The Crown Tower: Book 1 of The Riyria Chronicles

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Hadrian failed to see the route Arcadius had used and was left to his own judgment on how best to cross the sea of debris. Stepping carefully, he joined the old man, who sat on a tall stool at a small wooden desk.

  Arcadius took off his glasses and began wiping the lenses with a cloth that might have been a sock. “So you received my letter, then?”

  “I’m not sure how. I was in Mandalin, in Calis.”

  “Ah … the ancient capital of the Eastern Empire. How is it? Still standing, I assume.”

  “Some of it.”

  “To answer your question, I sent Tribian DeVole to find you and deliver my missive. The man is nearly as tenacious as a sentinel and having been born there is well acquainted with the east.”

  “I still don’t see how he could find me, or how you even knew I was in Calis.”

  “Magic.”

  “Magic?”

  “Didn’t your father ever tell you I was a wizard?”

  “My father never discussed you.”

  Arcadius opened his mouth, then stopped and nodded. “Yes, I can see that.” He breathed on the other lens and began rubbing it with the cloth.

  “If you can do magic, why not fix your eyes?”

  “I am.” Arcadius slipped on the spectacles. “There—all better.”

  “That’s not really magic.”

  “Isn’t it? If I shot an arrow and killed Phineas, the frog in that cage behind you, would that be magic?”

  “No.”

  “But if I snapped my fingers and poor Phineas dropped dead, it would be, right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “People can’t normally kill frogs by snapping fingers.”

  “Close. The correct answer is, it’s magic because you don’t know how I killed the frog. If you knew I’d poisoned pathetic little Phineas moments before you entered, would it still be magic?”

  “No.”

  “Now let me ask you this … how does wearing these glasses make it possible for me to see more clearly?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Magic!” The old man smiled brightly, looking over his glasses. “You see, as I get older I have more trouble seeing. The world hasn’t changed—my eyes have. Noting the way glass alters perception through focus, I’m able to create these bits of glass that assist my eyes by magnifying my vision. That’s what magic is, you see. Observations, coupled with logic, knowledge, and reasoning, provide a wizard such as myself with an understanding of nature. This allows me to harness its power.” The professor looked up as if hearing something. “Relax, Phineas. I didn’t really poison you.”

  Hadrian turned and indeed there was a frog in a cage behind him. When Hadrian turned back, Arcadius was busy adjusting the position of his stool.

  “In your case,” he went on, “it was a simple matter of putting one’s ear to the ground and listening for news of a great warrior. I know the kind of training your father provided you. He also informed me of your intentions after you left Hintindar. Together those bits of knowledge all but guaranteed you would be famous by now. Determining your location was easy.”

  Hadrian nodded, feeling foolish for having asked. “I want to thank you for notifying me and for taking a hand in administering my father’s affairs in my absence. I’m glad he had someone he could count on, especially since you seemed to have stopped coming around.”

  “Your father and I were old friends. I met him long before you were born—just about the time he settled in Hintindar. I visited him often in those days, but the years and our ages got in the way. It’s hard to travel long distances when walking across the hall is a challenge. That happens … time slips by unseen.”

  “How did you hear of his death?”

  “I visited him last year and we reminisced about old times. He was very sickly, and I knew his time was short, so I asked to be notified of any change in his condition.”

  “Did you go back to Hintindar, then?”

  “No, and I don’t suppose I ever shall.”

  “But you said you had artifacts of my father’s to give me.”

  “An artifact to be precise. The last time I visited Danbury he gave me instructions that I should give it to you.”

  Judging by the state of the room, Hadrian wondered at the odds of finding this heirloom, assuming it was smaller than a dog. Looking up, he noticed an owl roosting on the second-story balcony rail, the random collection of boxes and chests, and the near-complete human skeleton that dangled from a Vasarian battle spear driven into the wall.

  Arcadius smiled and pulled a chain with an amulet from around his neck. Hadrian knew the medallion. His father had worn it every day of his life, even when sleeping or bathing. The amulet was such an integral part of him that seeing it there was like looking at a finger severed from his hand. Whatever fantasies Hadrian might have held that his father still lived were snuffed out, and for an instant he saw the bloodied tiger again, taking its last breath, eyes still open and staring back with the single question: Why?

  “Would you like to sit down?” Arcadius asked, his tone gentle. “I think there’s another chair in here. Should be five, in fact. I suppose you could just use my stool. I sit too much anyway.”

  Hadrian wiped his eyes. “I’m fine.”

  Arcadius offered the sock, but Hadrian shook his head.

  “Did he speak of me?”

  Arcadius, who had gotten to his feet, returned to his seat. He removed the necklace and placed it on a pile of clutter in front of Hadrian. “He told me of your leaving. Something about an argument between you two, but he didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t press.”

  “I called him a coward. It was the worst thing I could think of, and the last thing I said to him.”

  “I wouldn’t be too concerned. He’s been called worse.”

  “Not by his son. Not by the one person he had left in the world.” Hadrian let his head hang over the desk, over the medallion. The circle of silver was just a bit larger than a coin and was comprised of a ring of twisted knots. “Where did he get this? Did my mother give it to him?”

  “No, I suspect this medallion is an heirloom that has been handed down through generations. It is very precious. Your father asked me to tell you what his father had told him. That you should wear it always, never sell it, and give it to your son should you have one. This was the first part of what became his dying wish.”

  Hadrian picked up the chain, letting the medallion swing from his fingers. “And the second?”

  “We’ll get to that, but that’s enough for now. You’ve had a long trip and your clothes look wet. I suspect you’d like a chance to dry them, perhaps take a bath, have a tasty meal and a good night’s sleep in a warm bed. Sadly, I can only offer you three of the four … Tonight is meat pies.”

  “Thank you. I am a bit…” His voice cracked and he could only shrug.

  “I understand.” Arcadius looked across the room and shouted, “Bartholomew!”

  The door to the office creaked open. “Sir?”

  “Be a good lad and see that Hadrian gets a meal and a bed. I believe Vincent Quinn is away, so there should be a vacancy in the north wing dormitories.”

  “Ah … certainly, but … ah … how did you know I was still here?”

  “Magic.” The old wizard winked at Hadrian.

  “Pickles!” Hadrian grinned upon seeing the boy.

  Bartholomew led Hadrian up a flight of steps to the dormitory, a long room lined with a row of neatly made beds. All were empty except one. Hearing his name, the Vernes street urchin popped up and offered Hadrian his familiar smile.

  “I have made it, good sir. Rushed as fast as I could, fearful I would miss you, but here I am and arriving in this wonderful place two days ahead of you.”

  “I had some problems and spent some time in Colnora. You were lucky to have missed that barge.”

  Hadrian found the boy’s hand and squeezed tight. They were nearly strangers, but also foreign
ers with a common history. Even if they had shared only a few minutes walking through a rat-infested city, at that moment, Pickles was Hadrian’s oldest and dearest friend.

  “I must apologize again, good sir, for being arrested just as you needed me most.”

  “You don’t need to apologize for that, and you can call me Hadrian.”

  Pickles looked shocked. “I am your humble servant. I cannot call you by name.”

  “Well, sir makes me uncomfortable—and people might think I’m impersonating a knight.”

  Pickles wrinkled his forehead in contemplation. Then the smile returned. “Master Hadrian, then.”

  Not what he wanted, but he could settle for that.

  “This is an amazing place, Master Hadrian. Never have I seen anything like it. So clean. It does not smell at all of fish or horse droppings.”

  Horses. Dancer. He’d forgotten all about her.

  “I’ve got to find a place for my horse.”

  “I know a place,” Pickles said proudly. “I saw the stable. I can take care of all your livery problems. Besides, I need to go down to drop off this book.”

  Hadrian noticed a surprisingly large tome on the bed. “You can read?”

  Pickles shook his head. “Oh no, of course not, but this book has many pictures. The professor said I could look through it to pass the time while I waited for you to arrive as long as I returned it to the library in the east building where he had borrowed it from. I will drop it off and then see to your horse. Where is it that you left this animal?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  “You do not need to. I am your happy servant. You can stay here and be most lazy.”

  Hadrian looked at the stark room that reminded him of too many barracks. “That’s okay, I’ve been most lazy enough.”

  The sun, having disappeared behind the hills, left only an afterglow in the sky. Across the common a boy with a ladder was busy lighting lamps. Walking beside Hadrian, Pickles struggled with the book, which was as cumbersome as a prize pumpkin. The boy grunted as he shifted the weight from arm to arm.

  “Can I help with that?” Hadrian asked.

  “Oh no!” Pickles burst out as he sped up, walking faster and faster to prove he had everything under control, or maybe just to reach his destination before his arms gave out.

  Next to Glen Hall was a smaller building. Hadrian finally noticed that there were indeed different sizes, although still imposing. This one was filled with cubicles, desks, large tables, and chairs in disarray. The library was not very large, but the walls were devoted entirely to shelves on which were books. Far fewer books than Hadrian would have expected. Many of the shelves had dead space, and he guessed the books that belonged there were on loan to students. Pickles let his book slap down on the central table where it landed with an echoing thud.

  “There!” he said with a dramatic expulsion of air and collapsed over the table, as if suffering from a mortal blow. “I am not cut out for being a scholar.” He slowly rose, breathing hard. “I do not see how you do it. I understand swords are heavy.”

  “Bad swords are.”

  “There are good and bad swords?”

  “Just like people.”

  “Really?” Pickles appeared unconvinced.

  “Bad swords are just uselessly heavy, whereas well-made ones are quite light and well balanced.”

  “I still doubt I could lift one.”

  Hadrian drew his short sword and held out the pommel to him.

  Pickles eyed the weapon skeptically. “This does not look like a good sword. Pardon me for saying so, Master Hadrian, but it looks very tired.”

  “Looks are often deceiving.”

  Pickles’s big smile grew even larger.

  The boy reached out and wrapped both hands around the grip, grimacing with anticipation. Then Hadrian let go, and the blade swept up so sharply that Pickles nearly fell backward.

  “It is light. Not so light as a feather, but much more than expected.”

  “Two and a half pounds.”

  Pickles let go with his left hand to hold it up with only his right. “It does not feel even that heavy.”

  “Because of the balance I mentioned.”

  “Does it not need to be heavy?”

  “It doesn’t take much to penetrate skin. Faster is better.”

  Pickles dipped his wrist and swung the blade through the air. “I almost feel heroic with this in my hand.”

  “And almost is as close as anyone ever feels with one of those.”

  Pickles held the sword out at arm’s length and peered one-eyed down the length of the blade. “So was this made by an illustrious weapons master?”

  “I made it.”

  “You, Master Hadrian? Truly?”

  “My father was a smith. I grew up beside a forge.”

  “Oh.” Pickles looked embarrassed. “My most humble apologies, Master Hadrian. I am so very sorry about saying it is looking tired.”

  “It’s tired,” Hadrian said. “And ugly—an ugly tool for an ugly purpose.”

  “That one is not.” He pointed to the spadone on Hadrian’s back.

  “I didn’t make that one.”

  Hadrian took his weapon back and dropped the blade into its scabbard, where it landed with a clap.

  They returned to the common, and he removed the straps that held his gear to Dancer while Pickles untied her lead. When Hadrian hoisted his pack to one shoulder and looked up, he saw the last thing he expected. On the third floor of Glen Hall, in the last window on the left, a man peered out—a man in a dark hood. It took a moment for Hadrian to realize what he was seeing, and the man stepped back, receding into the darkness and dissolving like a ghost.

  “Did you see that?” Hadrian asked.

  “See what?”

  Hadrian pointed. “Up in that window just now—a man in a hood.”

  “No, Master Hadrian, I am not seeing anyone. Which window exactly?”

  Hadrian pointed. “That one.”

  Pickles stared a moment, then shook his head. “Are you sure you saw someone? Why would anybody wear a hood inside? It is very warm in there.”

  “I don’t know,” Hadrian muttered, still staring. “You’re sure you didn’t see it?”

  “No, sir—I mean master.”

  Hadrian felt foolish. It couldn’t be him. If anything, it had to be a student.

  “Should I be running up to see if there is a person in a hood up there?”

  “No, let’s get Dancer put away,” Hadrian said, but took one more look at the window before giving up.

  After settling Dancer, they climbed the steps and entered the big doors of Glen Hall once again. The interior appeared so different from the first time, less bright, less inviting. The chandelier and the wall lanterns were not quite up to the task of illuminating the huge entryway and dark stretches of corridors now that the sun was down. It felt like a cave, deep and black.

  “The professor said you were welcome in the dining hall,” Pickles explained as Hadrian dropped off his pack and swords on his borrowed bed.

  “What about you?”

  “Me? I will stay here and guard your many precious things from many prying eyes and many empty fingers.”

  “It’s a school, Pickles. Theft isn’t allowed.”

  “It is not allowed in Vernes either, but you would be surprised how many things disappear each day.”

  “This is different. You think a kid is going to walk off with my spadone? Where would he hide it?”

  Pickles pondered this, looking at the huge blade lying on the bed, then said, “Still, it is my task to watch your many wonderful possessions so they will not be stolen.”

  “I insist you come.”

  “But I—”

  Hadrian folded his arms sternly. “What is more important? My things or my person? It’s inappropriate to walk around a school with weapons, but what will I do if I’m attacked?”

  This brought a curious look from Pickles. “I am thinking bad thing
s would happen to anyone who would attack you, Master Hadrian.”

  Hadrian frowned. “I still need you to watch my back. A simple warning could save my life.”

  “Oh yes. This is true.” Pickles’s head was bouncing up and down in a motion that was far too enthusiastic to be a mere nod. “You are far too trusting. I will come and do the watching and the warning.”

  As Hadrian started to walk out, Pickles grabbed Hadrian’s belongings and stuffed them under the mattress. Then he grinned up at him. “There, now no empty hands will be touching Master Hadrian’s many wonderful things.”

  “Lead on, Pickles.”

  They entered a large hall with long tables where boys crowded together, eating. A few banners hung from the ceiling, but aside from those everything was made from wood, stone, or pewter. The chatter from what looked to be a hundred students created a roaring din.

  Pickles had a dreamy look. “Wonderful place. You just walk in and they give you food.” He grabbed a pair of pies from the kitchen table where they were being shoveled out on large wooden pallets; then together they squeezed into seats near the end of a long table. The two stood out, as they were the only ones not in gowns.

  As hungry as he was, Hadrian only stared at the pie. He started thinking about the window and the hooded man again.

  It couldn’t be him. Why would he be here?

  Hadrian was a witness to the murders. He could identify him—the only one left who could.

  A witness to what? There is no boat, no jewelers, no Vivian.

  It had been just a moment. Perhaps he didn’t see anyone at all. He might have been tricked by the light or lack thereof. Pickles had been right there, and he hadn’t seen a thing.

  He couldn’t find me here anyway, could he? Did I mention Sheridan on the barge?

  He wasn’t sure. He might have. There had been a lot of talk, the merchants and Vivian always asking questions. It was possible. But how did he get into the school? Not that anyone had stopped or questioned Hadrian. The boys on the common didn’t count. Neither would have likely spoken to the hooded man, and had they, Hadrian was certain he would have been even less deterred than Hadrian had.