Infinite Regress

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “No,” Professor Locke said. “I believe I have exhausted everything that can reasonably be drawn from the various collections known to exist. There may be other collections, I suppose, but since I don’t know about them I haven’t been able to consult them.”

  Emily leaned forward. “Is that likely?”

  For the first time, Professor Locke showed a flicker of irritation, his face flushing red with anger. “The old families—the really old families—have vast collections of papers, parchments and manuscript books, often dating back hundreds of years,” he said. “And the short-sighted idiots don’t always know what they have, because some of them are written in long-dead languages and others are pretty boring as far as their owners are concerned. A copy of the pipe rolls from a kingdom or an estate is meaningless to them, but quite useful to an historian.”

  He scowled. “There may be a complete record of the founding of Whitehall buried in a collection somewhere,” he added, “and I wouldn’t know about it! The idiots who own it wouldn’t even know what they had!”

  Emily couldn’t disagree. She’d spent two terms working in Whitehall’s library and discovered just how hard it was to find time to catalog large parts of the collection, particularly the older books and manuscripts. The librarians simply didn’t have the time—or, in some cases, the expertise—to sort out a clear record, let alone decide if the material should be stored, presented to the public, or simply discarded. She’d inherited a great many books from the Grandmaster, a tiny collection by Whitehall’s standards, but she’d never had the time to go through them either. It was unlikely there was anything world-shaking amongst the other books, yet there was no way she could be sure...

  “I see,” Cabiria said. “What do you want us to do?”

  “I want to open up the old tunnels and explore below Whitehall,” Professor Locke said.

  Emily frowned. “I’ve been to the nexus chamber,” she said, carefully. “There’s nothing there...”

  “Below the nexus chamber,” Professor Locke said.

  He leapt from his chair and then started to burrow through a large pile of parchments, his voice echoing back as Emily and Cabiria looked at each other. “The records are clear that there was once a network of tunnels below the nexus chamber,” he said. “Those tunnels were sealed at some point, I believe shortly after Whitehall died. It may even have been Whitehall who sealed the tunnels, although it’s more probably Lord Bernard who was responsible. He was the first true Grandmaster.”

  Cabiria coughed. “How do you know?”

  “There are several references to the tunnels in works that postdate Whitehall,” Professor Locke said. He emerged, carrying a large scroll. “After that, the tunnels are largely gone from the historical records. Bernard becomes thus our most likely suspect for closing off the tunnels.”

  Emily watched as he unfurled the sheet of parchment. It was a map of Whitehall, judging from the exterior design, although the interior was very different. The person who’d drawn the map had clearly hewed to a different set of standards than anything she recalled from the modern era, the scaling so badly warped that classrooms looked larger than the Great Hall, but it was clear that there were a number of tunnels below the nexus chamber, linked to Whitehall through a pair of gates.

  “I see,” Cabiria said. “Were the tunnels simply collapsed?”

  “The gates were sealed and warded with powerful concealment charms,” Professor Locke said. “Those charms are actually worked into the school’s wards; they’re so powerful that countless generations of staff and students have walked past the gates without any idea they were there. It took me nearly forty minutes to perceive them even though I knew they were there. I took my report to the Grandmaster and he refused to let me investigate further. He believed that opening the gates might be a bad idea.”

  “He might have been right,” Emily mused.

  “The tunnels interact—somehow—with the spells that make up Whitehall,” Professor Locke said. “If we cannot find the secret of Whitehall from books, perhaps we can find it by studying the tunnels.”

  “It’s very old magic,” Cabiria pointed out. She sounded fascinated, despite herself. “Who knows what we would find, under Whitehall?”

  We might find a hungry basilisk, Emily thought. There were monsters sleeping under Mountaintop...

  “Grandmaster Gordian has approved my plan to explore the lower tunnels,” Professor Locke informed them. “The two of you will accompany me. I would have preferred to bring in a much larger team, but the Grandmaster insisted on limiting the number of people involved in the research program. I believe he will change his mind when we find something new and interesting—or old and interesting—buried beneath the school.”

  Or get killed, Emily thought. She had no idea if there was any validity to Professor Locke’s theories, but she knew what else had been buried below Mountaintop. It was quite possible that the tunnels had been sealed up for a very good reason. We might run straight into a trap.

  “The tunnels might also connect with the outside world,” Cabiria observed. “There used to be quite an extensive tunnel network under the Craggy Mountains.”

  Emily shuddered. She’d explored some of those tunnels in Martial Magic. Sergeant Harkin had warned them about giant scorpions and other creatures lurking within the darkness, but two of her fellows had still been stung and almost killed. Perhaps the tunnels had been sealed to keep other underground-dwellers—or outsiders—from making their way up into the school and causing havoc. Professor Locke might be disappointed, she thought, when they made their way under the school. They might discover nothing more than a link to the tunnels and hundreds of creatures that wanted to kill them.

  But she had to admit the whole project was fascinating. She’d researched the history of the Nameless World as best as she could, yet she’d discovered that there was almost nothing definite known about anything that had taken place over a thousand years ago. Human civilization had to be far older than that, she thought, but no one knew what had happened—or why—beyond that point. And there was a question mark over just when Whitehall Castle had been built, too. The castle itself was far older than the school.

  It’s the one thing most of the stories agree on, she thought. The castle was not built by the Whitehall Commune.

  Professor Locke cleared his throat. “I intend to open the gates and enter the tunnels on Sunday,” he said, firmly. “You two will accompany me. I suggest you wear something simple, something you don’t mind getting dirty. Charm your garments to provide what protection you can, just in case.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cabiria said. She sounded less certain, all of a sudden. “Do you expect danger?”

  “The tunnels may not have been opened for over seven hundred years,” Professor Locke reminded her. “There’s certainly little chance they’ve been maintained. We should be careful. The prospect of a cave-in should not be underestimated.”

  He rose, resting one hand on the table. “I’ll see you on Sunday,” he said. “Before then, I suggest you take the time to read through these papers—I’ll key the wards so you can get access. If you see anything interesting, please let me know.”

  Emily sighed, inwardly, as she rose and headed for the door. There were so many papers crammed into the office that she didn’t have the slightest idea where to begin. It would take years, perhaps, to read them all.

  “Well,” Cabiria said, once they were outside and heading back up to their bedroom. “That was more interesting than I expected.”

  “True,” Emily agreed. She gave the older girl a sharp look. “You’re lucky he didn’t notice your sarcasm. Talk like that to Professor Lombardi or Mistress Irene and you won’t be sitting down for a week.”

  “Of course,” Cabiria said. She winked, clearly amused by Emily’s remark. “That’s why I do it to him.”

  Emily winced. “And if he decides to expel you?”

  “He’s too invested in his project to care,” Cabiria said. “
This has been his obsession for decades! All he wants, right now, is to get on with it before he dies.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Emily said. “But if you’re wrong, it’s your own stupid fault.”

  Chapter Eight

  “TELL ME SOMETHING,” CALEB MUTTERED. He stood beside Emily, one hand wrapped around her waist, as they watched the First Years climbing out of their carriages. “Were we ever that young?”

  Emily shrugged. The First Years would all be around sixteen years old, but it was clear, just looking at them, that they were staggeringly inexperienced. They gaped up at the towering castle, they lugged their trunks behind them as if they didn’t know how to levitate them and some of them were even wandering off in the wrong directions. She caught sight of a pale-skinned girl staring at the castle and smiled, reading the girl’s thoughts from the expression on her face. What the hell am I doing here?

  “I can’t remember being that young,” she said, mischievously. “It never happened.”

  She shook her head in amusement as the tutors calmly corralled the youngsters, passed their trunks to the stewards and escorted the newcomers to the Great Hall. It was easy, now, to deduce their origins; the youngsters from magical families were clinging together, wearing robes with an ease and confidence that came from wearing them ever since they could walk, while the children from non-magical families seemed uncomfortable in their robes. Even the wealthier non-magical families weren’t used to wearing robes. And yet, it was easy to pick them out from the poor. Their robes were of better quality.

  Changing the uniform policy might have been a mistake, she thought, as the novices walked past her. It promotes disunity among classmates.

  It wasn’t the only problem, she noted. The children from magical families, the ones who knew each other already, chatted happily, while those who were new to magic shuffled around, unable or unwilling to look their fellows in the eye. Whitehall had to be hugely intimidating to them, she knew; they probably feared what would happen if they said the wrong thing or touched the wrong item. It wouldn’t take them long to learn to master their magic and cast spells, she was sure, but they would be vulnerable until then.

  And the children of magical families will already know a few hexes, she thought. The rich and well-connected always have their advantages, don’t they?

  She glanced at Caleb. “How many spells did you know when you went to Stronghold?”

  “A few hundred,” Caleb said. “Mother was very insistent that I knew how to defend myself magically, as well as physically.”

  Emily felt a flicker of envy. If only she’d had a mother like that. A mother who would’ve defended her—and taught her to defend herself. It would have been a dream come true. She swore to herself, deep inside, that if she ever had children she wouldn’t make the same mistake. Her children would learn how to channel and use their magic as soon as they decently could. She looked at Caleb, knowing that he would agree with her. Children needed to be able to take care of themselves.

  She watched the last of the newcomers walking through the gate, then frowned as she saw Aloha emerge from the doorway and head straight towards them. The Head Girl was wearing a long white robe, charmed so it practically glowed with light. It was bright enough to draw attention from right across the room. Emily sighed inwardly—she’d been expecting a talk with Aloha at some point—and braced herself. The chat might not be remotely pleasant.

  “Emily, I need to have a word with you,” Aloha said. She looked at Caleb. “Can I borrow your girlfriend for a while?”

  Caleb glanced at Emily. “Emily?”

  “You go on ahead,” Emily said, reluctantly. “I’ll meet you inside.”

  She watched as Caleb strode off towards the gates, then glanced at Aloha. The older girl looked tired, even though it was only early afternoon. Emily supposed she would have been working hard to get the rooms ready for the new students and sorting out their schedules, rather than trying to sleep in one last time. The Fifth Years would be returning to work tomorrow, she knew, and she assumed the same was true of the final year students. She’d managed to sleep in until ten bells.

  “Emily,” Aloha said. “I owe you an apology.”

  Emily blinked. She hadn’t expected that.

  “I’m not happy about Master Grey’s death,” Aloha added, hurrying on before Emily could say a word. “I wish you hadn’t challenged him and I wish you hadn’t killed him, but I do understand what happened. He should never have accepted that challenge.”

  “I didn’t even realize it was a challenge,” Emily said.

  Aloha bowed her head. “I know,” she said. “He could have just ignored your ill-chosen words—or turned them into a lesson. Instead...”

  She shook her head. Emily felt a stab of sympathy, even though she knew Master Grey had deliberately set out to contrive an excuse to kill her. Aloha had practically worshipped the ground Master Grey walked on, seeing him as the embodiment of magical and martial prowess. She’d even hoped to plead for an apprenticeship with him, after completing her final year at Whitehall. And all those hopes were now gone.

  “You liked him,” Emily said. She found it hard to pick her next words. “But you didn’t know what he actually was.”

  “He was a great man,” Aloha said. There was a bitterness in her voice that shocked Emily to the core. “But I never realized he would stoop to such a level.”

  She had a crush on him, Emily thought. She’d never seen Aloha express romantic interest in anyone, let alone go out on dates like Imaiqah or calmly accept an arranged marriage like the Gorgon. But then, there were very few students at the same level as Aloha. Master Grey must have seemed far more capable than anyone at the school.

  “I didn’t either, until it was too late,” she said. She tried to think for a moment, but her thoughts kept chasing themselves in circles. What did one say to console a friend? “He would have killed me.”

  “I know,” Aloha said. She gathered herself. “I have treated you badly,” she said, clearing her throat. “And I offer my most humble apologies for my actions.”

  Emily nodded, recognizing the ritual apology. “I accept,” she said. “And I don’t blame you for liking him.”

  Aloha scowled. Emily wondered, suddenly, just how it would have played out if the duel had never happened. It was rare for a male to take on a female apprentice—and vice versa—but very few people would have questioned Master Grey choosing someone as capable as Aloha as his next student. And then? Tongues would have begun to wag, Emily was sure, if they’d started a romantic relationship... if, indeed, he’d felt the same way too. It was quite possible Master Grey had regarded Aloha as just another student, perhaps a mite more capable than the rest. He’d always been too focused on Emily to pay much attention to everyone else.

  “I thank you,” Aloha said, formally. “I understand that you had little choice.”

  She took a breath. “I should warn you that not everyone feels the same way,” she added. She lowered her voice, significantly. “There are quite a few people who think you deliberately challenged him and killed him.”

  Emily scowled. She hadn’t spent long at Whitehall, after Void had helped her recover from the duel, but it had been clear—all too clear—that far too many students were frightened to death of her. Her friends had treated her as they always did, thankfully, but other students had quailed when she looked at them or hastily retreated as soon as she saw them coming. A reputation she would have liked on Earth—as it would at least have kept her from being harassed—was a depressing liability at Whitehall. If nothing else, it made it hard for her to talk to anyone outside her original circle of friends.

  “I didn’t challenge him deliberately,” she protested. “And he didn’t have to take up the challenge.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Aloha agreed. “But you know that isn’t the story everyone believes.”

  Emily sighed. Rumors ran through the Nameless World nearly as fast as they did on Earth, even though the Nameless
World lacked the Internet. Stories grew in the telling, to the point where bards confidently claimed that she’d wrestled Shadye into submission and befriended the Mimic by pulling a thorn out of its paw. The fact that anyone stupid enough to wrestle a necromancer would wind up dead in short order—and the fact that Mimics didn’t have paws—had never been allowed to get in the way of a good story. No doubt there were some new ones after Master Grey’s untimely death.

  “They’re saying you pitched the duel in a manner he could not refuse,” Aloha warned. “And that you practically lured him to his death.”

  “Idiots,” Emily muttered.

  She rolled her eyes. Sure, she could have worded the challenge in a manner that practically forced him to accept—an accusation of necromancy, perhaps—but it would have been insane and suicidal. No one had expected her to win the duel. And she knew, even if no one else did, just how close it had been. A second’s hesitation at the climax would have seen her dead. Master Grey had practically beaten her when she’d struck the fatal blow.

  “People are often idiots,” Aloha said. “Just be careful, Emily.”

  Emily nodded and changed the subject. “I was thinking about something different we could do with the chat parchments,” she said, as they started to walk towards the gates. “It might be possible to work out a telegram service, using sheets of linked parchment.”

  Aloha frowned. “A telegram service?”

  “Just what I call it,” Emily said. “It would operate along the same lines as standard messages, but it wouldn’t need sorcerers to send or receive them.”

  She explained the concept as they walked through the gates and into the rear of the Great Hall, slipping in behind the new students. Grandmaster Gordian stood at the front of the giant room, speaking about Whitehall’s long history of teaching magic, etiquette and everything else a sorcerer needed for success. He wasn’t quite as inspirational as Grandmaster Hasdrubal, Emily considered, but she had to admit he sounded competent. Given that some of the newcomers were clearly nervous, judging from the way they shuffled their feet, it was probably a point in his favor.