by Damien Lake
Marik took a turn. “I don’t know,” he offered while Walsh brought them a platter heaped with fruits and two kinds of bread. “But this stuff seems familiar to me.”
“There you go, gentlemen. Cook is roasting up prime quality beef for tonight, but it’s not quite cooked through yet. I’ll bring you over several juicy cuts as soon as she says it’s ready.”
“Familiar how?” Landon asked when the innkeeper left.
Marik bit into an apple as he scratched his neck. “I can’t remember.”
They pondered it while they consumed the food. The common room slowly filled as the dinner mark drew near. Walsh greeted most as old friends. By and large they were better dressed than the mercenaries. Judging from the friendly questions asked by Walsh, Marik concluded most were shopkeepers or merchants from nearby. A handful of craft masters were mixed in for good measure.
Nearly a mark after claiming the booth, a memory finally broke loose in Marik’s weary mind. “Ah! You great, stupid fool!”
Nearby patrons shifted on their seats to see what was going on, then returned to their private conversations when nothing interesting happened. “What is wrong with you?” Dietrik wanted to know.
Marik lifted the cloth from the tabletop. “I know what this reminds me of.” He took a deeper sniff. “It doesn’t smell like what I remember, but this is like the components I took off that magician in the Green Reaches.”
“Truly?” Landon reclaimed the swatch. “You may be right. This may be a type of spell component.”
“But that one Marik did in was hardly another magic user.” Dietrik sounded skeptical.
“Not him, but he may have association with one. Or perhaps one of the alchemy shops.” Landon frowned in thought. “That sounds more likely here in the city. If we knew exactly what this powder is, then we might be able to determine more. I doubt we would be lucky enough for it to be a component sold only in one shop, but there is the possibility. If the shop itself had no connection to the assassins, perhaps we could learn who purchased the component and investigate each.”
“You want to stop by a shop,” Marik replied sarcastically, “and casually ask if they know what that is? If it is from a shop, you might pick the one shop we don’t want to be noticed at!”
Before Landon could respond, Dietrik cut in. “That would be a bad idea in any event. Shops don’t like to help you unless you are planning to spend your coin there.”
“We might need to risk it,” Landon persisted.
“I have a better idea. Who can we go to who knows every tidbit of knowledge there is to know about components, and would be happy to spend an afternoon on the mystery of what this might be?”
The others shrugged. “An Urliel priest?” Marik guessed.
“Not at all, mate. We should take this over to the Alchemists’ Academy.”
“I’ve heard of that,” Marik said. Landon looked thoughtful.
“Indeed. They’re all scholars, and scholars love nothing better than a good puzzle. Since most are noble born, or they are teaching the noble born, they should be willing to help solve an attack on one of their own.”
“Especially since the majority of their funding comes from the aristocracy,” Landon included. “The apprentices riding on kingdom grants ought to be willing to lend a few minutes of their time at the very least. I like that.”
“So do I,” Marik agreed. “We can go over there tomorrow.”
Dietrik waved his good hand in a negative. “Only one of us needs to go. I don’t think it is safe to bring young Hilliard outside just now. At least not until we know what we are up against. Since I am on the injured roster, I’m the one who can be spared. I will go over and ask around.”
He had made up his mind, so Marik accepted his decision. His attention was caught by Hilliard and Kerwin, both of whom stepped into the room. Marik waved to catch Kerwin’s attention, adding, “Probably that’s for the best. Right, we’ll keep Hilliard locked up in our rooms and maintain a low profile. We can’t let anyone know where he’s hiding.”
Walsh intercepted Hilliard, probably to express his relief all over, Marik assumed. He directed the young noble to a massive slate board hanging on the eastern wall between the booth row and the kitchen doorway. Marik saw the slate’s left side contained roughly fifty names in a column. Each name occupied a row that stretched to the right across the remaining slate. Lines divided the rows into a grid, making seven column rows.
Several spaces were blank, but Marik did not understand what that meant until Walsh, banging a giant spoon against an empty pot, called the attention of the full common room.
“Hey, everybody! This young man is the one I’ve been telling you about. Make sure you all root for the Swan’s Down’s own contender for the Arm during the tournament! The future baron of Stonescape, Hilliard Garroway!”
The crowd roared in support while Walsh, wielding a chalk stub, wrote Hilliard’s name in the top row, filling an empty slot.
“Gods bloody damn it for a bastard goat!” Marik swore venomously. “What in the flaming hells is he doing?”
Kerwin slid into the booth. He glanced over at the slate. “It’s a wagering board, of course. See all the numbers next to the names? Those are odds on the different people.”
“Son-of-a…! If I’d known he was going to do that, I would have smashed him over the head with that bloody pot! No wonder he was so glad to see us!”
“You should have asked me. I could have told you in a heartbeat what that was.”
Scowling mightily, ready to bite the table in half, Marik slouched in his seat, wondering why nothing in his life ever went the way he wanted it to.
Chapter 10
The facade of the Alchemists’ Academy vied with the Eternal Twelve’s cathedral for widest. Though far less grandiose, it too occupied an entire block within the Second Circle. Dietrik admired the quiet taste before pushing through the crowded street to the entrance.
Three separate buildings stood side-by-side set back from the avenue. A door in the centermost structure faced the street. No additional entrances pierced the facade. The two other buildings sported several window rows, the bottom level hovering over a magnificent display of greenery. Flowering shrubs, miniature trees and colorful flora artfully graced the academy’s length.
Five stories towered over Dietrik. They were built solidly without much artistic embellishment. The roofs were slanted into peaks. Every minute, two or three people would exit the place. He had not yet seen anyone enter.
Dietrik gripped the twisted iron railing lining the steps with greater force than he normally would have. With his left arm immobilized he needed to compensate for uneven balance.
Nothing like an injury to make you realize how much you take for granted.
The lobby was impressive. Spacious, it intruded into the second floor’s domain. Two massive corridors extended away at angles to the northwest and northeast. Where the two met, a reception counter blocked access to offices beyond. Unmarked doorways lined the corridors at irregular intervals.
Few people could be seen wandering the distant hallways. Nobody waited behind the counter to aid Dietrik in his quest for information. He called out, “Hello? Is everybody having a lie-in?”
No answer came. The right corridor had emptied, so Dietrik wandered down the left, seeing two people exit the furthest room and turn out a different door. Sunlight filtered around the edges. It must lead to a space between buildings.
All the hallway doors were closed, denying his curiosity the chance to snoop on the going-ons within these reputed walls. At the end he found the kind of door with a brass tab over a handle. He pressed it down and stepped hesitantly into a courtyard.
Hard-packed earth was surrounded by five story stone walls. The sky was an empty square above. Dietrik felt he might be a mouse staring up through an open crate. Random rickrack of every variety cluttered the yard. To judge from the small group of people huddled around a canvas dome, the mess must be leftover mate
rials from experiments.
He approached the four young men and women, scraping his boots to draw their attention without startling anyone. They turned, each holding charcoal writing sticks over papers already half-black with scribbles. Dietrik spoke before they could question his presence.
“Sorry to budge in without warning, but I hoped you academy types might be able to help me with a dilemma.”
“A dilemma?” replied a young lady with auburn hair. “With a project?”
“Aislinn, it’s starting to smoke!” a male voice emerged from the dome’s interior, which Dietrik recognized must be a strange form of tent. Mostly canvas, as any regular tent, the dome’s crown was actually a sheer veil.
“Is this a bad time?” Dietrik asked.
The auburn-haired Aislinn ignored him to bend simultaneously with the three men to peer through a small flap. “What’s the density?” she demanded while the man to her left said, “Is the veil pulling?”
“No!” the interior voice barked. “Shut the flap! It’s spoiling the air draw!”
“I don’t see any smoke yet,” a second exterior man observed and pulled the flap open wider still. “Is the column rising or not?”
“Hey!” the interior voice shouted again before dissolving into a choking fit.
“Get Orton out of there,” Aislinn ordered in a distracted tone. The three men ripped back the flap and groped blindly inside until they dragged a scrawny, carrot-toped fellow into the fresh air. He continued choking, fighting for air, forgotten by his compatriots since they immediately returned their attention to the dome.
“It’s still not sifting through,” the third young man pointed out. “And the tent’s packed with smoke. The veil’s too thick.” Smoky wisps curled through the open flap.
“But any thinner and it will be useless against the rain. It’s pushing it as it is,” the second pointed out.
“Maybe we need a different method than sewing it on,” Aislinn retorted. “We need to rethink this.” Dietrik coughed politely to recapture her attention. “Oh, sorry! What did you want?”
“I hoped that a knowledgeable chap might help me identify this substance,” he answered, showing her the cloth. Aislinn took it while the other three continued muttering.
“We don’t study alchemy,” she shrugged after a moment, handing the cloth back. ‘We’re with the engineering curriculum.”
“I see,” Dietrik voiced, though why did that matter? They were students, were they not? “And who might be able to tell me, then?”
She frowned. “Today is end-day for the academy. Most of the scholars and their apprentices are out in the city.”
“I’m afraid it is a matter of urgency. This is directly related to an attack made on a noble participating in tournament.”
“Oh?” Aislinn looked mildly interested. “Well…wait a moment.” She quietly conferred with Orton, whose breath had returned. He huskily replied, then shuffled to the team arguing beside the dome. “Head Gereist is the chief supervisor for the alchemists’ wing today.”
“He sounds like the right chap for the job, then. How might I locate him?”
“Down the right hallway, then out the end door. The alchemists’ wing is straight across the garden, first entrance you see.”
Dietrik thanked them and then left them to their debate on whether a conical cap on rails over the dome’s crown would keep the space between it and the top curve open. When he stepped into the corridor, a voice behind his back exclaimed, “Whoa! Aislinn, the tent’s on fire!”
Double doors down the right-hand hallway opened onto the promised garden. But no garden Dietrik had ever imagined. Shielded from the city outside by the surrounding buildings, the academy’s garden made his eyes widen.
Trimmed grass spread in a green carpet across the square, sixty yards wide. Except for the gravel pathways connecting the wings, plants of every sort filled the space. Keeping the grass trimmed with less than a square foot uninterrupted by other plant life would be a monumental chore.
Dozens of trees were sprinkled about, all fruit-bearing. No fruit lay on the grass so the garden must be tended frequently. Wooden plaques crammed with phylum information rested under every shrub. A scholarly collective devoted to plants must reside in the academy, as odd as that sounded, who looked after the garden.
Several paces down the crunching gravel path to the alchemists’ wing, Dietrik decided it was not his imagination. It was cooler than in the street. Forests were never as hot inside as out, and this garden could be a forest in its own right. He barely saw the walls.
Other paths branched from his, leading to unpretentious doors, but the main alchemists’ wing entrance could be mistaken for nothing else. It was as wide as the avenue entrance. Dietrik wrestled the heavy door open with one arm. He slipped sideways inside, which obscured his view of this new realm until after he turned to lean against the door.
Another massive lobby stretched up two floors. Across the way, a broad stairway climbed to higher levels, its lowest railing surrounded by potted plants in a misplaced glade. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows above him. To the left a long hallway stretched with many doors, each bearing plaques. Far away, the hallway bent around a corner to the right.
The lobby’s right wall held three impressive dark oak doors, each with a brass plaque displaying a name with smaller lettering underneath. It spoke of organization and serious business, but the floor stunned Dietrik most of all.
Pure midnight marble, blacker than ink. The tiles were fitted together so perfectly the seams were concealed. Were it not for the spidery gray veins winding through the stone, he would have sworn there was no floor, that the outer door had opened onto a great pit descending into eternity. Polished to a shine, a reversed Dietrik hung upside-down below him, connected foot-to-foot.
A momentary vertigo clutched him, a certainty that if he lifted his foot, the tenuous membrane between them would snap, sending his double tumbling through the dark into nothingness. Dietrik shook his head. It was solid floor, and no more a threat to him than the walls or the ceiling. Still, he wondered how Marik would have handled this, given his light head for heights.
No one wandered the alchemists’ wing. With no people to ask, Dietrik decided to check the three doors in the right wall. They seemed suitable for the heads. One might belong to Head Gereist. He crossed the Floor of Eternity to the offices.
It happened so suddenly, Dietrik thought his heart would stop.
A loud crack, like a snapping whip. It burst all around, assaulting him without warning! Memories erupted; Marik’s glowing sphere breaking the very air as it shot toward his target.
Dietrik ducked, his good hand flying to his rapier. He spun while crouching, checking his rear. As he did, two new exploding whip-cracks sounded. Whatever was attacking was right on top of him!
He retreated a step further into the lobby, glancing wildly in twenty directions. A fresh explosion assaulted him, this time accompanied by a vibration through his boot and an acrid smell of smoke.
Quick glances down, risking his life by diverting his attention from his vulnerable sectors, revealed the faint smoke his nose had detected. What in the bloody hells was going on? A second fast sweep assured him no assailant lunged for the kill.
A wary step proceeded, this time observed closely by the mercenary. His foot came down on the black abyss. The sharp, exploding bang followed. Thin smoke puffs billowed from beneath his sole. Rapier at the guard position, compensating for his bad arm, Dietrik remained stock still, utterly confused, ready for an attack.
What caught him by surprise were faint giggles, heard only when the ringing permeating his ears faded. Dietrik brought his sword up further. The crash from behind startled him badly, making him whirl, causing twin explosions from below.
One of the three doors had burst open. Framed within, a tall, bald man in a silk shirt and cotton breeches glared out at the world beyond, angry as a wounded bear. His broad torso and muscled bulk made him r
esemble the creature in more than manner.
He cast a hard stare at Dietrik, who tightened his grip on the hilt. Despite his training, facing off against a chap who held himself so worried him. Instead, the other man’s furious gaze swiveled, locking at once onto the foliage surrounding the stairs base. His giant fists clenched tightly while he bared his teeth and stalked to the greenery.
The mirrored floor beneath his feet began erupting. With every step, the small explosions echoed throughout the lobby. Drifts of smoke were left in his wake as the man advanced, apparently oblivious to the hazardous terrain through which he trod. His anger, his size, the noise, his dual existence within the floor and the acrid smoke leant him the countenance of a wrathful deity.
“Whoops,” Dietrik faintly heard through the noise. A girlish voice, surreal in this situation. He tried to pin down where it had come from.
“Spotted!” came a new voice. Boyish this one, and from the foliage the angry man advance on.
Even as he determined this, the leaves started to shake. Inside the potted forest, a young boy attempted to escape by clambering over the staircase railing. Too late, the bear-man shot his arm through the plants to grab the boy by the collar. His other hand lashed out and grabbed hold of something else. He reeled in his catch; a pair of children.
Despite the tense moment, Dietrik could instantly see they were twins, brother and sister. Both were dressed in matching white shirts and breeches, tied at the waist with belts. One belt had been died red, the other blue. The children inhabiting the clothing appeared to be nine or ten years of age.
And they also exhibited no fear of their captor. “You two!” the bear roared, light glinting from his naked scalp. “This is the last straw! Do you have any idea how blisteringly stupid you are?”
“Aw, it was just harmless fun,” the boy replied, undaunted by the fact that his feet dangled above the floor. “It didn’t hurt anybody.”