The Amethyst Angle

by C. Ryan Bymaster

  2

  BEAUTIFUL DISASTER

  I jump to my feet so quickly that my chair teeters and my tongue stumbles over a greeting.

  A first impression for the books.

  “I was unsure if you were in, Mister Knell,” the woman says, her cultured voice floating to me in the spare light. “Your front door was unlocked and, well, I really need your help.” She lowers her head a touch, but not before I catch the glimmer of desperate hope in her features.

  My mind races. How destitute must I appear, sitting here in the near-darkness? I turn, nearly trip on my chair, and fumble for a peridot crystal on a high shelf behind me. Bless the gods above that when I press my thumbs to the words etched on the surface and mentally speak the incant, it radiates enough yellow-white light to chase away the embarrassment that had cloaked my office.

  I set the portable telektric lamp on my desk and look up to glimpse a dimple and catch a soft, velvety chuckle.

  “The clear light does you a favor, Mister Knell.”

  Nearly thirty-three years under my belt, and my cheeks flush and burn like I’m thirteen.

  “I’d just gotten in,” I say, running a hand through my short-cropped hair. “Hadn’t yet time to get myself situated.”

  “I understand.” She angles her head just so and examines me. “A rough evening, then?”

  My cheeks burn even more, this time with embarrassment, as I imagine how my busted-up face must appear. I wipe my nose and mouth and fully look her over, as surreptitiously as possible. Her hair, darker than a moonless summer’s night and as flowing as a gentle river, is pulled back tightly and fronted with a wire-thin tiara speckled with sapphires. Her skin is pale and as smooth as trickster’s tongue. A cherub nose sits above a petite mouth set with full lips, and her neck is molded with heavenly grace. Dark green eyes are a perfect match to the glitter of the emeralds hanging from delicate ear lobes and the short apricot coat and flowing viridian dress accentuating her lithe figure reveal that she is no stranger to coin.

  Minutes, hours, days seem to pass as I do my best impression of a petrified tree.

  She clears her throat. “I do hope I am not intruding, Mister Knell.”

  Time comes back with the click of my jaw returning to its rightful place.

  I stammer, “No, not all, Misses …?”

  “Miss, actually. Herchsten. Vayvanette Herchsten.”

  If her beauty hadn’t beaten me numb, the name would have done the job.

  She notices my reaction and takes a step forward. “I know you knew my grandfather, Anderest Herchsten. He spoke of you on occasion.”

  “Well, I speak of him on occasion, as well.”

  I know how ridiculous the words sound even as they leave my lips, but Vayvanette only graces me with another dimpled smile.

  I gather my wits enough to finally come around my desk and offer her the only other chair in my office. I scoot it closer to the front of my desk before dusting it with my hand and presenting it to her.

  “Thank you,” she says, dipping her head and taking the chair.

  I resume my seat, turn off the flame of my oil lamp, then move the telektric lamp to one side of my desk so she is not lost in its glow.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Herchsten? I hope your grandfather is well?”

  With downcast eyes she says, “That’s what brings me to you at this late hour, Mister Knell.”

  “Gideon, please,” I entreat her.

  “Vayvanette,” she returns.

  I nod, and she takes a deep breath, the type one takes before plunging into a recently-thawed stream. “My grandfather is dead, Gideon. Murdered,” she declares as she looks me in the eye. “In his home, in his very own bed.”

  Hearing venom in her sweet voice is like hearing a cat bark. And hearing that Anderest is dead shakes me to my core. He had as much influence in my life as my parents did. Maybe more. They gave me life, but Anderest saved it. And now, he’s dead, just like my parents. Murdered, just like my father.

  Years of conversations, of mentoring moments sprinkled with chastising rebukes, flood my mind. Anderest was there at my lowest and he managed to pull me back up, offering encouragement where I deserved condemnation. I wouldn’t be the man I am today if it weren’t for Anderest Herchsten.

  My vision wavers under the cascading memories but I swallow down my emotions for Vayvanette’s sake. He may have been my mentor and friend, but he was her flesh and blood.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. My words squeeze through my constricted throat. “I truly am. He was a good man. One of the best.”

  Her features soften, either at my broken tone or my honest words, and her weak smile is that of shared condolences. “How long has it been since you’ve last seen him?”

  “Nearly a decade,” I answer, having to give it no thought whatsoever. “Though that last visit with him sits with me every day.”

  Again, like a ray of light through heavy clouds, hope shines through her voice when she asks, “Were you two close?”

  “Close enough to hold secrets. Yes.”

  “Then I’m glad I’ve sought you out. I wish to acquire your services, Gideon.”

  When I raise a brow, her shoulders tighten and she lifts her chin.

  “I want you to find my grandfather’s killer.” She swallows, bites her lower lip. “Find him and then … ”

  We both know her unspoken words were not: bring him to justice. There was no mistaking her tone. She doesn’t want her grandfather’s killer sporting shackles in a room with an iron-bar view. She wants him buried under stones, a permanent dirt-dweller.

  That begs the question of how much she truly knows about me, about what brought me and her grandfather together.

  I watch her carefully as I ask, “What makes you believe he was murdered?”

  A tear trickles down her cheek to languish on her chin for the briefest of moments. “The way I found him, how he was lying, I know, just know, he died in agony.”

  “He was up there in years, Vayvanette. Maybe—”

  She purses her lips and shakes her head.

  So, she doesn’t think it was age that did him in. I tap my desk in thought. “Poison?”

  Her coat whispers as she shrugs.

  “What reason do you have to believe he was murdered?” I ask. “I know he was wealthy. Was he robbed as well?”

  “Yes. But not as you’d think.” She brushes the tears on her cheek and chin away with the back of her hand. “A few things were taken from his safe, which he always kept locked and warded, but most importantly, his last will and testament was stolen.”

  I sit up straighter. My gut tells me right then and there that Vayvanette may indeed have a case.

  “Only a few items were stolen,” I clarify, “but among them his will?”

  “That’s what drove me to you,” she says with a nod. “Why would someone take such a thing? I understand taking precious items, but his will? Why?”

  Why, indeed?

  I lean forward. “Do you know what is in the will? You’re his only living family, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You are not. I know he left a majority of his estate to me.”

  “A majority?”

  “Grandfather was always willing to help out those less fortunate than he,” she says with wistful pride. “I know he’d mentioned on several occasions that he wished to donate some of his land and coin to a group of men and women who maintain the Fair Weather Posts throughout the city.”

  The Fair Weather Posts. Little more than run down shacks that tried to feed and clothe the underprivileged of Wrought Isles. Noble intentions, but in this city, it’s like dousing a house fire with a teacup. I should know. My mother spent time in a few of them, offering her healing magic to those in desperate need, coming home drained and worried that she hadn’t done enough.

  Why would someone want to keep those people from getting the help they desperately need? I put my elbows on my desk and my steepled fingers to my lips. Murder and a missin
g will? In my line of work, such concurrences are rarely a coincidence.

  “So you’d like me to find your grandfather’s killer and locate his will so that you may execute it?”

  “Yes. And yes and no.”

  I tilt my head to the side in confusion.

  “Yes to finding his killer, and yes to locating his will, but I won’t be the one in control of executing his will. That will be up to his appointed man-of-council, a College-educated man in the Magician’s Aristocracy.”

  The Aristocracy. Again. Their fingers are as sticky as an octopus’s tentacles. And many times as numerous.

  I get lost in her eyes as I contemplate what the case will involve. She offers no urging or prodding, but her sad smile does the trick. I stand up and walk around to take one of her hands in mine. Immediately I feel ashamed, brutish even, as her soft skin melts around my hardened, calloused hands.

  “I’ll take the case, Vayvanette,” I say with a firm squeeze of her hand.

  She jumps up in a breathtaking flash and wraps her arms around my bruised ribcage. It’s not my fault that the situation calls for me to respond in kind. I drape my arms around her and pull her in close. She smells of lavender and lemon, and the sensation of her body pressing up against mine is sublime.

  When I reluctantly step back, she looks up and I find myself gently wiping the tears from her cheeks.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “Of course,” I say, looking into her watery eyes.

  Most deals are sealed with a handshake, but I’m seriously contemplating sealing this one with a bit more intimacy when a sudden ha-hoot shatters the moment. Blinking rapidly, Vayvanette angles her head to the side, away from mine, and her lips part in an unspoken question.

  Ha-hoot!

  She turns completely from me to stare at the source of the intrusion and I immediately miss her warmth.

  A huge grey owl with glittering eyes perches in the far corner.

  “Gideon!” Vayvanette exclaims with a delighted clap of her hands. “I wasn’t aware you had such a majestic pet! An owl? Such a rare treat.”

  I stare daggers at my interrupting pet owl.

  “What’s his name?” she asks, taking a step closer to him.

  “Durmet,” I answer in derision.

  “Oh? What an oddly spectacular name.”

  Durmet’s owl head pivots slowly and he stares at me. I don’t have to be a mind flayer to read his thoughts. I clear my throat and Vayvanette turns back to me.

  “There is the matter of my payment,” I say, embarrassed to even have to utter the words.

  “Oh, of course.” She pats me on the arm. Then, from some hidden pouch inside her coat, she produces a square of cloth and hands it over to me.

  It’s soft, smooth. Like silk, but not. At a loss, Vayvanette helps me with this conundrum by picking it up and giving it a shake, then another, and finally one more. The fabric unfolds to what I assume to be a rather large …

  “Pillow case?” I ask.

  Color rises up her neck and settles in her cheeks. “Unlike Grandfather, I’m not so well-off. I’m a teacher by profession, and coin doesn’t flow much my way. And so,” she nods toward the pillow case I hold with finger and thumb, “the only way I can pay you is with that.”

  “I, um, it’s lovely.”

  What else am I to say?

  She laughs and puts a hand on my arm again. “No, no, my dear Gideon Knell. I wish you to take that with you when you go to my grandfather’s estate. You may fill it with anything you desire as a form of payment. It doesn’t matter what you choose, as any price is well worth finding my grandfather’s killer. I only hope it will cover your expenses for as long as you need.”

  I rethink my initial response; it is a rather large pillow case.

  “This will be plenty, Vayvanette. I promise I’ll only take what I feel comfortable with.”

  “Which is why I feel so comfortable having come to you.”

  Being a touch shorter than me, she goes to her tiptoes and plants a quick kiss on my cheek, which tingles even after she makes her exit, leaving my office pleasantly redolent with lavender and lemon.

  Ha-hoot.

  Durmet. Curse him back to his hell.

  I round on him in time to watch as his form gels and un-gels, bends and shapes, until he’s reverted to his natural demonic morph-imp body once more, grinning at me.

  “You cursed son of a winged rat!” I scowl at him.

  He flutters over to examine the pillow case. Satisfied, he looks up at me and says, “You weren’t going to ask for payment up front.”

  “I was too.”

  “Boss, you were too wrapped up in being wrapped up to think straight.”

  I swat at him but he nimbly dodges me.

  “Admit it, Giddy. You had thoughts for only one thing.”

  I turn on him and head back to my chair. “Shut up.” I won’t dare admit he’s right. It’ll set a bad precedent.

  He reaches my desk and settles atop the ripped newspaper, backlit by the telektric lamp. “Now we can get some real coin, boss. And upfront, too. This is a good thing.”

  I set the pillowcase aside. I wish I could do so for my dismal thoughts as they turn to Anderest.

  “Besides,” Durmet continues, “someone like Anderest Herchsten, there has to be something suited to my personal tastes lying around his place.”

  “He was a good man, Durmet,” I’m quick to counter. “I doubt he had dealings with the arcane. At least, not since last I saw him.”

  “Still, you never know what he held on to over the years.”

  I sit down and try to push thoughts of Vayvanette from my mind so that my brain can churn and chew on what my next steps should be. I still can’t help feeling like I’d taken advantage of the poor girl and her obliviousness to how much a pillow case can hold when, just after a sizzling crackle of the telektric crystal, my office plunges into the deepest of nights.

  “Shut up,” I say into the darkness, halting any comment Durmet surely was about to spit out.

  Cursed telektric lamp. At least it hadn’t run out of charge while Vayvanette was here to witness it. That would have been the cream on a terrible first impression.

  3

  TRUE COST OF POWER

  Head Magistrate Alsyn Offren doesn’t turn as the last members of the Aristocracy shuffle out. The back of her neck tingles as she senses more than a few glares are sent her way, but she shows no outward sign. Instead, she listens to the Magisters and members of the Council congregate in hushed tones until the door closes behind them, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

  Only then does she allow herself to relax.

  She stands before the pristine window on the topmost floor of the College Spire, the highest room in all of Wrought Isles. As she looks past her reflection and out upon her city, her fingertips idly twist and twirl blond strands of her unbound hip-length hair. From her vantage point, she can discern the various western districts, defined not only by paved street and rutted road, but by color and hue, by spacing and clearing, by upkeep and disrepair.

  To the southwest lay the Burroughs, dark and congested neighborhoods writhing with the lower-class citizenry. In stark contrast, the Meadows sprawl to the northwest, bright and spacious, thriving with merchants and land owners. Between the two is the Levee, a narrow strip of grey and beige, where market and entertainment could be found for any amount of coin or sacrifice. And out further west is the Haldstadt Ocean, green and blue, breaking white on the shore, with rocking ships and boats moored to the countless piers and docks that extend into the tempestuous waters like nails driven haphazardly into wood.

  All of it, under her control. Every single citizen looking to her as the Head Magistrate to keep them safe, to offer a chance of bettering their livelihood. Some want the promise of prosperity, while others, power. The key to keeping so many under control is to walk the precarious line between protector and prosecutor.

  Power, she sighs internally.

>   Perceived versus possessed.

  That’s the reason she’s called this morning’s meeting. Magic in Wrought Isles is losing its potency and if something isn’t done, the ramifications could be disastrous. Sea trade will falter if wind mages can no longer keep sails full for quick journeys to distant ports. What if light mages can no longer keep telektric lamps aglow, or fire mages are unable to keep heating crystals charged? Wrought Isles will have to depend fully on wood and oil, and the people will have to deal with rising prices in both.

  She shakes her head at the thought. It’s not only the magically talented that will be affected. Everyone, from the wealthiest landowner to the poorest street urchin, will feel the bite. And when the people feel the bite, Alsyn feels their wrath.

  She turns from the window and makes her way up to the center of the three-tiered, circular room, where the elite few, the Magician’s Aristocracy, convene to pass laws and judgement on the people of Wrought Isles. The first tier holds eight small desks designated for the Magisters, two educated magistrates for each magical practice: light, wind, fire, and spirit. Five desks are situated on the second tier for the Council members, the most educated and influential men and women the College has churned out. She steps onto the highest tier, a round dais, where she settles into her high-backed chair. She scoots closer to her ornate, compact desk, folds her hands in front of her, and stares out at the empty chamber, her thoughts churning.

  The Aristocracy is not pleased with her demands that they solve this problem. In fact, they were riled that she had the audacity to openly speak of magic’s strain, as if keeping the subject a taboo would ensure the problem wouldn’t get worse. If problems solved themselves, then what purpose is there in even having a Head Magistrate, let alone the Magician’s Aristocracy?

  If nothing else, at least this assembly has gotten the Magisters and Council to talk to one another, as opposed to the usual bickering and back-stabbing. If there’s one thing Alsyn hates, it’s subterfuge.