by M. K. Hobson
Stanton nodded stiffly over Mrs. Blotgate’s glove, the sketchiest demonstration of respect he could offer without actually letting her hand hang in the air.
“Ten years,” he said. There was an odd paradox in his voice; the implication that it had not been long enough, yet he still cared enough to count. Stanton looked down at Emily, and in the instant their eyes met, she saw warning there. “Allow me to present my fiancée, Miss Emily Edwards.”
“Oh yes. The cattle baron’s daughter.” Mrs. Blotgate turned heavy-lidded eyes onto Emily’s face, let them roam over her Roman curls and extravagant white satin dress. Mrs. Blotgate herself was dressed in a simple, elegant gown of light blue silk, and looked as chic as an edged weapon. Emily felt suddenly sparkly and fussy and squat.
“Emily, this is General Oppenheimer Blotgate, and his wife, Alcmene.” Stanton paused. “General Blotgate is the director of the Maelstrom Academy at Camp Erebus, which I briefly attended.”
“Briefly?” General Blotgate snorted, his scar flaring red from temple to windpipe. “Three years in a young man’s life can hardly be called brief. And you certainly left your mark, being the only burned cadet we ever had. They still tell stories in the beast barracks about those stunts you used to pull.” He paused, looking at Emily. “Has your fiancé here ever shown you what he can do with Black Exunge?”
“Chrysohaeme and Black Exunge are two states of the same substance,” Stanton murmured to Emily. “Just as I was able to work with the chrysohaeme in Charleston, I can handle Black Exunge. Its transformative properties do not affect me.” To Emily’s gape of astonishment he added, “It’s not an ability I find worthy of note.”
“Your fiancé was the terror of the mess hall chicken coop.” Blotgate grinned wolfishly. “He’d steal some Black Exunge from one of the student laboratories, Aberrate a biddy, and when it was nice and big, he’d roast it alive. Just took a finger snap, you know. The biddies didn’t much like it, but he always did have an appetite.” He looked at Stanton for a moment. “Ah, old times. I can see why you want to distance yourself from them now. You’ve got a good thing here. It would be a pity to ruin it.”
Stanton smiled humorlessly, his green eyes glinting hard. “I’m surprised to see you here, General. I wasn’t aware you’d been invited.”
“Shall I produce the pasteboard?” the General said, fumbling pointedly in his pocket. “I know it’s here somewhere … quite an overwrought thing, all those damned scrolls and gold leafing and such—”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Stanton said.
“How very white of you, Dreadnought.” Mrs. Blotgate managed to make the words sound fluty and sneering all at once. “One could always count on you to do the right thing. Usually at the wrong moment, of course.”
Emily’s eyes traveled between Mrs. Blotgate’s face and Stanton’s. To her dismay, she saw something pass between them—something she didn’t understand and didn’t want to. Mrs. Blotgate noticed Emily’s confusion and savored it, her jaw relaxing like a python preparing to swallow a struggling creature whole.
“I see you are bewildered, Miss Edwards,” she said. “You see, I knew Dreadnought when he was a real Warlock. Before he sacrificed his true potential to become”—she waved a dismissive hand—“a priest.”
“Better a priest than a murderer.” Stanton said the words with malicious cheer. His voice was so hard it gleamed.
“You don’t belong with these crepe-paper prestidigitators, Dreadnought,” Mrs. Blotgate said, looking around at the garish spectacle that surrounded them. “It’s like the third act of a vaudeville show. It’s revolting.”
“Those who kill to obtain power are revolting,” Stanton said. Emily had never seen him so tense. His body seemed ready to spring at the woman.
“Everyone must get power from somewhere,” Mrs. Blotgate returned, obviously relishing the challenge. “Sangrimancers are at least honest about how we take it. We seize it from the weak and use it in support of the strong. Those who die in our service die nobly, sacrificed for greater goals they could never themselves achieve.” She paused, piercing him with gunmetal-gray eyes that seemed to be all pupil. “But you credomancers … you sneak your power. You steal it from people’s minds and their hearts. You manipulate them and make them believe whatever provides you with the most tangible benefit. We may violate them physically, but you violate them spiritually. Which is better, Dreadnought? Which is more pure?”
Stanton said nothing, just stared at her, his eyes igneous with hate. She stared back, smiling, like a snake warmed by the sun of his despising.
General Blotgate let out a strained bark of a laugh.
“Old Home Week.” He gave his wife a look of mild exasperation but made no effort to break her gaze, locked with Stanton’s. “These two were always like bulldogs in a crate.”
“Oh, quite the opposite, Oppenheimer,” Mrs. Blotgate said. “Dreadnought and I were great friends at the Academy. It is amusing to remember how desperately attached he was to me, but I’m sure that was just the madness of youth.” She paused, her lips curling with pleasure. “Don’t you agree, Dreadnought?” She paused again, exhaling malice. “Tell me, do you still have the scar?”
“Enough,” Stanton growled. “You’ve done what you came to do.”
And then the intensity that surrounded Mrs. Blotgate abruptly faded. Like a cat that had tired of playing with a struggling mouse, she lowered her head to murmur to the General, “Yes, perhaps we should be moving along. We’ll want to find good places for the Investment ceremony before they’re all taken.”
“Interested to see how it all works,” the General concurred. “I’m quite looking forward to the fireworks.”
“Oh, and a word of warning.” Mrs. Blotgate leaned in close to Emily, her breath hot and strangely spiced. “Lay off the champagne, my dear. Your cheeks are getting quite red.”
Then, with a bright little laugh, she allowed her husband to lead her away into the swirling crowd. Stanton stood, watching them go, his face pale with fury.
“Scar?” Emily hissed.
“A six-inch gash above my third rib,” Stanton said. “She tried to kill me. It’s how sangrimancers amuse themselves.”
“Who invited sangrimancers?”
“Obviously someone who wanted to make sure that my past is never forgotten.”
Emily bit her lip. She furiously desired to ask him what Mrs. Blotgate had meant by desperately attached. And how exactly that tied in with a six-inch scar and an amusing murder attempt. Now wasn’t the time, but she couldn’t help herself.
“She was … a friend?” Emily spoke the word with all the distaste usually reserved for words describing rotten things.
“I had no friends at the Academy,” Stanton bit back. Then, pulling his gaze away from the retreating Blotgates, he looked down at her. He put a warm hand over hers, pressed it reassuringly. “Never mind. Asinine insinuations. A petty attempt at a squink.”
“Then there was nothing between you?” Emily said.
“I just told you,” Stanton said. “She tried to kill me.”
“Yes, and what if she tries it again?”
“You think she could hide a knife under that dress?”
“You know what I mean. What if they use magic to disrupt the Investment?”
“No hostile magic can be worked in the Great Trine Room, especially not tonight,” Stanton said. “The wardings are very thorough, and there is no chance that the two of them could do the slightest thing with all the magisters assembled. There’s nothing to worry about.”
There was a warmth to his smile, a calmness to his voice, that filled Emily with a great feeling of peace. She let out a long breath and pressed closer to him.
At that moment, there was a blast of trumpets and the people around them lifted their heads, looking toward the Great Trine Room. Stanton straightened and took a deep breath.
“Nothing at all,” she heard him say very softly, almost to himself.
They made t
heir way to the Great Trine Room, through throngs of guests who parted to watch them pass. Emily walked next to Stanton, her chin held high, not looking at the people who surrounded them, at the students who offered deep bows of respect, at the scions of society who lifted their glasses and laughed as if it were all a great show.
“The Investment itself won’t take long,” Stanton murmured as they walked. “A few ritual words, an anointment by Zeno, and then the swearing of allegiance by the magisters. It’ll be over before you know it.”
“Mr. Stanton! Oh, Mr. Stanton, over here!” The words were cried out from among the crowd. Emily looked and saw Rose and her coterie of followers from the Dreadnought Stanton Admiration League. An ornate banner that bore the word “Congratulations” was draped before them, and they threw roses and lilies in Stanton’s path. Stanton raised a hand in Rose’s direction; the girl seemed on the verge of swooning at this show of recognition.
Together they passed through the enormous black doors and entered the Great Trine Room. The room was much larger than Emily remembered it, but the last time she had been here, she’d hardly been interested in the surroundings. Together, they walked over the place where Mirabilis had been murdered, his chest slashed open, his heart ripped from its moorings. Emily shuddered at the memory.
The brilliance of the room seemed designed to dispel such dark associations. Every gas jet was lit, and this, combined with the heat from the thousands of white taper candles that burned along all the walls, made the room stifling. Emily dabbed at trickles of brilliantine-tinged sweat running down her forehead.
As its name implied, the room was a great triangle, with walls of gold-veined marble and carvings of highly polished ebony. The pyramidal ceiling soared high above, coming to a sharp point directly above a wide raised dais that was festooned with more red and gold bunting. Stanton led Emily to stand at the end of a row of people whom she recognized as the Institute’s senior professors, the magisters. Miss Jesczenka stood among them, hands clasped before herself and her back straight. She gave Emily a small nod, but said nothing.
In the very center of the dais stood Zeno, in his voluminous robes of black brocade. Stanton came to stand beside him, towering over the little man. Zeno clasped Stanton’s hand with a great smile before stepping forward to address the crowd. The simple act of drawing his breath to speak caused the entire room to fall abruptly silent; it was a wondrous effect.
“Gentlemen and ladies,” he began, and it was astonishing that such a towering, majestic voice could come from such a small figure. “Tonight we are gathered for the formal Investment of Dreadnought Stanton as the Sophos of this great and august institute of learning, which shall henceforward be known as the Stanton Institute. I am firm in my assurance that under its new leadership and with the benefit of a new name of such unparalleled distinction, the Institute will only grow in dignity and magnificence …”
Was it Emily’s imagination, or was Zeno beginning to glow? She peered closer, watching as golden brightness grew around him. At first, she assumed that it was some credomantic tactic, a spotlight of brightness to focus all eyes on the Emeritus. As such, it was unnecessary. All eyes were focused completely on the little man. In the front row, Emily noticed General and Mrs. Blotgate watching intently.
But the glow was growing brighter with each word Zeno spoke. He seemed unaware of it, pressing on with his speech. “Many of you may know the history of this Institute, founded almost a hundred years ago under my own leadership. At that time, the art of credomancy was yet unrefined, its powers the province of priests and holy men. But over the past century, the powers of this noble tradition have been examined, refined, explored, reaching the zenith of might at which you see them today.”
Zeno was glowing like a torch now, and Emily was aware of the magisters behind her, muttering among themselves. Emily saw Miss Jesczenka look up, toward the very pinnacle of the room’s pyramidal ceiling. Emily followed the woman’s eyes, and saw a glowing pinpoint of brightness there, shining down like a beacon.
“I can promise you, with unreserved assurance, that in the entirety of that long and august history, there has never been a man more admirably suited to serve as the Institute’s Heart than the man who stands before you today …”
Stanton was now looking concerned; he, too, was looking upward toward the source of the brilliant beam of light that surrounded Zeno. He looked back at the magisters; Miss Jesczenka gestured toward Zeno urgently. Emily saw, with horror, that Zeno was now not just glowing; he had begun to elongate. He was growing taller and taller, stretching upward like a growing tree. Alarmed, Stanton leapt forward, reaching for the old man. From the assembled crowd came murmurs of concern, then shouts of apprehension.
Suddenly, Zeno himself seemed to realize what was happening. He stopped speaking and looked around himself desperately. Then, in an instant, he became terrible. His whole form expanded, his eyes glowed, and he gave a thundering roar of power, issuing commands in Latin that made the floor of the Institute shake. Power streamed from his hands, clutching desperately at the floor of the dais, trying to hold himself down; his whole being glowed with the effort. He struggled, shaking the floors and walls of the Institute with magnified intensity, and for a moment he was able to forestall his upward movement, able to struggle against the strange force that was drawing him in. But then he began to move again, pulled like taffy, the thundering roar of his voice growing smaller and smaller.
Zeno was sucked upward, his feet remaining on the ground as his body became thin as a thread. His head and shoulders soared toward the ceiling, toward the pinprick of light at the pyramid’s apex, his futile words of power vanishing into a long babbling stream of nonsense as he was drawn into the light, his hands reaching downward, trying to grab for Stanton’s. And then his feet flew up from the floor, and there was the sound of a loud crack, and he disappeared with a brilliant flash that left black sparkles dancing behind Emily’s eyes.
And everything fell utterly silent.
Emily’s head spun. It was hot, and she couldn’t breathe, and around her all was a sudden welter of chaos, magisters rushing forward from behind her and students swarming up onto the dais, and then she was falling, forgetting entirely to arrange herself attractively as she hit the ground and everything went dark.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Chaos and Disorder
Emily woke from a dead faint to the acrid odor of camphor and rosewater being waved under her nose. Jerking away from the smell, she found herself looking up into Miss Jesczenka’s concerned face. But the concern on the woman’s face was not for Emily; rather, she was watching the men who stood clustered around Stanton, the magisters and Fortissimus. Stanton had removed his despised hat and was running his fingers through his hair with a rough gesture of annoyance. Everyone was talking loudly, fast, and all at once.
Emily sat up. They were no longer in the Great Trine Room. They were in the Sophos’ office, and a group of students and instructors hovered by the doors to the antechamber, looking worried and pale.
“Enough, Fortissimus!” Stanton barked, in response to something that Emily had not heard. “The situation will not be improved by indulging our fears.”
“I am certainly not afraid, Mr. Stanton!” Fortissimus stood before Stanton with his fists clenched, seeming to tower over him even though Stanton was much taller. “But if I were, it would be because I have no confidence that you understand the gravity of what happened tonight. Can you even conceive what kind of a blow this is? An attack on the Institute at the very moment when all its power was amassed for a transfer?”
“Of course I understand,” Stanton said. “And to respond to this attack, we must first determine who launched it. We still do not know who kidnapped Emeritus Zeno.”
“I think we have a very good idea,” one of the magisters said quietly. “The transportational device used for the kidnapping was a Nikifuryevich Ladder, I’m sure of it. I’ve sent some of my cultors up to retrieve it, but it will do n
o good. From what we know of the device, it opens a transdimensional portal for a brief instant, then destroys itself to thwart any attempts to follow those who pass through it.” He paused. “It’s a Sini Mira device, Mr. Stanton. An Eradicationist technology.”
“It certainly wasn’t a magical attack,” another one of the magisters said. “We were fully warded against hostile magic, and there was no taste of power in the room other than Zeno’s own. It could only be one of the Sini Mira’s blasted machines.”
“But how could it have gotten into the Institute?”
“And what on earth could the Sini Mira want with Zeno?”
The questions flew fast and thick, and Emily sat up as if to catch them in flight. She knew exactly how the Sini Mira had gotten into the Institute—Zeno had let them in himself! And she knew what the Sini Mira wanted with Zeno—they wanted the rooting ball in which Komé’s acorn resided. She opened her mouth to speak, but Miss Jesczenka restrained her with a gentle hand.
“Whatever you know, it might be in Mr. Stanton’s interest if you tell him privately,” she murmured.
Emily sat back, lips pressed tightly together.
“These are matters which require further investigation,” Stanton answered all the flying questions at once.
Fortissimus stomped an angry foot, which drew the attention of all the men in the room. “Further investigation?” he roared. “We know it was the Sini Mira! There’s no one else it could have been! All this is just wasting time—time we should be using to preserve the power of the Institute! We have to get to all the papers, come up with an explanation that …”
“As I recall, Mr. Fortissimus, you are not a fellow of the Institute,” Stanton said, leveling a dark, steady gaze on him. “And these matters do not directly concern you.”
“The Institute is the living, beating heart of credomantic power,” Fortissimus spat. “As I am a faithful credomancer, matters pertaining to it do concern me, very directly. If you think I’m going to stand around while everything I’ve built is eroded by incompetent leadership … well, then, you’re a bigger fool than I ever imagined.”