmage drafted the Red Winter Treaty, he forbade technologies that he believed would ultimately destroy mankind. Divine Empresses have enforced these prohibitions, much to the Workshop’s frustration.”
“Then why is the Workshop allowed to exist?” said Hob.
“They are a signatory to the original treaty,” said Master Montague. “The Workshop is protected. If they were not, Mina the Second almost certainly would have destroyed them. She was far less tolerant than her mother.”
“So people will never fly to the moon,” said Hob.
“No,” said the master. “But they continue to walk the earth. A worthy trade-off.”
“If you say so, sir.”
“You don’t agree, Mr. Smythe?”
Hob shrugged.
The master tutted and pointed for Hob to take a seat. “No, Mr. Smythe, that will not do. In my classroom, if you disagree, you have an obligation to dissent. You don’t think these prohibitions wise?”
Casual conversation was at an end. The master now exuded that combative intensity Hazel witnessed so often in his classroom. Hob frowned slightly as he sat in the chair.
“How can I answer that?” he said. “I don’t know what those technologies were. I have no idea if the dangers they posed justify the restrictions that were put in place.”
“What are your reservations?” said the master. “Speak freely, Mr. Smythe.”
Hob glanced briefly at Sigga and Hazel. “Mehrùn can use magic. Muir can’t. You might say technology is our magic. The restrictions impact muir much more than mehrùn. If muir couldn’t remember what life was like before the Cataclysm, then they had no choice but to accept what mehrùn said about technology and its dangers. Some might say it’s a pretty convenient explanation for a policy that’s held muir back.”
“Held them back? Or held them down?”
Hob considered. “Is there a difference?”
The master grunted. He looked to be enjoying the exchange. “What kind of education do you have, Mr. Smythe?”
“Little formal education, sir. But I did place first in my Province exams.”
The master exhaled a curl of smoke. “Did you indeed? Well, that’s two things we have in common.”
“And the other, sir?”
“I’m muir.”
Hazel almost slid out of her chair. Rowan was the world’s preeminent school of magic. How could one of its leading academics be muir? The master chuckled.
“I take it, Your Highness, that you did not know? You look as stunned as Mr. Smythe.”
“But you’re a Montague,” said Hazel.
“I am,” said the master. “But we’re not all mehrùn. I doubt any house is. Nature hates being too predictable. In any case, my being a Montague would have little bearing on my magical capabilities. I was adopted.”
Hazel gestured at the beakers and retorts, the cages, and shelves stocked with rare herbs.
“But you breed homunculi. Dàme Rascha says you’re one of the best. How can you do that and not be able to do magic?”
“I like to think I can do magic in my own small way,” said the master. “It merely comes from ingredients rather than my person. Homunculus breeding is entirely alchemical.”
Hazel saw an opportunity. The master was being polite, but he would soon thank them for stopping by and show them the door without offering Hob a position. She had to keep things alive, extend the visit by keeping the master engaged. Homunculi were just the thing.
“Could you give us a demonstration?” she asked. “I know nothing about it, and you’re regarded as an expert. I’d love to know why Merlin and Pamplemousse are so different.”
The master looked pleased. Rising, he invited all three of them to peer at a row of glass beakers fed by tubes. The liquid inside was cloudy, but Hazel could see hints of twisted, fibrous roots. She’d studied very little of potioncraft and alchemy. Rascha considered them lesser arts.
“This is a new batch,” said the master. “You start, of course, with mandrake root. Its substance serves as the creature’s body. Many factors can influence how each homunculus develops—from the mandrake’s harvesting to ingredients added at various phases. Merlin’s mandrake was unearthed with a silver spade on Samhain’s moonrise. Your sister’s was pulled by hand at midnight and trimmed with a copper blade. You see how different they are.”
“Like night and day,” said Hazel. She pointed to the retorts whose simmering mixtures fed vapors or condensation droplets into the beakers. “What are these?”
The master gently tapped a tube that had backed up. “The contents vary by specimen. With some I aim for intelligence, others for longevity, others for swiftness. Even established formulae can yield different resul
ts. People have been breeding homunculi for ages, but it’s still more art than science. Like the Lingua Mystica, there so many variables, it never gets boring.”
“When did you start breeding them?” said Hazel.
“Around your age,” he reflected. “Perhaps younger. I started because I wanted to compensate for being muir. It’s a good hobby for an obsessive like myself. And it’s safer for muir to breed homunculi than mehrùn.”
“Why is that?” said Hob. He was looking intently at the equipment: the labeled jars of chemicals and herbs, butterflies and hummingbird wings, lunestones, and skeletonized chameleons.
“Homunculi are parasitic,” the master explained. “They require magic to survive and thus feed on the mehrùn with whom they’re bonded. Eventually, the mehrùn can sense what the homunculus senses, see what it sees—even speak through it. Some mystics can channel spells through their homunculi, although this is rare. The relationship is symbiotic.”
“Merlin’s been feeding off me,” Hazel said, turning to Hob with what she hoped looked like a sinister smile. Hob’s eyebrows lifted.
“Don’t frighten the boy,” said the master, chuckling. “You know Merlin absorbs far too little magic for you to notice. It’s no more harmful than if a lizard came to sit on your lap to keep warm. It needs the heat and you’re no worse for wear. But there can be exceptions, which is why it’s safer for muir to breed them. Every so often, you can get one of these.”
The master went over to a large terrarium that was on its own table and covered with a black cloth. As he reached for some leather aprons, he nudged the cover, which revealed a glimpse of dazzling light. Sigga stepped in front of Hazel.
“What’s in there?”
“A homunculus, but a most unusual specimen,” he said. “Not to worry, Agent Fenn. It can’t escape its cage. It’s probably not even aware we’re here. You’re welcome to wear a protective apron, but this glass is impermeable. It can’t feed on you.”
“I don’t think this is wise, Your Highness,” said Sigga.
“No,” said Hazel. “I want to see. I’ll wear an apron.”
The apron was extremely heavy; thick brown leather lined with lead plates that hung almost to the floor. Even after Hazel put it on, Sigga stood in front of her. Hazel peered round the agent as Hob and Master Montague lifted the cover.
Brilliant white light flooded the office. Hazel squinted, then dug through her purse for her tinted spectacles. As she put them on, the master leaned a pane of smoked glass against the cage so they could see what was inside. Hob promptly recoiled.
“That’s a homunculus?” he exclaimed.
The master nodded. “A very rare one, as I said. Not a breed so much as a mutation. As you can see, its size and shape differ greatly from the norm.”
To Hazel, the creature inside the case resembled a bloated, muscular starfish some four or five feet across. The creature had six—no seven—fleshy arms flopped or splayed against the glass. Each was covered with what looked like warty tumors and round suckers that pulsed and aspirated. One arm was undulating, its tip probing for an opening. As it moved, Hazel noticed its flesh camouflaged to blend with its surroundings. Toad-like eyes appeared in a dozen places, their lids opening in unison. They were round, milky, and seemingly blind.
“Don’t let its sluggish demeanor fool you,” said the master. “These creatures are voracious. Only yesterday, a mystic kindled the lunestones inside.” He pointed to a bed of rocks that were giving off the brilliant light. “Normally they’d shine for decades, but this cage will be dark as a coffin by Monday. And still the creature’s half-starved. A virtual antidragon.”
“What does it have to do with dragons?” said Hob.
“A dragon’s aura is so powerful it can alter or amplify existing magic,” the master replied. “Their auras can even enchant nonmagical objects. This homunculus does the opposite; it devours magical energy at a prodigious rate. Left undisturbed, this one could drain a powerful mystic in a matter of days. Fascinating creature, but it must be handled with precaution.”
Hazel was feeling uneasy and called Merlin to her. She had assumed those milky eyes were blind, but she was now getting the distinct impression that they were focused on her—and only her. The creature’s tentacles were moving more rapidly, poking and probing about the cage’s surface. She heard an almost inaudible whisper deep in her mind.
Get away from it.
“I assume it’s regulated,” said Sigga to Master Montague.
“Of course,” he replied. “If a breeder produces one—these occur quite by accident—they’re required to register them. Selling one is forbidden.”
“It would be safer to destroy them.”
“Too valuable,” said the master. “If dragons are magic, these are antimagic. Both offer invaluable opportunities to study mystic energy, but this fellow is a bit more approachable than Hati the Black. Unfortunately, homunculi like this dwimorleech mutation are exceedingly rare. The Raszna have one in Arcanum, and there was an immature specimen in the Workshop’s biological museum, but it was—”
“Stolen.”
They turned to Hob, who was peering through the glass. “I read it in a newspaper,” he said. “Five creatures were stolen from the Workshop’s biological exhibits: a vampiric mnemonculus, a Zenuvian shrike, a common bray, an embryonic wyvern, and a dwimorleech. No leads. No arrests.”
“Do you have a photographic memory?” said the master.
“Pretty close,” said Hob.
“Many scholars would kill to have your gift, Mr. Smythe.”
Hob broke out in a grin. “You don’t have to kill me, sir. Just give me a job—”
Thunk!
Hazel shrieked as the dwimorleech launched its heavy body against the cage. Tentacles slapped violently as it tried to escape like an octopus gone berserk. The glass did not crack, but the cage was rocking from side to side. The creature’s eyes remained locked on Hazel.
Sigga had Hazel in the hallway in less than two seconds. Within the office, Master Montague was shouting at Hob to wedge the cage against a bookshelf while he got the cover. More slapping sounds, coupled with a piercing, high-pitched chittering that caused Hazel to clamp her hands over her ears.
The painful sound stopped within a few seconds. Hazel opened her eyes to see Sigga blocking the doorway. Within the master’s office, the lunestones’ radiance had been veiled. Jarring slaps subsided to dull thumps and then stopped altogether.
A moment later Master Montague and Hob came into the hallway. She had never seen the master at such a loss. He wiped sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.
“Your Highness, please accept my deepest apologies. In six decades of breeding homunculi, I’ve never seen anything like that. That dwimorleech has never moved faster than a tortoise. I don’t know what got into it. I am terribly sorry if it gave you a fright.”
“It’s not your fault, Master Montague,” said Hazel.
He glanced anxiously at Sigga. “I’m not sure Agent Fenn would agree with you.”
“That thing is gone within the hour,” said the Grislander. “If you want to study it, you can do so in the archives behind reinforced runeglass and with armed guards.”
“Yes, of course,” said the master. “You must believe I had no idea.”
“I do,” said Sigga. “That’s the problem.” She turned and sent an ice-blue zephyss racing down the hallway.
Hazel removed her apron. “Thank you for your time, Master Montague. Dwimorleeches aside, it was a very pleasant visit. I realize Mr. Smythe may not be a typical candidate, but I think you’d do well to find something for him.”
The master eyed Hob with approval. “Well, he certainly kept his head just now, and from what I can tell it’s a good one. Let me give it some thought. There wouldn’t be anything until the next term, but I’ll do what I can. Where are you living?”
“Still in the palace,” said Hob. “They’re giving me a few weeks to find a new situation.”
“Given your latest incident with Lord Hyde, I’d say that’s rather generous.”
Hob looked horrified. “You know about that, sir?”
“I might be an academic, but I do enjoy my gossip,” said the master, smiling. “An underbutler, kitchen hags, and a Faeregine princess are an unusual mix of allies. If such an eclectic group is making efforts on your behalf, it speaks well of you. And I’ve known Dante Hyde since he was six. Alas, we failed to make a dent there.”
Old Tom began chiming ten o’clock.
“Well,” said the master, “thank you for the visit, Your Highness, and for bringing the young man to my attention. I will be in touch.”
“So will I,” said Sigga. “Guardsmen will be here any minute to remove that creature. You will give them your full cooperation.”
The master bowed just as they heard boots coming up the stairs. Six guardsmen appeared and marched down the hallway. While Sigga gave them instructions, Hazel cast a suspicious eye on Merlin.
“Don’t get any ideas from that mutant, Merlin. You’re being fed quite enough. And I better get some of your powers soon or I’m going to revisit our bargain. I won’t put up with freeloaders.”
The creature hooted and nuzzled her cheek. Stroking his wing, Hazel mused on the dwimorleech. She had never before encountered something that so clearly wanted to devour her.
She tried not to dwell upon it as she and Hob followed Sigga down the hallway. The agent looked irritated.
“What’s the matter?” said Hazel.
“Academics have no sense,” Sigga muttered. “That thing should never have been sitting in an office. It would be dangerous if it got out, even more dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands. You’d think the master would have taken precautions when a dwimorleech was stolen from the Workshop.” She shook her head. “Some other genius is probably raising krakens in the school’s swimming pool.”
Hob remained quiet until they’d descended Old Tom’s steps. The rain had stopped, but the sky had grown darker. The quad was empty except for the regiments firing at their targets.
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