by J. B. Markes
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
For my Gram,
who taught me the importance of reading.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Also by J. B. Markes
Chapter 1
It had been the worst week of my young life up to that point, and it was about to get worse. I admit I wasn’t thinking clearly or I would never have gone in search of a necromancer. But it seemed the right thing to do at the time. After all, death waits for no woman—or so they’d have you believe.
It’s safe to say that no right-minded person ever went in search of Gustobald Pitch. He was as much a hermit as any man could be in the big city—partly out of circumstance, but mostly by choice. He rarely left his cottage and he never had visitors; they didn’t care for the smell. You get used to it eventually. I don’t notice it at all anymore.
But the day I came to call on the necromancer, the smell was completely different. I could taste the pancakes before I even knocked on his sturdy door. It was a little late for breakfast—three in the afternoon—as I had chosen the time carefully to avoid interrupting any pressing engagements the man might have had. It was folly in hindsight, of course; Gustobald Pitch was never idle.
“Go away!” came the muffled cry from within, and I had promptly turned about to do just that when I nearly collided with an older gentleman climbing the stoop.
“I’m here to speak with Gustobald Pitch,” the man said, looking me dead in the eyes as if challenging me to disagree. He was dressed oddly for a wizard. His brown slacks and frock coat were simple but clean, and he was neatly shaved. His attire had no markings identifying to which school of magic he was affiliated. When I didn’t answer fast enough for his liking, the man stepped closer and removed his rounded hat, a style and practice quite foreign to the region. “Please. I’ve come a long way and I’m quite out of options. I must speak with your master, Gustobald Pitch.”
His voice wavered with unconcealed desperation, and I saw my own dark reflection within his glassy eyes. It was this sense of urgency, coupled with his congenial manner, which prompted me to once more take hold of the iron skull knocker, this time belting the striking plate three times for good measure.
“Dash it,” called the same ill-tempered voice from within, then a string of ever-intensifying footfalls and the unlatching of multiple door locks. “I say, dash it!”
At length, the door swung open and I caught my first glimpse of the wizard-detective. No doubt you’ve seen paintings of the famous Gustobald Pitch and thought to yourself that surely they were exaggerated for the sake of artistry, or the painter’s fear of retribution, but I assure you this is not the case. The old man could scarce stand still long enough for one portrait and would abide no meanderings of the truth, to his favor or otherwise, for fear that any others would come along looking to get it right. To my knowledge, in all his years, he only ever stood for the one portrait, and future imitators were understandably hesitant to take much license with the original.
Aside from the cooking apron and twin spatulas, he was exactly as you might picture him—tall, lanky, with more hair on his chin than the top of his head. His six-inch gray beard was braided and beaded into a solitary knot at the very tip, and his softly-focused brown eyes looked past you to some place he’d rather be. Gustobald’s expression was ever the same, appearing inconvenienced at having to suffer through the petty concerns of others.
“Well, what is it, then?” the wizard asked before the door had even finished its arc. “Will you keep me standing on my doorstep all day?”
“Master Pitch.” The handsome stranger cleared his throat. “My name is—”
“Confound it, man! Your name is of no importance. None whatsoever! What is your business? My cakes are burning!”
“Well, may I come in?” the stranger asked.
“What?” Gustobald glanced over his shoulder toward the kitchen.
“It’s a rather long story and I’m afraid—”
“My cakes!” And Gustobald Pitch was gone, apron strings bouncing in his wake.
There was a clatter and a howl from the kitchen, and the stranger took it as an invitation to enter, under the pretense of ensuring the old man was all right. He took hold of my arm and dragged me in with him, as if my presence would justify his own intrusion. When the door closed behind us and locked itself, we were unsure how to take it. At best, we were now guests of a madman; the worst was unimaginable.
“Well, come in and sit down, then,” the wizard called from the far chamber.
The stranger led me into the other room with practiced poise, where the table was set for one. I suspect it was the only plate in the house, judging by the bare counters and cubbies.
Gustobald’s head was hung low in shame or frustration. “Burned, as I suspected,” he said, heaping a stack of charred cakes straight from the frypan. “They’re all yours. Be my guest.”
“A kind offer, Master Pitch, but I’m afraid I’ve already—”
“Be. My. Guest.” A brief smile crossed the necromancer’s lips for the sole purpose of fading. “Now.”
The stranger looked to me for support, but I wasn’t getting involved. The pancakes were burned black and emitted a foul odor the likes of which I’d never smelled before or since. Nevertheless, it’s unbelievable what a person will do for the sake of good manners. The gentlemen picked up the knife and fork, sliced a large piece for himself—much larger than I would have risked—and dug in.
And then he was sick. He covered his mouth with his hands and rushed back to the front door, which was still locked in half a dozen places. Fortunately, there was a waste bin nearby where he could finish the job. I looked to Gustobald for some sign of satisfaction but was met with the opposite. Could it be he was offended by the harsh critique of his cooking?
“Who are you?” Gustobald Pitch looked at me for the first time, as startled as if I had appeared from the ether itself. “Does no one introduce himself anymore?”
“Isabel Ives,” I said, a little louder than I’d intended, as I was competing with the stranger’s retching, which came to a sudden stop. Gustobald gave me a look as if to question my answer, and I nodded reflexively to reassure him.
“Deblin Bartleby.” The gentleman returned to the smoky kitchen, standing as upright as possible to salvage what dignity remained to him. “I apologize for the mess. I’ll take care of it.”
“I mean you no offense, sir. But that was truthfully the worst thing I have ever tasted.”
“By the gods. Of course it was, man! But I must know why. Because they were burned or because of the maggots?”
“They were rotten?” I asked, and Mr. Bartleby’s complexion turned that much paler.
“What?” Gustobald had the appearance of a man who had just stumbled into a conversation. I was to see that same expression countless times over the course of our working relationship. To this day, I’m still not sure how much of it was an act. “Oh, because of the maggots,” he said to himself. “Goodness, no. I made the cakes from crawler larva, ground fresh this morning.”
I thought Mr. Bartleby would fall over, but he retained his composure long enough to find his seat at the table. He pushed the plate of pancakes as far away from himself as possible and inspected the glass of water closely.
“Well, drink up, Mr. Bartleby,” Gustobald said. “They taste horrid. Believe me, I know.”
“Then why make them in the first place?” Bartleby asked, downing the entire glass in one go.
“He needs them as reagents for his spells,” I said, realizing I was correct about Mr. Bartleby’s exclusion from the proud ranks of those studying at the academy. “Some spells require special words, others specific movements of the hands. The most powerful require material ingredients to focus the magic, or any combination of the three.”
“Very good, miss,” Gustobald said, eyeing the starburst embroidered on the breast of my pale yellow tunic, which identified me as an apprentice of the school of manifestation.
“I don’t know any spells that require you to eat maggots though,” I said. “Crickets maybe, but—”
“Right.” Bartleby spoke in a voice that suggested that he was the butt of some practical joke, but when his eyes landed back on the plate his face flushed anew.
“We thank you kindly, girl, for the lesson in rudimentary spellcraft. And I thank you, sir, for sparing me a small bit of trouble today, as it’s been my month-long quest to make the common maggot more palatable. Now, how may I return the favor?”
“Well—” Bartleby seemed lesser of a sudden, but it was apparent it had little to do with his stomachache. “I’ve come to hire your services, Master Pitch.”
“I’m afraid I must stop you there,” Gustobald said. “For starters, I am not, nor will I ever be, a master of the arcane arts—not at this academy anyway. I have too many enemies for that to ever come about. Secondly, I am prohibited by academy law from providing service to the general public. But thank you, sir, for visiting, just the same.”
“My brother needs your help.”
“Bevlin Bartleby is quite capable of extricating himself from any trouble in which he might find himself.”
“Bevlin Bartleby is your brother?” I asked, feeling stupid I hadn’t made the connection when I first heard the visitor’s name.
“You know my brother?” he asked, but I shook my head.
“You mean the Archseer of the Academy Magus who shares your last name and looks just like you?” Gustobald huffed without looking up from brushing off his apron. “Of course. He’s a close friend of mine. Although not close enough to share that he had a twin, apparently.”
“He wouldn’t have,” Bartleby said. “We’ve been estranged these nine years.”
“Well, good luck with that, then,” Gustobald said. “I cannot be your go-between. I’m a very busy man, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Bartleby,” I said in an attempt to ease the tension that had steadily crept across Mr. Bartleby’s sharp features. “You’ve come for the funeral, then?” At this, Gustobald gave us his undivided attention.
“Apparently, that is now to be my primary purpose for visiting,” Bartleby replied, retrieving his hat from his lap with a jerk that rattled the plate on the table. “As it appears justice cannot be served in the magic city. Good day, Mr. Pitch.”
“Funeral, you say?” Gustobald asked, ever-ready to propel death to the forefront of any conversation.
“For my brother,” Bartleby said. “Your close friend who was murdered just one week ago.”
“What?” Gustobald jumped into Bartleby and grabbed him by the lapel. “When did this happen?”
“Just—one week ago,” Bartleby repeated, glancing over at me and gripping Gustobald’s wrists as if they were a pair of serpents trying to constrict him.
“The entire academy has shut down, Mr. Pitch,” I said. “It’s impossible that you haven’t heard this news. It’s the only thing everyone’s talking about.”
“I don’t talk to everyone,” Gustobald said, releasing Mr. Bartleby and giving him time to straighten his ruffled collar.
“Don’t you talk to anyone?” I asked.
“This is most distressing,” Gustobald replied, shaking his head and tugging his beard.
“Mr. Bartleby is a pillar of strength,” I said. “Your brother was an amazing man. I knew him by reputation only, but he was respected by all.”
“Why did you come to me, Mr. Bartleby?” Gustobald asked.
“Well, you’re a—” Bartleby waved his hat gently in Gustobald’s direction. “I mean, I was told you were a—”
“A necromancer,” Gustobald said. “Have no fear now, Mr. Bartleby. A great man has been murdered, and you were right to come to me first.”
“Actually, I sent word to the Crown-appointed inspector in Astar first,” Mr. Bartleby said. “He said that the Academy Magus handled its own investigations with regard to its members, but he would look into it if he found the time.”
“Well, you were right to come to me straight away after,” Gustobald said with a firm nod.
“I went straight to the divination school for answers, but they told me it was beyond their scope—whatever that means. What exactly does that mean, Mr. Pitch? Out of their scope? Or perhaps I am confused as to the meaning of the word divination.”
“Who else?” Gustobald asked with stooped shoulders.
“Pardon?”
“Who else did you go to?”
“Well, I was out of alternatives,” he said. “It was a desperate hope that you could tell me something. I almost didn’t come at all.”
“Well, Mr. Bartleby, you were right to place your trust in Gustobald Pitch. I stand by my statement; I am forbidden to offer my services to the general public.”
Mr. Bartleby sighed and then nodded in defeat.
“However.” Gustobald stabbed a finger upward in defiance—he always did have a dramatic streak. He rushed for his long-stemmed pipe and crooked hat, then made for the front door. “Like it or not, the Academy Magus is in need of its one-and-only resident necromancer. Rest easy, Mr. Bartleby. By my beard, I shall get to the bottom of this. No time for shillyshally, now. And—” He stopped just short of walking out the door barefoot in his ridiculous cooking apron. “Who are you again?” he asked, gesturing my way as he stepped into his boots, but waving me off as soon as I had opened my mouth. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve got the job. I could use an extra set of hands, even those of a novice elementalist.”
“I’m an apprentice,” I corrected, but my protest fell on deaf ears.
“Of course you are,” he replied, tossing his apron on a peg near the door. “Lead the way, Mr. Bartleby.”
Chapter 2
I’d never visited the Archseer’s Tower before, but in those days it was impossible to walk the streets of the magic academy without noticing its shimmering spire. Perched stately atop the hill in the very center of the grounds, it was the tower commissioned by the legendary Banedan Vesper, who was posthumously named the first Archseer of the Academy Magus. The entire structure was enchanted with a spell of continuous light, making it officially the largest magical artifact known to humankind. It shone proudly throughout the night
, and there were days its radiance rivaled even that of the sun. A lot of good it all did for Archseer Bartleby.
The inner workings of the tower were posh in both design and decoration. There was an enormous gilded round table in the center of the circular floor, where expert wizards were arranging and rearranging documents in the light of a grandiose self-suspended candelabrum directly overhead. The massive collection of gold and crystal hung upside down menacingly. Beads of candle flame dangled from their wicks as if they would drop down at any second, but nothing fell to the table below, not even the wax.
As beautiful as the display was, it couldn’t hold my attention long in the light of the double helix staircases that spiraled upward along the outer walls in opposing directions, branching out into the open air and terminating at a single point fifty feet above. Never breaking his stride, Gustobald chose the right-hand set of stairs and waved for us to follow, but we had already drawn attention to ourselves.
“Don’t mind us,” the necromancer said to the approaching wizard, whose yellow robes marked her as an apprentice in her field like me. She was tall, approaching her middle years, with tired eyes and a commanding air. She didn’t slow her step, even as Gustobald waved her off. “We won’t be here long enough for you to trouble yourself.”
“Gustobald Pitch,” the woman replied in a raspy voice, causing a few mages at the table to glance nervously in our direction. Gustobald himself did a double-take at the mention of his name, but only slowed his step when she leaped into his path. “What business could you possibly have here today?”
“Have we met?” he asked, adjusting his crooked hat and eyeing her with mistrust. “How do you know my name?”
“I’m a diviner,” she said. “It’s my job to know things. But I don’t need my craft to remember the mess you made the last time you were here. Well, not today and not ever again!”
“I see,” he said with a gentle nod. “That was an unfortunate misunderstanding. The Archseer had asked for an explanation of the practical applications of necromancy. I was only doing as he requested.”