The Amethyst Angle

by C. Ryan Bymaster

  Anderest’s room would be what I’d call librarious. Every shelf and open closet are filled with books. New books, old and weathered books; leather, wood, and parchment bindings; books stacked on books, heaped upon more books. Then there are the display boxes, firmly secured to the wood-paneled walls. These hold a menagerie of items, from small crystals to large skulls, vials of glowing liquid to empty bowls and basins, both glazed and polished.

  Anderest was a collector of knowledge and all things magical. It was he that both shattered and remade my life all those years ago, finding me on the verge of self-destruction, funneling my anger at my inherited curse into the desire to overcome it. And with that thought, I take heavy steps to the foot of the bed. I inch my eyes up higher and higher, until I finally witness what Vayvanette had.

  Anderest Herchsten, or what had been his body in this life, is all contorted limbs and twisted bed sheets. If this was a natural death and he’d passed in his sleep, then I think I’d like to amend my thoughts on wishing to go that way. If the tight, stretched lips that expose his yellowed teeth are any indication, the old man fought his death with all he had.

  I respectfully venture around the foot of the bed and come abreast of Anderest, where I press my palm to his cheek, hoping my touch would melt that hideous smile of agony away. It, of course, does nothing except send chills up my arm.

  “You didn’t deserve this,” I whisper to him, hoping that wherever his soul has landed, it hears me.

  As I step back, my foot brushes something and I gaze down. One of the bedside tables seems to have been ransacked, its contents spilled onto the floor and under the bed. I crouch down and finger through two books, a golden candlestick, a single earring, and a couple of pendant necklaces. A small fortune just here, tossed aside like crumbs from a table. Leaving them where they lie, I stand and walk to Anderest’s safe.

  I pull open the four-foot-wide bookshelf that acts as a false wall, careful not to touch the curious smear of blood near the latch. Not a sound does it make as the inner vault is exposed. My fingertips begin to tingle and I know the entry way’s warded, much like the wall around the estate. Whatever is in there, Anderest didn’t want someone unholy getting to it. Shouldering the false wall fully open, I bull through the ward, nearly biting my tongue in half as the ensorcelled pain attempts to rip me apart from the inside. It only takes a step for me to pass through the ward but it feels like an eternity.

  I clench my teary eyes and wait for my breathing to slow, and then my heart, as I stand in the middle of the vault. It’s wide enough for me to stretch out comfortably on the bare wood floor. I scan the neatly-arranged shelves that run along the three walls. They’re loaded with trinkets, bars of varying metals, more books and paintings, and what I can only assume are magical or magically-imbued items that Anderest hoarded over the years.

  As I’ve never stepped foot inside these sacred walls, I can’t tell if anything’s gone missing. A few gaps in the shelves could be from a stolen item or two, or they could possibly just be the original, random spacing of these treasures. On a whim, I run a finger between an oily orb of some dark material and a canine tooth from an animal long extinct. It comes up dust free. I smile. Anderest had always been the bane of unwanted filth.

  Before I force myself to push through the ward once more, something catches my eye. Not for being exotic, but quite the opposite. Settled between a bamboo-sheathed scroll and a swatch of iridescent cloth is a dark-brown leather satchel, the single buckle left undone, front flap sitting askew.

  Curious because it appears to have been haphazardly closed, I tug the flap straight and pause. Branded across the flap, across the bulge of whatever is inside, as if on display, is my name in an impossibly intricate and flowing script. Trepidation pours down my back, more effective, more debilitating, than the ward I passed through. I hadn’t spoken with Anderest in years, and the last time had simply been a chance crossing of our paths. We sat for a spell, sipping tea, speaking of life, simply enjoying each other’s company like two normal people content with their current lot in this life.

  He never even hinted at this.

  A vaulted satchel, my name inscribed, and a warded entryway that Anderest knew I would agonize passing through. I don’t want to know what’s inside. I beg my hand to obey and retreat, but it has a mind of its own, or a grip on my frazzled brain, and I watch as its treachery unfolds—quite literally.

  My hand tosses back the outer and then the smaller interior flaps, to reveal a wand of exquisite make. I pick it up and test the heft of the thing. It’s surprisingly light. The shaft is of dark ironwood and the handle is unblemished ivory. I know immediately by the thickness of the handle that there are six crystals inside, but unlike my own six-spell, the crystals in this piece can’t be seen. They must be seated completely inside the ivory handle.

  Majestic, as rare as a virgin in a dockside brothel, and illegal as all hells.

  I glance over one shoulder, then the other. Next thing I know, I’ve belted the satchel closed and have it tucked under an arm. The pain of the ward is just as bad going through the second time as I push back into Anderest’s room and set the satchel down on the floor to catch my breath.

  Put off for last, I finally look down at poor Anderest and whisper, “I’m sorry, old friend, but I’ve got to give you a once over. I’ll need you to point me in the right direction … one last time.”

  Anderest, bless his departed soul, offers his permission by keeping his peace. Not that the old man had much say in the matter, but still, it can’t hurt to show some decorum in this situation.

  I start by peeling the sheets from his contorted limbs, unwrapping him like in some macabre, arcane ritual. It takes a bit of work to unsnag the sheets from his stiff, curled fingers but I manage to finally expose his body fully. I stand back and try to detach mind from emotion as I look down upon my old friend and mentor. In his death throes, his woolen trousers had ridden up high on one leg and half the buttons of his shirt had been ripped free to expose his pale chest, as still and cold now as a frozen pond. The few patches of winter-grey hair that peek out from beneath the wool match the short hair crowning the body’s head.

  I put all thought of compassion from my mind as I methodically examine the body from toes to head. It takes effort, physical effort, to move the extremities as I search for any sign of a wound, a hint of a weapon. I find none, save varying bruises not yet gone yellow around the edges. Anderest struggled in his last moments, injuring himself, but had died before his body could begin to repair the damage.

  Finding no sign of puncture or nick, I readjust Anderest’s clothing, even going so far as to re-button his shirt, at least those buttons still present. I know I’m alone but, even so, I cast my gaze back to the closed doors before I dip a hand into my coat, deft fingers slipping into a hidden pocket inside the left side hem. Finding the scrying pane, a circle of convex glass wound with a copper frame, I put it to my eye and whisper an activating incant. It’s a weak spirit spell, but still it drains a bit more from me than usual, enough to make me pause and catch my breath and make wonder as to why.

  Most people are born with a spark of magical talent within them, a conduit that allows them to draw magic from the world and shape it to their will. The strength of the spell relies on how much magic a person can draw at once. Mages, either hard-trained or born lucky, can draw far more into themselves than normal people, using their rare talent to cast spells on grand levels. For those like me with little or no talent, items with specific activating incants make up the difference, requiring only a fraction of a person’s energy to set the magic free, like blowing an ember onto a kerosene-soaked log. I’m no natural mage, can’t draw enough magic to light a candle or blow it out, but I can manage more than most.

  The magicked view through the scrying pane, slightly distorted by the glass, brings mirages of every hue to my vision. With the myriad magical implements in Anderest’s room, I’m unsurprised that in almost every which way I peer, I disc
ern hints of energy dispersing. Most magic has a lingering presence, depending on how well it is contained, and if one has the correct tools, one can see its presence.

  One of the fundamental laws of magic is that no free energy can be fully contained, that whatever vessel it is stored in or used upon will slowly bleed that energy back out into the world. The purpose here, as I settle my magically-enhanced, one-eyed vision on the body, is to determine if magic was the cause of this horrible scene.

  Head to toe and back again, Anderest appears the same through my scrying pane as he does to my bare eye. I mentally growl. I had hoped to catch some lingering scent of magic, some proof that he’d been murdered by arcane or holy incants. But Anderest’s body tells me his death was executed by more mundane means, base in its purpose, but effective nonetheless. I tuck away my scrying glass and sigh.

  I can gather no more from the body. Keeping my hands in my pockets and my mind open for any sign of inconsistency, I allow myself a minute to walk corner to corner around the room. When I find myself back at the side of the bed, I’ve drawn no conclusions, save that many items Anderest had on display are matches to items I’d noticed in the vault. Even if I hadn’t already known, it would be easy to guess that Anderest made innocuous replicas of his greatest treasures and kept them out here, where he could admire them without worry of having the real artifacts fall into the wrong hands.

  Anyone who knew the man would know this, which explains why nothing out in plain view had been disturbed. Which leads to the assumption that his death was perpetrated by someone close, or at least someone in the know, and that their ultimate goal here was to get the vault open to get to the genuine articles.

  I sigh again, then unfold the terms of my payment: the pillow case granted to me by Vayvanette. First item that goes in is the fist-sized clock that sits on a shelf above the headboard. My office could do with something fancy, something mechanized and gear-driven that won’t fail if I happen to be lacking in coin for telektric energy. The clock had been sitting between a small painted portrait of Anderest and a beautiful amethyst crystal the size of a melon. Those go into the pillowcase as well, one out of sentimentality, the other because it just happens to be there.

  My foot brushes one of the books on the floor and I crouch down and gather up both books, as well as everything else that had spilled from the bedside table and under the bed. The candlestick alone would fetch a fair price in any market, and one of the necklaces would make a fine gift to a woman, if ever I manage to have a relationship that lasts longer than my best pair of boots. And if I ever run across a one-eared woman, the single earring I scooped up would be a fine match, indeed. Finally, I toss in a small, ornate wooden box filled with a few rings and other pieces of jewelry.

  Pillowcase tied, satchel hanging from my shoulder, I say my final goodbyes to Anderest. I pause when I get to the door, glancing again at the vibrant orange flowers. It doesn’t seem right leaving them as they are. I right the vase and try not to dwell on the fact that I’ve just offered them up as the old man’s first funeral flowers.

  “I’ll find who did this to you,” I whisper to Anderest. “No matter what it takes, I swear, I will.”

  Outside, the hallway is empty, the only sounds in the air are those floating up from the watchmen down below. I freeze when I push the door to the unused bedroom open, free hand dropping to my six-spell. The room is no longer vacant. The narrow-bodied silhouette before the window turns and regards me with blue eyes that are too perceptive to belong to such a wrinkled and spotted face.

  “Young sir,” the aged man in crisp livery drawls out, his tone flat yet somehow condescending all the same.

  “Haurice,” I say, not at all relieved to see him. Haurice Boyell was Anderest’s closest manservant, and in all truth, though he may be a hired live-in, he ran the Herchsten estate. I wonder what will become of him now. In fact, I share my thoughts with him.

  “Will you be staying on?” I ask without preamble.

  “Someone will have to ensure the estate is not overrun with vermin in my master’s absence.”

  He’s always looked down his nose at me. I don’t blame him, seeing as I was uncouth in my youth. No reason for something like Anderest’s death to change that.

  “I don’t think I’ll be about anymore, Haurice,” I say to appease him.

  He settles his eyes on my tied-off pillow case and satchel. “Is that so, detective?” By detective, he clearly means thief.

  I’ve still got a hand on my six-spell. All it would take is one shout from Haurice and the Watch would swarm upstairs, catching me intruding on a murder scene while attempting to abscond with a pillow case full of the victim’s property. Not a good start to my investigation, or to my future. I see no way out of this predicament that doesn’t involve laying Haurice low with a shot from my wand. I can only pray I make it out the window before the noise draws the Watch.

  Oddly enough, Haurice doesn’t draw breath to shout, nor does he make a move to leave.

  Curious at his silence, I take the opportunity to ask, “With Anderest’s passing, who will hold the estate?”

  He looks at my hand and only replies when I ease it away from my six-spell. “Why, as head of the household, I will.”

  “But Vayvanette,” I counter. “She’s the living heir.”

  If my knowledge of the elusive granddaughter catches him off guard he does well to hide it. “The house and its related businesses have been bequeathed to one who knows best how to maintain it.” His words are tight, his tone dismissive.

  “I don’t see you as one learned in the ways of lumber and orchard operations.”

  Haurice spreads his hands, his arthritic fingers curled and stiff. “I have, on many occasions, been required to sit by Master Anderest’s side during his business ventures. He has seen to my training during these last years. One could say that these last years have been a learning experience.”

  “This bequeathing of the estate? I assume it’s documented in his will?”

  “Indeed. But alas ….”

  “It has gone missing,” I finish for him. “One could call that fortunate, could he not?”

  Now Haurice draws himself up, stiff as a board, and walks past me and on toward the door. He pauses, hand on the latch, and says over his shoulder without looking directly at me, “I am quite sure that if the will is ever located, it will only prove my words correct.”

  “And if the will is not located?” I ask the back of his balding head.

  “I shall continue to run the estate as Master Anderest explicitly requested me to.” He steps out of the room and turns back to me. “Good day. I imagine you’ll see your own way out, yes?” His perceptive eyes focus on the window behind me.

  “I can manage, Haurice.”

  “Very well.” The door closes, leaving me with many questions.

  I never liked the manservant, but could Haurice truly be capable of killing the man he’d worked closely with for over forty years? Barring the most obvious implications down that road of thought, I take a mental branch that leads me to ponder why Haurice happened to be in this room. I was sure to be as silent as possible during my entry, and I closed the door behind me, leaving no outward reason for him to step foot in here.

  Even more curious, why hadn’t he called for the Watch?

  I walk to the middle of the room and set my bounty down, then turn in a slow, steady circle where I stand. Nothing seems amiss, nothing moved about from the fifteen minutes or so I’d been gone. So what was he doing in here?

  I glance back at the closet angled against the far corner and notice it’s ajar. I try to remember if it was closed when first I scanned the room upon my entry. I’m deathly sure it had been. Old Haurice must have been searching for something. Nothing in this room should have piqued the manservant’s interest, at least, not that I could reason.

  More than idle curiosity drives me to the closet. A chance to catch Haurice in something unbecoming would be worth more than I could ever st
uff in a pillow case. But when I step on the small dark rug the closet is sitting on, and my boots squelch, I know this closet doesn’t hold fine sheets and hand towels.

  I give the door a gentle nudge with the tip of my finger.

  And then step back as it swings wide and an arm spills out onto the blood-soaked rug. Years of being on the Watch have given my stomach fortification, buttressing it against the sights of what one man can do to another. Those years fail me now.

  Bile and apple spill out of me, once, twice. I wipe my mouth, hold back one last gastric urge to purge, and force myself to look at what the closet holds.

  A young man, barely more than a boy, has been stuffed head first into the confines of the closet-turned-coffin. Patches of his skin—arms, bare feet, neck, and the side of his face I could see—have been flayed; imprecise and ragged edges tell me it was with a small knife perhaps.

  This boy was tortured.

  He’s wearing the grey and blue livery of the Herchsten estate, and it doesn’t take much of my deductive reasoning to know this boy works—worked—here. Age and body size say he was probably a run-to, commonly called a runt, one of many boys and girls that spent their days working as go-betweens, delivering messages and small items of necessity from one section of the estate to another.

  This body I don’t examine closely. I don’t have to. I don’t want to. I can’t even bring myself to close the closet door as it would require me to lift the poor lad’s arm and tuck it back inside.

  I snag my things from where I’d dropped them and throw open the window, heedless of the racket I make. Before I maneuver down my escape, I pause, heels on the edge of decorative stone a foot below the window. I have to do something for the poor boy in the closet, so I turn back through the open window, lean inside the bedroom, and tip over a heavy display table. It crashes to the floor with a thunderous boom and the porcelain vase that was sitting atop it shatters into a dozen pieces.