Wizard Heights - Book 1 - The Legend of the Sorcerer King

by Alexander Scott

  "That is the Malakie Market," said Whitstable, grinning like a cheshire cat at it all. "Isn't it grand?"

  Charlie turned around and saw a cobbled square complete with fountain. Within the square, crowds milled, buying wares from merchants who strolled amongst them like entertainers.

  "Those Arabs and pirates come from the caverns," said Whitstable, sneering at them. "Dirty thieves. They're only allowed above ground on the last Tuesday and Thursday of every month, otherwise they get whipped in the market square."

  Charlie was moon-eyed. "Pirates?" he said. "But there isn't an ocean here."

  "Dont need it," quipped Whitstable. "I say, look out!" He pulled Charlie aside as another elegant black carriage trundled by, pulled by two clip-clopping black horses. "You're going to need to watch yourself," he said, rapping Charlie upon the lapel with his knuckles. And then, regarding the carriage which shrunk into the distance. "That was the Marquis Jean De La Roq," said Whitstable, "if I"m not mistaken."

  Charlie gazed, mouth agape, over the three story wattle and daub and Victorian houses, at Medieval stone towers, so tall that their summits seemed to touch the moonswept clouds.

  "What is this place?" he gasped.

  "Wizard Heights," said Whistable. "Come with me. I'll show you more."

  He led Charlie off along a busy thoroughfare past dark windowed nineteenth-century stores that had antique shingles hanging from their eaves. There were poulterers and vintners, haberdashers and apothecaries, tailors and tanners... There were also dilapidated wattle and daub, timber-framed taverns from which golden light and rousing cheer flowed.

  Charlie was lost for words. Finally he gasped, "It's like—"

  "Victorian England," said Whitstable, proudly strolling along. "And it is—because, you see, the Victorians were the first people to actually harness magic. Properly, I mean..."

  "Harness?" said Charlie, bemused.

  "Oh, others had dabbled in it before," said Whitstable. Thrusting his hands in his pocket and kicking a stone along, he threw his head from side to side as he mused. "The druids with their henges, the ancient Egyptians with their pyramids, the Mayans with their calendar, but it was the Victorians who really managed to harness magic properly because they bound it to machinery during the Industrial Revolution."

  Charlie swallowed solemnly. “You mean to say—”

  "All of Wizard Heights is a grand machine if you will," said Whitstable, "a great floating city, transported from one place to the other by gigantic Victorian engines...and of course a cloak of invisibility—I mean to say, you couldn't just go carving across the sky in something like Wizard Heights and not be noticed...”

  “But what's it doing here in California?” said Charlie, gazing up in wonder at the stone spires that towered above them—so high that their summits seemed to touch the moonswept clouds.”

  “Good question,” said Whitstable. “Minerals probably. Oh, it's a long story. There is a council that decides those sorts of things. They meet once a year and determine where the city will float to next. Of course, it is said that they have their disagreements—one council member wants to go to Istanbul, another wants to go to Timbuktu, another wants Vienna or Stuttgart, but eventually they decide and none of the citizenry of Wizard Heights is any the wiser; the city just disappears one day and reappears the next. It's all shrouded in secrecy, you see, and, of course, invisibility. No one outside of the magi-world—that is, the world of the powerful and the elite, can see it. It's all a big secret in your world—hush, hush, and all that. I'm breaking heaps of rules just by bringing you here."

  Charlie marveled.

  “Of all the places in the world that Wizard Heights could have floated to,” he said, “it came right here to Pleasant Valley, California...”

  “Yes,” said Whitstable with a jovial little chuckle. And then, glancing up, “I say, what on earth is going on over there....”

  Reaching the end of the street, they passed beneath reedy lantern light onto a grassy verge that was surrounded on one side by a crescent of Georgian mansions. At the grandiose gates of these stately homes, carriages drawn by horses were arriving and departing, and Charlie quickly realized that some manner of celebration was taking place, for upon the lawns of the mansions, string quartets in tops and tails played dainty minuets while dignified guests sipped tea from china tea cups and exchanged polite conversation.

  "It's the Getting To Know You evening," said Whitstable, leading Charlie between the gates of a mansion. "That's why I brought you here, Charlie. Because I'm getting to know you..."

  Charlie frowned at Whistable. This strange kid was beginning to make his skin crawl again and Whistable must have sensed it, for, eager to change the subject, he said, "Look over there. It's Mr. Bulgaris—he’s an English Animagician." Charlie saw a kind-faced, gray-haired man in green and scarlet robes entertaining a crowd of nobles by transmogrifying into a squawking cockatoo and then a shrieking monkey and finally into a magnificent, roaring saber-toothed tiger.

  "And over there," said Whitstable, pointing to a lady in a filigree silver gown, "is Miss Lovelocket." Miss Lovelocket was a slender, late-middle-aged lady with long, silver-gray hair. She was engaged in conversation with several distinguished guests, but upon catching sight of Whitstable, she regarded him crossly.

  "What's wrong with her?" asked Charlie. "Doesn't she like you?"

  "Uh, never mind," gulped Whitstable, tugging Charlie on. "She's a bit strange."

  They nimbly passed across the lawn between elegant, suited butlers and strolling guests to an area where a large crowd had gathered around a tall fir tree which was partially covered by a brown canvas tarp. Beneath it, upon the grass, stocky bearded midgets in navy blue Prussian-lookin uniforms suits, heaved upon ropes that were attached to the tarp, and in so doing, slowly revealed the fir tree.

  "They're called Imperialites," Whitstable told Charlie behind his hand. "Nobody knows quite where they come from, but most suspect that they're the result of a magician's spell because they're often enslaved by magicians and made to perform menial tasks. For one thing, they do much of the gardening around here and they’re very good at it."

  Charlie watched as the tarp was finally tugged down, revealing a new tree in all its splendor. Its needles were dark emerald and its trunk was brown and finely sculpted. At its roots the grass was cut to precision.

  "Bravo, bravo!" said Whitstable as the crowd politely applauded. His eyes narrowed with admiration. "What do you think, Charlie?"

  Charlie thought that it was magnificent. However, at that moment he was far more concerned about something else. Ever since he had entered the city, he had felt eyes upon him. This feeling had grown until it now felt unbearable. Turning around, he saw the lady whom Whitstable had called Miss Lovelocket. Floating beside him with her arms folded, she glowered crossly and raised a severe questioning eyebrow. "You're not from around here," she said sternly, "are you?"

  That's when Charlie heard shouting. The lawn was alive with people. Whitstable was surrounded by a group of suited gentlemen who were pointing at him accusatorily and ordering the Imperialites here and there. One of them grabbed Charlie by the lapel and snarled viciously into his face. Charlie threw him off and zig-zagged across the lawn, between the magicians, right into the path of Whitstable who was doing the same.

  "Come on, Charlie!" cried Whitstable. "This way!"

  Like two wild animals, they ran through the crowds, upturning garden tables and scattering people in their urgency to escape. Top-hatted, tuxedo wearing gentlemen behind them shouted, "Stop those boys!" and "Intruders!". However, it did no good—Whitstable and Charlie ran down a lawn to the lake's edge and splashed into the inky water. All around stood timber-framed eighteenth century houses on stilts, and far off, in the center of the lake, the mighty stone towers. Breathing heavily, Charlie looked back and saw that a large gathering of gentlemen and ladies from the garden party were following them.

  "What do we do now?" Charlie desperately asked Whi
tstable.

  "Don’t worry," said Whitstable, slipping a rowboat from the reeds. "Help me with this!"

  They pulled a wooden rowboat from its hiding place. And just in time—the crowd had arrived at the edge of the lake. A short, stocky, white-haired old man in a wine-colored, velvet robe and renaissance cap advanced toward the boys with his hands raised.

  "I order you to stop!" he said as the two boys clattered the oars in the boat. "Do not tempt my wrath!"

  And that’s when Whitstable turned on him with eyes that shone with indignant fury. "Begone G.W. Grisholm!" he hissed. "Do not dare to stop us!"

  The aged man raised both hands then, and, pursing his lips together, gazed resolutely at the moon. "You shall not leave this place!" he declared, closing his eyes. Sneering, Whitstable lifted his hand, and from it burst forth a piercing white light that momentarily blinded everyone. When the light had faded, the crowd gasped, for the aged man lay on the ground, clutching his brow disorientedly.

  "Quick, Charlie!" said Whitstable, clambering into the boat. "Let’s get out of here!"

  Charlie climbed into the boat and strained at the oars. In response, the rowboat slipped from the lakebed and swam freely into the dark water. Another tug of the oars and they were surging. But they didn't stop there—the next time Charlie strained at the oars, the boat began to climb into the air. Now they were not floating upon the water at all, but gliding above it. The dripping, wooden hull of the boat was now like a bird, and the movement of the oars like the gentle beat of wings—with every heave upon them, the rowing boat surged higher and higher into the sky, until they were high up amongst the midnight blue, amidst the great stone spires.

  Looking down, Charlie and Whitstable could see the gas-lit Victorian city far beneath them and the angry crowd upon its docks. That's when they noticed something far more alarming—from one of the cit highest towers issued a stream of crows. Like a plague of darkness, they mingled, swarmed, rose and fell, until all at once they dove at the boys in a cacophony of beaks and claws and talons.

  Whitstable stood up in the rowing boat, swinging an oar at them, and Charlie beat them away with one fist, while protecting his face with his other arm. Finally the crows cawed back to their tower, and with a half-blinding shimmer, the rowing boat and the boys within it, passed through Wizard Heights' invisible protective shield and were free. Now, glancing back over his shoulder, his hair lifted by the breeze, Charlie saw nothing but forested hills and a moon-glimmering lake.

  Exhausted, he turned to Whitstable. "Do you think we're safe now?" he asked, his cheeks scarlet.

  His eyes shining, Whitstable grinned like a cat. "Yes," he said proudly. "We did it! None of them will come out here tonight. Well done to us eh, Charlie?"

  Charlie's mouth was a grim, flat line. "I guess," he said sullenly taking up the oars again and continuing to row.

  Whitstable regarded him apologetically. "I suppose you're mad about what I did back there," he said, lowering his eyes. "Aren’t you?"

  Disgruntled, Charlie just kept rowing.

  "Well you needn't be," said Whitstable earnestly. "They're all just mad because I stole a thing or two, that's all. And as for the old, white-haired man on the beach, don’t worry about him. He's a member of the Teutonic Order—an arch-wizard. They can’t be hurt—they're practically invincible."

  "He looked pretty hurt to me," said Charlie sorely. He hoped to find some regret in Whistable’s eyes, but he found nothing of the sort. Instead, Whistable was much encouraged by this description.

  "Did you like the way I dealt with him?" he said. "It was magic, Charlie. I'll show you how to do it if you want."

  Charlie regarded Whitstable through thin, mistrustful eyes. "I thought you said that you lived in Wizard Heights," he said.

  "Oh, I do," replied Whitstable passionately.

  "Then why were those people chasing us?" asked Charlie. "Why did they call us intruders?"

  Whitstable waved his words away. "They're just crazy!" he said. "Senile! Look, I can explain everything!"

  "No!" said Charlie reproachfully. "I don't want you to explain anything! I just want you to take me home!"

  "OK, OK," said Whitstable soothingly. "I'll take you home if you want me to. Just give me the oars. That is your house down there, isn't it?"

  Charlie peered over the edge of the rowboat. The ground lay dizzyingly far beneath them—little white snakes of road, square patches of dark green, and rectangles that were houses with occasional azure swimming pools. He hadn't realized it, but in his anger at Whitstable, he had rowed all the way back to the Pleasant Valley Estates.

  "Yes, I think that's my dad's car down there," said Charlie soberly. "I guess that must be our house. Take us down."

  "Very well," said Whitstable, taking the oars. "If you insist. I'll land us in your backyard, alright?"

  "OK," said Charlie. He just wanted to be home now—safe in his room and away from this crazy kid.

  Whitstable guided them down in gradually decreasing circles until at last the hull of the rowing boat gently lay itself upon the soft moonlit grass of the backyard. When they had finally come to rest, Whitstable lay his arms across the oars, and regarded Charlie with resignation. "I should've known it would scare you," he said. "You're not angry with me, are you?"

  Charlie climbed out of the rowing boat without saying anything. He had left his bike behind at Wizard Heights, but that was of little importance to him at that moment. He was just happy to be alive.

  "Will I see you tomorrow at school?" asked Whitstable as Charlie strode angrily across the lawn toward the house.

  "No!" said Charlie, turning upon him. "I want you to stay away from me! I never want to see you again! Do you understand?"

  Whitstable nodded glumly as Charlie trudged across the lawn to the kitchen door which he quietly closed behind him. Left alone in the moonlit garden, Whitstable watched the light in Charlie's room go on and Charlie’s silhouette move across the curtains. Shortly afterwards, the light went out and Whitstable’s face once again was bathed in moonlight. Then his mouth curled up wickedly at the ends. "You may not want to know me, Charlie Goodfellow," he said quietly, "but I want to know you. You'll be my friend, you can be quite sure of that." And with that, he tugged upon the oars and rose gently into the sky again—off toward the horizon and the city of Wizard Heights.

  The Inquisition

  Late that night, within a tower, high above the empty, cobbled streets of Wizard Heights, the old man who had pursued Charlie earlier in the day, cringed upon flagstones before an imposing silhouette that stood in darkness before an ornate, gothic window. All around, upon pedestals near and far, velvet black crows, like members of an inquisition, lurked with hunting eyes.

  "Escaped?" uttered the darkness in a tone of refined, English indignation. "What do you mean, escaped?"

  The old man's fingers entwined in groveling paroxysms.

  "Just that, sire," he trembled. "The boy was fleet of foot and..." He lowered his eyes, "he was assisted..."

  The crows regarded each other mistrustfully. One manically sharpened its beak from side to side upon its perch rather like a butcher preparing a meat knife for a day's work. The silhouettes barely-discernable eyes became flinty. His mouth tightened.

  "You speak of Mr. Cleveclees, I assume?"

  "Indeed, sire." said the old man queasily.

  "I told you never to admit that man into this realm."

  The old man struggled to find the words to express his predicament.

  "He sneaks in, sire," he said. "Comes and goes in the night. He has been seen in the markets consorting with the common folk, and with the pirates. It is said that he lurks in the taverns ... underground ... talks to the gypsies ... even consorts with the Arabs. I fear that he knows something, sire. In fact, I am almost sure of it."

  The silhouette's arms were folded masterfully. "Of even greater concern, is that he is allied with the Magi Council," he said. "He must be eliminated. I will take care of that. Mea
nwhile, what of this boy—this outsider."

  The old man's face creased into an expression of ever greater vexation.

  "There has been an unexpected turn of events, sire," he ventured.

  "Turn of events?"

  "It would appear, sire, that he has been befriended by one of the townsfolk—the boy that your crows espied earlier this evening. And not just any boy. It is Augustus Whitstable Febulant, the grandson of Benjamin Bourgamund, who you shall recall, m'lord..."

  The silhouettes anxious, glistening eyes quested in the darkness.

  "But it cannot be," he seethed. "Dear Lord, not that boy... Not now..."

  "Indeed, sire. It is, as I said, a most troubling and unexpected turn of events..."

  In deep thought, the silhoutte turned and stared out of a tall, latticed window. Far beneath him lay the now silent city of moonlit roofs, gothic lamp-lit bridges, and glistening cobbled streets which were empty save for the occasional staggering, drunken beggar, or pirate sneaking to and from the tunnels. "We must tread carefully," he said. "Much is at stake. In the meantime, wire the High Council and tell them that everything is in order, and have that boy—the outsider, watched. I want you to take care of it personally. Things cannot be allowed to fail at a delicate time like this."