The Amethyst Angle

by C. Ryan Bymaster

  I push off from Trip to stand on my own, managing to keep my feet under me. “I make my own luck. And,” I try to wink conspiratorially but it comes out as a long blink as both eyes respond, “my luck has never been better.” I wobble to the side and Trip catches me up with both arms.

  “Glad to hear, Knell. I think you should be off, Captain, before he kisses the street.”

  “Kiss?” I blurt out. “Ooh, the girl from the line! Is she about?”

  Trip speaks over me. “Thank you, sir, for the pleasant night.”

  “Anytime, Captain.”

  With that, Trip practically drags me from the Far and Wide. I’m scuffing my boots up something fierce as we finally get halfway back to my place. Trip suddenly stops between two shops and pushes me away into a shadowed recess.

  “Hey!” I snarl at him, nearly falling.

  “Knock it off,” he says. “No one’s following us.”

  I step further onto the sidewalk and glance both ways, no sign of pursuit or skulking shadows. “Fine.” I take a deep breath, rub my eyes, and stand straight. “Benefit of having the Captain of the Watch walk me home.”

  He rolls his eyes. “A little over the top, wouldn’t you say?”

  I gesture for him to start walking and we continue on our way to my place, except now I’m not dragging my feet or looking as if were battling gravity with every step.

  “I wanted to make sure he thought I was plenty liquored up.”

  “Like a fish in a barrel of beer,” Trip says. “But I think Fareski took the bait. He thinks you have the amethyst.”

  “How’d you know I wasn’t that far drunk?” I ask. “You could have sent me sprawling to the stones back there.”

  “I’m a man of the Watch, trained to see what others don’t.”

  “Hopefully nobody else back there tonight is as trained as you.”

  He shakes his head. “You made a pretty convincing lout of yourself tonight. If anything, I’d say you were trained in that.”

  “Years of practice,” I say. “Now, if all works out, tomorrow night will be even more interesting.”

  “I think,” Trip mumbles, “your definition of interesting is up for debate.”

  21

  SETTING THE STAGE

  “Mistress!”

  The Post Mistress of the Arcanium looks up at the young boy who rushes into her domain.

  “What is it?” she asks, marking the page in her copper-store romance novel, one of the latest editions of a fiery affair between a holy mage and a shadow-scale dragon.

  “There’s someone here to see you, Mistress,” the boy says, head lowered in deference.

  “There is always someone here to see me, boy.”

  “He’s from the Watch, Mistress.”

  Holding back exasperation, she tells him, “I have no time to speak with someone from the Watch.”

  “I’m here merely to deliver a package, um, Mistress,” a resounding voice intercedes from the doorway.

  The post mistress looks past the boy to the intruder, ready to flay the skin from—

  “Oh,” she breaths out upon closer inspection of the man. “Oh, my.” Novel completely forgotten, the post mistress smooths her hair, hoping everything is in place, and welcomes the stunning man, inviting him to join her with a sultry smile.

  The watchman pulls out a copper and hands it over to the boy who’d led him here then heads toward the post mistress’s counter. As he looks around the Station, taking in the gilt and polished furniture, the post mistress takes the time to take him in.

  Mid-twenties, fit as a bull, confident steps, and as marvelously handsome as one man has ever been. He stops before her desk, a package in his hands, an easy smile on his perfect lips.

  “What can I do for you …?”

  “Watchman Silverman, Mistress.”

  “Watchman Silverman,” she repeats, taking her time with every syllable. “You make a girl wish she was a decade younger and had chosen a different path.”

  “I, ah, thank you, Mistress,” Silverman says, cheeks coloring something fierce.

  “And what brings such a delicacy to my station?”

  “Delivery, Mistress.” He hands over his package and when she takes it she is surprised at the weight and obvious contents within.

  Even with that much curious coin at her fingertips she puts the package down next to her forgotten romance novel and leans demurely on the counter. “Can I offer you something to drink?” she asks. “A bite, even? Must be hard work, upholding the law as well as you do.”

  “Sorry, Mistress, but thank you.” Silverman shows his gratitude with a flash of his teeth. “I have to be off. Upholding the law and all that.”

  “Of course. Would you like me to see you off?”

  “I believe I remember the way.” He sketches a cordial bow. “Perhaps next time?”

  “Indeed.”

  As Silverman walks out of her station, the post mistress finds herself watching him, debating whether she better enjoyed seeing him entering or exiting. Sculpted beauty either which way you look at it.

  Finally gathering her wits about herself, she grabs her letter opener and tears into the package. She pours the contents out, marveling at how much coin there is, and picks up the envelope addressed to her personally.

  She slits the envelope and begins to read the letter inside, eyes growing wider with each line. When she’s done reading she does a rapid count of the coin. Precisely one year’s tithe, just as Knell had written. He’d also written about how this case he was working was proving more fruitful than he’d expected and that after tomorrow he’d be set for a while.

  The post mistress snaps her fingers and her assistant today, a squat elf girl with unruly hair, rushes to her side. “Yes, Mistress?”

  “Inform the masters of the Council Arcana that I need to set up a meeting with them all.”

  The girl clasps her hands behind her back and nods.

  “And tell them it is to be as soon as possible,” the post mistress adds. “It seems Gideon Knell may have obtained something that belongs to us.”

  —-

  “What else do we have today?” Haurice asks his College-loaned scribe.

  Since getting an early start on the day, they’d been in his office going through business letters and seeing to setting up a formal meeting with one of Anderest’s crop merchants—well, Haurice’s crop merchant now—and now he’s thinking of retiring for lunch soon.

  “That takes care of estate matters,” the scribe says, putting her pen down atop her notepad in a show of finality. “We do have this, though.”

  Haurice glances over at the thin envelop in the woman’s hands.

  “Delivered by a man of the Watch.”

  “Curious,” he says. “Must be of some import.”

  With a wave of his arthritic hands, Haurice tells the scribe to open it. As she does, he takes a moment to lean back and stretch. His lower back protests, then a few things pop and relief floods over him. How Anderest managed to sit most of his days was beyond Haurice’s comprehension. In due time, Haurice would have to see to hiring someone to take over as estate manager. If all went well, Haurice could find himself living out his last years in quiet comfort.

  He did, after all, deserve it. He’d put in enough time with the Herchsten Family to deserve nothing less.

  “Odd,” the scribe says, drawing Haurice from pleasant thoughts.

  “Yes?”

  “I had thought this to be from the Watch, but it’s from that detective Gideon Knell.”

  His pleasant thoughts flee at the revelation. “What?!” he snaps as he turns his full attention back to the scribe.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what does Knell have to say? An apology I hope.”

  Eyes on the letter in her hands, the scribe reads and summarizes as she goes. “He says he will be here at the estate this evening. Ten o’clock to be precise.”

  “What in the holy gods’ names for?”

  She loo
ks over the letter at him. “He says to collect what is his.”

  “What foolishness is this? There is nothing here for him! Now that Master Herchsten has passed there should be no reason that scoundrel should step foot on this estate.”

  The scribe clears her throat and when Haurice regains his composure, she continues to say, “He wishes that you make yourself present. And he looks forward to closing the case and bringing Anderest’s murderer to justice.”

  He pushes out of his chair and walks to the nearest window. Outside, the milk-poppy garden waves to and fro and the widows-perch tree just beyond cries scores of its fingernail- sized leaves with the same breeze.

  Gnarled hands on the cold stone of the window sill, he repeats, “Collect what is his? Murderer? Does he still believe that I had something to do with it?”

  “I cannot say.”

  Haurice turns back to her. “Is there more?”

  “Yes. He, um, says that refreshments are not necessary but would be welcome nonetheless.”

  “Insufferable lout.”

  Knell still thinks of him as nothing more than a manservant. Well, he would see Knell acknowledge him as the new head of the estate. He would make sure tonight would be the last night Gideon Knell ever stepped foot in this house. He grabs the copper bell by its elongated handle and rings it violently, wishing it was Knell’s neck instead. Seconds later a young run-to enters the office.

  “Inform the staff,” he orders the boy. “They have the night off. Those living in-house are to retire to their chambers at sundown or find a bed with family members in the city.”

  “Yes’r,” the runt squeaks before leaving the office.

  “And myself?” asks the scribe.

  “Join me in the kitchens. We can sup together and go through a few more things at the same time. I hope that this will be the last we see of Gideon Knell.”

  —-

  “A letter for you, Brood Master.”

  Maanzethelin turns from his cabinet, where he’d been trying to decide on what vintage he was to consume for lunch, to address his personal servant, Zed. The human, once well-off and ranked high in society, is working to pay off a debt owed by a close cousin of his to Maanzethelin’s brood.

  As far as Maanzethelin knows, and he knows quite a bit, this reserved human has never once had his mind flayed. Whatever secrets the man holds, he holds to them tightly. Maanzethelin had even offered to alleviate some of the accrued debt of Zed’s cousin at a reduced rate of exchange. Zed had declined, insisting that he work off the entire debt in servitude, and not it life essence.

  That is a rare thing these days, a man committed to his family as well as his own secrets. Which is why he trusts the human.

  “Delivered by the Watch,” Zed says, stepping up to the desk and handing it over.

  Maanzethelin’s tentacles twitch in intrigue and he tears the envelope open. “You may go,” he tells Zed, and though he’s intent on reading the contents and not looking at the human, Maanzethelin knows the man bowed before stepping away.

  Halfway through the letter, Maanzethelin sucks in a breath. “Zed. Please, wait.”

  Removing his hand from the doorknob and looking back over his shoulder, Zed inquires, “Yes, Brood Master?”

  One tentacle lifts Zed’s way and the man clasps his hands behind his back and adopts the perfect form of patience. Another rarity in humans, Zed has proven to be a marvel at picking up on and reading mind flayer body language.

  As he nears the bottom of the letter, his stalling tentacle lowers, and Zed takes the cue. Maanzethelin leans back and looks heavenward as the human approaches the desk and waits for his orders.

  Gathering his thoughts, Maanzethelin looks across the desk to his servant.

  Zed stiffens. “Sir?”

  “A friend of mine is in need of help.”

  “What type of help?”

  “A safe ride home from what may prove to be a memorable evening out.” He hands over the letter. “If you would be so kind, Zed, please burn this. And have the stables prepare a carriage. Fastest horses we have.”

  “Yes, Brood Master. Is something amiss?”

  “It’s Wrought Isles,” Maanzethelin sighs with portent, his severed tentacle twitching in memory. “Something is always amiss.”

  —-

  “And this is all he sent?” Alsyn asks, letter in her hands.

  “Yes, Head Magistrate,” the Chronicler replies. “Along with returning the Underly genealogy book he’d taken, without my knowledge, of course.”

  Staring out of the window of the College Spire, Alsyn wonders what game Knell is playing at.

  “You did well to bring this to me,” she says without turning back. “You may go. And, Chronicler?”

  “Yes?”

  “Keep the Herchsten will handy. I don’t want it misplaced.”

  “It will be in the secure vault, awaiting your eyes.”

  As the Chronicler leaves, Urdran enters. The arcane Magister steps up onto the dais and leans on the back of her chair.

  “Good or bad?” he asks.

  “Both,” she replies. “Or one or the other.”

  One last godly gaze over her domain and she turns around to join the arcane mage. She hands over the letter and sits down, Urdran directly behind her. She knows the words by heart, having read them a dozen times in the last ten minutes, and mentally follows along as Urdran takes them in:

  Dear Master Chronicler,

  I apologize for the inconvenience that took place in your Hall. Here is the book I borrowed, with my thanks. I won’t be in need of your services any longer as the will and testament I had been searching for is no longer a necessity to my case and plays no part in my investigation. In fact, said investigation should be concluded tonight at the Herchsten Estate.

  Regards to your grandmother,

  Gideon Knell.

  “Grandmother,” Urdran says aloud with a sniff. “I assume he’s referring to you?”

  “Yes. Quite childish, don’t you think?”

  “I could make him swallow the insult, if you’d like? Literally shove this letter down his throat.”

  Alsyn smiles. “I think our detective already has his mouth full. What is the saying? ‘Eyes bigger than his belly?’”

  Urdran leans forward over her shoulder and hands the letter back to her. “What do you make of it?”

  She looks out over the empty chamber, so organized and quiet. “He’s clearly figured something out.”

  “Or found something,” Urdran offers. “The amethyst.”

  “Or at least knows where it is.” She looks back over her shoulder. “Have you been watching him?”

  Urdran nods. “It appears he spent enough coin at the Far and Wide last night to feed an ogre for a year.”

  “Really? Where is he getting the coin?”

  “An advance on delivering what he’s found?” Urdran muses.

  “Or just being foolish.”

  “I had a few men stop by his place last night while he was out spending coin I didn’t know he had.”

  “And?”

  “His place was lit up quite brightly. Every window showed the steady glow of telektric lights. I didn’t want to risk them slipping in for a search, though.”

  Alsyn looks down. Her hands weren’t idle. She forces herself to stop teasing her hair and thinks aloud. “Coin to enjoy frivolity. Coin to have numerous magework crystals charged. Knell is not acting like a man who constantly weighs his purse.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Or a man who has a lick of intelligence.” Doubt creeps into her voice. “I had thought him smarter than this.”

  “His flaw is that he thinks he is smarter than he is.”

  “And his flaw will be our benefit,” Alsyn determines. She takes a deep breath. “You know what to do?”

  “I do.” He taps the chairback twice before stepping away.

  Alsyn listens as the stone doorway grates open and at the last moment stands and turns, calling out Urdran’
s name.

  With his hood already pulled up and his body halfway in the shadows of the secret corridor, all she can make out of the arcane mage’s face is a small crescent of his chin and one glinting eye.

  “Yes?” Urdran asks, the crescent of his chin barely moving.

  “Don’t allow Knell’s flaw to become your own.”

  “My dear Alsyn,” the mage says from the comfort of his shadows, “my only flaw is that I have none.”

  The stones slide and melt back into place and Alsyn is left alone in the highest spire in the city of Wrought Isles, in a room where the future is laid out, most often at the cost of people who never even knew they played a part.

  “I will not let my city fall to ruin,” she whispers to herself. “I will have that amethyst, even if I have to wash Gideon Knell’s blood from it.”

  22

  SHATTERED STONES

  “I’m going with you, boss.”

  I’ve got my face buried in my desk drawer and though I’m not looking his way, I imagine Durmet’s tail is scything the air.

  “You can’t,” I say. Again. “The place is warded. You know that.”

  He flaps his wings but doesn’t take flight. He does manage to rustle yesterday’s newspaper. I close the drawer and look up at him, making sure to put the wand I was looking for on top of the offended newspaper.

  He gives another flap of his wings, this time saying, “It can’t be warded that high up.”

  I open my mouth to contradict him, but truth is, I have no clue how high the influence of the warded wall around the Herchsten Estate reaches. That might have been something I should have looked into from the get-go.

  “I wish you could, partner,” is all I say.

  He crosses his arms at his chest and his wings fold forward to drape over his shoulders. “I don’t like you being unprotected.”

  “Trip will be there.”

  “You’d rather have a human watching your back?”

  “I’d rather have you, but Trip has to be there. To represent the law.” I pick up the wand from Anderest’s vault now that Durmet’s done fussing with the air, and make sure it’s loaded. Sentimentality leads me to use the special cartridge that has my engraved initials on it. “Having him there will make it easier on all parties involved.”