Timothy looked to the Voice, eager to respond, but not sure if he needed permission. “May I answer?” he asked politely.
The Voice nodded. “Proceed.”
“I have lived only thirteen years and most of that time in another place, not even of this world. But I have learned the history. If the Wurm were a threat in those times, might it not have been because they felt threatened, because they were in danger?”
An angry muttering came from several spots around the room, but Timothy went on. “Never mind that. You can’t blame an entire race for the crimes of a few. Verlis came to our world not to menace us, but to seek the aid of my father, who, unbeknownst to him, had passed on.” Timothy felt a painful lump of emotion form in his throat. “I did what I felt my father would have done, and I agreed to help the Wurm and his people.”
A figure seated not far from Cassandra jumped up from her seat. “You’re lucky to be alive, son of Argus Cade!” she shrieked. “The Wurm would just as soon burn you to ash as look at you! They are monsters of the worst kind. Retract your request and leave the abomination to rot at the bottom of the sea.”
This time he didn’t ask for permission to rebuke the hurtful words. “Verlis is not a monster! He is a thinking, feeling creature from a race of thinking, feeling creatures. Are there bad among them? Wurm who could wish to do us harm? I’m sure there are. But remember there is evil among us, as well, or have you forgotten Grandmaster Nicodemus?”
A collective gasp escaped the gathering at the mention of that name, and Timothy could not help but look in Cassandra’s direction. The girl hung her head in shame. He didn’t mean to hurt her, but he had to make his point.
“Verlis and his clan are not evil,” Timothy continued. “A civil war has broken out in Draconae. They are being oppressed by their own kind and are in danger, and they have asked for our help—my help. I beg you to allow me to do this.”
“I say we let him go,” said a booming voice like the rumble of thunder, and Timothy saw the foreboding shape of Lord Romulus rise to his feet, causing those seated around him to cringe in fear. “I say we let the boy go and close the doorway permanently behind him!”
A scattering of cheers and claps erupted from around the chamber, and Timothy felt his heart sink. They weren’t listening to him, their fear and ignorance not allowing them to think beyond their petty prejudices. He hung his head, as the weight of his sorrow sat heavy upon his shoulders.
“Please, show some respect,” said a powerful voice, and Timothy realized that Leander now stood beside him. “You may not agree with his request, but at least show him the same courtesy that he is showing you.”
Mistress Belladonna was the next to rise, seeming to grow up from her seat like one of the beautiful and unique flowering plants that the Order of Strychnos was known for. “As his advocate, how do you feel about the boy’s appeal, Grandmaster Maddox? Do you think that we should allow the Wurm to go free, and a doorway between our two worlds to be opened?” she asked. “I’m sure I could tell you how the former Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred would have answered.”
Leander sighed, clasping his large hands behind his back as he studied the hem of his robe. “My opinion would have very much mirrored the responses I have heard this morning.” He gazed up at his peers. “If I had not the pleasure of meeting the Wurm, Verlis. Yes, he is monstrous in appearance, but within him, there beats a heart very much like our own. Verlis is a father and a husband and a son, and he fears for his family.”
The Grandmaster paused, looking about the room. “And if you are still wondering how I would respond to young Master Cade’s request, the answer is, I would grant it to him.”
A murmur went through the crowd. The fact that a respected member of Parliament like Leander Maddox had taken Timothy’s side had certainly thrown the proceedings into turmoil, and the boy dared to wonder if his request might actually be granted.
“But of course you were the one to bring the boy over from where he had been hidden away for years, isn’t that true, Professor Maddox?”
Another player had suddenly come onto the scene. Timothy felt his heart skip a beat, and he flushed with anger as he watched Constable Grimshaw saunter arrogantly into the chamber.
“I would imagine that you’ve grown fond of the afflicted youth,” the constable added, his hand reaching up to smooth the end of his thin, black mustache.
“Yes, I have grown quite close to the boy, but that fondness has very little to do with what I see as the merits in his request.”
The constable sneered, turning his attention to the Voice of Parliament. “My deepest apologies,” the man said with a bow. “The tribulations of my position as constable kept me from arriving in a more timely fashion. I’m afraid another mage has disappeared from the streets of Sunderland, and I was called to the scene to investigate.”
The crowd murmured at this revelation, and Timothy was perplexed. He had thought the mystery of the vanishing mages solved with the death of Grandmaster Nicodemus. He was disturbed to discover that this was not the case. For if Nicodemus was gone, then who was responsible for the recent disappearances?
“Your apology is accepted,” the Voice replied. “Do you have anything to contribute to our gathering this morning, Constable? Something that might help our representatives to make their decision?”
“And what, exactly, has the boy asked of Parliament?” The constable glanced at Timothy with a hint of a smile.
Leander began to answer, but Grimshaw quickly raised a hand, silencing him. “Let the boy respond,” he purred.
Timothy met the constable’s gaze without wavering. “I want them to free Verlis from Abaddon and let me go with him to Draconae to help his clan.”
Grimshaw’s eye grew wide as he turned toward the assemblage. “Surely he jests,” the constable said, his astonishment obviously a pretense. “Free a creature from captivity whose sole desire is to see our kind wiped from existence, and then open a doorway that could allow more of its fearsome kind access to our world?”
The constable narrowed his gaze and glared at Timothy as though he himself were the worst kind of criminal. “If you are indeed serious, Master Cade, I would have to say that it is my belief that you have lost touch with your sanity.”
The crowd growled, emotions stirred by the constable’s forceful words.
“Why should the esteemed members of Parliament even consider a request from one such as you?” he asked. “With all that has happened since your arrival—the turmoil and the discord amongst the guilds—why would they even entertain the idea?”
“See here, Grimshaw,” Leander said. “To blame Timothy for the mistrust within the guilds is outrageous and—”
“He’s right!” yelled a mage from the gathering. “Things were fine until the boy showed up! He’s unnatural!”
The guild members began to speak at once, each of them stirred to opinion by the constable’s insinuations.
“The son of Argus Cade is to blame!” shrieked Lord Foxheart. “His presence in this world must be responsible for all the disharmony. How else can one explain it? An abomination, that’s what he is! I’ve said it before, and it’s time you all listened.”
Timothy was shocked and disappointed. He had always known that they were afraid of him—afraid of his difference—but never could have imagined how much. Leander moved swiftly toward him, as if to put himself between the boy and the angry Parliament members.
“You have to do something!” a mage dressed in robes of scarlet screamed.
“You’re the constable, it’s your job to restore order!” bellowed another.
The Voice strode to the center of the circular room, her staff of bone held aloft. “Silence!” she demanded, but her cries fell on deaf ears.
“Do you hear them, Cade?” the constable asked. “They demand that I do something about you.” He smiled predatorily “And I believe I know just the thing.”
Chapter Five
Tiny beads of sweat roll
ed down Timothy’s forehead. He was bent over a table in his workshop, the flicker from a hungry fire lantern casting eerie shadows on the wall. His chest rose and fell, the furnace of his heart stoked with anger, and he narrowed his gaze as he studied his handiwork. Not long now, he thought. Not long at all.
With a grave sigh he snatched up a rag from the table and mopped his brow. Then he set to work once more.
Something disrupted the shadows dancing in the lantern light, flickering at the edge of Timothy’s vision. He glanced up and realized it was Ivar, moving closer to see what he was working on. The Asura’s skin matched the color of the wall, the lantern light playing the same whispers of shadow and light on him. If Timothy had not been familiar with the color-shifting of the Asura, he would never have noticed Ivar’s approach.
“What do you have in mind, Timothy?”
The young man frowned and stared at his friend. “I don’t think anyone’s seeing all of this clearly. I need to talk to someone who has better perspective.”
Ivar crossed his arms, brow furrowing with contemplation.
From behind him there came the fluttering of wings. Timothy turned to see Edgar perched on the windowsill. The rook cocked his head slightly to one side to regard the boy.
“Caw! You’re being awfully cryptic. Not to mention that I’m tempted to take it as an insult. We’re your friends. I think we see the situation pretty clearly.”
In the far corner Sheridan stood quietly, as though he had been shut down. But the mechanical man’s eyes glowed, and so Timothy knew he was not resting. He was merely observing. As if to confirm this, a hiss of steam escaped from Sheridan’s valve.
“Indeed,” he said.
“You know that isn’t what I meant,” Timothy replied, exasperated. His friends were all watching him expectantly. He threw his arms up and gestured to the workshop around him. “You’re just as much prisoners here as I am. So I don’t think you qualify as having much better perspective, do you?”
His face felt warm, flushed with his frustration. Constable Grimshaw had confiscated his gyrocraft and confined him to SkyHaven under guard. And not only him, but Ivar and Sheridan as well. He could move about the floating fortress, mostly from his quarters to his workshop to the dining room, and sometimes out on the grounds. But for the past day and a half, he had been escorted everywhere by guards. It was not quite the same as being held captive in Abaddon, but it was not very different, either.
Sheridan’s eyes brightened. “Please, Timothy, do not do anything rash.”
Ivar only studied him quietly.
Timothy smiled grimly. “I don’t think the constable left me with many options. Anything I do now is likely to be rash by his standards.”
A heavy knock came on the door. Timothy started, glanced around anxiously, then snatched up the rag he had used to wipe his brow and spread it out to cover up his current project.
“Come in,” he called.
The door swung open. A pale, wispy-haired guard with dangerous eyes stepped inside, glanced around as though searching for some hidden threat, then moved out of the way to allow Leander into the room. The Grandmaster—he was the Grandmaster to Timothy, no matter what the debate—nodded to the guard, who removed himself from the room and closed the door once more.
Leander glanced around the room, taking in each one of them in turn. He frowned, as though he had a sense that something out of the ordinary was going on here but could not quite figure out what. At last his gaze stopped on Timothy.
“I am so very sorry,” Leander said, and his words nearly collapsed under the weight of the genuine sadness and guilt in his voice. “I knew that they would not be pleased to hear from you, but I never imagined it would come to this.”
Timothy crossed his arms and leaned against the worktable. “It probably wouldn’t have, if not for Grimshaw,” he responded. “But they all seem pretty bad. One worse than the next. They hate anything different, and they treat the Wurm like vermin. But it’s as if all they needed to take their suspicion and hate one step further was permission from the constable. And he gave it to them, all right.”
The burly mage shook his head, his shaggy mane falling across his face. He crossed the room and put both strong hands on Timothy’s shoulders, gazing into the boy’s eyes.
“Don’t you understand? Before this, the guilds were split over how to deal with you. Some wanted you dead, though they would not speak the suggestion aloud. Others wanted to exile you. You know they fear you. Magic cannot harm you. Your touch can nullify any spell. They cannot really keep track of your comings and goings … without guards like this.” He gestured toward the door.
“But there were others who wanted to believe the best of you because you are Argus Cade’s son, or because they were sympathetic to the hardships you have faced. There were those who were grateful to you for your participation in exposing the evils of Nicodemus. And there were others who simply believed that you should not be discriminated against because you were born without magic.”
Timothy stared at him. He glanced at Ivar, who looked on without expression. A soft whisper of steam escaped the side of Sheridan’s head. Edgar’s wings ruffled.
The young man shook his head sadly. “There were. But now that I’ve come to Verlis’s defense, now that I’ve publicly said I want to help the Wurm, to go to Wurm World, they all hate me, right?”
“ ‘Hate’ is too strong a word,” Leander told him. “Let us simply say that those who might have supported you do not dare to speak in your favor now. And you are right about one thing. Constable Grimshaw has only made it worse.”
“Why?” Timothy shouted, throwing up his hands. “Some of the Wurm are vicious. I know that! But not all. Verlis’s clan are being slaughtered. They’re living, breathing, thinking, and feeling creatures. How can the Parliament simply turn their backs?”
With a loud click, the door to the workshop swung open. The pale guard stepped into the room again.
“Professor Maddox,” he said. “Your time is up.”
Professor, Timothy noticed. Not Grandmaster. Professor. He had to wonder what his address to Parliament had cost Leander. Apparently it had tipped the balance in Cassandra’s favor. No matter what the girl had said about not being ready to be Grandmaster herself, it seemed the choice might be made for her.
The fire of Timothy’s anger burned even higher.
Leander gazed at him, face heavy with regret. “You’re fighting more than a century’s worth of perception that the Wurm are monsters, Timothy. Savages, incapable of kindness or reason or morality. Most of Parliament is too young to remember a time before such attitudes were prevalent. And those old enough to recall those days will be loathe to even entertain the idea that they might have been wrong.”
“But why?” the boy pleaded.
“If they were wrong about the Wurm,” Leander said, “that would make us the savages.”
Hours after Leander’s visit Timothy was still in his workshop, but he was no longer working. The project he had been finishing was now completed. He stood by the broad window and glanced nervously at the workshop door. The guards had only interrupted to let Leander in. There was no reason to think they would try to enter. But still, he could not help being nervous.
“What do you wait for?” Ivar whispered from the shadows by the door. The Asura would be there waiting if anyone tried to enter.
Timothy smiled gratefully and shook his head. “Nothing. I’m going.”
“I am not at all sure I like this idea,” Sheridan said, his whisper almost indistinguishable from a slow hiss of steam. The mechanical man was prepared to make noise from time to time in the workshop, so the guards would think Timothy was still at work. But Sheridan was clearly worried.
Edgar cawed and beat his wings, gliding across the room to land at Timothy’s feet. “Well, I’m sure I don’t like it,” the rook said. “Not at all. But since none of us has come up with any better ideas as to what we should do next, I vote for Timothy’s
plan.”
The boy gazed at the bird. “It isn’t up to a vote. It’s up to me.”
The rook’s feathers ruffled, and he preened a moment. “So it is. Which brings us back to Ivar’s question. What are you waiting for?”
Timothy glanced around the workshop, his gaze stopping again on the door. His heart pounded in his chest. He felt as though he could almost see the sentries through the walls, but that was only his imagination working. Ivar shifted in the dark, drawing his attention. The Asura nodded.
The boy nodded back.
His gaze went to the windowsill, where he had set down the items he had made. They were gloves, in a way, but not like any gloves any mage had ever seen. They were made from the dried, yet supple skin of the Bathelusk fish, complete with dozens of its deadly sharp, unbreakable quills, attached to the palms and fingertips. The Bathelusk quills were tipped with an acidic enzyme that continued to be produced long after the fish’s death. The acid helped the quills penetrate almost any surface.
On the Island of Patience Timothy had made Bathelusk gloves once or twice a year as the enzymes dried. He had used them to climb various trees to retrieve fruits or fronds or other items of interest. But he had never used them for anything like this before.
His mouth felt dry, his lips rough, and he moistened them with his tongue as he carefully picked up the first glove. Great caution was required with this invention. A single quill could put a hole right through his hand if he did not take care. Slowly, he slipped his right hand into a Bathelusk glove, then cinched it tight with the straps at the back of the hand. He was forced to wiggle his left hand into the other glove. Timothy was prepared to ask Ivar for help, but he managed all right, though he had to use his teeth to cinch the straps on that second glove.
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