by J. B. Markes
“All right, then.” Gustobald brushed the smoke away with his hand by way of apology. “Settle down and give us some room.”
Miss Sinclair took a step back as Gustobald took another long draw from his pipe for good measure. He spun in a slow circle and nodded sagely. “Check under the bed,” he said.
Of course, he was talking to me, but I didn’t reach that conclusion until he thrust his pipe in my direction and made a sweeping gesture. I jumped down on my hands and knees and put my face close to the floor. The floorboards were clear. “Nothing,” I said, standing and brushing myself down.
“Okay, then. Thank you very much, Miss Sinclair. We’ll be in touch.”
I’ll never forget her wide-eyed frustration, or my own embarrassment, as Gustobald Pitch strode through the stone wall exit, leaving only a trail of smoke behind him.
Chapter 3
Night was a dismal time for me in those days. Alone in my insufficient quarters, I regarded death as the end of all things. If it had claimed me then, it’s possible that no one would have found me for days. I had no friends or family to wonder at my absence and, despite her many duties, one apprentice mancer was not overly essential while the manifestation school was shut down.
I couldn’t get to sleep that night. Gustobald had bid me return first thing in the morning to continue his investigation, and my mind was still busy from the events of the previous week. To make matters worse, my cat Akasha had decided to pull an all-nighter, jumping from the chair to the desk to the bed and back again, as if for the sole purpose of making the most noise possible. I tossed and turned, pondering my dire circumstances, and finally, seeing the first rays of the late summer sunrise, I cast a ward to delay my fatigue for another day.
I rolled out of my bunk and into my robes of the previous day, and fumbled around the writing desk for my wrist-thong, which I wrapped carelessly about my left arm before shoving my walnut wand between its straps. In the low light, I couldn’t see myself in the glass, so I ran my hand through my hair a couple of times before putting it up into a ponytail, ignoring Akasha rubbing against my leg.
“What do you want?” I said, considering staying home for the day just to keep her from sleeping. I looked up to the high shelf where I had forgotten yesterday’s milk and mutton. “Oh, I’m sorry, kitty.”
I laid down the meat for her and treated her with some milk-soaked bread, then took her out into the hallway closing the door behind me. I moved quietly to avoid any unwanted attention, but as luck would have it, I ran into Guthry on the middle stairway. He was carrying a tray of food from the dining hall. My own surprise reflected back at me through his eyes.
“Where are you going, Miss Ives?” he asked. “I thought you would be in bed.”
“I could ask you the same question, initiate.” My firm tone and steady gaze reminded him he wasn’t speaking with one of his friends, and he cast his gaze down at the glass of orange juice atop the tray. “Mr. Norwick will have your head if he catches you removing utensils from the cafeteria.”
“I have his permission,” he said, glancing at Akasha, who was growing restless. “It’s breakfast. It’s for you. They said you should be in bed recovering from—well, after what happened.”
“I think I can manage my own health,” I said, letting the cat down to find her way own way out of the tower.
“Yes, Miss Ives.”
“Take it back to the dining hall or help yourself to it,” I said. Guthry was reluctant to make eye contact with me, so I took the banana from the tray and softened my voice. “I appreciate the gesture, Guthry. Thank you.”
“Yes, Miss Ives.”
“I hope you’re ready for the upcoming games. Don’t get lazy this week.”
“Yes, Miss Ives.” He walked briskly back the way he had come, taking a sip from the glass to make it more manageable on the stair. I purposefully lagged behind to give him time to be out of my way when I reached the ground floor.
The grounds of the manifestation school were seldom peaceful; it is the nature of the mancer to cause destruction in one form or another. But today was different. The Academy Magus was in mourning. Research was still conducted behind closed doors, but there would be no instruction for the novice or initiate wizards until after the Archseer’s funeral.
I retraced my steps down Vocer Way to Thalia’s Path, the same route I had taken almost every day since I had learned about my condition—a week of failed visits to the necromancer’s humble cottage on the far side of the Tower of the Mind. Gustobald lived on the very outskirts of academy grounds, in the large clearing behind the tree line. It was quite a walk, but many still believed it to be too close for comfort. The necromancer himself didn’t seem to mind the distance much. He used to say one foot in the door is better than both on the welcome mat. I found it curious he had a saying for that in the first place.
That day, I found him in front of his small hut, hunched over the flowerbed—or more appropriately, the mushroom bed. He had the widest assortment of fungus than anyone I’d ever met, ranging from satyr’s beard to giant puffball, lady’s lace to indigo angel. My basic knowledge of alchemy and flora failed to categorize most of what I saw there. The garden extended completely around his house, and its upkeep must have been a huge drain on his time, seeing as he had no apprentices to do the dirty work for him.
“What’s your favorite fungus, girl?” he called without turning to greet me.
“How did you know it was me?” I asked, but he didn’t answer. “I’m afraid mushrooms don’t agree with my palate.”
“Ah. Like me with my crawlers.”
“I don’t like those either,” I said. “At least, I don’t think so.”
“Try this one, then,” he said, holding up a rough brown stool with faint green gills.
I took it from his hand and gave it a quick sniff, which was a mistake because its odor didn’t in any way enhance my appetite. But there was nothing for it; I would have eaten anything he asked, up to and including his disgusting maggot pancakes. I popped the miniature dome into my mouth and found it tamer than my expectations. It didn’t even have the earthy taste I so disliked in the genus. In fact, it had no taste at all.
“That one’s affectionately called deadman’s delight,” he said. “It’s poisonous.” He couldn’t see my alarm from his stooped position, and I spit out what I could behind his back, but there was little left of it. “To my knowledge, I’m the only man in the world who knows how to properly harvest it. You’re lucky.”
“What is its practical application?” I asked, certain my tongue would go numb at any moment.
“I just told you. Poisoning people. As such, it is roundly dismissed as a useless fungus. Its cultivation is prohibited by law.”
“Then why do you have it?” I looked to the tree line to be sure no one was listening.
“As with necromancy—and, indeed, life as a whole—to abhor without understanding is the worse crime. But enough. The sun is up and we have a busy day ahead.”
He placed a shrouding spell over his collection to protect it from the rising sun and staggered to his feet, his old bones creaking in protest. He waved me inside and rinsed off his hands in the wash basin. I noticed the pancakes were still on the table from yesterday.
“You’ve had breakfast, I trust?” he asked, and I quickly nodded before he could offer me anything. “To the Tower of the Heart, then.” He dried his hands and then retrieved his hat and pipe. “We have to see the body before the funeral.”
The Tower of the Heart was the southernmost structure of the Academy Magus, set apart from the other five schools, but not nearly as remote as Gustobald’s cottage. It took half an hour to cross the grounds, but it seemed much longer under all the judgmental stares. Gustobald Pitch was infamous long before he was famous.
The bitter glances were plentiful, not just for the necromancer, but for this young, misguided apprentice walking at his side. Most wizards turned wide to avoid crossing our path. It was a fearful isolat
ion, and I felt as if the onlookers would rise up against me at any moment. Gustobald didn’t seem to notice. I might have broached the subject, had I not been an offender myself only weeks before.
To my surprise, Gustobald chose Vesper’s Path, the main thoroughfare, which bisected the academy, running north from the Tower of the Eye, through the Archseer’s Tower, and terminating at the transmutation school—the Tower of the Heart. It was the busiest route on academy grounds, and it prolonged my discomfort as more and more distrusting glances passed over us.
I was relieved when we finally reached the tower, eager to get out of the open. The structure was shorter than most, having the fewest followers of any school, the artificers notwithstanding. I’d never been inside, but having visited the Archseer’s Tower the day before, my anticipation was somewhat diminished. It mattered little, as our destination was not the tower itself, but its basement, which we accessed from an external staircase in the rear of the tower.
The walls of the tower—both inside and out—were seamless, as if the entire building had been fashioned from one enormous block of solid stone. The basement was completely nondescript, save for a few drainage holes in the floor. Despite its locale, the chamber was brightly lit, brighter even than the upper solarium of the Tower of Hands. The light emanating from the quartz-coated ceiling bathed the floor below in a steady, clear wash of whiteness. It was the cleanest workstation I had ever seen.
“Hallo!” Gustobald tapped the door jamb with his pipe as he entered.
A handsome man in orange robes emerged from the far wall, squinted without recognition, and then disappeared once more. A moment later, an elderly woman in expert’s robes walked out of the smooth stone. Her countenance dim at the realization of her new visitor’s identity, she paused for a moment, as if considering retreating back into the wall, but Gustobald had the fierce look of a man who would chase her down.
“What does Gustobald Pitch want from me?” she asked, walking toward me as if I held the answer.
“Long time, no see, Gretel.” Gustobald’s tone was unusually cordial, but the transmuter Gretel obviously wasn’t in a hospitable mood. She interlaced her fingers, lowered her hands, and waited for the turn. “You have no doubt taken charge of Bevlin Bartleby’s remains?”
“What does he want?” she asked, again turning toward me. I shifted beneath her angry glare, looking over my shoulder to see if there was someone behind me with whom she could take such offense. Finally, I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head.
“Come, Gretel.” He removed his hat and lowered it in front of him, stepping in front of me. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”
“You can tell Gustobald that he knows very well I’m the one tasked with the preparations,” she said, sidestepping to resume eye contact with me. “Now, what does he want?”
He stepped toward her, but she kept her distance and shook her head, retrieving a wand from her belt. This stopped Gustobald mid-stride, and she returned the wand to its holster and again moved to the side to better address me. Throughout it all, she never once looked directly at him.
“This is ridiculous!” The necromancer rushed into the open space behind me, throwing his hat forcefully on the floor and uttering a string of oaths best not mentioned. He looked fit to break his pipe.
“Go ahead and tell him,” she said, nodding to me.
“She—uh—” I began, and Gustobald shot me a look that would silence a banshee. I turned back to Gretel, who seemed better equipped to direct her rage. “We, uh—he wants to see Master Bartleby’s body.”
“Well, tell him he can’t.”
I looked at him and gave a subtle nod in Gretel’s direction.
“It’s for an—” He adjusted the bitter tone of his voice and retrieved his hat from the floor, brushing it down delicately. “Please tell her it’s for an investigation. It’s very important.”
I looked to her for an answer but she appeared not to have heard. I suspected for a moment she might be hexed, else Gustobald was. How else to explain such odd behavior between two adults? Finally, I relayed his message, feeling as if I were the fool of some elaborate prank.
“Nice try,” she said. “There is no investigation, and I’m not letting a necromancer near Master Bartleby’s body without the express permission of the Archseer. There is no telling what he might do.”
“Tarradiddle and slander!” Gustobald shouted, sending his hat to the floor again and kicking it for good measure before pacing back and forth behind me.
“But there is no archseer to give permission,” I said.
“Exactly,” Gretel said. “Besides, the body has already been prepared, and I won’t have him undoing the process.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, ignoring Gustobald’s shuffling behind me.
“We reshape the body to look its best,” she said. “It wouldn’t be useful to an investigation at this point. Obviously, we wouldn’t leave any markings on him whatsoever. You’d have to undo all my hard work, and that’s not gonna happen.”
“Amateur craftwork at best,” Gustobald said. “Transmuters know nothing of shaping flesh. They should have come to me if they wanted a real expert.”
“I’ll shape your flesh!” Again she went for her wand. “How about a nice pair of donkey’s ears, you horse’s ass?”
Gustobald jumped behind me and Gretel circled around, looking for a clear shot. I put my hands on top of my head, certain I would feel the ears sprouting from my hair at any second. I tried to duck out of the way, but Gustobald was surprisingly agile and remained safely shielded behind me.
“Stop!” I screamed, stopping just short of brandishing my own wand. “Stop it! What’s wrong with you two? A pair of experts bickering like children! You should be ashamed.”
“He shouldn’t be here,” she said, lowering her wand but still looking out for a clean shot as Gustobald clung to the back of my robes. “He’s a disgrace to this academy. He doesn’t belong among civilized wizards.”
“I can’t say I’ve seen many of those today,” I said, provoking a dirty look from Gretel and pushing Gustobald off my back. “I’m sorry we caused trouble. We’ll be going now, so please don’t curse us in the back. It wouldn’t be worth the trip to the Hold.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Gretel said, stowing her wand. “You tell him not to come back here again, or he’ll be crawling back out on his scaly belly.”
“You tell her—”
“Just go, Gustobald,” I said, shoving him toward the door as the transmuter Gretel disappeared through the back wall whence she came, mumbling to herself all the while.
Chapter 4
The funeral ceremony was extravagant, held in the outer courtyard of the Tower of Seeing itself. The décor was lavish but tasteful, with long pennants of silver and white streaming far overhead, where they would be visible to all within the city. Wizards from all over Coranthia made the journey in order to pay their last respects. There were even some who hailed from the desert tribes of the western continent. I would later learn it was the largest attendance for any funeral in the history of the academy.
An illusory image of the Archseer sat at a grandiose table in the middle of the proceedings, scribbling away at his parchments, much as he would have in life. It was a courtesy for those unable to approach the viewing coffin. Life was much more elegant back then, and the common wizard might go her whole life without being exposed firsthand to the grisly result of cold-blooded murder.
There was a long row of seats set up near Master Bartleby’s coffin, all facing the crowd, in the same manner as when students of the magic school were commended for outstanding achievement. Here sat the closest friends and colleagues of the beloved master. I recognized Miss Sinclair’s dour face instantly—and Madame Gretel’s, of course—but a few of the others’ I had never before laid eyes upon.
Students of the magic academy were expected to attend with the masters of their respective schools, which made me uncomfortable. It
was the first time I had seen Master Virgil since the visit to his personal quarters almost a week prior. The apprentice Regina was there, too, though she did her best to avoid eye contact with me. We hadn’t spoken at all since the day of our duel, which had ended with her on disciplinary notice and me in the infirmary.
The initiates were too consumed with their own petty affairs to care that a great man had just died, whispering among themselves and enjoying their unexpected holiday. I didn’t judge them too harshly; I remembered what it was like to be a newcomer myself, the thrill of feeling the magic in my blood for the first time converging discordantly with my overwhelming fear of failure. For most of us, life would continue as usual, with a different faceless name replacing Archseer Bartleby’s. I cleared my throat loudly to remind them that now was not the time for selfishness. When they were sufficiently reverent, I moved to stand beside my counterpart in apprenticeship.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Regina said, finally turning to face me. I was caught off guard by her sympathetic eyes. I hadn’t seen her so concerned since the day she underwent the Trials of Apprenticeship. “I’ve been meaning to apologize ever since that day. I let things get out of hand. I didn’t realize the magic had such a hold on me.”
“It’s not your fault,” I replied. “Well, it’s not only your fault.”
“Master Bartleby’s death was tragic, Izzy. It’s a reminder how short life really is. We should be more cautious in the future. We’re not initiates anymore. If we’re not careful, we could really hurt each other—or worse. When you fell to the ground, I knew we’d gone too far.”
I searched her face for any clue that she knew more than she was letting on about, but she seemed sincere. I glanced toward Master Virgil, who was busy talking with his own colleagues. Regina seemed tortured by my slow response and took me by the hand.
“I don’t know what to say,” I replied. “It seems like you’ve been angry with me for months. I thought you hated me.”
“We’re both apprentices now,” she said. “Besides, we’re going to need each other more than ever in the days to come. And it’s not your fault you beat me to the Trials. I was just acting like a stupid child. I’ve always been so competitive; it’s my worst quality.”