Mightiest of Swords (The Inkwell Trilogy Book 1)

by Aaron Buchanan

  I was starting to think arithmancers, while long on pragmatism, were short on imagination; though, I only knew two arithmancers, and one of them was dead.

  By the time we returned to the cab, Pushan was finally off his phone, but asleep in the driver’s seat. I tapped on the window.

  Startled, Pushan jumped and then dived prone into his seat, covering his head. While not an overt admission, seeing Pushan so easily startled confirmed my initial belief regarding his divinity. Pushan, in Hinduism, is a sort of analog to Mercury: god of travelers, journeys, as well as guide of souls. Given Britain’s colonial history, his presence in London was entirely plausible. However, finding out that Pushan was a coward made me less confidant in my choice to have him with us Cambridge.

  “Son of a bitch! You gave me a fright!” Pushan spoke Hindi while he was on the phone, but his English was flawless in its local inflection. Its urban quality provided a stark contrast to what we heard from Victoria’s speech.

  “Sorry. We’re finished, can you unlock the doors?” Gavin and I had divvied up our wares while still in Smythson’s but there were still tags to take off and packaging to remove.

  “Have you heard from Victoria yet?” Gavin asked.

  “No. Not yet.” I was getting ready to get out and find a trash can when I heard…

  “Until now,” a voice close to the opening door said. I already happened to be looking at Pushan, who once again looked startled. “The items you have requested are in this shopping bag.” She handed a Harrod’s bag to Gavin. I had always heard you could be anything from there. Maybe you really could.

  Victoria leaned into the vehicle. “Pushan will provide assistance should you need. I wish I could attend to you, but as you know, matters have become very grave. More are lost. The goddess has me investigating. It seems those who have been killed were spied upon for years. Whereabouts and routines exploited. I will call you tomorrow with any updates I might have. If you do not hear from me, something regretful has happened.”

  Regretful. It was odd how she would refer to her murder as such. She had been living in England a very long time, given her dedication to politeness and euphemism. “Take care of yourself,” I offered. “I have a profile of the person doing this. You already know to run from anyone who takes more than a casual interest in you. But I think we’re dealing with ideologues; sycophants. This is a network of individuals, to be sure.”

  “Thank you for your advice, Grey Theroux, I shall be cautious of strangers where I am going,” and for the briefest of seconds, I saw the years in the weariness on her smile-turned-grimace. “Is there any other way I can be of assistance to you?”

  I had done what research I could, but until then come up empty. “Victoria, what is the Well of Gods? And do you know anything about my connection to it?”

  Victoria did not lose a step: “Was this something your father spoke of before he passed?”

  “No. Until yesterday, I have never heard of such a thing. That is, until I was addressed as ‘The Well-Keeper.’” It did not seem likely Victoria would have the answers I sought, but she did ask if she could help any further…

  “This is a conversation you must have with those other than me.” Victoria looked down to designer shoes that were not, in fact, of the brand that bears her name. “I am unsure how to direct you in this matter.”

  “It’s okay. I will have to come to the answers myself, I’m afraid.” I’m sure the goddess saw the disappointment etched upon my face.

  “But if this journey leads where I fear, you will undoubtedly face those answers soon enough.” She turned her gaze to mine and I felt her eyes boring into my being. “And it is likely that you will wish you never came to them.”

  “Thank you, Victoria,” I swallowed hard, curious what these foreboding words could mean. I was angry with my father for leaving out such vitally important details before he died, but he probably intended to tell me. He just never got the chance. Plus, whatever this Well-Keeping entailed, made him not want to tell me about it. Was it to protect me?

  Victoria nodded and shut the car door.

  It began raining and I noticed something in its consistency: it fell in overly large globules, fattened by Britain’s clouds and sustained by September haze. “Pushan, back to Heathrow, please. We’re expecting another to join our party.”

  He grumbled something incomprehensible, but he nosed into traffic to get us on our way. I received a traffic some 10 minutes later from Joy declaring her early arrival.

  “Pushan, she just landed, so can we get to her in the next half hour?” I asked.

  Pushan complained in Hindi; when I started answering in Sanskrit, the cab grew pristinely silent, save for the drops hitting the sides and windows of the cab.

  I thought then that I liked England. I hoped I’d have an occasion to come back for something other than business in the future. Still, I made myself mindful of the experience of being in this land that I had always dreamed of visiting. I wondered if I could make it to Stratford-Upon-Avon and if I would ever find out more about William Shakespeare, one of history’s greatest writers and logomancers.

  As soon as we arrived at Heathrow, diminutive Joy was flagging us down, though I had no idea how she saw my face through the window of the taxi. Once loaded, we immediately departed for Cambridge.

  “Nice bags—you just get those?” Joy had wedged herself between Gavin and me, rather than taking the jumpseat.

  “Yeah,” I opened up my bag and showed her my new wares.

  “Is that a…” Joy’s fingers were already inspecting the barrel and chamber.

  “A tranquilizer gun.” Gavin took his own out of his bag and let her inspect his more closely. “We’re going to write spells on papers, then roll them into the tubes apart of the darts. Like, drop these little scrolls into the dart chambers that would otherwise hold a sedative or whatever. Just like that—method of delivery.”

  Joy handed the gun back to Gavin, looking to me. “Is it going to work? Have you tested it?”

  “Yes, it should work. No, we just received the guns, so we haven’t been able to test the idea yet, though the theory is sound. Spellcasters are immediately immune to spells because of field proximity. That’s why any spell performed on one’s self has to be applied directly to flesh and with a particular force of will. The idea is, by writing the spells beforehand and sticking them into the flesh of…whoever, we’ll be able to use the spells more offensively and at greater distances.”

  “Do it then. Test it out!” Joy was overtired. She tended to be overeager when she was tired. Before leaving the hotel, I wrote out a spell on her shoulder blade that would allow her strength to return to her. It might have made her a little antsy on the trip and therefore unable to rest.

  However, she had a point.

  Pushan was apparently monitoring our conversation, though. “No! You are not shooting in the car! I will pull over to the layby. Then you may shoot outside!”

  Pushan’s suggestion was reasonable. “Okay, then—who gets the dart?” I asked.

  Gavin sighed heavily. It was something he seemed to do often. “Joy just almost died. You’ve been close to it lately too. I guess I’ll do it.”

  When Pushan parked, I wrote at simple, weak sleep spell as minutely as I could manage, rolled it, and then stuffed it into the chamber of the dart. Pushan exited the cab and made another phone call. It took me a minute of fumbling around to load the gun, but when I did, Gavin opened the car door and stepped out.

  “Joy, be a sweetheart and make sure I don’t hit anything when I fall,” he requested. Joy jumped out of the car behind him and crawled under his arm. He kept his back to me and pointed at his behind. “Right here. In the meat.”

  “Works for me.” I depressed the trigger and the dart shot out. Gavin slumped toward the ground, but Joy caught him enough to lay him on the wet grass. He was out cold.

  Semi-modern technology and the ancient art of logomancy just made friends. I felt a little more confident
in the road ahead.

  Chapter 12

  The English countryside was virtually indistinguishable from the rest of the glom outside the window. Soon, the gloom transitioned into darkness as night fell, leaving our moods dark and contemplative. Even Pushan left his cell phone alone for the remainder of the trip to Cambridge.

  “Are you hungry, children?” It was the first not-angry words he said to us. And, I was not at all offended by being called a child. Even if he were a coward, he was much older than we.

  Gavin held up his hand, indicating a might as well. Joy nodded.

  I was somewhere between ravenous and famished. “Yes, please.”

  “I will take you to a good Indian place. Is that acceptable?” The overall change in attitude was welcome. Getting away from the bustle of London likely helped, even if he knew Cambridge likely meant trouble.

  I hoped our current moods were just us succumbing to the adverse effects of hunger. “No objections here.” Joy and Gavin let my answer suffice for them both.

  “Okay. I know a good place near the university.” Though I could only see Pushan’s eyes in the rearview, he seemed to be in an altogether happier mood now. Cambridge was a large city by any standard, but it simply did not compare to the frenetic pace of London proper. “There’s a small hotel nearby. We’ll check in there. Lady Victoria made the arrangements already.”

  The restaurant, The Charming Elephant, sat one block from the hotel, which itself was very near Victoria Avenue, unsurprisingly. On the layover in D.C., I had used my GPS app to look at where the Portland Arms was situated was located and remembered it was fairly near Victoria Avenue; likely even within walking distance. I meant to follow up with some of the employees there and see if anyone remembered Shred—and more particularly—if anyone had an unnatural interest in Shred.

  Pushan led us into the restaurant, greeted the hostess in Hindi and ordered us what could only qualify as a feast. His appraisal of the food was correct: though I did not have many chances to eat Indian—though I wish I had—I felt pangs of ecstasy as I ate all sorts of things for which I had no idea of its contents or ingredients, and were not even likely on the menu. The Charming Elephant alone might have elicited Pushan’s good spirits.

  I felt too fat to move by the end of the meal, committing to the walk to Portland Arms and to walking off my discomfort.

  “You guys go ahead to the hotel. I’m going to find that club Shred played at. We can head to Tolliver’s after that.” I pushed my chair and rubbed at my stomach and the waistline of my overpriced airport-bought jeans that did not do anything to raise my comfort level.

  “I’m coming with you. Pushan, Gavin—you can check us in, right?” I turned around to see Joy’s eyes shifting from Gavin to Pushan and back again.

  “Sure. No problem. I’d love to back and sleep this one off for a bit.” He stood from the dinner table as awkwardly as I had moments before. “Feels like we’ve been traveling for days.”

  We had, of course. Though, since his revelation about his relationship with Tolliver, coming back to Cambridge had to further realize the actuality of his lover’s death.

  Pushan nodded. He had eaten more than anyone; probably combined. He excused himself from the table and settled our bill. Joy and I made to leave, but thought better of it—I wanted to get my kit out of Pushan’s taxi before we went to the club. Pushan waddled to the car and retrieved it for me.

  “You sure you don’t want a ride there? It’s not a problem?” he asked.

  “Oh no. No. I have to walk this off. I have eaten more tonight than I think I have in all my life. Thank you for dinner, though. It was phenomenal.” He nodded, conceding the gluttony that had just taken place and got into the car with Gavin riding in the front seat.

  The walk undoubtedly took much longer than it ought to have, but by the end of it, both Joy and I were moving more gracefully. The Portland Arms wasn’t a loud pub and it was much more “singer-songwriter” than I anticipated. Some English act and one from Wales were slated for the evening. Given the time, I surmised we were listening and watching the Welsh three-piece at that moment. I had no pictures of Shred on my phone, but as a former celebrity, finding one on the internet was a simple task.

  I showed the first waitress I saw my phone. “Have you seen this guy here in the past couple days?” The Welsh group weren’t a loud bunch, nevertheless I had to shout to be heard. She looked at it cursorily, but shook her head no.

  The second waitress said she loved my accent and at least tried to place the man in the photo. She could not, but suggested I check with the sound man.

  Joy and I sat down and waited for the Welsh band, Dust Jacket Frequency, to finish their set so we could approach the sound man. I ordered a gin and tonic I had no intention of drinking; Joy lazily stirred a martini she said that tasted like garbage anyway. Finally, the band finished and we walked straight to the sound man.

  “Excuse me. I’m not sure if you can help us, but our uncle came in the other night and played for open mic. Thing is, we haven’t seen him since then and that waitress over there,” I pointed to her, “Said you’d be the most likely to remember him?” I would never consider myself a charming person, but it didn’t stop me from trying to be concerned, yet flirtatious. I showed him the most recent picture of him I could find.

  “Bollux, yes!” That guy came in here couple nights ago! Knew he looked familiar! He’s in that one band, right?” The audio tech seemed to have vivid flashbacks to a time before I was even born. “Mate blew our ears off. Great music. Great musician. I even bought him a pint. I never do that. He have any new albums out?” The sound man was indeed proving very helpful. “Was always more of a Skid Row man, myself, but those guys did a right good job too, you know”

  Joy was half-listening to what the sound man said, but was taking stock of the customers, possibly even casing for regulars. She turned her attention back to the sound man. “I’m Joy. This is Grey. What’s your name?” She put her hand out to shake his.

  He grabbed her fingers clumsily and lifted them up and down. “Evan.”

  “Evan, our uncle disappeared. Do you remember, anyone at all, like, taking any kind of weird interest in him?” Joy was much better at utilizing her feminine wiles than I. “I say uncle, but he’s more like our dad, you know?” That was probably true these days.

  “Nah, we all loved the song he played. Not a dry eye in the house when he was at it.” Evan pushed dials on the sound board and fiddled with other buttons that did who-knows-what.

  “Okay, well,” I made sure to make eye contact and tried my best to appear desperate, “Then is anyone else here that was also here that night that might remember something?”

  “Here, yes. Remember, not bloody likely.” Evan turned more knobs, but finally looked back up to me. “There is a security camera, but there’s no way John will let you see it. I don’t know. Given your uncle’s status and all, he might, really.”

  John would definitely find it worthwhile to show us the footage. My £6000 purchase at Smythson’s justified itself a little more. It didn’t, really, but I remained positive about it anyway. Joy caressed Evan’s arm, batted her eyes and flirted with him until he told us where John was. He even led us to John’s office and introduced us.

  Joy did this without magic. She was good. Scarily good. Or maybe this was just the way of the world and I had no skills whatsoever?

  I wrote the words that would suffice for a credential to him. He led us to the laptop on his desk and brought up the date and time that Shred played. There was no sound to the video, but we could definitely see what Evan said was true: Shred used his musimancy and everyone in the house was moved. Everyone, except one. There was a bearded man standing at the bar. When John replayed the scene at the bar once more, it looked like the man wore earbuds when Shred was playing.

  The bearded man knew what Shred was. I asked John to fast-forward the video until we saw Shred leave the pub. The bearded man followed less than a minute after Shr
ed’s exit.

  “Can you do a screenshot of this and email it to me?” He nodded as I began writing down my email address. “John, I cannot thank you enough.” I patted him on the back, beaming. I could hear the next band starting their set. Now we had a face that would help us find Shred.

  We came back to the hotel in a much more timely fashion than how left the restaurant. The attendant at the front desk gave us our room key—Joy and I had a double—and we took the stairs to the third floor after asking which rooms Gavin and Pushan were staying. Gavin’s was catty-corner to ours, while Pushan’s was on the fourth floor.

  Joy opened the door to our room and saw Joy’s bag and my shopping bag with clothes sitting on one of the beds. Gavin or a bellhop must have dropped them in there.

  “Wait, I’ll tell Gavin we’re back.” Joy, exhausted, did little to protest. “I got us three adaptors to charge our stuff. I’ll plug ours up if you hand over your phone.”

  I gave it to her and walked over to Gavin’s door and knocked. Maybe he was already asleep; or in the shower. I decided I’d go back to my room and text both him and Pushan that we had returned.

  Joy was already under covers and breathing heavily. I dug my dad’s copy of Gulliver’s Travels out of my bag, but decided another long shower was in order. Even the sound of the blow dryer did not stir Joy. I bought a shirt that said “Someone in Washington D.C. Loves Me” to sleep in while at Dulles laying over. I washed our underwear and bras and they were hanging over the shower after I blow dried them as well. The past few days and the inability to prepare—to pack—for the journey weighed heavily on me. When we got a chance, I looked forward to purchasing a suitcase and clothes, make-up, supplies and packing properly. I opened the book, but fell asleep in spite of myself in what could only have been minutes. I dreamed of Gulliver’s Travels and of Laputa and instead of making pillows out of marble, I made a pillow out of obsidian. And then my dream transitioned to the struldbrug living human lives, growing old and not dying. Except, they weren’t struldbrug, instead I saw the faces of the gods I had met at Solemn Ages.