The Amethyst Angle

by C. Ryan Bymaster

  As we pass on through Central Market, ghostly quiet in these hours, two men in uniforms, their silver trim flashing in the moonlight, come up from behind and begin to follow Trip and me at a respectable distance. Instinctively I reach for my six-spell, to feel its reassuring presence.

  My hand pats nothing but an empty holster.

  “You really think I’d ambush you?” Trip scolds me in a tired voice. “After all we’ve been through, you still don’t trust me?”

  “Purely habit.” I ball my hand and force it to my side. “I hate being the only one at the party without a gift.”

  “A precaution,” Trip says. “They’re here to keep your friends from the Arcanium at bay.”

  “And who’s to keep your friends at bay?”

  Trip merely scoffs and ducks between two empty stalls. I follow, close on his heels, and after winding through a series of cold fire pits that serve the market during the day, we pass through an unmanned checkpoint on our way to the wall that divides the market from the inner city. There’s a jingle then a click as Trip pulls out his master keychain and finds the correct one to the iron gate in the wall.

  I follow Trip through and then eye the two watchmen as they squeeze by us. I don’t recognize either one, but from the glares they send my way as they pass, it’s clear they recognize me. They fan out ahead while Trip locks the gate behind us.

  I graciously allow him to lead the way. He shakes his head, knowing full well I don’t want to put my back to him. I let him get a few steps ahead on the stone walkway just for good measure. Up ahead, past fountains and bridges cresting over meandering channels, lays the College, lit by telektric lamps seated behind stained glass. It’s unnatural to see so much unwavering light. Every square inch of the four-block span the College dominates is exposed in varying hues like some first-year artist’s eager attempt to use his entire pallet in one sitting and call it a day.

  The outer wall, about half again as tall as I am, had once been a solid defensive barrier, but over the years, the need for security waned and the wall was cannibalized and remodeled into something a touch more inviting. The impenetrable stone wall’s been reduced and refined to a series of wide-open arches topped with overflowing vines that grow so thick they hide entire sections of the structure.

  We take the perimeter walkway around to the eastern entrance. Each cardinal direction is named for one of the major mageworks classifications. Here on the eastern face, the Spirit Gate is lit with peaceful blue and lavender hues, which has given rise to the nickname, “The Moon Gate.” Clear opposite on the western side, lit in brilliant yellows and whites, is the Light Gate. It stands to reason why city folk call that the Sun Gate. North, in its emerald-tinted hues, and south, grand in its orange and red lights, are the Wind and Fire Gates.

  We could easily duck through one of the hundred arches in the wall to enter the complex but Trip leads me to the central arch, where the guard station is posted. Every sixth arch we pass has a small kiosk attached that, during the day, would have a second-year magician sitting in attendance, taking people’s coin to recharge their spirit crystals.

  This time of the dead of night, the only magician in attendance is the one at the Spirit Gate proper. And as we near the gate, I catch sight of her standing outside her kiosk, talking to the guard on duty. She’s close to twenty, heavyset, and dressed in a flowing dress of pastel pink silk. She’s obviously from a wealthy family; I wonder what she did to be relegated to the worst shift.

  When the guard hears our approach and turns, my curiosity is sated. The guard on duty is the epitome of good looks: broad shoulders and trim waist, neatly parted golden hair, and a face perfectly chiseled from the gods’ own stock of marble.

  The magician likely begged to take the night shift. All’s hells, as we stop before the guard and Trip tells the man why we’re there, I can’t blame the girl. Up close, especially when the guard graces me and Trip with an honest smile, I can’t help but be jealous that one man should look so perfectly manly.

  “… send word ahead?”

  “No need, Silverman,” Trip is saying when I snap back to their conversation.

  Silverman?

  The guard even has a perfect name.

  “This time of night, it will be hard to find anyone to help you, Captain,” Silverman says, in a tone that hints he would be more than willing to personally aid the Captain of the Watch.

  Trip looks at me then back at Silverman. “We’ll manage. You just keep up the good work here.” I may be mistaken, but I think Trip’s eyes briefly flick to the magician.

  Silverman chokes on his tongue and color floods his cheeks. “I … uhh.”

  “Not to worry, lad,” Trip says with a hand to Silverman’s shoulder. “I was young once, believe it or not.”

  Trip gestures me ahead and together we head into the nearest entrance, a small off-shoot building that serves as a staging area for visiting city folk and dignitaries. I have barely enough time to savor the plush carpet underfoot or the polished stone and mirrors along the walls as Trip guides me deeper into the complex at a quick march.

  We pass by few people, mostly runts or servants tending to the nightly needs of a place so vast, on our way through connecting hallways and official buildings, and on down three sets of stairs, to where Trip eventually leads us to the subcomplex that is the Hall of Chronicles.

  I’ve never been this deep in the College. Suddenly, the weight of the stones above us sinks into my bones and I’m forced to accept that I’m at Trip’s mercy. If he so desires, there may be an ambush waiting just behind the large iron-wood doors ahead of us. I’m no coward, but at the moment, I am tempted to turn heel and head home.

  “Easy, Giddy,” Trip says, glancing over his shoulder at me, as I’ve dropped back a few steps. “We’ll be in and out, and the sleeping magistrates will be none the wiser.”

  “Wasn’t worried one bit,” I lie.

  “And I’m a dwarven pacifist.”

  “Shut up,” I grumble. “Let’s get this over with.”

  With a shake of his head, Trip tries the door but it’s locked. He looks my way, knocks loudly, then steps back to wait next to me in the hall. Minutes later, the door rattles as the interior lock disengages, but still remains closed.

  I shoot Trip a questioning look and he whispers, “Multiple incants.”

  “Ah.” I’ve got one locking incant on my door back on Fermenster. How many does a place like this have?

  One of the massive doors finally budges, swinging inward just enough to offer us a view of a tall, portly man whose face is dominated by furrowed brows and an equine nose—the Chronicler. Behind him, lit by numerous telektric lamps suspended in functional pendant fixtures, are rows upon rows of laden shelves.

  “May I ask who calls?” he asks in a voice so wracked with phlegm that it makes me want to clear my own throat.

  “Captain Standard, sir, of the City Watch.”

  “Standard,” the Chronicler repeats quietly. “Are you the one with the eye patch? I don’t see an eye patch on you.”

  “I, um, no, sir. No eye patch. You must be mistaken.”

  “Well, so many captains in my time, you see,” the Chronicler says. “So what is the nature of this visit? It is late.”

  “We seek information on a pressing matter, sir.”

  “Ah. Are you sure you’re not the eye-patch captain?”

  Trip looks at me and his hands curl into balls of frustration. I offer the only help I can by shrugging.

  “I am quite sure,” Trip says. “Please, may we enter? We need your assistance.”

  His pale blue eyes glitter shrewdly from beneath thick brows as he peruses me. Finally, the Chronicler relents and he steps aside as the heavy door swings wide. We enter, and the Chronicler cuts to the chase. “What are we looking for, then?”

  Trip lifts a hand my way, and though the Chronicler gives me his attention, I look past him and take a moment to survey the hall’s entrance. What I had seen through the crack
in the door was only the tip of the iceberg. The room we are in has a footprint larger than my place on Fermenster and appears to be a mere sitting room. Even so, it’s racked with wall-to-wall shelving. Books with weathered spines and scrolls—some in protective tubes and others stacked neatly upon each other—dominate every inch of real estate. Many of the larger tomes seem to be, oddly enough, secured to the shelves with thin chains that dangle like metal icicles. I run a finger over the polished surface of one of the three reading tables and it comes up dust-free.

  There’s a dry warmth to the place and I note several activated rubies hanging among the lamps, their soft glow seeping heat into the room. Near each corner, I notice active emeralds set behind spiraling blades to maintain a steady circulation of the air. My guess is that the Hall of Chronicles is kept at an exact temperature, day and night, season after season. The cost to keep the crystals charged alone must be astronomical.

  I’ve seen grown men beg the Aristocracy for the chance to haul horse dung from the streets for coppers a day, and women sell family heirlooms to cover the cost of a charged ruby for warmth for her children for one winter’s week, and here, in the bowels of the College … I shake my head at the inequality. If this is simply the entry room, what might the entirety of the place contain?

  “Gideon,” Trip prompts me, subtle as a stick to the ribs.

  The Chronicler eyes me in a direct manner, though I gather no sense of urgency from the man. He’s paid whether I get to the point sooner or later; another drain on the city’s funds.

  I clear my throat and empty my mind of errant thoughts. “Well, sir,” I begin, “we need information on the Herchsten family.”

  “Too general,” he sniffs at me. “Can you be a touch more specific?”

  “Anderest Herchsten, his children, his children’s children.”

  “Very well then.” He shuffles to the far end of the room where he opens one of four doors. I’m surprised to find only inky darkness behind it. Other than the first few rows of shelves exposed from the light spilling in, I can’t rightly determine how far back that hallway goes.

  The Chronicler returns and steps behind a counter to our left. Trip and I follow, a quick glance passing between us. I know Trip’s thinking much the same as I.

  How in the hells is one man going to find the information we need in this subterranean city of knowledge?

  With the lower half his body hidden behind the counter top, the Chronicler looks at me and states, “Herchsten family name.”

  I takes me a moment to register that he may have been asking me for clarification. “Yes,” I say.

  Now he looks away from me as he wiggles his fingers, unseen under the lip of the counter, and I am reminded of a pianist readying himself for a performance. His hands cease their curious flitting and the Chronicler says in a clear tone, “Intrinitas, Herchsten, genealogy.”

  He looks up and toward the open door at the far end of the room. My eyes follow his lead. Somewhere down that mysterious hall, a light has bloomed, like a distant lantern in a moonless night.

  “Speci, Anderest Herchsten,” the Chronicler intones. The light down the hall changes—not dimmer or brighter, but as if it has moved slightly.

  “That,” he says, drawing my attention back to him, “will put us in the correct area.”

  “And his granddaughter?” I ask.

  His eyes are languid and unblinking. “Name?”

  “Vayvanette. Herchsten.”

  With a slight nod to me the Chronicler again plays his hidden piano, invoking, “Intrinitas, Vayvanette Herchsten.”

  This time I am quick to look down the hallway. The light source within begins to grow brighter. Another beacon has been lit, adding to the first.

  “Amazing,” Trip whispers.

  “Necessary,” the Chronicler says in a tone one would use to describe the function of a set of stairs to a person needing to ascend to the second story of a building. “Is there a particular subject on the family into which you wish to delve?”

  I actually have no idea, other than wanting to know more about Vayvanette and her relationship with her grandfather.

  “I wanted to know what makes her special.”

  The Chronicler sighs and looks down to his hidden hands. “Special is relative. I cannot ask such an ambiguous question of the spirit-linked diamonds. They work on definitive information only.”

  I try not to, but I know the look I give him is as blank as barn door.

  The Chronicler’s eyes swivel from me to Trip and back again. “Why do I not retrieve the requested books while you two have a seat? Perhaps it will allow you time to gather your thoughts?”

  I try to ignore the dubious tone of his voice and head to one of the tables, sliding out a chair and plopping down. Trip joins me, easing into the chair to my right.

  “Although,” the Chronicler mutters loud enough for us to hear as he heads into the mystery hallway, “I doubt I’ll be long enough to make a difference.”

  He disappears, and I’m left wondering if the old man just insulted me. I almost ask Trip, who seems to be chewing on the same thought, but think better of it. I may not be the most intelligent of men, but I’m smart enough to know that if I have to ask if I’ve been insulted, then odds are, I probably have been.

  We sit in silence until the Chronicler returns with two small books, a collection of papers in a leather satchel, and a stack of old newspaper, which he spreads out on the table before us. “Herchsten genealogy, inventions and intellectual properties, and public studies.” He nods toward the newspapers. “Not all stories center around Anderest Herchsten but they do reference him in one way or another.”

  Trip’s nostrils flare as he picks up one of the thicker books. “I had expected something less … I don’t know, daunting.”

  I had too, although I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of agreeing. I shrug. “I’m not being shot at, beaten, or spit on, so I’m happy to sit here and read.”

  Trip eyes me with a curious look. “Spit on?”

  I shake my head. “Let’s get through this,” I say. “We need to see what, if anything, makes Vayvanette so special. First guess is she may be the sole heir to the Herchsten Estate, which would make her a very wealthy girl indeed.”

  The Chronicler, apparently determining that he’s served his duty, turns and heads back to his station. I’ve already put him out of mind as I look over at Trip.

  “So we start by looking for distant relatives?” Trip asks. “Can’t say as though I feel great about that. I mean, if the girl does have some long-lost cousin and we find him or her, haven’t we just ripped half a fortune from your client’s hands?”

  I’m not here to financially ruin my client, just here to find out if she might have reason to be a murderer. “Not necessarily, if that cousin has no clue as to their parentage.”

  Trip sighs as he settles between a rock and hard place. “Can’t say as though I feel good about not informing someone they may have half a fortune left in their name.”

  “One case at a time, Trip.”

  He slides the book he was holding my way. “Fine.” He grumbles something else that I pretend not to hear then grabs the newspaper clippings and the open satchel of Herchsten’s notes and projects. He leaves the genealogy and it’s possibly morally-ambiguous findings to me.

  I dive into a book detailing Anderest’s father and his father’s family while Trip flips through papers. It’s a good ten minutes of silence and page flipping before Trip remarks with awe, “Anderest was some kind of mind.”

  “Hmm?” I don’t look up from my work, as I’ve found where the most recent branch of the Herchsten family bloomed in Wrought Isles. Anderest and his late wife Mirrum Chalvert of the Chalvert family from New Epsy had three children: Mira, oldest daughter, unmarried and now residing in New Epsy with the Chalverts; Theo, married to Tisha Underly, parents to Vayvanette, both deceased; and Anderest II, deceased at age thirteen from lung complications.

  Underly.r />
  Where have I heard that name before?

  “Gideon.”

  I put a finger on the page and look up at Trip.

  “Anderest has had a hand in almost all magework projects in Wrought Isles.” He points to a small stack of papers. “These alone are inventions that he simply gave to the Magician’s Aristocracy. He just gave them away. Here,” he grabs a sheet with engineering gibberish on it, “is a detailed schematic of how to use a mageworks crystal to keep an enclosed space cold. Cold! With a ruby that is supposed to create heat! Can you believe that?”

  I try deciphering the paper he’s holding up but I’m at a loss. Fascinating as it is, it’s not why we’re here.

  “What about the amethyst?” I prod. “What have you found on it?”

  “Hmm?”

  It’s evident Trip got lost in his work.

  “We don’t have all night, Trip.” I stretch my lower back, groaning when I’m rewarded with a straining pop. Unless it’s at a bar, I hate sitting. “If it doesn’t have to do with the amethyst, go to the next page in the stack. We need something on the amethyst or at least some type of confirmation that it was in Anderest’s vault.”

  Trip’s hackles rise at my abrupt tone and he’s about to snap something at me when his eyes travel over my shoulder and widen in confusion. I look back to find the Chronicler shuffling our way, a book in one hand.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “I believe the answer to your query lies here.” He hands over a narrow book, a ledger by the outward looks of it. When I read the plain and official script on the cover, I resist the urge to throttle the old man.

  “Why didn’t you bring this to us in the first place?” I demand, taking it from him.

  “You did not ask for it,” he says with an air of importance.

  “What is it?” asks Trip.

  I hand it over without looking at Trip, as my eyes are currently attempting to burn a hole through the Chronicler’s smug skull.

  “Curse it all!” Trip breathes out. “I thought this went missing.”

  The Chronicler doesn’t look away from my scathing gaze as he answers Trip with brazen attitude. “That is an out-of-date document, Captain, having been superseded by the most current, and yes, currently missing document. But, being as it is fairly recent, drawn up three years ago, I believe it may have some of the answers you seek.”