by Colin McComb
She slipped through the tower like shadow, like smoke, her chameleon skin shifting and adapting as she snaked ever upward through dim passageways and bright laboratories, moving from the eastern stair to the west, and then to the north, skipping over the subtle alarms and the devious traps. She wound around and up, around and up, until she stood in front of an oaken door, half ajar. She slipped her right hand into a sheath strapped to her leg and withdrew a set of gleaming claws, twelve inches long. Her left hand dipped into a pouch at her waist and came out clutching a handful of powder. She peered into the room from the shadow of the hall and slithered inside.
The old man had the bottle raised to his lips. He lowered it to the sight of his death. The assassin stood in front of him, and as he focused on her blackened face, she said, “The king is displeased with you, Underhill.” She swept her left hand in a semi-circle across her body, and the corrosive powder tore into Underhill’s eyes. He cried out and threw his hands to his eyes. She let him scream for a moment, letting the agony carve itself into his face. She counted to ten, crushed his trachea with her empty hand, then buried her claws deep in the old magus’s chest and tore downward through his guts. She stepped back to watch him die. Though she preferred a quick and surprising kill, not this ugly nonsense, her orders were clear: the traitor must suffer, and his agonies must be evident for the next magus who would occupy this tower.
Underhill spat blood as he slipped off his chair. His eyes had half melted down his cheeks, and like any wounded animal, he didn’t know which of his injuries to clasp first. His hands fluttered like birds between them, broken-winged and frantic, each movement more mindless, each pass slower, until at last he lay back against his chair, his fingers twitching and blood pooling on the carpet around him. When he stopped moving, she knelt carefully next to him and slit his throat almost delicately from ear to ear. A faint tremor passed through her victim, and his last breath was a weak and bubbling gasp.
She wiped her claws clean and stepped back into the hall. She recalled her map, concentrated, and decided the stripling’s lab would be… yes. A floor up, on the other side of the tower. Her master had not said in so many words that the boy should be eliminated, but he had given her permission to do it. “Cleaning up loose ends,” he said, “is your specialty, after all.” She hated to leave witnesses behind, and she had no taste for betrayers in any case. Her vows were strong. She served a good greater than her own ambition.
She crept to the stairs and floated up to the next floor. A metal doorway at the top stood ajar. A window—one of the first she had seen—at the end of the hall admitted a square of moonlight to the carpet. She cautiously cracked the window as a potential escape route and slipped fifteen feet down the hall to the open door spilling its own light into the passageway. The boy sat with his back to the door, oblivious, and she checked her claws before moving into the room on the balls of her feet—closer, closer. She reached for his head.
A flash of blue fire blew her from her feet, and she staggered back out into the hall, her legs rubbery, her eyes clouded with light and pain. She fell back against the wall, her skin’s color oscillating across the visible spectrum, and she pushed herself back to stability. When her vision cleared, the boy was standing in the hall between her and the window—her lone exit. Two metal spheres hovered between them, and a faint shimmer in the darkness of the hallway showed her the borders of his shield. He held the light-covered device he had been working on in his hand, and once he saw that she had focused on him, he pressed a button on it. The doors in the hall—the stairway and the laboratory—closed and clicked.
“I thought you might pay me a visit,” he said. He was making an effort to sound calm, but his voice shook. He held the device up. “I’ve been tracking your progress through the tower.”
In response, she hurled a knife at him. His barrier crackled and flared, and the knife fell smoking to the ground at his feet.
“I am the new magus of Underhill Tower,” he said. “Tell your masters that I am prepared to discuss taking my seat on the Council of Magi.”
The assassin said nothing. She simply crouched in the shadows at the end of the hall, watching him, weighing her options. His shield shimmered faintly, and she could see no way through it… but she had a key to the tower, did she not? Her fingers closed around the metal leaf at her hip, and she balanced it for a moment to test its weight. His eyes widened as it spun from her fingers in a blur.
It passed through the shield.
The moment she held the leaf was enough for Alton to throw himself backward. Had he hesitated, the leaf would have buried itself in his chest. As it was, it tore across his left cheek and through his brow, missing his eye by a hair. He cried out, and the leaf clattered to the ground behind him. The woman leapt across his body to the open window beyond. She paused in the embrasure, turning to look back at him. He was already staggering to his feet, one hand clapped over his bloody cheek, one clutching for the deadly leaf. He stood and said, “The next time I see you, one of us will die.”
“You will not see me again,” she responded, “but one of us will surely die.”
She disappeared from the window. Alton closed it. He did not bother to look out after her. Trailing blood, he found his way to the control center and reset the transport’s passkeys. Only when he was secure did he seek to bind his wounds.
In the Tower: The Trial
After Underhill’s death, I had free run of Underhill Tower—but first I had to move his body and clean the bloodstains from the study. It was harder than I thought it would be. This was not because of any lingering affection for the old man, but because he was heavier than I’d thought. I wrapped him in a shroud and carried him down to the transport room, and then I contacted one of his old compatriots via farspeaker. Magus Oldstone was his name. When I told him that Underhill was dead, he agreed to take the body for proper funeral arrangements. He said to send the body through the transport system in a day’s time, and his agents would retrieve it.
He also told me never to contact him again. I have not heard any word of him since, though I have asked. He has not appeared at any of the meetings of the Council of Magi since I joined it.
If the transport had reached beyond the range of Lower Pippen and the immediate surrounding area, I would have sent the corpse directly to him. None of the finest minds of the Empire has ever managed to make the system functional beyond a five-mile radius. I have studied the matter long enough to know only that even its creation is beyond me. I can maintain a transport’s operation, but I can’t improve it.
Of course, we magi keep the transports for ourselves. The complete apparatus is too large for military use and too expensive for any but the wealthiest of the High Houses. Our kings would forbid transports to them at any rate—who could say what mischief the Houses might work with that tool at their disposal?
I roamed the halls of the tower—my tower—at will. I trailed my fingers on the wall. I entered the rooms that had been forbidden to me. I incinerated Underhill’s useless personal effects, his clothes and personal memorabilia, in the great furnace in the basement. I wandered Underhill Tower and looked for ways to make it mine. The old man had not been its first inhabitant; each of the previous owners had marked the stronghold with their personalities. I would do the same.
But for those first few days, I waited. I knew the call would be coming. The question was only from whom, and when.
When the farspeaker finally chimed, I composed my face carefully and activated the viewer.
“Underhill Tower,” I said.
The face on the far end swam into view. It was a small, wizened face atop a body that was bent nearly double. The man’s eyes glittered under a scarred brow, and they scanned my face in a moment.
“Matching scars, yes? A promising beginning.”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“My name is Dunston. You know me better as Archmagus.”
I could not conceal my surprise. I stammered something
, and he said, “Young man, you do not fill me with hope.”
“Hope?” I replied.
“That you are as capable as your master said.”
“Former master,” I said, drawing myself together.
He waved his hand irritably. “Former master, yes, yes. The question is whether you are fit to retain residence of Underhill Tower.”
I smiled a little and answered, “The question is whether anyone can dislodge me.”
“This is what we intend to discover. I will contact you in a week.” He hit the cutoff switch, and at that moment, the alarms began to ring. The test had begun.
The select society of the Magi of the Empire is a meritocracy—that is, we have to earn our places, and we do not receive special benefit or favors from relatives in high places or low. Our sex does not matter; we have nearly as many women as we have men, and we are taught that it is only the mind that matters, not the body. We must prove ourselves against those who would be our peers. In cases such as mine—where the master has died and the apprentice holds the tower—other apprentices, recommended by their masters to the Archmagus, come to take the place for their own. The apprentice in the stronghold is allowed a choice: to serve under a new master and show her the operations of the tower, or to prove his mastery over his place of power and repel those who would take it.
Those who choose the first option are young, stupid, or cunning enough to wait for a more opportune time. Those who take the second must succeed against a host of ambitious magi or die. The attackers face their own challenges, of course—their aim is to penetrate the tower before their rivals do and then destroy their peer inside. They face betrayal from among their own ranks as they probe the stronghold’s defenses. It is a struggle of many against one, but the one holds a position of power, and if a lone attacker is brave enough to challenge others for this seat, he must know at least a handful of the stronghold’s deadliest tricks. That means researching the other seats of power, through means arcane and scholarly. Sometimes the best research comes from word of mouth through the magical fraternity, but more often it lies in uncovering secret plans, making observations, and carefully studying one’s potential opponents. We are each other’s competition. Though most of the challengers do not die, some invariably do.
Is this a stupid waste of talent? It is. But it winnows the weak and the idealists from our ranks. We learn that our lives depend on our abilities to keep our hearts cold.
How many attackers was I facing? I examined the viewscreens around the tower and counted five. I laughed. I could handle five.
Magic was not always as rare as it is today. Our secret histories, kept from the serfs and peasants (most of whom cannot read, anyway) and many of the upper class, tell us that magic was once commonplace from the top of society to the bottom—even the rudest of the low could light his hovel at night without the use of candles or flame. Magi worked in large conclaves, studying the laws of the physical world and learning to apply those laws and reactions for greater and greater effect. Miracles were possible to even the most ordinary of men.
But the leaders of those times, over a thousand years ago, told their magi to wage war with all their skills. Did these leaders not know the incredible power of their magi? Did they not know that their enemies would retaliate? Or was the insult so grievous as to brook no other response?
Whatever the cause, disaster ensued. It was called the Night of a Hundred Flowers, in which enormous fires bloomed above the cities and military outposts. Where these fires bloomed, only ashes remained. There were no survivors. The flame of the Flowers destroyed the basis of society, and those who had come to rely on the fruits of magic starved. Plague and famine followed.
Anarchy reigned, and those who were thought to have aptitude for magic were either killed or enslaved by the leaders who rose from the rabble. These tyrants sought to consolidate their power, to rebuild society in their own images, and by seizing those who understood the basic workings of reality, these petty tyrants could elevate themselves. The leaders who did not follow this path were quickly destroyed: mere strength of the fist cannot stand against a more primal power.
A truer test came when the forethinking leaders went to war against one another with weapons stockpiled from the ancient days. Some of the battles were lopsided. Some of them dragged on in sieges that lasted for months or even years. From these battles came a fresh fear among the people of the power wielded by the magi—a fear that the strongest leaders turned toward their own ends.
The first test of a new magus is a relic of those sieges.
Outside Underhill Tower, my five would-be usurpers gathered into five distinct camps, arrayed equidistant around the tower. No doubt they’d studied my former master’s work closely, trying to gain an understanding of the defenses he’d set. Since I had seen detailed descriptions of the known work and styles of each of the magi on the Council, I would have been surprised if the others hadn’t studied my home. With an encouraging mentor—unlike mine—they would have access to the best information on Underhill Tower. Most of that information would still be guesswork.
I’d have to wait until they got closer to identify them, but I had my suspicions as to who they were. Older apprentices, likely, or prodigies even among our gifted set. But Lockstream and Hewitt—the oldest prodigies—had masters who weren’t eager to lose their minds to this, and the other three I’d heard of weren’t old enough to take on the responsibilities of maintaining a seat of power. There were eight of the older apprentices I knew to be in their early twenties or older. They would have been preparing for their moment for at least two years. No use plotting strategies against them until I knew who they were. The five attackers would come from those eight.
I knew they were studying one another, trying to decide if they could work together in the early stages to beat my defenses. I hoped they’d come at once, actually, because there was no way they could have anticipated the last defense my master and I had erected together at the outermost rim. It was based on the pulse emitted by the Flowers, and it would wipe out any unshielded artifacts they had crafted. It was a one-shot, though, and I did not want to burn it out for one or two enemies.
As I waited, I was glad that the tower had a small larder and plumbing near the control room. I wouldn’t be leaving here until the end of the ordeal.
We saved tomes of magic and wisdom from those elder times. In those days, the magi called their work “science” and their tools “technology.” Even after the Flowers bloomed, records show some residual references to these terms. But when the warlords sought to intensify their control over their magi and to prevent independent-minded thinkers from achieving greater social control, they also had to change the language. They made the use of this ancient wisdom a tool of evil, touched by madness, practicable only by a select few without the penalty of death. Those who chose to pursue it were compelled by inner urges, by a dark and dangerous flame of curiosity and desire. We are feared for that drive, and we are kept fiercely in check by our masters.
It is no honor to be a magus. We are tools for the leaders, feared by the populace, and scorned by those who make their living with the sword. At the same time, we have a fraternity of those who know the secrets of existence. We have fear. We have knowledge, and we have power. We are the elite.
There are maybe a hundred of us at any given time, scattered at various points around the Empire. We research weapons, tools for espionage, and the secrets of life for the warriors who control our lives. We can have the assets of the Empire at our call for enormous projects, if we can prove the need. What more could we do if we were not constrained by the dictates of law and the threat of armies marching on our strongholds?
The old books reference other achievements and inventions that have been lost to time. Now, rather than charting a smooth progression of knowledge in particular fields of study, a vast concentration of scholars studying and working together, we have spikes and great leaps in particular areas as a new magus comes to s
tudy and finds an obsession, and huge regression as his knowledge disappears with his death if he has not documented his work fully. Our apprentices do not gain all the benefits of our wisdom.
We hoard what knowledge we can, but our lives are lived in secrecy, and our deaths are always a ruler’s whim away. We are not bred to transparency. We become specialists by necessity.
This can prove useful. It is also deadly.
My opponents moved at once. Some of them had brought assistants, and their servants must have helped coordinate their movements. I imagine they thought it would be easy to take an untested mage by confusing him with too many options.
Unlikely. I had time to study each of them and to match them to their specialties.
At the northernmost tip of the pentagon around Underhill Tower was Sandoval, who carried a coiled and cabled whip of gleaming metal in her hand. She had been in the Knighthood before she discovered her true calling. Her master was Shorifiel, a woman of great ugliness but a truly incredible mind. Their primary employers were the Vukovi, and rumor was that Shorifiel had come from a lesser family of that House. Certainly, the work they did for other Houses never matched their work for the Vukovi.
To her left, to the east, Otto Thrawn, the seismic destroyer. I had reviewed some of his work, and if he drew too close to the tower, he could pierce my defenses. His master was Kamuller, and the two of them worked frequently with the Cronen and the military alike. Their work was raw power, not subtlety.
Next was Orvald Tus, a master of lightning—though I thought his knowledge was not the equal of my master’s—who had brought a large box to generate his force. He wouldn’t get far, I didn’t think. His mentor was Krigori; they worked frequently with the Bhumar on weather-related activities, generally for shipping and travel. Though useful for the merchant fleets, his work was not immediately offensive, and that would put him at a disadvantage.