by J. B. Markes
“Do you regret it, not becoming a master yourself?”
“A title,” he replied. “Holding little value outside of this institution. What’s to regret? I chose to pursue the path of secrets and here I am.”
“The path of secrets,” I repeated with a smile. “Where do your secrets come from? Master Virgil is convinced you consort with demons.”
“Not demons,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Remember, necromancy is the study of life as much as it is the study of death. The two cannot be separated. I might just as well accuse you of demonry for your spells of destruction.”
“If necromancy is the study of life, it should be able to heal the sick,” I said.
“There was a time,” he said. “The entire discipline has fallen to the wayside in recent ages. The Age of Miracles is over.”
He took a few last puffs and then emptied the smoldering ashes onto the parchment I had laid beside him. He rested the pipe across the table and leaned back into his chair with the same subdued expression. My eye was drawn to a large ornament spanning half the wall behind him, a blackwood staff, carved and sanded to give the appearance of bone. It was adorned with bells and rings and seemed altogether unwieldy.
“See something you like?” Gustobald asked, turning his head slightly. “Oh, that old thing.”
“It certainly has its own style.” I slid out of my chair and went in for a closer look. “I’ll admit I’ve never seen anything quite like it—the craftsmanship alone.”
“It’s rare around these parts, of course, but you’re looking at the main tool of the necromancer’s trade. You can hold it, if you like. Don’t be shy. It holds no intrinsic power.”
“A deathknell staff?” I asked, surprised at its weight as I removed it from its hooks.
“That’s not what it’s called!” Gustobald huffed. “You’ve been reading too many academy books. No, this is a calling staff.”
“That makes it sound like summoning.”
“Necromancy borrows from many disciplines. Go on then, give it a shake.”
I raised it as high as I could manage under the low ceiling and jolted its bells. The bits of metal rang out, hollow and tinny. I couldn’t help but smile. “Is it true the dead can hear the bells?” I asked.
“They’ll answer if the right person calls. This staff is only used for the most powerful spells. These days, it’s little more than fancy décor. I’m forbidden from using it so long as I’m here, they fear it so. Never underestimate the power of fear.” His voice burned, so I placed the calling staff back on its holders and circled around to the chair opposite him, collapsing under the weight of our shared frustration. I didn’t know what to say, so I just looked to the fire for solace.
“I thought I could do good here.” He hurled the words in my direction, but he was talking to no one. “I accepted Bevlin’s invitation to the Academy Magus thinking that things might have changed in my absence, but I fear things have only gotten worse. You and I are doing honorable work, and we are met with contempt every step of the way, to the point that I can’t tell the guilty from the prejudiced. Why should I endure such abuse from those to whom I offer aid? It’s as if every last one of them is working together to cover up the dirty deed.”
“I know it feels like that,” I said. “But Mr. Lazrus has agreed to perform the analysis, after all. He’s confident that he’ll be able to extract and identify the poison, given time.”
“He’s young.” Gustobald gave me a skeptical glare.
“But he is an ally.”
“I doubt he has the necessary skills.”
“We shall see,” I said.
“I suppose we shall.”
We shared the silence for the next ten minutes, with me keen to give him time to work through his depression. Little did I know that I would see the same cycle overtake him time and again in the days to come. Sometimes I could pull him out of it; most times it had to run its natural course. But that day, in the cozy half-lit chamber, the exertions of the past few days caught up with me, and I nodded off. I couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few minutes when Gustobald’s soft voice permeated the stillness.
“One week.” Gustobald lowered his hand off the armrest and tapped the ash-covered letter. “One week left for me to unravel this mystery. With all the mages of the academy against me, I am certain to fail. Time grows short, Miss Ives.”
Time grows short. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I began, but the knock at the front door made me jump, and the momentum carried me to my feet. I threw the necromancer a questioning glance, but he shook his head with a wry smile. I heard Deblin Bartleby’s muffled voice calling, and at Gustobald’s approving nod I attended the door.
“Miss Ives,” the gentleman said with a graceful bow as he entered. “So good to see you again. Your master is expecting me.”
“Mr. Pitch isn’t my master,” I replied. “We’re just—colleagues who share a common interest.”
“Necromancy?”
“Justice. Please follow me.”
“What news, Mr. Pitch?” Bartleby asked as he passed into the study. “Miss Sinclair has been taken into holding? I was sick with worry that she would get away with it. The thought of her taking over as Archseer—”
“Glad to see you received my message,” Gustobald said, sitting a little straighter. “Miss Sinclair is heir to his fortune only. She wouldn’t be named Archseer just because she’s his apprentice.”
“No?” Mr. Bartleby frowned.
“The Archseer is always chosen from the divination school,” I said, motioning to the seat I had previously occupied. “But they would never put an apprentice in charge of the Academy Magus.”
“Trust me,” Gustobald said. “They’ve made worse choices than that in the past. But enough of that. The poison used to murder the Archseer is being analyzed as we speak, thanks in no small part to Miss Ives’s charms. We should have an answer within a few days. In the meantime, I thought we might get better acquainted.”
“Unnecessary,” Bartleby said.
“Take a seat, sir.” Gustobald motioned to the chair I had previously occupied, and Bartleby readily complied, placing his hat on his lap. “We can start with your whereabouts since the day of the funeral, when you caused such a stir.”
“I have matters of business to attend to. My subordinates must be kept on task.”
“What would that business be?”
“Land,” he replied. “Acquisition and administration.”
“Is there such a thing?” I asked. “I thought all land belongs to the Crown.”
“Indeed it does, in the grand scheme. I oversee operations that ensure that King Eamon gets his due, for which I am paid a sizable commission.”
“Mr. Bartleby’s vague language is intentional, I suspect. He’s a taxman.” Gustobald winked to let him know his secret was safe. “It has been my experience that collectors always play it quite close to the vest when discussing their work. It facilitates interaction with the general public.”
“Though I am here until my brother’s affairs are sorted, the world goes on outside the magic city. Each day I am absent, my men grow more complacent in their duties.”
“As vital as it may be, Mr. Bartleby, I did not summon you from your temporary lodgings to discuss your work. In light of recent events—your ale-fueled outburst at the funeral foremost among them—I think it’s time you told us of the nature of your disagreement with your brother. What caused the two of you to cut off relations all those years ago?”
“I don’t see it as relevant to the current state of affairs,” Mr. Bartleby said.
“Not to you, maybe. Let us be the judge of which details are important and which are mere trivia.”
Mr. Bartleby leaned back in his chair and placed his hat on the armrest, then unbuttoned his collar and sighed.
“Remember, sir,” Gustobald added. “You are the one who came to me for help.”
“Very well,” Mr. Bartleby sai
d in a tone that suggested quite the opposite. “But first I must ask: do you have any brothers, Mr. Pitch?”
“I do not,” Gustobald said, stroking his braided beard. Questions about his family always made him uncomfortable.
“Then you might not fully appreciate the extents to which sibling rivalry might drive a man, my brother and I being choice examples of that cursed nature. As is always the case in these circumstances, the winner and loser were ever apparent. Bevlin was the golden child from the day he began his private tutelage in magic. And from then on—well, how could I compete with a wizard? I don’t have to tell you of the opportunities afforded those blessed with such a gift.”
Gustobald shook his head and smiled, and my mind wandered back to the soiled parchment on the table next to his armrest.
“You seem to have done well for yourself, Mr. Bartleby,” I said. “I daresay most men would give up their stations for a chance at yours.”
“What I have, I have by the sweat of my brow. I have never accepted the charity of others and there has never been a loan—or gift, for that matter—that I have not repaid.”
“So it’s a simple matter of jealousy?” Gustobald asked with a frown.
“Not so simple.” Mr. Bartleby put both hands on the arms of his chair and leaned forward. “But do you know the one thing that all the gold, power, and magic in the world will never provide?”
“Immortality,” I said.
“You have a lot to learn.” Gustobald chuckled. “Of course, Mr. Bartleby speaks of love, though his claim against buying or selling it is more opinion than actual fact.”
“Be that as it may, there was one thing Bevlin would never have—and her name was Abigail.”
“Always a woman,” Gustobald said with a leer in my direction. His expression brought to mind our recent encounter with the transmuter Gretel, and I did my best to keep a straight face.
“In the end, it wasn’t the woman. She was but the catalyst. Bevlin and I knew Abigail since birth, but our competition began in earnest as we approached manhood and were able to fully appreciate her charms. To my brother’s dismay, she took to me instantly.
“I had nary a stud to my name back then, but I did know how to read, which gave me a step up on the other candidates to the apprenticeship at the town archives. Never underestimate the significance of hard work. In five short years, I had the run of the place. Bevlin had ceased his private study and moved to the academy to take his own apprenticeship. He was then working toward becoming a journeyman in his chosen field of study, which I understand was significant for a man of his young age.”
“It’s his claim to fame,” Gustobald interrupted. “He was a prodigy.”
Mr. Bartleby ignored the praise, lending me the impression that he had heard it one too many times in his life. “He would send letters frequently for mother and father, for me, and—of course—for Abigail, keeping us apprised of his scholarship. Truth be told, it vexed me terribly that my betrothed corresponded with him at all, but my worries were for naught. Abigail was mine, body and soul, and never a truer woman walked this earth than she.” He brushed his fingers across the brim of his hat, his focus dull. He was walking through his memories now, reliving his past for his own sake and not ours. We waited patiently for him to continue, but it was as if he had forgotten us completely.
“The two of you were married then, Mr. Bartleby?” I asked, jolting him from his reverie.
“Yes. That’s right. Those two blind witches who steer all men’s destinies had smiled upon me at last. Bevlin was enraged that I had succeeded over him in this one thing, but at once, all my concerns of besting my brother were discarded, to be replaced for a short time with a contentment that few in this world will ever know. True happiness.”
“Hum!” Gustobald tugged his beard and then interlaced his fingers, leaning back with sudden disinterest.
“Mother and father were so proud of me, and frequently told me as much, a sentiment not altogether forthcoming from them—not toward me anyway. Time went by and Abigail and mother grew exceptionally close, mother having no daughters of her own. When I accepted the appointment to my current station, it was with heavy hearts that we relocated farther north, closer to the capital.
“Abigail made frequent trips to visit mother over the following years, myself being too busy to find the time. It was more important that I work hard to maintain her newfound approval of me, to make something more of myself than a second son with no magical talent. Mother’s condition worsened, and Abigail made repeated attempts to pull me away from my duties, but I’ve always been headstrong. I get that trait from my mother—a woman whom I’ve always assumed was too stubborn to die.”
Sensing the turn in the story, I crossed the room to lend Mr. Bartleby a consoling pat on his shoulder.
“When the sickness finally overtook her, it came fast. I received word from Abigail that mother was on her deathbed, but in the time it took for the message to reach me, and for me to make the subsequent trip, she was gone. Bevlin, advanced enough in his craft to travel at the speed of thought, was there for her when she passed. As for me, I never saw her again, though Abigail told me she asked for me in her final dream state. My wife was left to make my excuses. I never forgave my brother for not using his power to bring me to our mother’s side. He never made contact with me after that, and I had nothing more to say to him. In the end, it’s as much my fault as his. I should have been there.”
Mr. Bartleby looked down at my hand and gripped it tightly, the living embodiment of shame. When he had endured enough, he stood up and donned his hat, turning his back to both of us and retreating to the doorway, where he lingered. “My brother was a great man, Mr. Pitch,” he said. “Whatever our disputes, I’m here to see justice done by him. I’d like to think that he would have done the same for me, had I been in his place. So please continue your investigation while I attend to the matter of his estate.”
“To that end, Mr. Bartleby,” the necromancer said, still seated by the fire, “I have one last question. You mentioned an heirloom that belongs to your family. You grew quite heated at the thought of losing it. What exactly are you looking for?”
“A portrait,” he replied. “Painted by our mother as a gift to our father, when Bevlin and I were barely old enough to walk. With father gone, it is the last thing to remind me of the family I once had. I owe it to myself, and to them, to see it recovered.”
“Very well,” Gustobald said without a trace of emotion. “I appreciate your openness.”
“Have courage, Mr. Bartleby,” I added.
“Thank you, Miss Ives,” he said with a subtle nod, tipping his rounded hat forward slightly on his head in that bizarre northern custom. “And good afternoon and evening to you, Mr. Pitch.”
Chapter 13
Academy chai, prepared in the southern style, is a foul beverage, fiercely bitter when prepared simply and unbearably saccharine once this first problem has been remedied. And yet, word has it that the two chai houses of the Academy Magus made as much coin as all the other shops combined, save for Grandia’s Goods. Alehouses were prohibited on academy grounds, so there was never a day when the seats went empty at the chai house, a fact that did nothing to enhance the appeal. I can still remember how stuffy that place was whenever Regina dragged me away from my studies.
That evening was no exception. There was barely room to sit at one of the miniature tables without rubbing up against other patrons. I was the only person who seemed to mind. I might not have agreed to come at all if I hadn’t been shut up in my room all day. Better that I had skipped that night out altogether.
“Theodore today,” Regina said, sitting down with her second cup. “He put Guthry in the infirmary.”
“Sound familiar?” I asked, crossing my arms to avoid elbowing a passing initiate.
Regina gave me an injured glance, her mouth hanging open until I finally let her off the hook with a grin. She closed her eyes and let out a laugh that was drowned out by t
he general din. “That’s not funny,” she said, laughing all the while. “Anyway, he’s a disaster. He has good focus but no control. He missed his target altogether, and Guthry was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. If it had been a more dangerous spell, Guthry might not have made it to the healers in time.”
“It happens.”
“I remember a time when it didn’t. At least you and I were aiming for each other.”
“You can’t compare them to us,” I said. “You know how serious we were, even as initiates.”
“My point exactly.”
I shrugged and took another sip of the tepid liquid before setting it down for good. I fought through my headache, trying in vain to block out the noise through force of will alone.
“Master Virgil’s asking about you,” she said after an awkward moment. “You were right. He wants me to keep tabs on you.”
“Funny. He told me to stay away from you. I’ve been busy, anyway. You’ve no idea the things I’ve learned in the past few days.”
“Don’t tell me.” Regina made a show of covering her ears. “It’s better if I don’t know.”
“You’re right.”
“Right now there’s only one thing I do want to know,” she said quietly, just beneath the ruckus. “Who’s the guy?”
“What?”
“The good-looking foreign guy in the corner over there. Do you know him? He’s been staring at us all night. I keep waiting for him to get the guts to come over.”
I twisted around to trade glances with Harper Lazrus, who was sitting alone with his cup of brew. Regina was right; he was even more attractive without his apron and oversized goggles. I found myself smiling too much and too long, and I quickly turned back to Regina, who was eyeing him hungrily.
“He’s not a foreigner,” I said. “At least, I don’t think so. And there’s no room here. Where would he sit?”