Their chambers overlook the rooftops of the great university.
In the mornings, the professors pour down in long, thin lines,
wrapped in robes of gold, silver, imperial purple, or royal blue,
their tassels tapping against their mortar boards, their stern and
ancient faces sagging from the weight of the vast knowledge
within their venerated brains.
They make their way over frayed carpet down the seventy
stairs converging into the Great Stair, a wide expanse
descending into the muscular Gothicism of Tabard Hall. The
east wall is paned glass, so the morning sun pours in, meeting
the professorial stream. Trumpets blare as the first scholar
places his revered, scuffed shoe on the stone floor; the echoes
swirl down the cloistered ways until every college is alerted.
From there, the preceptors disburse, each to his own place, and
the work of the university begins.
Carter and Jonathan sat watching the procession from
overstuffed chairs in the midst of Tabard Hall—the sunlight on
the colorful robes, the statuesque faces of the professors. It had
taken two days, from the time they left the inn, to reach the
university.
Lord Anderson studied their heavy brows and wizened
countenances. “My wife, Sarah, says people’s ears and noses
continue to grow throughout their lives, nature’s joke to make
the elderly look wise and funny as gnomes.”
“I must be an exception,” Jonathan said, “or by now I
would have a weather-vane for a nose and ears flapping in the
wind.”
With the day begun, the travelers approached a potbellied
man in a gray robe and silver sash, standing beside the Great
Stair. Upon introducing themselves, they were led up the stair
a short distance and ushered into a side door leading through a
labyrinth of corridors finally ending in a tidy chamber with an
equally tidy man seated at a desk, scribbling with a quill pen.
“Secretary Bipwhine,” the escort said. “This is Lord
Anderson and Mr. Bartholomew.”
The secretary rose, removed his spectacles, and gave the
pair an appraising stare. Apparently satisfied, he bowed and
said. “We did not expect you until Tuesday, Lord Anderson,
but it is good you have come. Chancellor Tremolo has been
anxious to meet with you.”
“My plans were unexpectedly changed, and there was no
opportunity to send a messenger,” Carter replied. He had
originally intended to talk to the chancellor about bringing the
telegraph through the university.
Bipwhine disappeared behind a door, and a lanky man
robed in black soon appeared, eyes glazed with the beginnings
of cataracts. The crown of his head was bald, with wisps of
gray hair straining from behind his ears.
“Lord Anderson! So good of you to come,” the chancellor
said. “So good. Come in. Bipwhine, we must have tea! And
this is Storyteller! A bit of a celebrity, if the tales are true.”
The men shook hands, and Tremolo led them into a
fastidious office, nearly bare of decoration, save for a large
Lippenhost vase in one corner, a wooden wall plaque stating:
Our Goal is Education , and a host of framed degrees behind
the chancellor’s chair. The desk was large and mostly empty.
“Never mind the mess,” Tremolo said, though there was
none. “I was in committee meetings all day yesterday and
haven’t had a chance to straighten my office. You cannot
imagine! So many interesting thoughts in education, so much
variety ! We are changing the world, gentlemen. In a hundred
years, the teaching discipline will be irrevocably different. It
boggles the mind to think of it. We are looking now at the
Inverse Logic method of instruction; I have all my professors
using it. Once properly applied, the student leaves the
classroom retaining everything the instructor says. This is far
superior to the Randall approach we were using two years
ago.”
The tea arrived and Chancellor Tremolo paused to take a
sip before launching into a detailed explanation of educational
theory. Lord Anderson made a polite comment or two, but as
they were utterly ignored, soon dropped into calm nods,
recognizing the chancellor as one who had held power so long
he no longer listened to anyone but himself. Five minutes into
the monologue Carter began to grow impatient, but before he
could speak, Jonathan interrupted.
“Do you like to fish, Chancellor?”
“I …” Tremolo halted, taken aback. “Well, that is—”
“Do you like the scent of the air beside the Fable River, the
light of sunrise, the soft peeping of the water fowl, the worm
on the hook? Do you like the slow drawing back for the first
cast, arm locked in placed, the quick release, the line snaking
out? Wading into the water, its coolness rushing round your
knees? The drifting of the line, the swaying of the trees, the
motion of the river? The first nibble, sweet as a girl’s kiss, and
suddenly taut? Do you like to fish?”
Chancellor Tremolo’s expression abruptly melted. His eyes
gained intensity. “I love to fish,” he said, a soft smile creeping
over his face. “I don’t get to go as I once did, of course. The
responsibilities of the university, you know.”
For a few minutes they talked of worms and hooks and
lures, and Carter saw that Tremolo cared little for educational
theories after all. With the chancellor a human being once
more, Jonathan said, “Master Anderson has come to ask about
the College of Poets.”
The chancellor gave a sigh, as if wading back to shore
after a long, happy day. Carter could almost see him putting
away his tackle box.
“Lord Anderson, normally I would not discuss this
particular subject. You must understand that what I tell you is
strictly confidential. But you being the Master, it may fall
under your jurisdiction.”
Tremolo’s voice grew conspiratorial. “It seems to have
started with Doctor Armilus, who was dean of Poets’ College
until we learned of his anarchist activities. Not just one of
those intellectuals espousing anarchist doctrine, either—
universities are a sanctuary for every kind of theory—he was
the real thing, connected to a bombing at Nianar that killed
seven school children.”
“I know of him,” Carter said.
“From what I understand, he was far behind the scenes. He
was arrested but escaped custody while awaiting trial. But he
was only the first to leave. Professor Shoemate, the chair at
Poets’ College, was the next to go. A brilliant woman, very
likeable, easy to work with; she took a leave of absence and
never returned. Shortly thereafter, the other professors began
acting peculiar.”
The chancellor’s voice dropped even lower. “There are
rumors that they began visiting other parts of the house,
spreading some sort of—I don’t know what to call it—poetry
doctrine
. I have been investigating; we have even formed a
committee, but it may be a moot point, as every one of the
professors of the Poetry College has vanished.”
Carter raised his eyebrows. “How many?”
“Twelve. They quit teaching classes. Just stopped. Their
families are frantic. And recently, Professor Hector from the
music department, a friend of Professor Shoemate, has also
disappeared. He was last seen Thursday night entering the
library reading room where the College of Poets used to have
their monthly meetings. There have since been rumors of
strange occurrences there. Students are claiming the Poetry
College is haunted; it’s gotten so bad they refuse to enter the
halls. We had the police investigate. They found nothing at the
college itself, but have witnessed odd lights nearly every night
in the upper stories of the library which vanish before the
officers can reach them.”
“I shall go to the Poetry College at once,” Carter said.
“Perhaps I can find something the police missed. I want to see
the library reading room as well.”
“Anything you can do would be wonderful,” the chancellor
said. “The College of Poets is locked up, but I will alert the
officers to allow you entrance. And I can inform the police to
stay away from the library this evening to give you free rein.
Would you like an escort to the college?”
“I prefer to go alone. Directions will be sufficient.”
“My secretary will see to it. Thank you so much for your
aid, Lord Anderson, Mr. Bartholomew. I must admit, I feel
helpless. The professors’ families are heartbroken. When this
is over, I may take a long vacation, do a bit of fishing, try to
forget the whole business.”
“That is a good thought,” Jonathan said.
“And to think it started with poor Professor Shoemate,” the
chancellor continued, walking the two men to the door. “I
wonder what became of her?”
After obtaining directions from Bipwhine, Carter glanced
back toward the chancellor’s office. Tremolo was leaning back
in his chair, casting an invisible line toward his trash
receptacle.
As they made their way down the Great Stair, Jonathan
said, “The journey to the College of Poets is a task for the
Master. There are three people I promised to visit when next I
came this way, and one for certain has a broken heart.”
“Very well. Don’t expect me for supper. I’ll eat on the way
to the library.”
Jonathan departed and Carter made his way through
passages bordered by everything from heavy Gothic gargoyles
to dainty primrose wallpaper and carved miniatures. The
University of Aylyrium had grown into its spaces one room
and one college at a time, resulting in a riotous collection of
offices, lecture halls, and laboratories, the architecture varying
from chamber to chamber.
After an hour’s march, he reached a rotunda on the main
floor, where he approached an officer in a scarlet uniform
stationed beside leather-bound doors with College of Poets
carved in flowing script upon the lintel. Surveying the room,
he saw other doors all around, each labeled with the names of
various schools, including the controversial Shea College of
Paraphysics.
“You must be Master Anderson,” the officer said. “I have
orders to let you into Poetry College, though I wouldn’t go in
there myself for the world. It’s become a wicked place, no
doubt about it.”
Carter grimaced, wondering if people enjoyed saying that
sort of thing when he did have to enter. But as the officer
unfastened the lock and threw open the doors, revealing a
long, ascending stair, Lord Anderson realized the man was
correct. Something was definitely wrong, something that sent
a chill through him.
He licked his lips, not wanting to cross the threshold. He
could sense the shifting of the Balance, feel the dark hand of
Chaos controlling the rooms above. The stairwell appeared to
waver beneath the single gas jet, as if this portion of the house
were no longer quite substantial.
He looked at the officer, who goggled in fear at the long
flight.
“It’s gone ghostly!” the man exclaimed.
Carter drew his Lightning Sword, startling the man.
Golden light streamed off the serrated blade, and where its
luminance touched the steps, the stairway seemed more solid.
Lord Anderson strode to the bottom of the steps, his boots
clumping on the worn, wooden floor. Shivers ran along his
neck as he grasped the bannister rail. He half-expected it to be
insubstantial; it was iron cold instead, a biting frost that made
him flinch from its touch. When he placed a foot upon the
steps, he could feel the chill through his boots.
He climbed to a level even with the single gas jet. Though
the light cast a half circle on everything below, beyond this
point the illumination failed, as if unable to penetrate the
darkness.
In seeming defiance, his Lightning Sword glowed brighter,
filling the stair with its soft light. He glanced back at the
officer, who stared up at him with frightened eyes. “I’ll be just
outside if you need anything,” the man gasped, quickly
shutting the door behind him.
“I am certain you will,” Carter muttered scornfully, though
he could scarcely blame the fellow.
He made his way up the stair, ascending several flights
before stepping into a common room apparently scorched by
fire. The walls and carpets were blackened, the hanging
documents consumed. Several portraits hung on the wall, their
faces burned away to empty, staring ovals. The couches,
chairs, and end tables remained intact but seared at the edges.
He stepped through a doorway, mindful of the power of the
Poetry Man he had faced in Ghahanjhin. He wished Jonathan
had accompanied him. As Master, he had traveled many times
alone and did not fear the solitude of empty passages, yet here
he was afraid. He sensed chaotic forces all around, permeating
the very walls.
He passed through benighted rooms, the light from his
sword casting shadows about him. The mysterious forces grew
stronger the deeper he went, and he followed their scent the
way a hound tracks a rabbit. The air crackled with static
electricity, making the hair on the nape of his neck stand on
end; the doorknobs startled him with mild shocks. He found it
increasingly difficult to move forward, as if he struggled
against a stout wind.
He hesitated at a half-opened door bearing a sign inscribed
with the words Erin Shoemate, Professor of Poetry . Pushing
the door wide with his foot, he stepped inside.
The scorching was worse here. The desk lay in shambles,
one of its legs charred away. He made a slow circle of the
room, not certain what he was looking for. A few scattered
papers lay about, containing snatches of poetry, vario
us names,
and cryptic memos.
Bookshelves, ornamented with the carved faces of
gargoyles and filled with smoke-damaged volumes, lined the
walls behind the desk. Carter frowned. If the books held any
clues concerning the professor’s disappearance, it would
require a day’s hunt to discover them. Vowing to have Mr.
Hope initiate a thorough search, he turned toward the desk.
The top two drawers were empty save for pens, rulers, and
paperclips. The bottom one held a number of papers which had
escaped the fire, but these proved to be only student essays.
Playing a hunch, he brought a Word of Power to mind.
Talheedin !
The room trembled at the Word of Secret Ways, an
alarming noise in the silence. He glanced around the chamber
and was rewarded by a blue glow surrounding one of the
wooden gargoyles adorning the bookshelf. Feeling along its
head, he discovered a small button. He pressed it. With a click,
the gargoyle swung outward, revealing a hidden compartment.
Within the cubbyhole he discovered a thin, half-burned
volume he soon identified as Professor Shoemate’s diary.
Placing the book in his jacket pocket, he left the room and
continued along the corridor, moving past other offices until
he came to a pair of massive doors.
Taking a deep breath, he gripped his sword and wrenched
both doors wide, using so much force they struck the walls.
The noise boomed through the silence.
The light of his Lightning Sword played across the wooden
floorboards of a large assembly hall. As he moved forward,
the blade’s illumination revealed a singed tapestry on one wall,
a heavy oak desk, and a herd of scattered chairs. So strong
were the forces of Chaos, so acrid and biting, he fancied he
could taste them.
He made his way around the chamber, keeping close to the
wall. Random books, their pages ripped from their spines,
sprawled across his path. Broken rulers and yellow scraps of
paper lay beneath his tread. He made the full circle of the
room, the floorboards creaking at every step, but found
nothing.
As he approached the desk, it seemed to waver in the dim
light, like a specter of long-dead furniture. He placed his hand
on its surface. The wavering ceased; the desk felt solid.
The usual kinds of items were upon it, a quill pen and
bottle of ink, a broken saucer and chipped teacup, a few
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