by Deck Davis
“Foulrugh,” said Witas.
It was a word Jakub had never heard before, but he recognized it as a spellword. Black mist rose from the disc as though it were heating up, and the smell of burning mana hung in the air.
“You call me?” said a voice.
It was a growly voice and it seemed to come from outside the room but within it at the same time. Jakub got a sense it was from somewhere beyond, somewhere deep, and it made his stomach feel heavy to hear it.
“I need you to enchant the finger, Pankratz. Bind it to whoever killed this boy.”
“A costly request.”
“I know our deal by now.”
“How much can I take?” said the voice.
“Enough to make this work.”
“Open yourself to me.”
Witas opened his mouth and breathed in, and the black mist floated into it and then snaked down his throat.
He dropped the finger and the disc and fell to his knees.
The voice laughed, and the sound was so full of menace that Jakub eyed the stairs, with an instinctual part of him telling him to run.
He heard footsteps now; shuffling coming from above. Someone was coming, but he couldn’t tell Witas yet; he couldn’t interrupt whatever the hell this was.
“A pleasure as always, cleric,” said the voice.
The dark aura suddenly left the room. Witas coughed and then he vomited a stream of black tar onto the basement floor.
He retched a few more times. The footsteps above were louder now, and a guard emerged at the top of the stairs.
“You guys done down there?” he said.
The guard began to walk down the steps.
“Give us a minute. Witas can’t be interrupted.”
“Well, hurry up.”
Jakub joined Witas and helped him to his feet. “What the hell was that?”
“The Blacktyde,” said Witas. “Clerics normally draw their power from the Upperlon; one of the light afterlives. I draw mine from the Blacktyde. It’s more powerful, but it has its cost.”
“I heard that thing mention it. What cost?”
“A part of my soul. A sliver of it each time.”
“But that’s what warlocks do.”
“Yeah, we aren’t so different.”
“We better go,” said Jakub. “Our guard friends are coming to check up on us. Tell me what you did, why did you need the finger?”
“Pankratz is the demon I deal with from the Blacktyde. He’s bound the aura of the murder to the boy’s finger. When we’re close to where the boy was actually killed, I’ll know it as long as I have his finger with me.”
“And you lectured me about de-sensitisation? After what you just did?”
“There’s a difference,” said Witas. “When I do it, I feel it. It makes me sick. I don’t desensitize myself from my feelings like you necros. At least I give the dead what they deserve; respect and grief.”
The footsteps sounded behind them now, and a guard was standing by the basement entrance again.
“Captain says you’ve gotta clear out. A wagon carrying oil was set alight, and we’ve got a couple of corpses to bring down here.”
Witas coughed again, then wiped black gunk from his lips. “We were just leaving.”
“Get what you need?”
“Maybe. Tell the captain I’m working on it, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
“So much for respect,” whispered Jakub.
“Yeah, well, people deal with things in different ways. Come on; time to go under the city.”
CHAPTER 25 – Hackett Lee
The floors were stained by the boy’s blood. Hackett had gotten on his hands and knees and scrubbed until his arms ached, but he couldn’t get rid of it. It’d stay there now, set on the stone, a reminder of what he’d done.
He stood in the cellar and wished that they’d picked somewhere better for all of this. Although the room was seven feet high, Hackett’s hair brushed the ceiling, and each time his hair touched the stone it reminded him what a freak it was.
Every touch brought back memories of his youth, of the things they’d call him.
Bean-pole.
Long-legged ostrich bitch boy.
Stupid names, yes, but names like that had a habit of getting to a child when he heard them day after day, and especially when they came from classmates who he’d hoped were his friends.
“It’s a gift,” his mother used to tell him. “The Gods gave you more height because you have so much heart that you need more room for it to grow into.”
He knew better now. Whatever heart he had was leaving him, and sometimes when he tried to grasp at it, it fluttered away like a butterfly, always dancing out of reach.
Never mind. There was work to do, and work always made him feel better.
He faced the wall now. He took a piece of chalk from his pocket and drew a rectangle on the stone. Then he held his seashell in his hand and let his mana drift from it, before casting it on the wall.
The stone within the rectangle began to change, transforming until it showed a room, one with lamps glowing and with dozens of scarfs scattered around. A little mouse scurried along the floor, and at the end of the room, a man was sitting by a desk with a piece of cheese near his hands.
Always with the damned cheese. The man was going to have a heart attack.
“Hello, Henwright,” said Hackett.
The man jumped, and Hackett smiled. He loved to appear in the portrait frame unannounced, he loved the shock it gave the instructor.
Henwright turned and faced him, then stood up and approached the portrait.
“You promised me we were done,” said Henwright.
“And you promised me glyphlines. Three of them, to be exact. The last I needed for my shipment. Instead, all I got was a pickpocket who, thanks to your fuck up, has lost his life.”
“Thanks to me? Did I kill him?”
“You might not have held the knife, but blood has a way of splattering in different directions.”
“I gave him the letter. If you couldn’t track him properly, that’s not my fault. We’re done, Hackett.”
“We aren’t done until I have what I need.”
“Gods, just leave me alone, damn it. Why me?”
“Because you were stupid enough to get into debt with the wrong man, and your pathetic academy wages couldn’t pay it.”
“I don’t understand why you won’t leave me alone. It’s not my fault you couldn’t take the girl, and it’s not my fault you didn’t get the novice. What do you get out of this, anyway?”
That was a good question, and one that Hackett had asked himself again and again. What did he get out of this?
How did a once morally-sound mage find himself in the company of a torturer and a rogue necromancer, hurting young magic users to tease the gift from their skin, and then cutting their glyphline tattoos from them?
Henwright wouldn’t understand. Even if Hackett told him how he’d watched his two brothers and his sisters go to the academy while he was left at home, told daily by his father what a failure he was for being the only child in his bloodline born without the gift, the instructor wouldn’t understand.
To know that everyone in your family but you had it; to be told you were worthless, to see your siblings taken away to study with their futures bright, while you were destined to a life of endless normality.
And when Hackett’s gift had finally shown itself, it was too late. It happened like that sometimes; the gift hid until a child’s adolescence, and by then it was too late for the academy to train them.
So, Hackett had sought help from another. While his father scorned him, he’d found a father figure in another man, one who understood what it was like because he too hadn’t seen his gift until it was too late.
If it wasn’t for him, for Bendeldrick, the man who the ignorant people in Dispolis despised, Hackett would never have learned to hone his gifts. He’d have ended up like those old semi-mages you saw; pe
rforming cheap tricks for cash like some kind of magical prostitute.
“You wouldn’t understand what I get,” said Hackett. “Just know this; there are people in this world worse than me. Ones who even I have to answer to.”
“Bendeldrick,” said Henwright.
“You’re a clever one. Been at the books again?”
“It didn’t take much to find out, once I found out who you were.”
“Then for the first time, we are on first-name terms. You might even call us friends.”
“Blackmail? Curses? Does that sound like friendship?”
“Friends do not need to like each other; friendship can grow from convenience. Our convenience is this – you procure me another, and I will take away the curse.”
Henwright laughed now. “You already removed it, remember?”
“And I told you; what can be taken, can be given back.”
“No.”
“Look at your arm, instructor.”
Henwright raised his right hand. It was black and his fingers were long, and boils covered his skin.
“Gods, no.”
He lost himself now, stumbled backward, falling onto the floor.
“Get up, man.”
“This isn’t going to end, is it?” said Henwright.
“I need one more. We will find the necromancer ourselves, but by doing that, we leave a bargain unfulfilled. You still owe us a glyphline, Henwright.”
“People are going to start to notice if something happens to another academy student.”
“Just one more,” said Hackett. “Bendeldrick has heard of a new student; a chubby little wizard.”
“Troutan? He’s Mage Wyrecast’s grandson. You don’t think they’ll notice him going missing?”
“Sure. And they’ll hear the sorry truth; that the boy couldn’t live up to his grandfather’s fame, and he ran away from the academy. You went to his room and found his belongings gone. Perhaps he even left a note.”
“You make me sick.”
“And I am also the one who can remedy that sickness. Just one more, Henwright. I have made it easy for you; earlier this afternoon, the academy took a delivery. And among that delivery is an artificed item. It is a…”
CHAPTER 26 - Henwright
Henwright didn’t attract much attention when he left his room and went to the lower floors of the academy. Quartermaster Tomkins was gone, no doubt in his own room, drinking away his memories of his poor son.
Being the head of necromancy, Henwright had keys to almost every room in the academy, except the other instructor’s private rooms.
He unlocked the inventory store and found what Hackett had told him about; it was a suitcase. Brown with a floral pattern on the edge, just a normal looking suitcase. Except, this one was artificed to hold more than it should, much like the inventory bags they issued to the students.
This case was magically imbibed to be large enough, once opened, to fit a person, yet would be light enough for him to carry.
Cruel tools for cruel deeds, he said to himself, remembering a passage from Bendeldrick’s book.
He saw nobody as he went back upstairs and to the private room that they had given Troutan Wyrecast.
He paused outside the door.
Calm yourself, he thought. What will it look like if you’re all panicky and out of breath?
This was the last one. It had to be. The curse was back, and this was the only way to remove it, but he wouldn’t let it go on after this.
If Hackett reneged on his promise one last time, Henwright would see him dead. Never mind that he was a powerful mage with an even stronger master; Henwright would see him dead.
As long as the curse didn’t spread too quickly.
“We call it the Vacant Vex,” Hackett had told him. “It’s an old curse; it comes from the trees of the Evergrey Forest. They were sentient once, but they are so old that their senses have left them. Don’t worry, Henwright; it turns your hand oil black, but you can wear a glove to cover it. The real danger is in what it does to your mind – it eats away at it, nibbling a synapse here, a memory there. Keep the curse too long, and your mind will be mulch. But we won’t let that happen, will we?”
That was what scared Henwright the most. As a master necromancer and an instructor, his mind was everything. He wasn’t a powerful man, he wasn’t quick nor strong, and he didn’t have the reflexes to keep up with the recruits when he fought them in the practice yard.
But knowledge was his strength, and it was something that even grew stronger with age – all he had to do was keep reading, keep studying.
If he lost it, what would he be?
Just an old fool, wandering around the academy as his senses left him and trying to hide it from everyone. People would notice a slip of knowledge here, a mistake there. First, they’d mock him, and then his fellow instructors would notice, and before long he’d lose his place in the academy.
Maybe it’d be even worse than that. A necromancer with dementia was too dangerous to simply lose his job; they’d have to take more from him.
And so, with regret already coiling inside him, he knocked on the door.
He heard shuffling inside; perhaps the sound of something being hidden.
“I’m not here for contraband,” he said. “I just need to talk.”
The door opened and Trouton Wyrecast stood there, the pink of his wobbly belly showing where his pyjamas wouldn’t reach.
“Master Henwright?” said Trout.
“Can I come in?”
“It’s, er, late master. Have I done something wrong?”
“I just need to talk to you, Trout.”
“Damn it. I knew that name would spread.”
Trout moved aside, and as Henwright stepped over the threshold of the door he sensed he was crossing another threshold entirely. There would be no redemption after this.
Just five minutes later, Henwright sat on Trout’s bed. His hands were shaking and he felt cold.
The suitcase was at his feet, zipped up with Trout inside it. Alive – Hackett needed them to be alive – but unconscious. Even if he awoke in the artificed suitcase he couldn’t get out, nor would his shouts penetrate the magic seal.
“What have I done?”
He went to the sink in the corner of the room. The pipes rumbled when he turned the tap, and he splashed water over his face.
“Okay, it’s done now. What’s done is done.”
He told himself that, but he didn’t believe it.
Even so, he had to be quick.
First, he packed some of Trout’s belongings, things a young mage might take with him if he were leaving. These were clothes, his mage staff, books. He shoved them in the suitcase.
Next, he found some of Trout’s homework assignments. Copying his handwriting, he wrote a note explaining, in Trout’s words, how he couldn’t face failing to live up to his grandfather’s legacy. He left this on Trout’s bed.
That done, he just needed to get to the edge of the academy grounds, where Hackett had arranged for the package to be collected.
Hurrying out of the room, through the halls, and down the grand staircase, his pulse beat so loudly he was sure it would wake the whole academy.
But he was being stupid; nobody would hear the innerworkings of his body, just as much as they wouldn’t hear his thoughts which now were telling him, you’ve gone too far, Wayne. This is the end of you even if they remove the curse.
He’d reached the main entrance of the academy when a voice called out.
“Henny?”
A shiver crept through him.
He turned, smiling as naturally as he could. “Ian, how are you? It’s late; going to another poker game?”
Irvine had a book under his arm. “I drank too much coffee with dinner, so I won’t be able to sleep tonight. Going somewhere?”
Henwright held up the suitcase, wondering whether right now, Trout was waking up inside it. “I’m going to visit my sister this weekend,” he said.
/>
“I thought you and Glora didn’t get on?”
“It’s never too late to try. A man needs family.”
“Don’t you have classes in the morning? It’s not quite the weekend yet.”
“I have the day off. Didn’t you get my note?”
Irvine frowned. “I must have missed it.”
The tension was tightening in him so hard that Henwright thought he was going to burst. His brain was telling him to just run, but he knew that was irrational.
Just piss off, Irvine, he thought.
But he kept calm, kept the smile on his face. “I better be off. I have a carriage waiting.”
Irvine seemed to look dep into him then, and the two shared a stare for what seemed like hours.
Finally, Irvine nodded. “Give my best to Glora. I’d love to see her, if you two patch it up.”
“I’ll make sure to do that. Enjoy your reading.”
He opened the door and was about to step out into the night, when Irvine spoke.
“Henny,” he said.
He knows. He knows. Dear Gods, what am I going to do?
Henwright fought with every instinct in his body that was telling him to run, and turned around.
“Yes?”
“I hope you packed some cheese for the journey. We know what you’re like when you haven’t eaten. Best not to turn up at Glora’s cottage all cranky.”
He forced a laugh. “Don’t worry about that.”
And with that he stepped out of the academy and into the darkness, his heart racing, the suitcase feeling heavier than it should.
He just needed to get rid of it, and then he’d go to Dispolis for a few nights. Now that he’d spoken the lie, he couldn’t return straight back to the academy.
Maybe I should go and see Glora, he thought. Go and patch it up.
He told himself no; the time for that was past, and he wasn’t the man that his sister had once known. He didn’t even recognize himself anymore.
That didn’t matter. The only person he wanted to recognize was Hackett; he wanted to know what he looked like. He didn’t know how he’d do that yet, but he would find out. That was what he did, after all; it didn’t matter how hard the knowledge was to find, it if was there then Henwright could seek it out.