The Amethyst Angle

by C. Ryan Bymaster

  “Kind of distrustful, if you ask me.”

  “The Crag is built on distrust.”

  “That would explain the man I saw lingering about the room right next to Master Zwim’s”

  I stop and look down. “What man? What did he look like?”

  Durmet somehow manages to shrug, his sharp shoulders jutting up momentarily like furry mountain tops. “He had his back to me the entire time. At least those times I buzzed by the window he did.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Standing. Wild guess? Listening. Though I couldn’t tell if he could hear you much better than I could.”

  Great. Another card thrown on the table. Could be the man was simply there to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid. Could be he was there to make sure Zwim didn’t do anything stupid. I’m starting to think that “could be” is going to be carved into my tombstone.

  “Thanks for keeping an eye out, Durmet. It’s good to know I’ve got at least one person watching my back.”

  Durmet’s tail twitches and he exposes a glistening fang up at me.

  “Sorry. One demon,” I correct myself. “The world is grand when I have more trust in a morph-imp than my fellow humans.”

  “There’s hope for you yet, boss. If only the rest of your kind would see it that way.”

  I grin down at him. “If only the rest of your kind would be of your kind.”

  He purrs his response and gets moving, setting the pace for the both of us.

  We walk on in silence for a while, digesting Zwim’s words and warnings. Up ahead, the city glows in nocturnal bliss. Never really caring but now with my thoughts on the amethyst, I pick apart the difference in lights—telektric lights steady and strong, gas and oil flames wavering in the breeze. I can’t help but wonder how life would change if Anderest’s amethyst does as promised, if his mageworks crystal could be replicated for altruistic purposes.

  Would the poor have access to telektric lighting at all hours? Hells, would I? The coin I would save on oil alone would be significant, not to mention the coin I spend on having my crystals recharged on a regular basis. The cost of charging would drop dramatically which, in turn, would lead to an upheaval of shops that rely on having the steady income from recharging crystals. They wouldn’t have to close shop for good, but they would be pressed to seek alternate means of making ends meet.

  How many other people would have their lives changed, for the better or worse?

  These thoughts carry me through the city, down litter-strewn alleys and across rain-speckled lawns, until I reach the Burroughs. Every other telektric lamp here is dead or on its last dregs of energy and I start to imagine my neighborhood aglow at night, people congressing on the street and under the stars, safe and secure. That would be a warming sight.

  I turn left onto Fermenster, a wistful smile on my lips, until I notice a lawful stain sitting on my stoop. I do well not to miss a step.

  “Head around back,” I warn Durmet in a whisper. “I doubt he’ll put two and two together, but I don’t want him recognizing you.”

  “Hmph,” Durmet grumbles. “If that’s the case, I’ll go and scratch at little Lizza’s window. See if she has any scraps for me. She’s utterly powerless when I’m in this form, all fluffy and doe-eyed.”

  “Durmet,” I say to his backside before he hits the shadows between houses, “no matter what form you’re in, you’re never doe-eyed.”

  He angles his head back my way, eyes aglitter, and states, “Human children are so gullible. They see what they want to see.” The shadows swallow him, and I’m left alone on the street.

  Well, relatively alone.

  Trip stands up from my porch and dusts his backside as he takes note of my approach.

  “I’m assuming,” I say as I brush past him and up my steps, “that since you haven’t taken an unconventional entrance to my office, this visit is purely in your official capacity?”

  “Good to see you, too,” Trip says under his breath.

  I shoulder the door open and head inside, leaving him out on the stoop. Other than the spare light creeping in through the open door from the street, my place is dark as the underside of a coffin lid. I’m already creaking up my stairs when that shaft of light disappears as Trip closes the door behind him.

  I’ve been living here for years, most of them in the dark, so it’s no hard feat for me to navigate my office using just the trickle of moonlight from the windows. Judging by the mumbled curses coming from the stairs, I should have enough time to have a seat behind my desk, open my drawer, and grab a bottle before he finds his way.

  “Holy hells, Giddy,” Trip calls out. “Light a cursed lamp, would you?!”

  I do just that, but not before I make sure I wipe all traces of a smirk from my face.

  “About time,” Trip says as he stomps through my office door.

  I adjust the wick of my desk lamp and nod at the open chair before my desk—and the full cup I set down as reward for him making it up without breaking a leg.

  “You can be positively unwelcoming,” Trip says over the creak of the chair as he settles in.

  “Oh, you deduced as much?”

  He drains his cup in response and gestures for a refill. I oblige him.

  And wait.

  After a contest of wills that involves sips and stares, Trip breaks first.

  “Brooman,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Brooman,” Trip repeats, as if he’s thinking aloud. “No. Broomfield. Broomford? Now, if I were a woman, Broomhilda would work perfectly.”

  “What are you going on about, Trip?”

  “Names I should consider taking. It seems that since you’ve landed this case, all I’ve been doing is sweeping your messes under the rug.”

  There’s a bite to my voice as I say, “If you’re talking about the anywhos who attacked me and my client outside the Far and Wide, well, that wasn’t my fault.”

  “Those anywhos were working for the Arcanium and you went and left one for dead, one with a hole in his chest, and two more unconscious.”

  “Like I said, they attacked me. Unprovoked, I might add.”

  “Unprovoked?” he snarls. “From what I hear from witnesses at the Far and Wide, you practically lit off a signal fire advertising your presence there last evening.”

  I spread my hands. “A man and woman can’t enjoy an evening out?”

  “You can’t even enjoy working telektric lights,” Trip points out.

  “Business expenses and all.”

  “Well, your business is racking up debts,” Trip says. “I had to tell the magistrates that what happened was a mugging gone badly. Convinced them that you were the innocent in all this, that those we found in the street were cutpurses and you acted only in self-defense.”

  I lean forward to put my cup down. “It was self-defense, Trip.”

  “Everything is self-defense with you.” He matches my posture and says, “You brought down an overhead catwalk, Gideon! Destruction of public property. Who do you think has to pay for that?”

  “It was that or have my client kidnapped right from under me.”

  His voice becomes tired, either from this game we’re playing or the position he’s been put in. “They want me to bring you in for questioning.”

  “You’re in charge of the Watch, Trip,” I say. “Since when do you let the Aristocracy tell you how to do your job?”

  “Since you took this cursed case, Gideon!”

  I watch as he restrains himself from climbing over the desk. It’s like watching a volcano try not to explode.

  When he settles down he says, “The only thing you have going for you right now is that one of my men recognized the dead woman beneath the rubble as an arcane mage that’s known to hire herself out for arson and murder. That was just enough credit to keep you walking free.”

  “See,” I say, all false smiles and attitude. “It all worked out in the end. A known murderer was brought to justice.”

 
; “Death is not justice, Gideon,” Trip says, voice sharp and cold as the steel he wears at his hip. “Or did you forget why you no longer wear the pin of the Watch?”

  I refuse to churn up the salted soil of the past. But I won’t let the verbal sword cut only one way. “Did you forget why you joined the Watch? What happened to protecting the innocent? To doing your job as you see fit for the good of the people, and not the Aristocracy?”

  “What would you have me do, huh?” he blurts out.

  “Help me.”

  We both stiffen as my words sink in. I hadn’t meant to say them. They just slipped out. I look at the bottle and my thrice-refilled cup. It’s a good enough scapegoat.

  The flame of the lantern dances in the silence between us. Trip leans back in his chair, changes his mind, and leans forward. He puts his elbows on my desk and both hands around his cup, which he stares into as he sloshes the liquor around.

  He doesn’t look up when he asks, “How bad is it?” His words are soft but direct.

  “Bad,” I admit. “Bad enough I went to the Arcanium tonight.”

  “What?” That causes him to lose interest in his cup. He stares at me. If his jaw drops any lower, he’ll have to buy a third boot. “They sent people after you, and you what? Decided to make it easier on them? What were you thinking?”

  I like to think there was a hint of concern for me in his voice, so I keep my own light and honest when I reply. “I needed answers, Trip. I wouldn’t have gone if it wasn’t necessary.”

  He shakes his head. “You should have never taken this case, Gideon.”

  “There was no one else, Trip. Vayvanette didn’t know who else to go to.” I leave the unspoken implication that the Watch was as good as useless in this current scenario in the back of my throat. I won’t let the liquor lubricate any more words that I might regret.

  Trip sighs. “It’s the girl, isn’t it? You’ve made this personal.”

  “Anderest was a friend. It was always personal.”

  “The girl isn’t Anderest.”

  “Either way,” I shrug.

  He sidesteps that issue and asks, “Did you at least get anything out of the bastards at the Arcanium? The fact that you’re still breathing has to mean something.”

  How much do I tell him? How deep does the Aristocracy have their claws in him? I’m still mentally deliberating when Trip speaks again.

  “Giddy, if you want my help, you need to let me in. I told you from the beginning that I’d give you leeway with dealing with the less desirables of Wrought Isles. Don’t tell me I’ve made a bad decision.”

  I go to take another sip but think better of it. Instead, I stand and walk over to where Anderest’s clock is ticking away the minutes. Two hours before midnight. I slide it over and grab the amethyst, then turn and toss it to Trip.

  He catches it with ease and looks from it to me and back again.

  “Pretty,” he says, uncertain of what he’s supposed to say.

  “I got it from Anderest’s place.”

  “And?”

  “It’s a replica,” I say, coming around my desk to stand at Trip’s side. “Anderest supposedly created one that can indefinitely hold magical energy. Any type of magical energy.”

  He looks up at me. “Supposedly?”

  “The original wasn’t in his vault, so I can’t be altogether sure.”

  “How do you know there was an original?”

  “It’s the way Anderest works.” I point to the amethyst. “That there is proof he succeeded. A trophy of sorts.”

  After setting the amethyst set next to his cup, Trip asks, “You think that he was murdered for the crystal?”

  “I do.”

  “What would it be worth?” His eyes travel between me and the crystal.

  “No clue. Enough to kill for.”

  “And you think the Arcanium did just that?”

  “I did. But only at first. After going there, I realized I was wrong.”

  He chews his lip for a second then nods in agreement. “I get it. If they murdered Anderest to get to the amethyst, they wouldn’t be searching for it. They’d already have it, stolen from his vault. I’m assuming that’s why they’re after you?”

  “Not me, exactly.”

  “The granddaughter,” Trip concludes. “Huh. Then, you weren’t lying when you said the arcane mage tried kidnapping her.”

  Anger heats my words as I say through my teeth, “You thought I was lying?”

  “It’s been a while since we’ve worked together, Gideon. I don’t know what to make of who you are now, of how to take your word.”

  That actually stings more than I want to show. I put my back to him so my expression doesn’t betray me. “I never lied to you, Trip.”

  We both know what I’m talking about, and my words take us back in time. Unless Anderest has also found a way to change the past, there’s nothing to be done for it. Confident that I’ve got my expression under control, I turn back to Trip.

  He’s not looking at me. Seems he’s found his fingernails of certain interest.

  “Trip, my visit to the Arcanium led to more than just learning about the stolen amethyst.”

  Now he looks up.

  I continue on, getting to the hard truth of the matter. “I need to find out everything I can about Vayvanette. She may not be who she claims to be. If everyone else knows about the amethyst, then why hasn’t she mentioned it? I need to know why she wants her grandfather’s murderer found.”

  “You no longer think it’s a matter of closure for her?”

  I place the amethyst back on the shelf next to the clock. “I don’t think it ever was, to be honest. Too much revolves around her. I don’t want that to be the case—trust me, I hope I’m wrong about this—but I won’t know if I don’t do some digging.”

  Trip is hard-headed, quick to judge, and a horrible friend. But slow on the uptake, he is not. He sighs as he sees where this is leading.

  “You need to get into the archives at the College.” He sounds about as thrilled about the prospect as a one-legged man in a three-mile race.

  “Unless you know someplace else that has records going back as far as people have been writing. The archives will shine some light on Vayvanette, on the entire Herchsten name.”

  Trip stands, kills the last of his liquor in a violent swig, and puts his cup down before walking to the window. His back to me, hands clasped behind him, moonlight molded to his sword hilt, Trip presents to me the stubborn man I first met when I’d joined the Watch. Back then, the law was black and white, at least in Trip’s eyes. And now …

  I nearly regret the decision he has to make.

  I’ve mucked up the streets with bodies and destruction. Trip is Captain of the Watch. One demands the attention of the other. But even Trip has to finally see the grey in it all. Force me to drop the case and allow a murderer to go free, or turn a blind eye to my past transgressions and see this thing through.

  His shoulders swell, his back stiffens, and after a heavy moment, he exhales.

  “Fine,” he says. “Fine.”

  I get the feeling he’s speaking to himself. Only when he turns do I become the target of his words. “I escort you. There and back. You are not to leave my side. The Aristocracy wants nothing more than to bring you to heel and we’ll be walking in through their front door.”

  “The archives are below the eastern quad so it won’t be the front door,” I say with a forced smirk. “More like the side door.”

  “Holy hells, Gideon! This isn’t a game.”

  So much for my attempt at lightening the mood. “Never said it was, Trip. But someone’s playing me like it is, and unless we figure out who, Anderest’s killer will never be brought to justice.”

  Trip barks out a laugh. “We. Hmph. We. If it’s we, then we do things my way.”

  I stare him in the eye and determine he won’t budge on this. I concede with a nod.

  “Good. Starting with your six-spell,” Trip says, his gaze se
aring through my coat to my holstered wand.

  “Fine.” Dog, meet bone. I open my top drawer then draw my six-spell, quickly dropping it in before he can get two good looks at it. “Satisfied?” I say, loud enough to be heard over the slamming of the drawer.

  “Hardly, but considering the circumstances, it’ll have to do. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “Well then,” I say, “now we at least see eye to eye on something.”

  16

  CHRONICLES

  We leave Fermenster Street with little more than an hour ’til midnight, as neither one of us wants to wait until morning to get to the College. On my part, the later we hit the College, the less chance of there being magistrates out in the halls. On Trip’s part, well, I’d like to believe he just wants to offer his help to me in a timely manner. I’d like to, but we both know he wants this case done and over with to be rid of both my presence and the Head Magistrate’s interference in his duties as Captain of the Watch.

  I had no time to leave Durmet a note regarding my current predicament or destination. I’d have preferred to but I couldn’t exactly come up with a sane reason to write out a note to my pet … all’s hells, what form was Durmet in last time Trip visited? Either way, as far as Trip’s concerned, pets can’t read. I only hope that Durmet was keeping an eye or ear out while Trip was in my office.

  As we make our way toward the College, ramshackle buildings are soon replaced with the well-maintained residences on the northeastern outskirts of the Burroughs. The people living here are blessed with coin enough to maintain the plaster and paint of their homes and even in the drab dead of night I can make out splashes of color here and there: flags and pinions wrestling with the breeze that proclaims one house or another to be of certain profession or family name, flowerbeds and hedges cultivated to precise aesthetic purpose, and the new trend of painting shutters and doors in garish hues.

  The upkeep alone on the exteriors of these houses is more than most people on Fermenster spend on food in a month. Then again, many on Fermenster Street rely on the odd jobs these very houses provide simply on the upkeep of their homes. Sad affair when the people talented enough to keep these houses looking brilliant will never know such splendor in their own estates.