by Deck Davis
“Irvine? So he had a heart, after all. Let me grab the stuff for ya.”
“You ever heard of the Black Cleric?” asked Jakub.
“Is that a book? Hmm. Can’t say I have. Let me borrow it if it’s any good.”
There wasn’t much that Tomkins didn’t know. It was strange enough that Irvine had pressed the note onto the token, but who was this guy?
Well, Jakub was going to have to go to Dispolis anyway if he was to sell some of his stuff and buy passage on a wagon to get to Kortho’s house, so he might as well go and see the man.
“You know, I never thanked you for all the times you came to visit,” said Tomkins.
“I wasn’t doing you a favor; no need to thank me.”
“No, I do, because when my boy was still around, I had things all wrong. I never said things to him. Real things. Just kept them all inside, and then it was too late to say anything. So, I promised myself I’d never do that anymore. It’s a hard change to make, but I find with everything true that you say, the next truth comes out easier.”
“You’re a good friend,” said Jakub.
“Damn shame,” said Tomkins, after setting a second box on the floor. “We can’t let kids have one screw up…sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. But we should be nurturing ‘em, not turfing them out. Take care, Jakey.”
When Tomkins left, Jakub set the box on the floor and pressed his thumb tattoo. Swirling text appeared in the air in front of him.
*Inventory*
Steel Sword [Blackened blade]
Vagrant Blade
Blade of Purge Evil
Iron sword
Boots of Focus
Bracelet of Rest
Inquisitor’s Belt of Persuasion
Talent Tome: Basics of Archery [Condition: Read]
5lbs of Exotic Spices
26 Gold
41 Silver
109 Bronze
For all his failings in his first assignment, at least he’d looted a good bunch of stuff. Some of it he would keep and some he would sell, but either way he should have enough to get passage on a wagon to Kortho’s house.
The question was, should he do that, or should he go find the Black Cleric?
Going to see Kortho meant a retreat into the quiet Racken Hills. It was the equivalent of scurrying away, licking his wounds like a cat with a sore paw, scared of its master’s boot.
They’d all talk about him; the instructors, the students. They’d gossip about how he was expelled, how he failed. When a hundred or so of your magical colleagues branded you something, that was what you became. Failure bred failure.
This was more damaging in the academy where rumors travelled faster than sailor’s cock clap, but there was a way of controlling the narrative.
What if he found the Black Cleric and got some work? He could apply himself to it, become a success that way, and let word get back to the academy of how little it had mattered to expel him.
Resting at Kortho’s idyllic Racken Hills house, versus finding out what kind of work a man they called the Black Cleric might have to offer?
He put all his loot in his leather shoulder bag, which was magically artificed to hold more items than it should, and then headed out of the academy. It was getting dark, and he wanted to walk the road to Dispolis before the bandits came out.
CHAPTER 8
He was taking what little rebellion was left to him by walking the opposite way down the Path of Returning, when he heard footsteps.
“Young Russo!”
Instructor Henwright was running his way, his robes flapping behind him and his boots picking up splats of mud. He wore black leather gloves, which he had only started wearing a year or so ago. Nobody knew why; some students said Henwright had become a germophobe, while others said he was hiding something more sinister.
Jakub suspected something much more obvious; Henwright just liked how they looked.
Henwright was the kind of man it was difficult to age; old in the face but young in his body, and when he wasn’t pouring over obscure necromancial books, you could usually find him in the sword training fields, dueling with novices decades his juniors. He was full of contradictions.
His black hair was layered like crow feathers, and the robe wafting in his wake could easily have doubled as a giant bird’s tail end. Maybe if he ran at a quick enough speed, he’d actually take flight.
“A sorry business,” he said when he caught up to Jakub. “I hope this hasn’t dampened your love for studying; one can further their knowledge even without living in a broken-down place like this.”
“I hadn’t even thought about it.”
“Yes, too soon, too soon. I suspect you’ll practice your crafts again; some novices suffered my lessons with glazed eyes, but not you,” said Henwright. “I’m always thankful for a student who leans on my every word.”
“A lot of good that did me.”
“A sorry, sorry business. Some might say it was a split vote, your inquiry. Not everyone wanted you to leave.”
“If that was you, then thank you.”
“And if that was me, I would accept that thanks, but with a heavy heart.”
“It’s getting dark. It’s better I reach the Swanbeak Inn before night sets.”
“Careful there; the inns outside of Dispolis attract a rough crowd. Ones that eye academy overcoats and rub their hands together,” said Henwright. “Before you leave, young one, there is something I must ask you for.”
Jakub knew where this was going; he’d broken academy property and he’d have to pay for it.
“I’m sorry about the soul necklace. I know I smashed it, and I know how precious those things are. Just…if the academy can ease off for a while, I’ll pay when I have more gold.”
“It isn’t that. What happened in the inquiry room stays in the inquiry room. It’s a more delicate matter, young one, but it is embarrassing to ask a favor of one who has been wronged.”
“You need something from me?” said Jakub.
“Coins don’t stretch far in Dispolis, and although you aren’t in the academy’s employ, there is nothing against me offering you work on a more private matter.”
“Well, I am pretty broke…”
Henwright passed him an envelope. It was sealed with a wax stamp of an emblem, but not the academy’s. This must have been Henwright’s personal seal. Not only that, but the paper had a scent of mana about it. It was artificer’s gum; a sealant you could put on an envelope that prevented anyone except the person named from opening it.
“I’ve gone from a necromancer to a postman,” said Jakub.
“A coin is a coin. With a wise head you’ll still make your talents work, but why not keep hunger at bay until then? It’s a small thing, really, this favor I do for you.”
In a matter of seconds Henwright had changed it so he was doing Jakub the favor, and not the other way around. But what the hell, he was right – coins were coins.
“This isn’t anything that’ll land me in a Dispolis guard cell, I take it?” he said.
“The beauty of a letter is that it fits in a pocket, and the beauty of a mana-sealed letter is that its contents can’t be read.”
“I notice you didn’t say no. If this envelope was found, and let’s say they found a way to read it, would I find myself staring at a set of iron bars?”
“Unless the guards of Dispolis have studied up on their ancient Healish panoscript, we don’t have to worry. Would an instructor of the academy let a novice stray on the wrong path?”
“Maybe when he’s not a novice anymore. I don’t think the academy is going to care which paths I take anymore.”
“A sorry, sorry business, young one.”
“Fine, Henwright. I’ll take it.”
“That’s Instructor Henwright.”
“Not anymore, not to me. That’ll be five gold.”
“For a simple letter? Young one, I know that mathematics isn’t on the necromancy curriculum, but…”
“O
kay - I better be going. Good luck with your letter.”
“Oh you…you little…you aren’t related to instructor Irvine are you, by any chance? The man charges the flies in his bedroom rent. Fine; here. Five gold coins.”
“Who am I taking this to?” said Jakub.
“Just go to Dispolis, and he’ll find you. The mana sealant is also a tracker; he’ll know when you get there.”
“Got it.”
He left Henwright and walked down the Path of Returning. At least he wasn’t stuck for things to do.
Now, he needed to find the Black Cleric, give a secret letter to one of Henwright’s friends, get the soul necklace Tomkins had given him fixed…and then work out what the hell to do with his life.
CHAPTER 9- Henwright
Later that day, after classes had finished and the other students were in their dorms, Henwright headed to his own room with a wheel of cheese tucked under his arm.
It was always the best part of his day, when classes were done and his time was his own, and he could indulge himself in the things that students wouldn’t imagine such a serious instructor enjoyed; eating his body weight in cheddar and reading stories about barbarians. He was happiest by himself, and it was just a pity that he’d chosen a career that involved spending all day with dozens of students.
“Henny,” said a voice.
For a second, he froze. Was it Geraint, the academy chef? Had his cheese-theft been discovered?
“Hold up a second, Henny.”
It was Irvine; still wearing his awful checkered shirt and denims, the same he wore while teaching his classes. The only difference in him was that now, with academy lessons finished, stern instructor Irvine was gone, replaced by Ian Irvine, the man with the cheery grin. The students wouldn’t have believed the transformation this man underwent daily.
“Stealing from the larder again?” said Irvine.
“So I’m a cheddar fiend - it could be worse. As vices go…”
“Yeah, I’ve seen Tomkins. Poor guy can barely speak a word after eleven. The number of novices who earn coins getting rid of his empty bottles…”
“So unfortunate for him. A sorry, sorry business.”
“I ask him to talk to me every night, and I’m going to keep trying every night. A man can’t hold everything in forever. But listen, Lolo’s having one of her poker games in her room tonight. All the snacks a man could dream of, buttering us up before she takes our money. Want to join us?”
“I’d rather be alone. Me, a hunk of cheddar, and a barbarian novel.”
“Barbarians? Has it got that bad, Henwright? You know, my brother used to have…episodes. He kept it all inside. I bought him an artificed notepad - you know, like the one we gave novice Russo when he had his nightmares? He never used it. Depression eats a man from the inside, and then when it’s done it spreads and it corrupts.”
“Is your brother still with the church?”
“De-robed. Well, he never believed in it anyway. Something our dad used to get mad at. ‘I have one son serving god, the other in the Queen’s academy, and not a single prayer coming from either of you.’”
“He can still heal, I take it? The church can’t take that from him.”
“He’s…uh…he’s gone a different way, let’s put it that way. But my point is, he didn’t speak about stuff for years. If he had, it might have lightened his load.”
“Tell your brother I said hello when you next see him,” said Henwright, and headed away from Irvine and toward his room.
“He used to eat his body weight in cheese, too, you know” called Irvine as he left. “You need to watch your cholesterol.”
“Night, Ian.”
“One last thing,” said Irvine.
“If you’re going to ask me to loan you some starter coins for Lolo’s poker game…”
“Do you think we did the right thing with the novice?” asked Irvine.
“I was on the fence at first, but you’re not always full of crap. Failure breeds failure, and we can’t have an epidemic.”
“On the fence? You talked Lolo around on expelling the kid.”
“What happens in the inquiry room, stays in the inquiry room,” said Henwright.
“We were all on the same page, right? I mean, you agreed with what I said?”
“We all voted for expulsion.”
“And how’d you think he took it?”
“Better than you’d expect. Especially when I let him believe at least one of us wanted him to stay. It felt right to throw him a rope.”
“Night, Henny. Don’t bottle it up; you know where my room is.”
“Good luck with your poker game. Lolo blinks when she’s bragging; that’s her tell.”
When Henwright got back to his room, he unwound his scarf from his neck and put it with the rest of his collection; fifty-two, one for each week of the year, every color and every material a scarf-connoisseur could dream of. Cashmere, velvet, silk, wool. A scarf for every mood.
He lit the fire and turned on each lamp, despite knowing that if Irvine walked by and saw the light glowing under his door, he’d knock on it and remind him about the academy’s heating bill.
Screw academy funds. With Irvine at his poker game, Henwright wanted light and warmth. He cut a sliver of cheese and set it out for Grunder, his pet mouse.
“Come on, Grunder. Before I scoff the lot.”
With his lights on and his mouse chewing on cheddar, there was nothing to do but wait. He wished he actually could do what he’d told Irvine he was doing; relax with cheddar and a book, but he couldn’t concentrate on the story. Instead, he just paced and paced around his room.
Finally, a voice spoke from his right.
A painting on his wall, which had shown a summer’s day in one of Disopolis’ maze alleyways, transformed. The passersby disappeared, a café became a splodge of color, until it changed into something else.
A figure stared back at him from the frame. Only a candle behind him gave illumination, and his hood made it impossible to see his face.
Henwright had always believed in using art as a means to use color to instill a mood on someone. If this man were art, and not a real person staring back through an artificed portrait frame, Henwright’s mood would have turned cold.
“You promised me news,” said the man.
“Is this the end?” asked Henwright.
“You have decades ahead of you, Henwright, as long as you cut down on the claret and dairy.”
“I mean, should I expect to see your face on my walls again? No more threats? No more visits?”
The man lifted a book into the portrait frame. It was thicker than a bard’s ballad of epics, and it gave off a feeling of age. Henwright could almost smell the mana coming off it. Knowing what was within its pages sent equal amounts curiosity and revulsion through him.
“You can put that away. I don’t need to see,” he said.
The man opened the book. He flicked from page to page, and with every turn of paper Henwright felt sicker.
There was a tattoo on each one; real skin cut from a person’s arm and the stuck in this book. The man showed Henwright each sample, drawing his attention to his favorites with the pride of a demented stamp collector.
“See this?” he said. “A precious glyphline. I had to go to the far Galapine Isles to find that one. The girl screamed when we took it from her. Have you ever heard a person scream?”
“Of course.”
“I mean really scream,” he said. “Not like your students running across the playground playing games, but a person screaming because it is the only way to drown out the pain.”
“We’re done here,” said Henwright. “Finished. And now, I don’t need to listen to your shit.”
“Then you have sent me…”
“A necromancer. Three glyphlines tattooed on his arm; Soul Harvest, Resurrection, and Death Bind. I gave him a mana-sealed envelope, so you should be able to track him when he gets closer to Dispolis.”
&n
bsp; “Is there anyone I should worry about?”
“He hasn’t seen his family in years, and I doubt they’d recognize him now anyway. He has few friends in the academy.”
“You are wasted as a teacher,” said the man.
Henwright couldn’t take his eyes off the book. The open page showed a flap of skin torn from an arm. The skin was brown, and it had a tattoo of blue ink in the shape of a pentagram.
Once, that would have been on someone’s arm. A magic user, somebody who had trained with their magic enough to earn a tattoo. And now…
He pushed the cheese away from him. It fell on the floor and then Grunder was on it, nibbling at the edges.
“Something wrong?”
“You know what’s wrong, you water-color bastard,” said Henwright. “You think you’re so mysterious, but there’s nothing I can’t find in the academy library. The magic in glyphline tattoos; it should drain out when the skin is cut away, and I always wondered how you stopped that happening. Well, it didn’t take me long to find out.”
“Ingenious, isn’t it?”
“You should be strapped up in a straitjacket in the thickest padded cell ever made. People like you, I don’t know how you come to be like that. What was it? Were you mana drenched? Is it mental illness from childhood?”
“You think that you know me?” said the man. “Instructor Henwright, you were probably born in a manor with a sprawling garden and butlers and maids. I bet you learned to walk on satin carpets, with diamond chandeliers hanging above your head. You and your books. Does reading about a storm give you the same experience as a man who is drenched, cold, his skin red and numb?”
“I don’t need to be a murderer myself to know that murder is wrong. I don’t need to drink poison to know it will kill me. You use pain-”
“Pain as a conductor, yes. People have tried everything, haven’t they? Drinking the blood of one who is magically endowed. Drinking their saliva, their seed, tasting their flesh. We all know about those kinds of religions, don’t we? Ones not possible without necromancy.”
“The academy doesn’t condone Imbibism.”