by J. B. Markes
“I’m the one who had to clean up after you!” The woman scrunched up her nose in remembrance of the occasion and laid a gentle hand on her stomach. “It was without a doubt the worst day of my life and I’m not about to relive it. As you can guess, we’re very busy; come back in a week, after the new Archseer is named. There will be no one here to talk to you today.”
“Just as well,” Gustobald said. “I’ve no time for chitchat now. I’m here to lend my services to the investigation.”
“Investigation?” she asked, furrowing her brow. “You’re a week late for that. There is no investigation. He was assassinated.”
“My brother was not assassinated,” Mr. Bartleby said. “He was murdered.”
“I’ve already said too much,” she replied. “None of you should be here. And why are you escorting an outsider around the Tower of Seeing?”
“That’s my own business,” Gustobald said, straightening his beard. “I don’t have to explain myself to a wizard-in-training.”
“You’d better,” she said. “As Master Bartleby’s only apprentice, I have full run of this tower in his absence. What’s more, I knew him better than anyone, and I can assure you, he had no family. So, please tell me why this doppelganger claiming to be the Archseer’s brother is cloaked from my sight and roaming in places he doesn’t belong.”
“I’ve been enchanted against your seeing spells,” Mr. Bartleby said. “By my word, I am Bevlin Bartleby’s brother, and I will see him avenged. You have no reason to hinder me in this, so step aside or I’ll be forced to conclude that you had a hand in his death.”
The woman crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. I couldn’t imagine anyone hiding beneath her close scrutiny, warded or otherwise. She stepped closer to Gustobald and tugged his sleeve lightly, then pulled him aside for a private conversation.
I took advantage of my shared moment with Mr. Bartleby to remind him that he had entered a culture wholly foreign to his own. If one hoped to get anywhere in the magic city, he or she must first show the proper respect—however blatantly false it may be—with the experts and masters especially, as they are unaccustomed to hearing harsh words from any whom they consider to be of lower standing.
“I’ll take it into consideration,” was his disproportionally short reply, giving me the feeling that I was wasting my breath.
“Is it true that you’ve had shielding wards placed upon you?” I whispered, inching closer.
“I have,” he replied. “I’ve come to understand that it’s not so uncommon in the wizarding world.”
“It isn’t. In the wizarding world. But I’ve never heard of a—” I motioned to him, unsure of what to say.
“Commoner is the word you are looking for, is it not?”
My face suddenly grew warm, and I turned my eyes away from his steady gaze. By then, Gustobald and Miss Sinclair had returned from their own discussion. The necromancer was smiling assuredly, but the apprentice’s sour expression remained unchanged.
“My name is Adele Sinclair,” the apprentice wizard said, chin held high. “For today only, I will be your guide through the Archseer’s Tower, on two conditions. First, you must promise to stow your wand while you’re here, Gustobald. I don’t care if the Archseer supported you. I don’t have the energy to deal with your unsavory practices today.”
“Done.” Gustobald’s tone was cheerful.
“Also,” she added, eyeing his long-stemmed pipe. “There is no smoking in the tower.”
“And done,” Gustobald replied, tugging the wide brim of his hat down and nodding. “Lead the way, Miss Sinclair.”
“I’m not finished,” she said. “The other condition—”
“What? You said two conditions.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No trouble. No smoking. I’ve agreed.” Gustobald tucked his pipe under his arm like a fashionable walking cane and spread one hand toward the staircase in a welcoming gesture.
“The smoking wasn’t one of the conditions,” she said. “I mean—it is, but it isn’t.”
“Sorry, it is or it isn’t?” Gustobald had that vacant stare again.
“It is but it isn’t,” she said. “Nevermind, I don’t have time for this. Just follow me and don’t make any trouble.”
“Stay close,” Gustobald said, turning back toward me with a wink. “Wouldn’t do to get lost in here. I know. The masters are a catty sort who will ridicule you to no end. The Archseer was no exception.”
“Mr. Pitch, you mustn’t speak ill of the dead,” I whispered with a glance to Mr. Bartleby, who seemed not to take much offense at the slight to his brother’s good name.
“Nonsense!” Gustobald huffed. “If not me, then who? Besides, Bevlin knew it was true. He wouldn’t dare deny it. And please, call me Gustobald. If we’re to be working together, we may as well get past the awkward pleasantries.”
Working together. The prospect was thrilling. That very morning I had been a stranger on the necromancer’s step, unable to find an excuse that might grant me entrance into his home, let alone his confidence. I couldn’t allow myself to get my hopes up, but I was still foolish enough to string along.
We moved up the staircase in single file, led by the somber Adele Sinclair, who turned around at regular intervals to ensure we didn’t fall too far behind. For his own part, Gustobald held a steady stride up the steep steps. He was surprisingly fit for a man of advancing years.
To make matters worse, there were no handholds along the staircase, which seemed to grow narrower the higher we climbed. Having no disposition for heights one way or another, I risked a glance downward to the main chamber through which we had passed. The floor had been a jumble of multicolored tiles from my previous perspective, but from my new vantage point, I recognized the great seal of the Academy Magus: the occulted moon. The concentric rings encircling the seal itself were marked with recognizable symbols—those representing the six schools of magic—as well as a few I had never before seen. I might have spent many minutes interpreting the markings, but I had to quicken my pace when I realized I was falling behind the others.
Mr. Bartleby also lagged behind as his confidence in his own balance waned. I had to take him by the hand to keep him moving, assuring him all the while that contingencies were in place in the event that he fell. In the end, my white lie went untested, as the stairs vanished before we reached the top, and we found ourselves in the Archseer’s archives.
“This grand hall represents the sum of all arcane knowledge,” Miss Sinclair said. “Only a privileged few have unrestricted access. You mustn’t touch any of the texts here.”
“The texts are indestructible by anyone other than the Archseer,” Gustobald said. “And the library itself is self-categorizing. We couldn’t possibly cause any harm.” Miss Sinclair gave him a dirty look and he shrugged his shoulders and looked around as though unsure who had actually said it. He paused long enough to roll his eyes at me when she was out of earshot. “I’ve been trying for two months to get access to these tomes, but my requests have gone unanswered.”
As we passed through those age-old shelves, no more timeworn than the day they were installed, I longed after the secrets hidden away by the most powerful mages in the history of the civilized world. It was unlikely I would have understood the contents of those texts and scrolls even if I had been allowed the attempt, but I would have been happy just to hold the knowledge in my hands.
Like the ground floor, the layout of the archives was circular, the architects having opted for the traditional style, but there was no staircase leading up to the third level. Where the ceiling might have been was only a dark star-filled sky, all the more impressive due to the fact that it was still daylight outside the tower. All the familiar constellations were in place—the Axe, the Crying Maid, the Wyrmlings. It was something from an astrologist’s dream.
The bookshelves were wall to wall, many towering twenty feet in the air, nearly halfway to the night sky above. A simple glance at the odd ori
entation of the most central shelves revealed a maze with only one entrance. This was the Labyrinth I had read so much about, designed to trap any and all who dared to steal its secrets. This safeguarding of forbidden knowledge was the original purpose of the tower, centuries before the Academy Magus had sprung up around it.
I wondered how many souls the cursed library had swallowed in its time, if somewhere inside were scattered the dusty skeletons of its victims, books still clutched in bony fingers. It was rumored to have claimed the lives of more than one Archseer over its long history. They had my sympathies. The Labyrinth called to me, as it did to all wizardkind. It challenged me to enter, to wander the remainder of my life through a sea of books where no one would ever find me.
There was only one man walking the aisles of the outer depository. He hurried over the moment he spotted us, and Gustobald gripped his pipe as if to defend against attack. The man was middle-aged, with prematurely white hair, slightly older than Miss Sinclair, but with only half her portion of contempt.
“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, removing his spectacles and rubbing his eyes. “This area is restricted.”
“That’s a good man,” Gustobald said. “We won’t be a nuisance. We’re with Miss Sinclair, only passing through.”
“Passing through?” The man shook his head incredulously. “The Archseer’s quarters have been magically sealed. The tower is off-limits to everyone. Adele, you know this.”
“Ignore this man,” Miss Sinclair said. “He’s merely a servant here. Step aside, Mathis.”
“I’m the custodian of these archives,” Mathis said. “I won’t have people mucking about where they don’t belong.”
“I’d watch my tone if I were you, bookkeeper,” Miss Sinclair said, stepping past him. “Master Bartleby isn’t here to protect you anymore.”
“I’m not afraid of you, woman. I was here long before you and I’ll be here long after you’re gone.”
“He loves to say that,” Miss Sinclair whispered.
“Rest easy, man,” Gustobald said. “I’ve been invited to make an investigation of the Archseer’s quarters, where this foul deed took place. We’ll sort through this deviltry. Mark my words.”
“Master Bartleby would never allow strangers to pass through these archives, no matter the reason.” Mathis flashed an angry eye toward Miss Sinclair.
“That’s up for discussion,” Mr. Bartleby said. “At the moment, my brother is in no position to allow or deny anything. He was murdered.”
“Run along and dust your tomes, bookkeeper,” Miss Sinclair said. “We’ve wasted enough time on you.”
“The new Archseer will hear of this intrusion,” Mathis said. “We’ll see how smug you are when you’re ousted from the magic school.” With a haughty grin, Mathis retreated into his shelves, pausing to adjust the position of one of the scrolls before he disappeared from sight.
“That commoner doesn’t belong here,” Miss Sinclair said, leading us to a non-descript stretch of wall between two hanging tapestries bearing the Archseer’s sigil. “He’s not a wizard. I have no idea why Master Bartleby put so much trust in him.”
“He seems loyal to his duty, at least,” I said, feeling small as Miss Sinclair and Gustobald both silently chided me for speaking out of turn.
“Miss Ives is correct,” Mr. Bartleby said. “Just because a man has no magical prowess, doesn’t mean he is untrustworthy. In fact, many believe just the opposite.”
“The common folk must stick together, I suppose.” Miss Sinclair traced a symbol on the wall and the concealing ward dissolved, revealing the etching of a stone portal. She stepped into the wall and disappeared, Gustobald close on her heels. I offered my hand to Mr. Bartleby once more, in case he had reservations, but he politely refused and followed the two wizards through the portal.
Passing through the rift was as gentle as stepping between two rooms, not nearly as disorienting as my first trip through the ether. Mr. Bartleby seemed to handle it well, and I suspected it wasn’t his first jaunt either. He and his brother had been close at one point in time, so it made sense that he’d be no stranger to the ways of magic. I had misjudged him.
The Archseer’s personal quarters weren’t as splendid as I had imagined. Unlike the lower floors, Master Bartleby’s chamber was rectangular, with an eternal fire situated in the center of one of the long walls. The walls themselves were covered in maps with themes ranging from local and continental geography, to trade routes, to world maps with strange symbols and arrows placed at seemingly arbitrary positions.
There was a small bed with blood-blotted sheets, and a couple of tables with scattered books opened to whatever pages held significance to their former master. There was a large looking glass of wrought silver placed on the outer wall which caught my eye, and a large basin of oil that gleamed near the fireplace. The vessel had been fashioned from a single block of obsidian and inlaid with gold and ivory. These were extravagances in the somewhat prosaic surroundings, but necessary ones; diviners prided themselves on their tools of seeing.
“The body has been removed,” Gustobald said with a frown.
“Of course, it has. It’s been a week,” Miss Sinclair said, her voice now soft and forlorn.
“Should have called me,” he said, shaking his head. “I could have preserved the body long enough to learn what needed to be learned.” He took a short trip around the room, examining the books without touching them. He moved past the bed table, which held various sundries: a silver comb with missing teeth, half a bottle of rosewater, a clean hand towel, an unfinished glass of golden liquor. He opened the top drawer of the bed table, revealing the matching set of silver combs lying on the velvet field of an open-faced case within.
He moved on to the far display cabinet, where liquid spirits were in good supply, from spiced wines to foreign liquors, to sealed bottles of ale. I’ve never been much of a drinker, but it was quite obvious that Master Bartleby knew his spirits. The wood of the cabinet was inlaid with coin currencies of various regions and sovereignties, many of which I didn’t recognize.
“Master Bartleby had a flair for the exotic,” Miss Sinclair said.
“As do we all,” Gustobald replied, closing the glass window. “He was found in the bed?”
“That’s right. Everything else is exactly as I found it. Master Bartleby was lying on his back on the bed, a black-hilted dagger in his chest—the symbol of the Black Hand.”
“Preposterous!” Mr. Bartleby said. “My brother was no target for assassination.”
“Master Bartleby had his fair share of enemies,” she replied. “The Black Hand was high on that list. He spoke out against them and even incarcerated and executed a few members of their higher echelon. As difficult as it may be to hear, Master Bartleby’s murder was for the clear and express purpose of sending a message to the Council of Masters. He didn’t deserve to go like this. I hope the new Archseer hunts them down like dogs.”
I felt as if I were an intruder in a larger world, a feeling that would make frequent return visits over the coming months. This was the biggest news of the wizarding world—and all of Coranthia, by extension. Everyone everywhere would be talking about what happened here for years to come, and here I had blindly stumbled into the midst of it all. I expected to be kicked out into the street at any moment.
“Is anything missing?” Mr. Bartleby asked. “My brother owned a number of powerful artifacts that could be misused in the wrong hands. Perhaps someone teleported in, murdered and robbed him, and made off with his possessions.”
“Impossible,” Miss Sinclair replied. “There are wards in place to prevent all outside teleportation, scrying, or magical traps of any kind within the Tower of Seeing. Only the Archseer has such access.”
“Even so, I would like access to Bevlin’s personal effects.”
“Master Bartleby’s possessions have already been distributed in accordance with his last wishes, with the exception of what you see in this chamber. To be honest, I
haven’t had the heart to return here to deal with the rest of it.”
“Who is my brother’s primary beneficiary?” Mr. Bartleby was ashen.
“I am,” she replied. “If you must know.”
“You?” Mr. Bartleby’s voice was dripping with disdain.
“I was Master Bartleby’s only apprentice. He had no children, but I like to think that he looked upon me as a daughter.”
“This is unacceptable!” Mr. Bartleby moved his hat from one hand to the other and back again, shifting his weight and pointing sharply at Miss Sinclair in lieu of shouting. “There are objects of a personal nature that must stay within the family.”
“Forgive me, sir, but Master Bartleby never said anything. No members of his family are mentioned in his last will.”
“It doesn’t matter! They are rightfully mine. I am his brother!”
“Not to question your honor, sir,” Miss Sinclair said softly. “But that is a fact we have yet to establish.”
“How dare you?” he said, closing the distance between them. “I will furnish proof, of course. I will be back tomorrow at noon, at which time you will allow me access to my brother’s possessions! Good day, Mr. Pitch, and thank you for your help. I will contact you.”
As Mr. Bartleby disappeared through the wall in a huff, I stared in apologetic wonder at Miss Sinclair, who herself was caught between contempt and disbelief. She motioned questioningly to Gustobald, him having tacitly vouched for the gentleman’s behavior, but the necromancer just stood puffing away pensively on his pipe.
“Temper, that one,” he said between draws.
“No smoking!” Miss Sinclair clapped her hands to her sides. “My second condition, Gustobald!”
“You said it wasn’t!” Gustobald had the look of a man swindled, and puffed all the faster for fear his time was up.
“I said it was!”
“It was but it wasn’t! Bah! It’s all balderdash and pettifoggery with you. I can’t begin to keep it all straight.”
“Remind me again why you’re here at all?” she asked. “I thought you were here to help!”