The Maelstrom

by Henry H. Neff

  It was difficult to locate the Director amid the hundreds of people and creatures bustling about: Promethean Scholars, Mystics of various specialties, Agents, older students, innumerable domovoi, and a sandstone shedu boasting four unblinking faces. At last Max spotted her at the far end of the hall, leaning upon a table and conversing with an anxious-looking domovoi.

  Most everyone was busily occupied, but as Nolan led Max through the hall, people began to notice not only his presence, but also his appearance. Conversations ceased, the silence spreading so conspicuously that the Director glanced up. When she spied Max, initial shock was replaced quickly by an expression of profound relief.

  “This must wait, Zimm,” she remarked absently to the domovoi. “Question the lutins and scour the lower vaults. Zenuvian iron doesn’t just walk away.”

  As the domovoi and Nolan took their leave, Ms. Richter came around the table to give Max a maternal hug and flick a stray leaf from his shoulder.

  “Well,” she sighed, looking him over, “it’s been a long night and you’re a mess, but you’re here on your own two feet and that’s all that matters. I’d jump for joy if Directors were allowed to do such things. Let’s have a private chat.”

  He followed her into an adjoining conference room and sat at a table while several apprentices quickly brought coffee, a basin of water, and a clean shirt to replace Max’s bloodstained horror. Sipping her coffee, Ms. Richter grimaced and set it down.

  “Who would have imagined that a bawdy, incorrigible hag could be so irreplaceable?” she said. “For all of Mum’s foibles, she didn’t mistake sludge for coffee.” The Director chuckled. “My days are consumed by war—its awful scale and grandeur—and yet the littlest things make such a difference. Now, tell me what happened.…”

  Max relayed what he could remember of Cooper’s attack—the ambush, Grendel’s intervention, and Umbra finally driving Cooper off and pulling Max from the fire. He did not mention Umbra’s true identity.

  “And you’re certain it was William Cooper,” said the Director.

  “Yes,” said Max. “The tent was smoky, but I saw him clearly enough.”

  “I’m curious,” mused Ms. Richter, stirring her drink. “This Umbra is the same refugee who slew Rolf Luger. I find that very odd. Unless I’m mistaken, she has now sabotaged two assassination attempts, outdueled the commander of the Red Branch, and promptly healed a poisoned victim with a slit throat. That’s quite a girl. And yet you maintain that you know nothing else about her?”

  “Um … yes?”

  “Max McDaniels, you are the least competent liar I’ve ever encountered,” said Ms. Richter. “It’s a good thing, too, because you’re not terribly forthcoming. Who is this Umbra? And don’t you dare tell me she’s just some random refugee.”

  Reddening, Max gave in and told Ms. Richter that Umbra was none other than Scathach who had crossed over from the Sidh to protect him. The Director raised her eyebrows.

  “Well, well,” she muttered. “That is a surprise and a pleasant one. I’ll send word that she should be allowed access to the Manse and anywhere else you happen to be. If she’s your bodyguard, why wasn’t she in your tent to begin with?”

  “I didn’t know that Umbra was really Scathach until tonight,” replied Max. “She was forbidden to reveal who she was. It’s … complicated.”

  “I see,” said Ms. Richter, looking shrewdly at him but letting the matter drop. “Well, just so you know, we’ve got Ben Polk and some others searching for Cooper. I also hear that YaYa may join the hunt, so rest assured that we’re doing everything we can to track him down. While they’re hunting him, perhaps you can explain this.…”

  Removing a sheet of spypaper from a folio, she pushed it across to Max. He glanced at its single line of bold black script.

  Send the Hound to my chambers at midday.

  “Who’s that from?” he asked.

  “Elias Bram,” replied Ms. Richter coolly. “Our illustrious Archmage rarely emerges from his chambers, ignores nearly all communication, and has contributed nothing to Rowan’s defense, and yet he suddenly wishes to speak with you. As Director, I want to know why.”

  “I have no idea,” said Max.

  “And here we go with another transparent fib …,” she observed with thinning patience.

  “Well,” said Max. “I—I mean I have some idea. But I’ve already tried to go speak with him several times without any luck. He’s never there—or at least Mrs. Menlo never admits he’s home.”

  “And why have you gone to speak with him?” asked Ms. Richter.

  Max glanced at the Director, wilting under her penetrating gaze. At length, he sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. “Because Astaroth came to speak with me.”

  “What?”

  Max had never heard Ms. Richter exclaim in such a fashion or register such open shock upon her face. It was several seconds before she composed herself.

  “When did this occur?” she asked quietly.

  “The day before we declared war.”

  “And what did he want?” she asked. Before Max could reply, she raised a finger in warning. “Do not omit anything. You will share every word of this conversation and then you will explain why you never reported it to me.”

  Max did as he was told, repeating his conversation with Astaroth and the Demon’s offer to save Rowan in exchange for Bram’s murder. He also shared his subsequent discussion with David, including his roommate’s theory that Astaroth might also have told his grandfather about the proposal. By the time Max had finished, Ms. Richter looked ashen.

  “And you never thought to share this with me?” she wondered, aghast.

  “I almost didn’t even tell David,” Max replied sheepishly. “I wanted to forget about it … pretend it never happened.”

  Ms. Richter closed her eyes and rubbed her temples in weary frustration.

  “There are times I have to remind myself that you are still very young,” she murmured. “You are a young man at the epicenter of enormous happenings and may not always see things in their proper perspective.” Opening her eyes, she gazed at him. “Max, you cannot simply pretend that such monumental events ‘never happened.’ Did it ever occur to you that I might need to know about this? Do you understand that right now we are at war against a vastly superior force and may come under siege within a matter of days or weeks? You have been withholding information that could not just influence this war’s outcome, but absolutely determine it!”

  “But you would never—”

  “Sacrifice Elias Bram to save our realm and all of our people?” she interrupted testily. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not certain. I’d like to think I’d rise above such temptation, but as Director I still need to know our options. All of them! Even those that may be repellent. Aside from everything else, the fact that Bram might already know of Astaroth’s proposal puts you at enormous risk. Did you ever stop to consider that?”

  “David did,” said Max heavily. “I’ve tried to meet with Bram, to explain and clear the air, but he was never at home.”

  “I’m glad he wasn’t,” remarked Ms. Richter. “You should not meet with him alone. I will be at that meeting later today. We are going to clarify where Elias Bram stands on a number of topics, you not the least of them. Now, as long as I’m hearing confessions, are you certain there isn’t anything else you’d like to share?”

  Max was mortified. “You mean like … impure thoughts?”

  “No,” said Ms. Richter. “I was thinking more along the lines of Zenuvian iron. Your face assumed a rather knowing, hangdog expression when you overheard Zimm and I discussing it.”

  “Oh,” said Max, flushing a deep scarlet. “I might have asked … er, ordered Tweedy to see if he could acquire some on the black market. My archers have only three arrows apiece.”

  “Well,” said Ms. Richter, slipping the spypaper back into her folio, “I suppose I can’t fault a commander too badly for trying to get his troops what they need. If nothing
else, it shows enterprise. I won’t have Zimm pursue the matter too strenuously, but next time let’s go through the proper channels. In any case, I’ve been thinking about your battalion.…”

  As Max followed the Director back into the hall’s commotion, he saw that there were many people waiting to speak with her. She asked them to be patient as her eyes followed a distant glowsphere drifting toward the mosaic of spypaper. When it settled by a particular section, the sphere began to pulse.

  “What’s happening?” asked Max.

  “An intelligence update,” explained Ms. Richter, squinting. “From this distance, I couldn’t say whose report that is, but it’s from someone stationed in Blys. We’re getting news from all over—troop movements, naval estimates, Workshop rumors, counterintelligence, and everything else you can imagine. My hope is that there are names attached to this particular update. We suspect Prusias has several well-placed spies in the refugee camp, and we mean to ferret them out.…”

  She trailed off as an apprentice hurried over and handed a transcription to the Director.

  “Very good,” she murmured, scanning its contents with a decoding glass. Motioning for a nearby Agent, she showed him the names and offered a significant look. The man departed and Ms. Richter returned her attention to Max, leading him to stand before an enormous map of Greater Rowan that included not only the Old College, but also its outermost fortifications and all the lands in between.

  Craning his neck, Max saw that it was marked with colorful labels that included the number, nickname, and standard for each of Rowan’s battalions and special regiments. There were hundreds of them. Some were old and storied companies—the Vanguard, the Wildwood Knights, the Bloodstone Circle—but others were new and the names they chose for themselves sounded more like street gangs or goblin tribes than military units. Among the many, Max spied Southgate Jackals, Tin Squires, Jawbreakers, Death Cheats, Rough and Tumbles.… His eyes drifted to the map’s northeast quadrant, where they settled upon the now-familiar standard of a black rat set against an ivory background.

  “As I said, I’ve been thinking about your battalion,” said Ms. Richter. “How are your troops coming along? Tweedy’s reports are meticulous, but they read more like a purser’s list. I’d like to hear your candid assessment.”

  “They’re improving,” Max allowed. “Some are very good fighters—tough, experienced. Others are totally new at this. They’re a work in progress.”

  “Admirable. But can they hold that line?”

  She pointed to a numbered trench set halfway between the outer curtain that protected Rowan’s outlying homesteads and the citadel walls that enclosed Old College as though it were a single massive keep. Three miles of open country and farmland separated the outer walls from the inner fortifications. The Trench Rats were one of the battalions responsible for defending that territory and preventing the Enemy from besieging Old College.

  “That’s a critical stretch of ground,” she continued. “Your battalion’s close to Northgate and the sea. It’s conceivable that the Enemy could breach the cliff defenses and attack along your flank. I assigned it to the Trench Rats solely because of you, but in retrospect that might have been a mistake. I’m tempted to reassign it to a battalion that has more experience and Mystics support.”

  “That’s your decision,” said Max. “But they’re a determined group. We’ll have more arrows, and don’t forget about Scathach. She’s worth a company by herself.”

  Ms. Richter considered this. “Very well,” she said. “We’ll leave you there for now, but I’d like to see a demonstration of their readiness one week from today.”

  “Can we have two?” pressed Max.

  “One,” repeated the Director. “We may not have two weeks. One week to show me they’re ready or I’m reassigning them and you.”

  “We’ll be ready,” said Max.

  “I know you will,” she said. “Now go get some sleep. I will be waiting for you outside the Archmage’s chambers tomorrow at noon. Do not be late.”

  Indeed, the Director was waiting outside the Archmage’s door at the appointed hour. But the Archmage did not answer when they knocked. Instead, David’s mother opened the door, looking sleepy and disheveled as Lila trailed at her skirts. Recognizing them, Emer smiled dimly and took Max by the hand, leading them past the stacks of books and maps.

  “Is your father here?” asked Max. “He wanted to see me.”

  The woman did not answer but merely shooed Lila away from a canister of tea leaves. Setting the kettle above the hearth, Emer sat in her rocking chair and the amiable cat settled in her lap.

  “Is that Max?” called an excited voice from inside one of the bedrooms. Its door flew open and Mina came racing out, wearing an embroidered blue robe and clutching something against her chest. She came to a sudden halt when she saw the Director.

  “I thought you were alone,” she murmured shyly.

  “Oh, don’t mind me,” said Ms. Richter kindly. “What have you got there?”

  Mina’s enthusiasm rekindled. “Sit down and I’ll show you!”

  The little girl practically bulldozed them back onto the bench beneath the window. Once they were seated, she laughed gleefully and ordered Max to lean back and close his eyes. Once Max complied, he felt something warm being placed delicately on his chest.

  “Mina, what is that?” he asked, as its surprising weight settled on him.

  “Shhh,” she hissed, “just a minute.”

  The weight was repositioned and Max felt something move and issue a tiny mewl. Reaching up, he touched something both soft and sharp, as though a million hairs were each tipped with a razor-sharp needle. Opening his eyes, Max looked down.

  A baby lymrill was clinging to his chest.

  It was no larger than a newborn kitten and yet the shockingly dense creature must have weighed more than Lila. Its quills were a glossy blue-black, but the claws that clung to Max’s tunic were red-gold and gleamed by the firelight. The animal peered at Max with a pair of coppery eyes just as Nick had done when he’d chosen Max to be his steward years before. Almost immediately, a lump formed in his throat.

  “Why are you sad?” asked Mina, looking concerned.

  “I’m not,” Max insisted, taking a deep breath. “It’s just that this is how I said goodbye to this little guy’s daddy. Does he have a name?”

  “She is called Nox,” corrected Mina.

  “The Goddess of Night,” said Ms. Richter. “A fitting name for such a beauty. But should she be away from her mother?”

  “They don’t nurse anymore,” replied Mina, scooting between them on the bench. “Nox is a huntress now. She gets all the mice Lila’s too lazy to chase. Just yesterday, she killed a rat that was three times her size!”

  “Just like Nick,” said Max, grinning as Nox nipped his finger and grazed his chin with her velvety muzzle.

  “She likes you,” Mina observed. “And she doesn’t like anyone else but me. I think you should keep her.”

  “I’d like that,” said Max, gently easing the lymrill’s claws away from his neck. “But I’m too busy these days to look after a charge. Nolan will match her with someone else—a younger student.”

  “No, he won’t,” said Mina knowingly. “They’ve already tried. Her brothers and sisters have all been matched, but Nox wouldn’t choose anyone.”

  “Perhaps she’s chosen you,” suggested Ms. Richter.

  “No,” sighed Mina. “I love squirmy little Nox, but she’s not my charge. She’s meant to be with fierce Max. She’s Nick’s last gift.”

  Max said nothing but cupped the little creature in his hands. Closing her eyes, Nox retracted her claws and lay on her back, so dark and glossy she might have been a scoop of volcanic glass. From beneath the study’s door, Max glimpsed a faint pulse of light, followed by the sound of heavy boots.

  “The Archmage is home!” Mina whispered.

  The door opened and Elias Bram walked into the room. His face was ruddy, his gray robe
s wet and fringed with melting snow as was his tangled beard and crown of curls. He looked like he’d just been out in a heavy blizzard, yet it hadn’t snowed at Rowan in days. Leaning down, he kissed Emer on the forehead and asked Mina what she would be preparing for supper.

  “I’m going to make stew!” the girl declared, hopping up from the bench.

  “Very good,” said Bram, removing his cloak and tossing it to dry by the fire. “But follow a recipe, child. No more experiments.”

  At last the man’s piercing eyes fell on Max and Ms. Richter. He looked briefly from one to the other, as though he’d just registered their presence.

  “You’re both here,” he observed. “Well and good. Come in.”

  Pushing the door wide, the Archmage beckoned Max and Ms. Richter into his study, a long and cluttered room whose bookcases and tables were laden with manuscripts, odd bits of amber and stone, and what appeared to be the skeleton of a humpbacked homunculus. There were several chairs scattered about, but these, too, were piled high with books and papers. Clearing two of them off with an unceremonious grunt, Bram urged them to sit while he went back out to fetch the tea.

  It was only when the Archmage returned and shut the door and settled into another chair that Max experienced the room’s strangeness. Once the door closed, he began to see double. It seemed as though his eyes registered more than a cluttered study, but also an alternate version whose planes were constantly folding and warping to form bizarre, almost incomprehensible spaces as though it were simultaneously collapsing and expanding. The effect was extremely disorienting, and there were instances when Max could have sworn that he was upside down. Apparently, Ms. Richter noticed it, too.

  “I wasn’t aware you had configured this room,” she said.

  “I haven’t,” replied Bram, gazing about with mild interest. “It’s merely trying to configure and I won’t it allow it to complete the process. This room is more useful to me if it’s dimensionally unstable. But I’m fairly certain Rowan’s Director hasn’t visited to discuss my living quarters. Would you like to tell me why you are here?”