The Amethyst Angle

by C. Ryan Bymaster

  “Good to see you too, Zwim,” I say, a genuine smile splitting my face. As I situate myself, he retakes his seat and shuffles and stacks the papers he’d been reading to one side of his desk.

  “And to what do I owe this pleasure?” he asks.

  I plunge right in. “I’ve had the pleasure of more than one encounter with men of the Arcanium lately.” And, yes, as soon as I’ve said it, I realize the terrible choice of words.

  Zwim laughs, catching my meaning. “And you sent them back here reporting to me with empty pockets and bloodied knuckles.”

  I blink at that.

  “To you?” I lean back in my chair, aghast. “You sent them?”

  Zwim spreads his hands and stares at me like I’m a first-year inductee. “But of course, Gideon. You were my student, and as such, you are my responsibility. You must pay your monthly tithes to us. I can’t have you skirting your obligations to the Arcanium. It wouldn’t do well for my reputation.”

  I shake my head. “You could have at least sent someone more obliged to wag their tongue and not their fists.”

  He raises a brow. “Would you have listened if I had?”

  I open my mouth to reply, then snap it shut under his scrutinizing gaze, the intended lie on my lips dead before birth.

  “Still,” I say, “you could have told them to handle the manner a bit more delicately.”

  Zwim chuckles and glances around his office as if to say, You do realize this is the Arcanium?

  Point taken. I pull out the coins I owe in tithe and place them on his desk. Zwim scoops them up, counts them—as if I couldn’t be trusted—and stacks them atop the papers he set aside when I came in.

  He inclines his head at the coins. “It is a small pittance for the training you received within these walls, Gideon. All others pay the tithe; so must you.”

  I pluck at the sleeves of my jacket. “All others actually learned something useful while studying here.”

  Zwim’s voice takes on an edge when he says, “Are you to say I taught you nothing?”

  “No, no,” I quickly spit out. “But me, the time I spent here …” I shake my head and rest my hands on his desk in an attempt to keep them from balling into fists.

  Zwim’s features soften. “It’s true, I’ll admit. Never have I seen someone of such great lineage have absolutely no affinity for the arcane. Well, other than that absolutely unique talent of yours.”

  He leans forward and places a hand atop mine. “Your father was one of the greatest battle mages of our era. Arcane spells and incants came as easily to him as a snap of the fingers and a flick of the wrist. When you came here, I had such high hopes that you’d follow in your father’s footsteps.” He pauses, shoulders rising and falling with a heavy breath. “But your talents manifested in such unorthodox ways.”

  “Unorthodox? Unorthodox?” I pull my hands back. “I’m a healer who can’t heal. An arcane healer! Who ever heard of such a thing?”

  “We have healers aplenty in employ here,” Zwim says in attempt to placate me.

  “Yes, but they draw upon natural forces. I don’t. I can’t.”

  Zwim stands and walks around his desk. I track him warily, not as prey does talon, but as student does punishment. As he passes in front of his window, he trails a hand along the bottom sill. Outside, I catch sight of a silhouette perched atop a gargoyle. Durmet is out there, listening. Watching.

  I lose sight of Durmet as Zwim comes to stand by my side, demanding my full attention. His eyes glitter in the light and I know what he is about to say before he opens his mouth.

  “Necromancy,” he intones. “To any outside these walls, such a power is deemed unnatural. But here I stand, as natural as can be. A fish swims, a mole digs, a raven flies. Natural is only unnatural to those who do not understand.”

  I balk at his choice of words. Especially at the raven part. Zwim is ever perceptive. Where most men dull with age, Gerhardt Zwim grows only keener. Was it mere coincidence, or had he been telling me that he is aware of my morph-imp partner sitting just beyond the window pane?

  I risk a glance outside and find the gargoyle sitting alone.

  A gentle hand falls to my shoulder and I look up as Zwim says, “One day we will understand fully what you are. I promise, Gideon. I owe you that much. And your father much more.”

  I thank him with my eyes then ask the question that brought me here. “You know why I’m here?”

  “I do,” he says, leaving my side to once again take his seat opposite me. “Anderest Herchsten. He was a good man. Quite intelligent as well, I recall. I am sorry for your loss.”

  “We’d fallen out of contact over the years,” I admit.

  “If you are asking me to beckon to his departed soul, it is far too late I’m afraid. There are ways, but—”

  I raise my hands at that. “No, no. That’s not why I’m here.” The thought of pulling Anderest’s disembodied soul back clenches my gut. I’d never do that to him. Anderest deserves his peace after what had been done to him. He’s gone, but I’m not. Nor will I give up on him, no matter who or what tries stopping me.

  Zwim’s brows shoot up in question.

  I take a deep breath, an oyster-diver readying for the last grab of the day, and say, “I need to know why the Arcanium is so interested in the case. And by the case, I mean Vayvanette Herchsten herself.”

  Zwim leans back in his chair, chewing his lips in thought.

  “Please, Master Zwim,” I say, trying not to plead. “You aren’t the only one to have sent men from the Arcanium after me. The last lot tried collecting more than coin.”

  The slight change in his features tells me that this is news to him. News which he does not take too kindly.

  Could it be he cares more for my well-being more than I had thought? Then again, it could be the fact that someone is acting on the behest of the Arcanium without Zwim’s knowledge. Quarter-elf he may be, but he’s got ego enough to fill in the rest.

  “How … invested in the girl are you?” he asks.

  “She’s my client.”

  “Well-paying?”

  A pillowcase’s worth, I think, but instead say, “In a fashion.”

  Again, a bout of lip-chewing thought and Zwim says, “Anderest Herchsten was a great mind, as I’ve rightly pointed out. Clever beyond his years. Clever still after. It has been whispered, and just whispered, mind you, that he’d found a way to store raw magical power.” Here, Zwim raises an elegant finger in anticipation of my next words.

  Raw magical power, the base essence from which the main classes of magic spur from.

  “Yes,” he continues when I shut my mouth. “I know; mageworks crystals abound for such storage. But,” again that finger is raised, “what he has created is said to be able to store all magical energies. Not simply fire, or wind, or light, but all magic. Raw, pure magic, contained in a mageworks crystal indefinitely, without allowing even a tendril to escape. Anderest Herchsten had found a way to do circumvent that law.”

  “Fundamental laws of magic state—”

  “Don’t turn the lecture on me, Gideon. All magicians know the fundamentals, foremost being that stored magic infallibly returns to the ether. Herchsten, not a magical whisker on his body, found a way to break that unbreakable fundament. Whatever he created is worth more than anything most precious, and I’ll be heaven-sent before the Aristocracy gets their hands on it before the Arcanium does.”

  He leans forward with each consecutive sentence, and by the time he’s finished, his elbows are on his desk. His face has driven through the space between us like a wedge hammered into firewood and I curse the sturdy craftsmanship of my chair as it fails to bend to the weight I press back into it.

  I know his anger—rarely ever to show in such a way—is not directed at me, but still the ire of a practiced necromancer is not something a mortal takes without pause. Any respectable grown man should never have cause to wet himself, but this very moment threatens to find me quite unrespectable.

>   Perhaps he sees the discomfort in my eyes, perhaps he has some heretofore undiscovered talent of hearing the scream of the leather and wood of my chair, but Zwim gathers his raw anger and drags it back into the deep hell from which it had crawled. Only when he has settled back do I lean forward.

  My blood and breath flow again. I’m more than certain that though my old teacher didn’t send the last thugs out after me, he was at least privy to their directive. And that directive was to obtain and question Vayvanette.

  My client.

  Murder, theft, and now protection. I should have filled that pillowcase thrice over for what this case is evolving into.

  “Master,” I say with as much respect I can muster. “Vayvanette is my client. It would do me no good if she happened to be spirited away before I’ve figure this mess out.”

  Zwim taps his desk. “Perhaps you should recall your early lessons here, Gideon. Namely, it is best to walk away if the path you’re on leads to your downfall.”

  I give a gentle shake my head. Not to discount his words, but because I can’t walk away now. Not only would that prove me a failure at the only job left to me, but because I can’t leave Vayvanette to the wolves. I owe Anderest that much. He watched over me, I will watch over her.

  “I have to see this through.” I sit up straighter and take a steadying breath. “I would ask that you refrain from harming the girl until I bring Anderest’s murderer to justice.”

  Zwim’s brows lift. “What justice would that be? You no longer work for the Watch.”

  My shoulders stiffen. “I won’t kill the murderer.” I hope I sound more convincing than I feel.

  “And your client?” Zwim asks.

  My lips part in an unspoken question.

  My old teacher searches my eyes—for what, I’ve no clue. After a long moment he says, “I don’t fault you for seeking the murderer. In fact, I applaud your conviction. But you may be working for the wrong person, Gideon. You could accomplish your task of finding the murderer while earning more than the girl could ever offer.”

  His tone sets me on edge. “What do you know?”

  “Only what you should have asked yourself from the very beginning. It’s not what I know, it’s what the girl knows.” He taps his desk again with each coming point. “She comes upon her murdered grandfather, his vault has been ransacked, and instead of going to the Watch, she comes to you?”

  “I’ve already addressed that. Anderest told her about me.”

  “And perhaps he told her about the contents of his vault.” Another eye-searching moment then, “The same vault left wide open upon her discovery of her grandfather.”

  How does he know that piece of information? Does he have contacts in the Watch? It couldn’t have come from the magistrates. The Aristocracy would burn their tongues out before wagging them in front of the Arcanium.

  I return the favor and search his eyes for a moment. “What, exactly, are you saying?”

  “We want what was in that vault. The Head Magistrate wants it as well. And the girl, your client, knows what was in there.” He spreads his hands, inviting me to draw my own conclusions.

  “She wouldn’t have stolen from her own grandfather,” I protest, hoping the doubt lingering in my thoughts doesn’t vocalize its presence. “It would be like stealing from herself. No doubt Anderest left everything to her.”

  “No doubt,” he repeats sardonically. “Although, there is the matter of the missing will.”

  And I still haven’t the foggiest of how that fits in with it all. “I can’t believe she’s capable of doing such a thing.”

  “Perhaps you should learn who your client truly is before you commit yourself fully to the task at hand.”

  “I’m already committed.”

  Zwim taps his desk a final time. “Then I’ve taught a fool, Gideon. Your father would surely reach up from whatever hell he’s landed in to slap you left from right and back again.”

  With that, Zwim stands and comes around to offer me his hand. I grip it, and he helps me to stand before guiding me to the door.

  “I won’t promise that I can keep the Arcanium out of this issue,” he says in a lighter, almost fatherly tone, “but I will do my best to ensure you are not unduly hurt in our endeavors. In return, I ask that you think with your brain, not your nethers, and ascertain what the girl truly wants in all of this.”

  I chew on his words as he opens the door, and find I don’t enjoy the taste.

  “I was your father’s friend,” Zwim says, picking up on my somber mood. “Just as I am yours.”

  It is the best of friends that make the worst of enemies. That was one of the first lessons Master Zwim drilled into my brain.

  I head into the corridor, all shuffling steps and churning thoughts. At the last moment before it closes, I turn to plant a hand on the door.

  “One last thing then, Master?”

  Zwim responds with a deferential incline of his head.

  “What is this item that was in the vault? What exactly am I looking for?”

  “A mageworks crystal,” he says with little thought, “the size of a melon, if the rumors are true. If Anderest succeeded in what he set out to create.”

  My lips dry and my throat constricts. “What type of crystal?”

  Fiery eyes bore into mine and I have to force myself to betray nothing when Zwim says, “An amethyst.”

  15

  BLACK AND WHITE AND GREY

  A drizzle greets me outside the Crag and I turn up my collar as I walk and think. A mageworks crystal capable of retaining raw magical energy in what Anderest claimed would keep in an indefinite state? The ramifications of such a thing could revolutionize mageworks.

  Telektric lamps would require less effort to maintain, heating crystals would become more efficient for steam driven machinery, wind crystals would spur more turbines. Even spirit energy, undoubtedly the most finicky of energies, could be contained indefinitely for future use.

  One small mageworks crystal could send Wrought Isles into an economic upheaval, for better or worse.

  And then there would be the inevitable strife brought upon by such a crystal.

  If this amethyst could store raw magic, then a firemage could divest his magic into it and a windmage could then later draw upon it for his own uses. Hells, a holy priestess could entice her god to fill the crystal with magic and then hand it over to an arcane priestess to use in a dark ritual to summon a devil. It would turn every person with just a spark of magical talent into a god, limited only by how much magic they’ve stored in the amethyst.

  Whoever holds it would have a means of controlling magic, would shake the Magician’s Aristocracy and the governing foundations of the city. Not to mention if it fell into the hands of the likes of the Arcanium. An unlimited source of magic when magic is failing would finally give the dark mages the upper hand in their cold war against all that is good and holy. They would wage war against the Aristocracy, wiping out anyone that stood in their way. How many innocent lives would be caught between the two opposing factions? Wrought Isles would be awash in blood.

  All because of one crystal Anderest Herchsten may have created.

  If Zwim was certain in his description, and I wouldn’t second guess the necromancer’s certainty in this matter, then the amethyst I’d grabbed from Anderest’s place was proof that the old man had succeeded.

  Anderest kept all his goodies locked in his vault. Those special to him he made replicas of and displayed them in his room. What I had taken to be a pretty bauble must be a replica of the real thing. I don’t see Anderest displaying the amethyst out in the open if he had yet to accomplish what he’d set out to. It would be like one of Vayvanette’s students proudly displaying a paper they had gotten derogatory marks on.

  Like every other road I’ve taken since this case started, this one leads straight back to Vayvanette. The girl’s been on my mind more than ever and Zwim’s warnings regarding her leave my mental feet blistered from the constant pac
ing of my thoughts. If the amethyst is out there, do I owe it to her to return it to her? Can I trust her to do what it right?

  All’s hells, I don’t even know if I could trust myself to do what is right if I got my hands on such a … weapon. I’ll have to cross that bridge when I get there.

  A few errant drops of water gather at the base of my neck to join forces and slowly work their way down my back. I shiver. Best thing is to solve this case and be done with Vayvanette and the lot of them. Then why, curse my eyes, does a part of me wish this case would go on forever? That if this case stretches on to the last breath I take, it would be worth it to have Vayvanette there with me the entire time?

  I leave the last of the outlying buildings of the Crag behind me and am left on a darkened patch of winding road heading south. Here the moisture doesn’t hang as heavy in the air but it does have the effect of dampening the sounds of Durmet’s aerial approach and descent.

  I catch sight of him at the last moment before he hits the ground. One second he’s in his raven form, an obsidian stain on the velvet darkness of the night, and the next he’s a cat, a splash of alabaster in the shadows. It happens quicker than a flea’s bite—just before he lands, he blurs; talons and wing tips become paws and tail, and without missing a beat, he’s padding alongside me.

  He angles his head my way. “How’d it go, boss?”

  “How much did you hear?”

  His ears twitch. “I couldn’t make out much. Your voices grew muffled close to the beginning. I think he had an emerald embedded in his window. Not strong enough to block out all sound, but enough wind energy coursing through the glass to keep me from making out more than a few specific words.”

  Makes sense. Even high up in the Crag with little possibility of someone lingering outside a window eight stories up, the masters of the arcane arts took no chances with their secrets and privacy.

  I give Durmet the gist of what was said. “I think he knew you were out there.” I scrub my chin, absently reminding myself to shave. “I wonder if he activated the wind crystal the moment I stepped foot in his office? Or was it when he walked by the window?”