“It would have left a signature,” Rondal pointed out.
“Not necessarily with Shadowmagic,” Tyndal said. “But even so, they were sloppy. They obscured their appearance magically, but they did not obscure their shadow. I was able to cast a magelight – about all I could do – but when I did, the thief’s shadow went up to . . . here,” he said, indicating a spot on the stone wall. “Here, cast a light over the bed – egg-sized, about six candles worth,” he requested.
Rondal did so in a moment. “Now,” Tyndal continued, standing where his assailant had stood, next to the bed, “if he was standing here . . . and that light – bring it down a bit lower . . . there. That light cast the shadow over there . . . which makes the thief no taller than five feet and a half,” he said.
“That’s a short thief,” Rondal said, sagely. “And that’s . . . Tyndal, you just did math. Geometry, even. Correctly.” The other apprentice looked impressed.
“Thanks, I’ve been reading,” he dismissed, crossly. “It also rules out an awful lot of suspects,” Tyndal pointed out. “Now, if I can manage to cast the recall spell, maybe I can track the trace I placed on his gloves.”
“Wait – you cast a trace spell on him? Why didn’t you say so?”
“I cast it on his gloves. It wasn’t subtle. If he’s got a brain in his head and even a modicum of training, he would have recognized it and discarded them. But perhaps we have a stupid thief. Uh . . . can you, uh, lend me some power? Otherwise this might take a while,” he said, apologetically.
“What? Oh, sure,” Rondal said, realizing how weakened Tyndal was without his stone. He closed his eyes and quickly created two kabas full of power, and an apis to transfer it.
The surge of power was intoxicating, after being bereft of his stone even for a short time. He took a moment to enjoy it before putting it to use. The tracking spell worked, he was gratified to see, and in a moment he had the distance and proximate direction of the gloves.
“They’re about six-hundred feet . . . that way,” he decided, pointing. “What’s over there?”
“The courtyard, the East Tower, the kitchens, the stable – quite a lot, actually,” Rondal said, apologetically. “Six hundred feet? That would put it . . . in the courtyard!” he said, excitedly. The both rose and bolted at once, Tyndal stumbling a bit as his legs tried to get used to their role again.
The boys raced outside following the magical trail, following the line into a tiny garden near the edge of the courtyard.
“That planter thing,” Rondal indicated, pointing to one of the raised beds that littered the campus. They both fell to searching it at once until they found the gloves . . . along with a mottled black cloak, an empty glass vial, and a discarded wand.
“He did abandon them,” Tyndal said, dismayed. “Crap!”
“He was sloppy, remember?” Rondal pointed out. “But not stupid. Let me check them out thaumaturgically – don’t touch them!” he cautioned. “I don’t want to confuse your signatures.”
“You can do thaumaturgy? Practically?”
“Thanks, I’ve been reading. I know enough to know where to start,” admitted Rondal. “Beyond that . . . well, let me see what I can see,” he said, getting on his knees in front of the discarded equipment. He closed his eyes, and Tyndal experienced a tinge of resentment as the other apprentice began casting.
While he waited, Tyndal explained the theft to Ancient Galdan, who arrived soon after upon the summons of the steward. . And then again to Head Master Alwyn. Both looked profoundly disturbed and upset by the matter – with Master Minalan suddenly so important in the profession, a theft of a witchstone from his oldest apprentice reflected very poorly on the school, and they knew it.
Of course it reflected poorly on him, too. He was happy for them not to point that out. To him or his master.
The guards, a few more masters, and even a few students came out of their rooms and out into the courtyard to investigate the small commotion. Soon a crowd gathered around Rondal, who was still deep in his spellcraft. Tyndal did his best to shoo-away anyone he could but there were a few of such rank that his dismissal would not do. But he didn’t mention the theft, specifically, unless he had to. He confided only in faculty, knowing he took a risk in doing so. They were all appropriately shocked.
“Whoever it was,” Tyndal explained to them, “they were between five foot three and five foot five. Talented, but un-augmented by irionite. Until now,” he added, sourly.
“That describes about a hundred different people in the school,” Galdan said, disturbed. He was fully dressed, unlike most of the others gathered. Likely he slept in those clothes, as many guardsmen did.
Estasia, dressed in her nightclothes but with her mantle over them against the chill of the night and the season, was among those who would not disperse. She could tell there was something wrong, and with a look of concern she asked him.
Tyndal found himself telling her everything, almost guiltily. He drank in her looks of sympathy like a drowning man. His witchstone was lost . . . what would he tell his master?
“Oh, Tyndal,” she sighed, sadly. “I can’t believe that would happen! Not here, not to you . . . well, whoever did it, they must be mad!”
“No, they’re not,” Tyndal decided. “They’re very, very smart. Smart enough to track me and my movements, get me alone, wait until I was asleep, make sure Rondal wasn’t around, slip into my room through the window . . .”
“I could try to do a thaumaturgical essay,” she offered, helpfully. “I might be able to pick up a signature.”
“Rondal’s already working on it,” Tyndal nodded toward his fellow, whose brow was knit with concentration as he tracked the stone. “Besides . . . how tall are you?”
Estasia looked confused at first, and then upset and then angry. “What? Are you accusing me?”
“I’m not accusing anyone,” Tyndal said, easily, “I’m just asking for your height. And I don’t want anyone looking at that stuff until Rondal does.”
Her nostrils flared. “You think you can’t trust me?”
“I know I can trust him,” Tyndal said, throwing his thumb toward the other apprentice. “He might be a . . . well, I know I can trust him. Everyone else . . . well, I just met you good folk,” he said, apologetically.
“I understand, lad,” Master Alwyn said, shaking his head. Alwyn leaned heavily on his staff. He did not look offended, he looked distraught.
“I don’t!” Estasia said, offended. “Do you take me for a thief?”
“Don’t worry,” Rondal said, opening his eyes suddenly. “It wasn’t her.”
“How do you know?” asked Tyndal excitedly. “Did you get the thief’s signature?”
“No,” groaned Rondal, standing up and brushing the cold dirt of the courtyard off of his butt. “They weren’t that sloppy, unfortunately. But I did establish a few things. For instance, the thief was male. He was also younger,” he said, which seemed to relieve the shorter masters in the crowd. “Someone else can check behind me, if they like. See if they can find anything else out about him.”
There were several volunteers, and the Head Master Alwyn chose Master Secul to do the tracing. A few minutes later he had to concur with Rondal . . . and commended the boy on his thorough job.
“Younger, male and magically gifted,” Ancient Galdan repeated. “That narrows the suspects down to . . . say sixty? Seventy?”
“That’s assuming that he is a student,” Estasia said, darkly. “Who knows what enemies these two have attracted?”
“This wasn’t done because of hate,” Tyndal pointed out. “Otherwise my throat would be slit. This was a thief, not an assassin. This was done out of greed. Greed for power.”
“Then who is that greedy for power?” asked Rondal.
“That could be anyone here,” Master Secul admitted. “Ambition for power is always a hazard for a mage. I, myself, am not above it.”
“Why can’t you scry for it?” asked Estasia. “Irionite is m
agically expressive. I would think it would show up-”
“It would,” Rondal agreed. “I tried. The thief used some sort of shadowmagic spell to conceal it soon after he stole it, otherwise it would have. It can be done,” he added. “It’s not too complicated. The gurvani shamans try to mask themselves from our scrying that way.”
“Then how do we find it? Assuming the thief isn’t halfway upriver by now,” Master Trondel asked. “Or riding for his life over the horizon?”
“Sir Tyndal,” Master Alwen said, doubtfully, “While I understand the magnitude of this incident, do you not think it better if older and wiser heads were to conduct an investigation?”
“With respect, Head Master,” Rondal said, formally, “as this involves irionite, which is held under oath to the Spellmonger, and since we are unsure of exactly whom is involved, my colleague and I would prefer to run the investigation. I still have my witchstone, and that will be of immense benefit in finding the first. Perhaps even instrumental.”
“Master, the young ones seem to have this in hand,” Ancient Galdan said, respectfully, “I’ll work with them and ensure they don’t go too far astray, but . . . where exactly would you start?”
The old wizard looked thoughtful. “In truth, I have no liking for this theft. Irionite is too volatile and too powerful to be in sinister hands.”
“Just how powerful is it?” asked Estasia, looking alarmed.
“I destroyed a castle with it last summer,” Tyndal said.
“It was a small castle,” Rondal said apologetically. “I helped.”
“My point is, Head Master, that I don’t think that you and your staff are quite equipped to handle this. Without irionite, and without a better idea of whom the thief is, you’ll be as much in the dark as a non-mage, I’m afraid.”
“I see your point, lad,” the old wizard said. “Of course we’ll help in any way you can, but . . .”
“We will keep you appraised of our investigation, Head Master,” Rondal assured him. “For now, simply keep the theft quiet, please. If we need specific assistance, we’ll request it.”
“So how are you planning to find it?” Galdan asked, curious.
Tyndal suppressed a groan. Wasn’t that obvious? “We can find it if we play to our strengths,” Tyndal said, instantly. “If we have the most advanced—”
Tyndal stopped, as his stomach started to churn. Before he could say another word, he vomited profusely into the shrubbery. Everyone else stepped back quickly.
“Sorry,” he moaned, when he was finished. “That must have been an after-effect of the paralysis spell . . .”
Estasia looked at him, disgusted, and he suddenly felt ashamed of losing control like that. Vomiting in front of girls you liked was almost never a good idea . . .
“No it’s not! That smell!” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I know that smell! Bardain!”
“Who?”
“Not who, what,” she corrected. “Bardain is a common hypnotic sedative, made from a particular kind of sea kelp. It’s odorless, colorless, and tasteless. Until it hits your stomach, that is, where it converts into other chemicals. Some of them smell like green apples – of which your vomit,” she said, distastefully indicating the disgusting puddle, “reeks. Vomiting later is also common as your stomach rejects the toxin. Someone poisoned you, Tyndal!” she declared, angrily. “That’s how they snuck into your room so easily. They wanted you dead asleep for the theft. Then they paralyzed you to be sure.”
“Who could have poisoned me?” he asked, confused.
“Bardain is subtle, it could have happened anytime in the previous six, seven hours,” agreed Master Secul. “Excellent identification, young lady!” Estasia beamed.
“I ate in the Dining Hall at lunch,” Tyndal recalled, “but I served myself from the common table, just like everyone else. I missed dinner. Slept through it.”
“It wouldn’t have to be dinner,” she decided. “Mixed with some other compounds, Bardain can even be absorbed through the skin. Physicians often administer it in water or broth. But someone had to have done it.” She picked up the glass vial the thief had left behind gingerly, using a handkerchief to protect her fingers. “With your permission, Head Master, I’d like to investigate to confirm.”
“As long as someone you trust verifies her work, Head Master, we have no objection,” Rondal said, quickly. “No offense, my lady, but . . .”
“None taken,” she dismissed. “I . . I’d be mistrustful, too, after something like this, with something that powerful. That’s the sort of thing that inspires people to do . . . well, anything. I’m sure your master is not going to be pleased,” she said, looking at Tyndal sympathetically.
Crap. What would Master Min have to say about this fiasco? Tyndal did not look forward to that conversation.
“That is likely the biggest understatement of your life,” Tyndal said, shaking his head quietly in misery. “Master Min will think of something particularly nasty to torment me with in punishment.” That was probably an overstatement - it hadn’t been his fault - but would his master see it that way?
“We’ll find it,” Rondal assured him. “Before we have to report it to Master Min. It can’t have gone far. No one was moving within two miles of the campus, and I’ll know if anyone does.
“So let’s go over what we know: we have a five-foot-five male with Talent, a knowledge of shadowmagic, and a knowledge of herbalism,” Rondal said, ticking off the clues. “How many students fit that description?”
“Herbalism is a common class, a prerequisite for most advanced Alchemy classes,” Estasia said. “And just about anyone could look up Bardain. Surgeons use it when they operate, sometimes.”
“But Shadowmagic,” Secul said, shaking his head, “that’s a different story. No one teaches Shadowmagic . . . anywhere.”
“Anywhere legitimate,” Galdan reminded him.
“It is an obscure discipline,” Alwyn agreed in his creaky old voice. “Hardly respectable, for all of its utility . . . to some folk. If Shadowmagic is taught these days, it is usually taught secretly. Someone who has a secret patron, perhaps. Or someone who learned it within their family. Some families have their own grimoires,” he reminded them. “Secret spells they only pass down from generation to generation.”
Tyndal recalled that Lady Pentandra had a store of those herself, ‘special’ spells that had been proscribed by the Bans . . . but that she had learned from her father. Master Min had a few books he wouldn’t let anyone else look in. Secrecy was the prerogative of the mage. “Then whoever the thief was comes from a magical family,” he reasoned. “How many does that narrow your list down to, Ancient Galdan?” He watched the man figure in his head.
“Twenty. No, nineteen. Maybe eighteen, depending on whether or not . . .”
“So twenty,” Rondal repeated. “Twenty suspects. Progress. That’s not too many to question.”
“If they know Shadowmagic, they will likely be able to conceal themselves from detection, even in an interrogation,” Master Secul observed.
“But they aren’t adept at Shadowmagic,” Rondal pointed out, “or Tyndal would never have guessed their height as he did. Someone who has an imperfect understanding of the discipline might be vulnerable, if we’re subtle enough.”
“Or they might just get nervous enough to reveal themselves under pressure,” Tyndal agreed. He began to walk back to his room, resolutely.
“Where are you going?” Secul called after him.
“To get my mageblade, Slasher,” Tyndal growled. “It’s time to play to my strengths.”
* * *
The boys stayed up all night, working with Galdan, Estasia, and Master Secul to manage the crisis. Rondal suggested that they spread the rumor that someone had tried to steal Tyndal’s mageblade as a prank. That was plausible enough - pranks at magical academies were legendary. Tyndal displaying the allegedly-stolen- and-recovered blade was enough to put an end to the rumor. No one outside of the investigation knew t
he true scope of the crime. If the thie didn’t remember stealing the stone, then it was best not to alert him prematurely.
They came up with the best possible plan, under the circumstances. The next morning at dawn, twenty boys were summoned to the rarely-used Enchanter’s Hall for “special examination”.
Rondal thought that this would make the thief suspicious, but he was assured by Master Secul that such sudden and unexpected tests were a common thing at Inarion. Students could be summoned for all sorts of reasons, and often were gathered together without being told why, to avoid any chance of impropriety.
The twenty boys who milled around the old hall, the fire smoldering in the fireplace, were a little nervous but mostly bored, Tyndal could see from the convenient peep-hole in the next room. The ones who were supposed to be in class seemed happy to have been called away, while the ones who were out of class were grumbling about disturbing their sleep.
“I was up all night studying thaumaturgic theory!” complained Kaffin of Gyre, tiredly to no one in particular while they were waiting. “I have a test this afternoon! Making me stay awake on my morning off is cruel!”
“You think you have it bad?” moaned another boy – Taris of Dardendal, Master Secul whispered to Tyndal as he watched through the peep-hole – “You’re a good student, you’ll do fine! I’ve got a test in Practical Spellcraft this morning I’m missing, and I still haven’t read the last third of the text! Now I’m going to have to skip lunch to make it up!”
“You should have prepared more, then,” taunted another one – a bookish lad who reminded Tyndal more of Rondal than anyone else. Jesden of somewhere. “That test has been on the calendar for weeks!”
“I just want to know why we’re here,” complained another – Bandran of Gars, Secul supplied, though Tyndal remembered the boy.
“We all know why we’re here,” Daris of Holden’s Mead said, gravely. “Someone was clearly caught cheating. I trust each of you will exercise due restraint,” he added, warningly.
Knights Magi (Book 4) Page 11
