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

by Alexander Scott

  "You mean," said Mr. Cleveclees, "in the crypt..."

  "I could not speak openly at that time," she said, "but I serve the same cause as you, namely the defeat of this insurrection. It is my firm belief that some of the conspirators were present within the crypt when we last met."

  "And mine," said Cleveclees firmly.

  "What remains then," said Miss Lovelocket, "is a thorough investigation of the Febulant boy's disappearance from the crypt beneath Lord Sharak's mansion, for it is my sincere view that through the unraveling of that mystery, we shall uncover at least one of the conspirators who seek the downfall of the Magi Council. In the meantime, this boy must be guarded. I will place silent watchers upon this house and upon him."

  "Indeed," said Mr. Cleveclees gravely, "it is for the best." Turning to Charlie, he said, "You will be safe, my friend."

  "When will I see you again?" asked Charlie with concern.

  "Soon," replied Mr. Cleveclees. "Give me a few days. I'll see what I can dig up."

  Charlie followed Mr. Cleveclees and Miss Lovelocket outside. "But what about me?" he asked. "What shall I do? What if the Sorcerer King comes for me?"

  Placing his hands on Charlie's shoulders, Mr. Cleveclees looked into Charlie's eyes. "Our allies will watch over you," he said. "You will not see them, but they will be there."

  Charlie nodded.

  "I will be in touch soon," said Mr. Cleveclees. "You can count on that. Goodbye for now, Charlie." And with that he and Miss Lovelocket left.

  Charlie pondered his words. He didn't know what to think about all of the things that had happened to him recently, but if there was one thing he felt sure of, it was that he'd be seeing Mr. Cleveclees again.

  Chapter 13

  Charlie’s instinct was right about seeing Mr. Cleveclees again. Three days later, as Charlie was leaving school, the magician was waiting for him by the trees at the end of the road.

  "How have you been, Charlie?" he asked, walking alongside him.

  "Alright, I suppose," muttered Charlie glumly. "Dad's a little better. Though mostly he sits in a rocking chair mumbling to himself all day."

  Mr. Cleveclees made a sympathetic sound.

  With his hands thrust in his pockets, Charlie kicked the sidewalk petulantly. "It's all the Sorcerer King's fault," he said morosely. "He's ruined my life!"

  "Now, now," said Mr. Cleveclees. "We'll find the Sorcerer King and make your family normal again."

  "Have you discovered anything at Wizard Heights?" asked Charlie hopefully. "Any clues?"

  Mr. Cleveclees glanced about serrepticiously. When at last he sensed safety, in a lowered tone he said, "I have. I went back to the crypt beneath Lord Sharak's mansion. Something was telling me to return there—my intuition perhaps. You see, Charlie, I didn't understand why your friend Whitstable couldn’t be found."

  "He wasn't my friend," said Charlie, correcting him.

  "No, that’s right," said Mr. Cleveclees. "Anyway, I wanted to know where Whitstable ... that is, the boy who is inhabited by the spirit of the Sorcerer King, went."

  "And?" said Charlie.

  Mr. Cleveclees glanced about again to make sure that the coast was clear. Then he lowered his head and whispered, "He was disappeared."

  "You mean to say—" began Charlie.

  "I mean to say," said Mr. Cleveclees, "that when Miss Lovelocket cast the spell that saved your life, another magician cast a vanishing spell that disappeared Whitstable in a cloud of billowing, white smoke." Glancing about furtively again, he looked grim. "And that is a rather advanced spell for any magician to master."

  Charlie could hardly believe it.

  "The question is," said Mr. Cleveclees, "which magician helped Whitstable escape? You see, although there were a number of people present in the chamber that night, and only a few of them had the magical abilities to create that disappearance spell. Those magicians were Miss Lovelocket, Lord Sharak, and Count Mongovia."

  "Which one was it?" asked Charlie.

  "We will solve that conundrum through the power of deductive reasoning," said Mr. Cleveclees stoically. "You see, to begin with, it couldn't have been Miss Lovelocket because she cast the restraining spell that saved your life."

  "Yes," said Charlie, "and it couldn't have been Lord Sharak either because Whitstable had nothing good to say about him, and his guards tried to find us."

  "That's right," said Mr. Cleveclees. "That only leaves one likely suspect—Count Mongovia. It must have been him, and I can't say that I'm surprised—as a former member of the Imperial Russian Circus, the Count will have cast spells like that many times in his magical career." Then he solemnly added, "And now the only remaining question is, what should be done about it? Someone must confront Count Mongovia and since it is not clear which members of the Magi Council can be trusted, clearly I am that man."

  "What about me?" said Charlie. "What shall I do?"

  "The safest place for you is at home with your family," said Mr. Cleveclees.

  "But the Sorcerer King has destroyed it," said Charlie. "There's nothing left any more. My dad is a shambles. My mom's gone away with my sister..."

  Mr. Cleveclees regarded Charlie with sympathy. "Regretfully fate has left you with nothing to lose," he said. "We are not so different you and I, Charlie Goodfellow...Very well, we leave at once."

  * * * * *

  Count Mongovia lived in a palatial, white Georgian mansion beside one of the city's main thoroughfares. Surrounded by tall firs and a gothic, black, wrought-iron fence, it had rows of impassive black windows and a pearlescent white door. Stone steps led up from the outer gates through manicured lawns, and medieval guards could be seen behind the crenelations upon the roof.

  Mr. Cleveclees and Charlie stood in shadows beneath the awning of a nearby tannery.

  "We'll never get in there," said Charlie with dismay, "there are guards everywhere."

  Mr. Cleveclees regarded the mansion with foreboding. "And there is more than that," he said. "Magical spell meshes, invisible to the naked eye protect this house, and golden demons lurk between them. Some of those demons abide in the fourth level. We'd never get in there alone. We need help, and I know just the person to call upon. Come with me."

  He led Charlie through the busy city street into the canal district, where, down a sloping boat launch beside a dock, peasants and laborers loaded wooden crates onto wagons and carts. Amongst them, mighty winches hoisted giant rope-tied barrels from unseen depths.

  "These are the river folk," said Mr. Cleveclees, passing amongst the bustling throng. "Hardworking and resourceful, for centuries they have served the people of this city, first by transporting goods upon rivers of water, and then by rivers of air, I speak of course of thermal rivers, those underground."

  Charlie watched as a small, corracle-type barge levitated from a hole in the earth. Heaped high with spices and grains and guarded by two silk-adorned, dark skinned saracens, it was set upon by the river people who began to slew its sacks onto the docks.

  "It is not a riverman that we've come to see," continued Cleveclees as they passed along, "but one of their masters; a merchant, and a confidant of mine. His name is Silverman."

  He led Charlie down to the bottom of the boat ramp, and they arrived at a dilapidated, ramshackle, algae besieged tavern at the quay's edge. The rough hewn shingle above the door read,

  The Evening Tide

  1842

  Mr. Cleveclees hopped up the steps, followed in turn by Charlie, and passed within.

  Meanwhile, far above them, within one of the cities highest towers, Chanceller Avernicus Craven, peered down at Cleveclees and Charlie through a large bronze telescope.

  He grimaced.

  "I thought I told you to have Cleveclees eliminated..." he said to a figure that stood in shadow beside him.

  "We have tried, sir. He always escapes." responded, his servant, the old man.

  Avernicus Craven snorted.

  "That is because he is a master of escape and of d
isguise! Do you know nothing?"

  He peered into the telescope again. Cleveclees and the boy had disappeared into the tavern and had not returned.

  "He is up to something," he said. "Have him followed, and this time do not fail me."

  "Indeed, sir."

  And with that the old man departed.

  Meanwhile, Charlie and Mr. Cleveclees found themselves within an inn so old, damp and barnacle encrusted, that it might easily have been dredged up from the bottom of an ocean that very afternoon. All around, about small tables, sat river men in wool suits and linen shirts, and river women in dowdy vaudeville style dresses, some playing cards, others drinking rum or gin, while a woman in a frilly nineteenth century gown did a drunken tottering dance in the corner, accompanied by an old man with a squeeze box and a pitiful, cavorting monkey.

  As the door slammed behind Charlie and Mr. Cleveclees, the wheezing, tottering, cavorting, and card playing abruptly ceased. All, including the monkey turned to frown at them.

  "Good afternoon," said Mr. Cleveclees, apprehensively tipping his Panama hat at the patrons.

  There was nothing save for the disconcerted murmurs and the dirty faces that stared back at them.

  "The river people don't have much," said Mr Cleveclees, speaking furtively to Charlie, "but they do have each other and a robust sense of cameraderie. Once a bond is made amongst them, it is rarely broken. Of course, one must first establish their trust..."

  Clearing his throat, he passed with Charlie in tow, across the dusty floorboards to a door in the back of the barroom, where stood an extravegant, moustached, bowler-hat-wearing, stout fellow in breeches and a stripy shirt.

  His muscular arms folded, he regarded Cleveclees uncompromisingly.

  Mr. Cleveclees manifested an infinitely more convivial expression.

  "My good man," he began, eyelids lowered, "might I enquire—"

  "Silverman don't see no one what dint have an invitation or appointment," said the strongman, "so yed best be on yer wey, see?"

  And with that, he spat upon the floorboards, narrowed his eyes, and nodded dismissively back to the door whence they had come.

  Mr Cleveclees regarded Charlie awkwardly.

  "Perhaps I should explain," he said. "Some years ago, Mr Silverman gave me this." From his pocket, he produced a small dirty knot of rope, monogrammed with the emblem of a falcon in flight. "He told me that if I ever needed his assistance, I should come here."

  Smiling gently, he lay the monogrammed rope into the fellows rope-worn hand.

  The guard regarded it dubiously.

  "Very well," he said reluctantly. "Stay 'ere."

  Glancing suspiciously about the bar room, he slipped open the door and, ducking swiftly through it, closed it behind him.

  Mr. Cleveclees regarded Charlie apprehensively. "I'm sure that there's just a small misunderstanding," he said, smiling uneasily and tugging nervously at the perfectly starched collar of his Saville row shirt.

  From the other side of the door, they heard muffled conversations and then, excitedly, "Oh, Cleveclees, Cleveclees, let him in at once!"

  The guard appeared again. Grinning excessively, he snatched off his bowler hat. "Thank ee, sir," he said, bowing repeatedly. "Mr. Silverman bids you pray enter, and yer fine son..."

  Mr. Cleveclees did not bother to correct him regarding the term that he had used to describe Charlie. They passed into large office that had dusty floorboards. A Victorian ceiling fan rotated upon the ceiling. There were all manner of crates piled up in the corners, some coils of rope, and a good deal of spices and exotic potted plants.

  At an antique desk littered with papers at the end of the office, sat a man who was dressed in a black suit that might easily have come from sixteenth century England. He was about sixty years of age, his silvery black hair was arranged in what might modernly be called a pompadour fashion, and he wore stockings, a ruffled shirt, and buckled Elizabethan shoes.

  Glancing up, he tore off his wire-framed spectacles and joyfully rose to meet them.

  "Cleveclees, Cleveclees! How the devil are you? What are you looking for?" His eyes, though deeply wrinkled at the outer edges, were alive with possibilities. "Spice from the Market of Akh Sou Ahn? Gold from the desert of Aman Sur?" His finger was raised. "I've got some fine mollato jewelry from Lanternville. Just received it the other day." He narrowed his eyes passionately. "Oh, you should see the quality..."

  Mr. Cleveclees' looked appreciative yet unwavering.

  "I very much regret that I am unable to entertain such fancies at this time," he said, "I have come upon a rather more urgent matter. May we talk?"

  Silverman's joyous expression fell.

  "Urgent?" he said, and then disturbedly, "Why, of course."

  He busied around Cleveclees to the door, which he gently closed.

  Then he stood, holding his hands, with a forlorn, wondering, and anxious expression.

  "I do hope that everything is all right?"

  He nervously passed across the floorboards to Cleveclees.

  "Is it? Here. Come. Sit down."

  He gestured concernedly to two leather upholstered Victorian chairs, which sat before his desk.

  Mr. Cleveclees and Charlie sat down. As did Silverman, looking worried.

  "What is it, friend?"

  Charlie held his hands in his lap, glancing from one to the other of them anxiously.

  "There is grave news, I'm afraid," said Cleveclees. "The matter that I discussed with you last winter has developed to a point where immediate action is of the utmost necessity. In recent days it has come to light that the conspiritors—those who plot the downfall of the Magi Council, are prepared to act, and soon. Their deity, the spirit of the Phaoraoh, is abroad. Having inhabited the body of a young boy, it walks as man does, and it seeks to reunite itself with its corporeal form. Until he finds it, we may yet have a chance to stop him. Our best way to do that may be to target his supporters in the city. One of them has been identified. I speak of Count Mongovia, the Russian illusionist, who you may recall, from his performances at the Palais de Luminaire."

  Silverman, his eyes full of concern and intrigue, nodded.

  "Tonight we journey to his mansion to confront and unmask this traitor, but we need your help. Specifically, we require men and weapons, and we need transit through the sewers. Your men know the labyrinthe beneath the city better than anyone. If you can help us reach the mansion, I have associates who will confront the Count."

  Silverman ran his hand through his hair. Standing, he paced about, kneading his fingers anxiously.

  "Dark tidings, my friend," he murmured. "Verily, the news that you bring has brought dread into my heart. Not only for its nature, but for the fact that I felt these last few weeks that all would be well again. Nevertheless, now I see that matters are not as they appeared to be. I thank you for this entreatment. Naturally, I wish to assist in any way that I can, yet, as you must understand, my position as a prominent member of the trader's guild prohibits me from, as it were, playing my cards to soon. I must wait, at least publicly. Nevertheless, that does not mean that I will not act privately..."

  "You'll help us then?"

  "Indeed," he said firmly. "I will. Though..." He glanced to the door furtively. "I must beseech that you speak not of this to anyone. There are too many foreign eyes around lately, and too many loose tongues. You may take the Indian boats tonight, and you shall have the men and arms that you have requested. Though, I should say that I think that they will be of little use against a magician such as the Count..."

  Cleveclees grinned broadly. "Let us deal with that," he said. Rising to his feet, he shook Silverman's hand heartily. "I knew that you would help us. We may halt this insurrection yet, you'll see. And don't worry..."

  Beyond the door, the bodyguard listened with baited breath and eyes bulging. He had heard every word of the conversation. Furthermore, he had recorded every syllable on a small, tubelike, Victorian device known as a melitromiton.

>   Stealthily slipping the glowing silver-blue phial into his pocket, he silently passed out through the tavern door and into the busy street.

  * * * * *

  Later that evening, beneath the pale light of the moon, Cleveclees, Charlie and eight rivermen loaded a small flying barge with weapons. Waving goodbye to Silverman, who watched, bundled up in a cloak, from the dock, the barge pilot guided the craft down a dark, brick-lined hole, into the depths. As they descended, Charlie marveled at the gaslit, twinkling city which rose up about them. They were submerged by darkness, but soon, as their eyes adjusted, they became used to the darkness, and saw that they had swum down into a sort of underground cathedral of arches and blazing torches. A city beneath the city, one that bustled with activity, for beneath them flowed an ancient river, and about, upon ledges, they could see night workers, carrying flaming torches, unloading crates and barrels upon the stone docks, and spiriting bottles into sacks.

  "I don't mind admitting," said Mr. Cleveclees, as the barge, piloted by a river man, gently glid along, "that the rivermen are prodigious smugglers. You see, there are many items that are considered contraband above town. The magi council keeps a very firm grip upon what the average man can and cannot buy. The river people often work in concert with pirates and others to bring contrabadnd goods to those who will pay a pretty penny." He gestured to some men who manhandled barrels of gunpowder into a waiting wagon.

  "How far are we going to travel tonight?" asked Charlie, as the rivermen worked about them, reefing in the small barges sails."

  "Not far," said Mr. Cleveclees, "In fact, I see our disembarkation point approaching."

  Ahead, through the darkness, they could see a portcullis that hung above the inky river waters. Here there was a tidy ledge, just large enough to tie up.

  "This portcullis marks the dividing line between two quarters of the city," said Mr. Cleveclees as they drew slowly closer to the ledge. "Beyond it, above ground, are the mansions of many wealthy magicians and other nobles. For this reason, we must be on our guard."