Fantastic Schools: Volume 2

by Nuttall, Christopher G.

Nanette looked at the book on the table. “I ...”

  Cloak sat down. “What did you think Aurelius was grooming you for?”

  He went on before she could muster an answer. “He wanted an agent, a person who could go places he couldn’t go and carry out his orders ... whatever they happened to be. There’s no room in that for doubts or scruples. He wanted someone who was ready to lie, cheat and steal on his behalf, to manipulate and seduce and blackmail her way across the Allied Lands, all in the service of a greater cause.”

  “And Emily killed him,” Nanette snarled. “I’ll see her dead for that.”

  “Perhaps you will,” Cloak agreed. “But, for the moment, you’ll keep your oaths to me.”

  Nanette lowered her eyes. She’d sold herself to him. There was no point in trying to deny it - or the simple fact he could swat her in an instant, if she turned against him. “Yeah.”

  Cloak picked up the book. “Get some rest,” he said. “You can have the next few days to recuperate. Explore the city a bit more, if you like. And then you’re going to Swanhaven.”

  “Swanhaven?” Nanette had seen the Zangarian barony on a map, bordering Cockatrice and only a few short miles from Beneficence, but she’d never visited. “What’s there?”

  “A spark,” Cloak said. “And you’re going to fan it into an inferno.”

  Epilogue

  It was traditional, Lady Damia had discovered when she’d joined the staff, for the teachers to meet their gentleman callers in Pendle, rather than allowing them to visit the school. The tradition had never made sense to her - the girls knew the facts of life perfectly well - but she had to admit it provided cover for other activities, activities that would incur the wrath of the headmistress if she ever found out. Damia respected the older woman - and admired her - but her thinking could be quite limited at times. The school had a responsibility to the wider community as well as the sisterhood alone.

  Master Lucknow raised his hand as she entered the inn, beckoning her to join him in his room. There was a certain irony there, Damia knew; he was about as interested in women as she was interested in men. But better to let them think it was a romantic meeting of the minds than a private chat about recent events. The headmistresses might let it pass, if she found out the truth, or she might demand Damia leave the school. And she didn’t want to leave the school.

  “I swear,” she said, as they entered the room. “This place gets dingier every year.”

  “There’s a bed,” Master Lucknow said. He cast a series of privacy spells, each one more complicated than the last. “And that’s all people want from a shithole like this.”

  He sat on the bed, resting his hands on his knees. “I understand you had some excitement ...?”

  “That’s one way of putting it.” Damia sat on the hard, wooden chair. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but she was fairly sure the bed would give her fleas - or something worse - if sat on the mattress. “And it just makes no sense.”

  She ticked off points on her fingers as she spoke. “We had an intruder,” she said. “This intruder, who remains unidentified, replaced Lady Nadine of Hightower. The unfortunate girl was turned into a goldfish and left here, in Pendle, while the replacement sneaked into the school, enchanted another student, sabotaged the flying display and vanished. We didn’t even put the pieces together until hours after she was gone.”

  “Ouch.” Master Lucknow stared at his hands. “Is Nadine alive?”

  “She was a goldfish for a month,” Damia said. “She’s back to normal, but ... a little traumatised by her experience. The healers think she’ll be having nightmares for a long time to come. Thankfully, she seems to have picked up a kind of glamour from the whole affair. The other girls aren’t being horrid to her.”

  She ran her hand through her long hair. “We still haven’t figured out the point of the whole exercise.”

  Master Lucknow considered it. “Nadine’s father is an important political figure in Zangaria,” he said. “The whole affair could have been designed to embarrass him - or her.”

  “Perhaps,” Damia agreed. “It’s also possible that Penny - the enchanted girl - was the target. Or someone was trying to discredit the school. Or ... maybe something went wrong and the intruder had to retreat without completing her mission. Penny did break out of her enchantment. Whatever she was trying to do ...”

  “You don’t know,” Master Lucknow said. “Just because you haven’t seen it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

  Damia shot him a sharp look. “I can work that out for myself, thank you,” she said, unkindly. “Point is, everything she did, all the motives we can imagine ... she could have done it without risking herself so drastically. It makes no sense. The planning alone would have required a quite remarkable degree of insight into Nadine’s schedules.”

  “Which might help us to figure out who was behind it,” Master Lucknow pointed out.

  “Apparently, one of Nadine’s former tutors vanished shortly after she left for school,” Damia said. “If that’s a coincidence, I’ll give up magic for good.”

  She winced, inwardly. The reports had suggested Nadine was a brat. Damia had braced herself for entitlement, for an attitude that would rapidly make Nadine one of the most detested girls in school. It had been almost a relief to discover she wasn’t that bratty. She’d even helped a common-born girl against her tormentors. Damia knew she’d made a mistake. She should have noted the disparity and looked closer. But she’d been too relieved to ask more questions.

  “We think the idea was to embarrass someone,” she said. She didn’t pretend to understand Zangarian politics, or mundane politics in general, but she knew they were important. “And yet, there were easier and simpler ways to embarrass Nadine, Penny, or Laughter itself without so much risk.”

  “So we are left with a mystery,” Master Lucknow mused. “And one that may never be solved.”

  “We have to solve it,” Damia said. Nadine, Penny, and Lillian had all been blameless. She was sure of that, after weeks of intensive interrogation. But none of them could shed light on what the intruder actually wanted. The whole exercise seemed pointless. “If the intruder managed to get into our school and ... fit in, at least until she went to work ... what is she going to do next?”

  “I don’t know,” Master Lucknow said. “But I think we might be about to find out.”

  Christopher G. Nuttall is the author of the Schooled in Magic series, the Zero Enigma series and many others, covering everything from high fantasy to alternate history, military science-fiction and thrillers. He currently lives in Edinburgh with his wife and sons.

  * * *

  Website: http://chrishanger.net/

  Blog: https://chrishanger.wordpress.com/

  Most Likely to Succeed

  P. A. Piatt

  High school wouldn’t be high school without drama, and the magical Wainwright Academy is no different. For the Class of 1520, their high school drama peaked when Headmaster Shadwell was forced to cancel the election for “Most Likely to Succeed” due to voting irregularities. His decision sparked a magical war that would last until tonight, their 500th-year class reunion. Are bygones ever really bygones?

  Most Likely to Succeed

  Edgar Campbell steered his wheezing jalopy past the flashing marquee that read, “Welcome Wainwright Academy Alumni Class of 1520” and into the almost-deserted parking lot. He parked next to a gleaming white Cadillac with pink pinstripes and shiny chrome wheels and shut off the engine. The engine knocked and rumbled until he silenced it with the tap of his finger. The vehicle gave one last shudder and fell silent.

  He was a Master of the Dark Arts, but the workings of the internal combustion engine escaped him. Edgar tried to grasp the concepts involved, but it was all just so much alchemy and steampunk foolishness. It was easier to bring the vehicle to life with the wave of his hand than it was to change the oil or do other routine maintenance tasks, and he absolutely refused to pay some grease monkey to do it for hi
m. Graduation from Wainwright Academy had not been the gateway to fortune and fame for Edgar as it was for many of his classmates, and he lived a life of forced frugality.

  Edgar grabbed the handle of the door and stopped when he caught his reflection in the glass. What he saw disappointed him. His tall wizard’s cap flopped down over one ear, and a series of small scorch marks and unidentifiable stains marred it. The fur collar of his robe had been sewn from the brilliant white pelts of baby fur seals, but it was now dirty gray and rubbed hairless in several places. His once-black robe had faded to a dingy shade of dark purple, and it didn’t take an experienced eye to see where he’d repaired tears and patched burn marks. His robe was unadorned because Edgar had lost the distinctive red, black, and gold cords that signified a Wainwright graduate. The ragged hem hid his worn sandals, and he was long past caring that his cuffs hung lifeless around his bony wrists.

  After one final deep breath, he pulled the door open and stepped inside the lobby. Directly in front of him was a folding table decorated with balloons and a hand-lettered sign that announced ‘REUNION REGISTRATION’ written in letters of alternating colors. Little hearts dotted the ‘I’s’, and the ‘O’s’ were smiley faces. Edgar groaned.

  The sorceress who manned the table wore a brilliant white robe that shimmered when she waved him over. Everything about her was perfect, from the coiffure that curled out from under her pointed cap to her gleaming white smile and perfectly manicured nails. Even her graduate cords looked brand new despite their age. Edgar got a thick feeling in this throat.

  Grisella Youngblood. She hasn’t changed a bit.

  “Hello, and welcome to the 500th Reunion of the Wainwright Academy Class of 1520. You are?”

  Her finger poised over a sheet of paper as though she needed to search a list for his name. Edgar considered a cutting retort but opted to play along instead.

  “Edgar Campbell. C-A-M—”

  She tapped the paper and interrupted him. “Here we are.” After she made a careful mark on the paper, she pushed the only nametag on the table to him. “Just peel and stick this anywhere.” After a pregnant pause, her face reddened at her accidental double entendre and she gave an embarrassed giggle. “On your robe.”

  The entire scene was absurd. Grisella knew damn well who Edgar was. Still, his time at Wainwright had instilled a deep respect for ritual and ceremony, so he went along with the farcical procedure.

  He peeled the waxy backing from the nametag and carefully affixed it to his robe. Grisella gave him another brilliant smile and gestured to a wicker basket on the end of the table.

  “Trash, please.”

  After Edgar crumpled the paper and dropped it in the basket, Grisella pointed to the gymnasium door. “Go on in and remember, have fun tonight!”

  Doubtful.

  Edgar stepped through the gymnasium door and straight into Hell, if the Devil decorated Hell in pastel crepe streamers, balloons, and hand-lettered signs. A projector flashed images of student life at Wainwright Academy on a blank wall above a set of bleachers. A steam table on the opposite wall featured an array of hot finger foods, and a portable bar next to it held a large punch bowl with a sign that encouraged self-service. On the wall above the bar were poster-sized pictures of various student luminaries. Class President, Valedictorian, etc. Edgar scanned the wall and smiled with satisfaction when he didn’t see one particular award.

  Voted Most Likely to Succeed.

  On the stage at the far end of the gym, he saw a karaoke stereo set-up. A large disco ball glittered from the ceiling, illuminated by a small spotlight positioned by the stage. There was one table and two chairs set up in the middle of the gym floor, with a crepe flower centerpiece and matching bunting.

  He investigated the bar and discovered that the only beverage offered was a fruity red punch. He eyed it with suspicion but decided that Grisella wasn’t the type to serve poisoned beverages. Edgar ladled out a cup, drank it down, and took a refill over to the table.

  Right after Edgar sat down, Grisella bustled over with her own cup of punch and flashed her permanent smile.

  “May I join you?”

  Edgar nodded, and the white-clad sorceress sat down in the seat next to him. He saw that she’d taken the time to put on her own nametag, and it was all he could do not to burst out laughing. He hated to admit it, but she looked fantastic. The smell of her perfume was intoxicating, a pleasant mix of fresh spring flowers and summer rain. Edgar imagined himself walking through a grassy field, the bright sun warm on his face, and—

  Stop it!

  Edgar cleared his head with a rapid shake and shot Grisella a suspicious look. She might not have spiked the punch, but concocting a perfume to captivate an unsuspecting man was easily within her powers. Grisella gave him an innocent smile and arched her eyebrows as if to say, “What?”

  The pair sat in silence and watched the slide show flash on the wall. Wainwright Academy was a K-12 school, so there were pictures of the Class of 1520 throughout their years there. Six-year-old Grisella flashed a toothless smile as she displayed a trophy from cheerleading camp. A long-range shot of the Dark Arts wing showed several anonymous dark-clad figures ducking away from the camera. Nine-year-old Grisella struck a pose on the balancing beam during gym class. Fourteen-year-old Grisella led the sophomore cheerleading squad on the sidelines during a rain-soaked homecoming football game. A blazing bonfire illuminated a midnight pep rally for the basketball team, replete with cheerleaders and the school band. In the shadows on the far side of the bonfire, a few out-of-focus pale faces were visible.

  “You know, Griz, there sure are a lot of pictures of you up there. If I didn’t know better…”

  Edgar purposefully used her nickname because he knew it would irritate her. He also knew that the veiled accusation about the pictures would anger her. If there was one thing the white hats prided themselves in, it was the outward appearance of fair play. They were all about the rules until you turned your back on them.

  “That’s not fair!” Grisella rose halfway out of her seat before she caught herself. She sat back down and unclenched her fists. “That’s not fair, Edgar.” Her voice was tight as she adopted the scolding tone one might use with a difficult child. “The reunion committee searched for many years to locate pictures of all remaining Class of 1520 members. We sent out many requests, but we received no responses.”

  “The reunion committee, meaning you?”

  “Well, yes, eventually the committee membership was reduced to me, but that doesn’t change the fact that we tried very hard to find pictures of you. You didn’t even sit for a yearbook picture. It’s not my fault you’re not photogenic.”

  There it was. The classic white hat one-two punch of blame-shifting combined with a personal insult. Beautiful students like Grisella learned the technique at an early age and perfected it for twelve years at the expense of students like Edgar.

  Edgar considered ending the charade right then and there, but he decided that he enjoyed sitting close to Grisella, basking in her undivided attention. He’d had strong feelings for her since kindergarten, but she never returned or even acknowledged his affections. Her supernatural pedigree was pristine, and she could trace it back several generations. Edgar grew up an orphan in a village on the edge of civilization, brought to Wainwright Academy to serve as a kitchen boy. It was only a chance encounter with one of the Dark Arts professors that rescued him from a life of servitude.

  They lapsed into silence and watched Grisella’s school memories flash on the wall. A picture of Wainwright’s headmaster, Bosley Shadwell, popped up. His face was twisted with fear, and his intricate headmaster’s miter was caught in mid-flight as it tipped off his head. Edgar and Grisella burst into laughter at the sight of the normally stern-faced Shadwell caught in a moment of panic.

  “Oh my God, I’d forgotten all about that,” Edgar blurted out between spasms of mirth.

  “I wonder who reanimated all the specimens in the biology lab with a ne
cromancing spell, Edgar?” Grisella’s eyes twinkled, and their earlier tension dissipated.

  Edgar shook his head. “Good old Shady Shadwell. He was such a tyrant.”

  “Too bad about what happened to him.” Grisella cast a curious glance at Edgar. “You heard about it, didn’t you?”

  He shrugged. “I heard somebody blew a hole in his back with a Power Bolt.”

  “Somebody?”

  “You’re not accusing me, are you?” Edgar’s face flushed.

  It was Grisella’s turn to shrug. “It’s no secret you hated him.”

  “Everybody hated Shady, Grisella. Even you and the rest of the goody two-shoes despised him.”

  “Not like you did.”

  “Believe what you want, but I didn’t murder Shadwell. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a back shooter. Speaking of back shooters, maybe it was Skippy? He has a history of that sort of thing.”

  Grisella stiffened and the color drained from her face. “Lancelot Breedlove did not murder Headmaster Shadwell, and please don’t call him ‘Skippy’.”

  Edgar chuckled. “At least you don’t deny he was a back shooter. I guess you can’t, since he shot me in the back.”

  “It was an accident. And it wasn’t full strength.”

  “I took a lot of comfort from that knowledge when I was in the hospital.”

  The tension reappeared and draped over them like a wet woolen blanket, heavy and itchy. The slideshow continued to play, and a picture of all the Homecoming Parade floats lined up in the parking lot appeared. In the rear of the procession, a large box covered in black crepe flowers was visible.

  “Hey, look at that. The Dark Arts were well represented that day.”

  Grisella scoffed. “Well represented? You guys made a box and covered it with black flowers, like the parade was some kind of funeral procession. How did that represent you well?”