The Amethyst Angle

by C. Ryan Bymaster

  “I want to keep her off guard, that’s all.”

  “Sure, boss.” The doubt in his voice in grating. “I hope you plan on having her buy dinner.”

  “Durmet, you have much to learn about the way we mortals interact.”

  “Why learn how ants communicate? After a brief storm, they’re washed to sea.”

  I raise a brow at him. “So we’re ants now, are we?”

  “Not all, boss. You’re more like,” he clicks his nails together, “what’s a step above an ant?”

  I grin. “A morph-imp without fetters.”

  His tail stiffens. “A morph-imp who’s saved your life on countless occasions.”

  “How about a morph-imp who delivers that invitation?”

  “I’m not a runt, Giddy.”

  “This is our case, Durmet. We both have to be willing to do what is necessary.”

  “And getting the lady alone is necessary?”

  “Of course.”

  With a sigh, he drops the note, morphs into the same parrot Trip so adored, then grips it with a claw, careful enough not to tear it. “This better be worth the trouble,” he chirps.

  “No trouble at all,” I pronounce. And to prove it, I walk over and open the window for him. “See?”

  He’s out the window in a flash of green and yellow, but not before squawking a curved-beak curse at me.

  I watch him veer around the nearest buildings before spiraling up into the clear sky. “Ah, Durmet,” I say to the empty room, “What would I do without you?”

  Maybe I’ll spend some our coin on a few of those sweet pies he’s so fond of. Get one of those in front of him and he’s as docile and grateful as a newborn kitten. Closing the window, I head to my desk and put everything back in the drawers before pocketing a few silvers.

  The walk to Baker’s Row should do well to allow me to gather my thoughts on my actions for the days to come. I’ve always found there’s something about the smell of pastries that manages to ward off the sense of impending disaster.

  —-

  I spend my midday spending. Spending time at the market, spending a few silvers for necessities, and then one more silver to have the smallest of my telektric lamp crystals recharged by an honest light mage, one who dutifully writes my name down in her ledgers for the Aristocracy to revue at month’s end.

  I return home, satchel and hands overflowing, and barely make it through the front door before Durmet accosts me. His wings pepper me amid squeals of delight.

  “I could smell you coming a league away, Giddy,” he exclaims, practically dancing in the air like he’d been born a sprite.

  “Could not,” I say, shouldering the door closed. I whisper the locking incant and duck under a cloud of clutching talons and drops of demon saliva.

  “Peach,” he says, most affirmatively. “And … sugar-plum! I didn’t know they were in season.”

  I laugh as he takes another deep inhalation. “If ever I end up pushing stones, partner, Wrought Isles will be in good hands with your unerring talent for detecting.”

  “Yeah, boss.” He’s beyond listening. I could have called him a flee-ridden rat and he’d have bobbed his head just the same.

  The climb up the stairs is a practice in balance as my faithful companion hasn’t the mind to offer me any help. As punishment, I take my time unloading my burden, drawing each item out from my satchel and divvying the haul into business versus personal. My hidden smile grows wider with each passing beat until Durmet can take it no more.

  “By the time you’re done, the pies will have gone sour!”

  I glance back over my shoulder at him. “Did you deliver my letter?”

  “Of course,” he replies quickly.

  “Were you seen?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Will you put all this stuff away and order the office shelves for me?”

  “Of course!”

  I can torment him no more. I’m barely done nodding toward the pies and he’s already pouncing. He grips one, the sugar-plum, and flies to his corner, where he deposits it on his shelf, then soars back to grab the other.

  When he’s safely back in his nook, he gives me a harsh look before plunging ears-deep in the sugar-plum. I can’t help laughing. I think he tries saying something, but as of this day, I am quite unversed in what I’d call demon-pie-mouth speak.

  “I’m going to the Herchsten estate,” I tell him.

  He mouths a garbled response.

  “Haurice tried sticking the runt’s murder on me,” I say. “I want to know why.”

  Another mumble, tinted with plum and crust, comes from the corner.

  I sigh. Gathering up my six-spell and a knife, I slip one in my belt and the other into my boot. A long pull from the half-empty bottle of sailor’s brew ends my armament. I pause at the door.

  “As promised, I expect everything to be put away by the time I get back.”

  “Wait. What?” Durmet squeals. “I never agreed to such a thing!”

  Oh, now he can manage to string a set of intelligible words together. I don’t know if I want to groan or laugh.

  Somehow, I manage to do both simultaneously.

  10

  PAST AND PRESENT

  I reach the Folded Hills with the sun still high enough to warm the back of my neck. Even with Trip’s claim that he’d keep the Watch from harassing me, I’d still taken the long way around the city, swinging south and around the College and into the better districts of the city, then crossing Scripts River back north. No need to jab at a sleeping dragon—it may appear to have a full belly but could just as easily decide there’s room for more.

  I’m not fooling myself. I know I won’t be able to completely avoid the Watch. Heading to the scene of a murder makes that a forgone conclusion. As I near the road winding up to the Herchsten estate, I briefly contemplate taking my previous route, veering left and cutting through the orchards. But the thought of passing over the warded wall keeps my feet pointed straight ahead. I’ll have to work my way through whoever’s stationed at the estate’s entrance, but of the two evils, I’ll take the less painful. Physically speaking, that is.

  Tiny puffs of fine soil accompany each step I take up the hill, and when the wind finds its way around the hill to my right, it carries with it a teasing taste of some type of wildflower, and re-stirs the disturbed soil of my trailing footsteps.

  The wind continues to gently play with me, keeping me pleasant company until I reach the path leading to the house. Crushed stones, as white as sun-parched bones, bordered by knee-high berry bushes, red drops upon spine-covered leaves of deep green, direct me onward until they finally give way to stone. Stone road, stone wall, stone guardhouse just off to the side.

  “Doesn’t this just make our day?” someone exclaims from within the stone.

  “Gideon Knell,” another man announces, my name sounding more a curse than anything else.

  I dutifully stop my approach and warily eye the two watchmen as they exit the small guardhouse to take defensive stances between the estate and myself. I’ll take it as a positive sign that neither reach for their swords.

  Combined, their ages may have only a few years on my own, and their contemptuous sneers warn me that my reputation has preceded me. The heavy one, the younger of the two, was probably still gorging on his mother’s milk back when I wore the Watch pin, so whatever stories he’s heard of me had to have been second- or maybe even third-hand.

  “Captain says to play nice with you,” the heavy one says, “but only if it doesn’t interfere with our duties.”

  The other spits to the side and adds, “The place is still being maintained by the Watch, Knell. We don’t need outsiders interfering.”

  I pitch up on my toes and look past the two at the grey-and-green uniforms milling about the estate. As I look on, a pair of watchmen at the front entrance wave three magistrates inside.

  I settle back down and say, “And the Aristocracy is no doubt aiding in your … maintaining?�
��

  “We’re working together on this,” the heavy one says defensively, hand easing to the hilt of his sword.

  “Really? I just can’t see the magistrates dirtying their hands with something as tedious as a little old murder.”

  Both bristle at this, and I know I’ve hit a nerve.

  The Watch, first and foremost, is dedicated to the safety and wellbeing of the citizens of Wrought Isles. With the Aristocracy intimately involved, I suspect the actual murder investigation has been pushed down a few rungs on the ladder. Which means the involvement of the Watch has followed suit. Which in turn means these two keepers of the law have been relegated to nothing more than hired guards. It doesn’t matter who you are, how good or bad you are at your job, but when somebody comes in and takes over, puts you in your place, it’s got to be a blow to the ego. If anything, these two should be more welcoming to me than to the magistrates running amok behind them. At least I used to be one of them.

  Of course, me rubbing salt in their wounds doesn’t help. Before they can reply, with word or by sword, jogging steps approach from the side draw our attention.

  Juniper, one hand keeping her belted sword from jouncing into her thigh, calls out ahead. “I’ve got him, guys. It’s fine, I’ve got him.”

  The heavy one glares at me and the other washes his hands of the whole thing and heads back into the guardhouse.

  “I said it’s fine, Kerth,” Juniper tells the heavyset watchman as she stops next to him, facing me. She’s hardly out of breath from her quick jog, and when she puts a hand on Kerth’s shoulder, something inside him gives.

  “You let me know if you need any help,” he says to Juniper, his eyes fixed on mine like I’m now a competitive suitor as well as an intruder.

  “I will. Go on.” She angles her head at the guardhouse. “I won’t let him out of my sight.”

  Still thinking he has something to prove—or that I even give a drop about him—Kerth makes sure to look me up and down one more time before turning on his heel.

  “So,” I say, “Trip wants someone he can trust to keep an eye on me, eh?”

  “It’s not like that,” Juniper says, grabbing my elbow and leading me through the gate. I don’t glance inside the guardhouse as we pass. “It’s more like who of the Watch can handle being around you without wanting to put a fist through your teeth.”

  I flash her a mouthful. “And you drew the short straw.”

  “Keep talking and that straw won’t be only short thing to be drawn.” She glances down. Poignantly.

  I shuffle a few inches away in response, hands instinctively cupped to my nethers.

  As we near the steps leading up to the grand entrance, Juniper smiles and waves to the men stationed near the doors.

  “Trip says you and he reached some sort of accord,” she says to me.

  “A sort, yes.”

  She takes the steps two at a time, her shorter legs doing twice the work of mine. “Not everyone’s excited about that, as you have seen.” She nods to the closest watchman, whose intent on trying to drive his gaze through my skull. “As you can see,” she adds in a whisper.

  In an effort to present a civil front, I mimic Juniper’s nod to the man as we step over the threshold into the grand entry hall.

  The Herchsten estate is one of the original holdings up here in the northeast, and I can’t be sure, but I like to imagine it was here long before the College was founded, long before Wrought Isles had need of something as trivial as a city name.

  The entry room, as deep as it is wide, at one point in history served as the lone structure on the estate, probably just four thick walls and a slate roof. Who knows what it looked like back then, but now it’s wide open—two stories of polished redwood, gilt-encrusted and bas relief edges and ceiling, river-rock pillars, and more sitting tables and chairs than all the buildings of Fermenster Street together would ever hope to contain. Sunlight streams in from a large stained-glass window high on the far wall, gently bathing small sections in washes of ethereal color.

  Charcoal sketches and brilliant paintings adorn the walls, set precisely between flowing rich tapestries, and the floor is accented by small wool rugs thick enough to have made any local sheepherder a wealthy man. The place has a musty yet airy smell, gently undercut by the half-dozen or so porcelain vases dotting the foyer, crammed with enough colorful flowers to make my eyes hurt and my nose itch. Half of the flowers appear ready to drop the last of their petals and the rest have already begun to droop, but still they manage to add some life to the place, a desperate plea for what shouldn’t have been.

  Added on to either side of the entry hall are large wings, built to accommodate the live-in servants and the master of the estate. The east wing holds the kitchen, larder, and buttery, as well as servants’ quarters and access to the cellars while the west wing is—was—Anderest’s residence, complete with two libraries, a sitting room that doubles as an office, and more rooms than I can count on one hand.

  The weight of the place, the smells, the way the light spears down from windows on high, brings me back to my younger years. There’s a high shelf just to the left of where Juniper and I stand, and I know without looking that the half-circle violet-and-gold rug that lies before it isn’t there for aesthetic purposes. Anderest had it put there after I’d knocked a marble sculpture from the shelf, to cover up the gouge my mishap had left in the floor.

  “You all right, Giddy?”

  I come back to the present, and find not only Juniper, but a few watchmen and magistrates looking askance at me. I put on my business façade and nod.

  “What are they doing?” I ask, indicating the magistrates perusing everything that isn’t nailed to the floor. It brings to mind finicky carrion birds, flitting here and there as if there’s a better morsel hidden just under the next rock or bush.

  Juniper scoffs. “Without Master Herchsten’s will, the Magician’s Aristocracy is laying claim to any and all magical items in the estate.”

  My gaze travels over to her, guided by her disgusted tone.

  She shrugs. “I have nothing against the Aristocracy,” she says in a careful manner, “but this does seem premature.”

  I agree with her, but don’t vocalize my thoughts. It’s a dark road when a person and the Aristocracy become at odds with each other. I don’t want to lead her down that road. But, I also don’t want to dissuade her from drawing her own conclusions.

  I stare daggers at the magistrates, at their pawing hands and carts and sacks full of Anderest’s belongings. They have no right defiling this house, scooping up memories of my friend and tucking them away as if they were simply things to be studied or discarded.

  June presses an elbow into my side. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  I unclench my fists and force myself to look away from the callous pillaging before me.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You sure? We can come back later, when they’ve gone back to the College.”

  I shake my head. “No. I said I’m fine.”

  “So,” she says me after a brief silence that does nothing to defeat the doubt that broods in her eyes. “Where to?”

  “Haurice.”

  She nods and leads me to the west wing. If the gazes tracking me were any more heated, I’d need a salve to sooth my blistered skin. The adjoining hallway is lit with numerous telektric lamps, and it isn’t until we reach the sitting room that we find ourselves in the natural light of day once more. Four windows set in the gray stone are thrown wide open to let some fresh air wash over the long table serving as the centerpiece.

  At the head of the table, facing the southern door Juniper and I stepped through, sits Haurice, with a young scribe seated to one side and an older magistrate standing on the other. The short-haired scribe finishes inking a page and sets it aside to dry, and gauging by the thick pile in front of her, she’s been at it for quite some time.

  Both Haurice and the magistrate, a talented wind mage according to the three
thick green stripes trimmed in blue running down his grey sleeves, look up at our intrusion while the scribe takes the opportunity to lean back, stretch, and shake her well-worked wrists.

  “I had hoped not to see you,” Haurice says, the words spilling from his mouth like bile.

  “I’m sorry if your insinuations regarding the young boy’s death had no teeth,” I return with as much pleasantry as I can muster.

  Haurice flinches at that. We both know I didn’t kill the boy. And we both know how hard he tried to lay the blame at my feet.

  “You may leave us, Magistrate,” Juniper says as we walk around the table toward Haurice.

  “I’m sorry, Watchman Leesh, but I am to accompany Mister Boyell at all times until the estate has been handled accordingly.”

  “We have private matters to discuss,” Juniper says. “Matters that do not concern the estate, or the Aristocracy, directly.”

  The magistrate shuffles on his feet as he looks from Haurice to Juniper to me. “I have orders,” he repeats, though with a touch of defeat.

  “And I have orders,” Juniper replies in a way that reminds the magistrate that there’s still an investigation into a murder to be conducted. By rights of law, the duty of the Watch outweighs the duty of the Magistrate if it directly pertains to public safety. And last time I checked, locating a murderer tipped the scale in the Watch’s favor.

  “I understand completely,” the magistrate offers. “But I will remain just outside the door. I will insure your privacy in this matter.”

  “Thank you, Magistrate.” Juniper smiles in gratitude, though everyone in the room, minus the scribe, knows it has nothing to do with privacy. The magistrate will incant some form of sound-deadening ward around the room but he’ll be on this side of it, listening, and he’ll report every word he hears.

  “Shall I?” the scribe asks in the lull.

  “Thank you, yes,” Haurice says to her. “Whatever the kitchen has to offer, please do not hesitate to enjoy.”

  The wiry girl stands, stretches once more, and leaves. As soon as she’s out of sight, I round on Haurice. “What in the hells did you think you would accomplish by accusing me of the runt’s death?”