The baron’s son smirked.
“All right, Angdon, how about we trade meals for a month?”
“Are you insane?”
“It’s not poison.”
“It would be to me. I don’t know how you eat that slop.”
“You’re scared because you know I’m right.”
The baron’s son pushed the other to the floor and stood grinning. “I’m not afraid of anything. You’d best remember that.” He turned sharply, intent on making a dramatic exit. He would have succeeded except that Hadrian was standing in his way and Angdon, the baron’s son, walked straight into him. “Watch where you’re going, clod!”
“No, sorry, the name’s Hadrian.” He stuck out his open hand and accompanied it with a smile.
Angdon glared. “I don’t care who you are. Go away.”
“Love to. Could you show me how to get to Professor Arcadius’s office?”
“I’m not your personal escort.”
Hadrian could see the anger in the boy’s eyes. The kid was mad, but Hadrian was older and taller. Angdon had also noticed the swords and was smarter than the boy near the bench, since he decided not to press the matter.
“It was Morning Star,” Angdon called over his shoulder while walking away.
“Magnesia,” the other boy muttered.
“Friend of yours?” Hadrian offered his hand, pulling the fallen student to his feet.
“Angdon is noble,” the boy explained.
“You’re not?”
The boy looked surprised. “Are you joking? I’m a merchant’s son. Silks, satins, and velvets, which”-he slapped at the material of his gown with a miserable look-“are now filthy.”
“Hadrian.” He held out his hand again.
“Bartholomew.” The boy shook, giving up on his gown. “I can show you where the professor’s room is if you like.”
“Awful nice of you.”
“No problem, this way.”
Bartholomew trotted up the stairs, taking them two at a time. When they reached the second floor, he turned down a corridor, then another, and stopped before a door at the end of a hall. He beat on the wood with the bottom of his fist. “Visitor for you, Professor.”
After a short delay the door pulled back to reveal the face of an elderly man with a white beard and spectacles. What Hadrian knew of Arcadius was limited to boyhood memories of a stranger who visited his father on a few occasions. He would appear unexpectedly, stay with them for a few days, and then leave, often without saying goodbye. He performed magic tricks to amuse the children of the village, making flowers appear and lighting candles with a wave of his hand, and once he claimed to have made it rain, although it had already been quite cloudy that day. Hadrian had always liked the old man, who was soft-spoken and friendlier than his own father. When Hadrian was six years old-shortly after his mother died-Arcadius visited for the last time. He and Danbury had talked late into the night. He never came back after that, and his father never spoke about the old man.
Hadrian stepped forward. “Hello, I’-m-”
Arcadius raised his hand, stopping him, then stroked his beard while his tongue explored the ridge of his teeth. “The thing about the old is that we never change so much as the young. We slip in degrees, adding rings like trees-a new wrinkle here, a shade less color there, but the young transform like caterpillars into butterflies. They become whole new people as if overnight.” He nodded as a smile grew. “Hadrian Blackwater, how you have grown.” He turned to the boy. “Thank you, Bartholomew. Oh, and it was Morning Star-but the white kind, not the red.”
The boy paused, stunned. “But…”
“Out you go.” The old man shooed him. “Close the door on your way in, Hadrian, won’t you, please.”
Hadrian took a step and then paused. Chaos hardly described the interior of the office before him, which appeared as if mayhem incarnate had been locked behind a door. The room was a warehouse of oddities, but mostly it was filled with books. Hadrian had never seen so many in one place. Shelves ran to the ceiling and each was filled, so more books were piled in stacks like pillars that teetered and swayed. Many had fallen, scattering the volumes across the floor like the remains of some ancient ruin. Among them stood barrels, bottles, and jars of all sizes. Rocks and stones, feathers, and dried plants were stuck in every visible crevice. An old wasp nest hung in the corner above a cage housing a family of opossums. There were other cages as well, housing birds, rodents, and reptiles. The room was alive with squawks, chirps, and chatters.
Hadrian failed to see the route Arcadius had used and was left to his own judgment on how best to cross the sea of debris. Stepping carefully, he joined the old man, who sat on a tall stool at a small wooden desk.
Arcadius took off his glasses and began wiping the lenses with a cloth that might have been a sock. “So you received my letter, then?”
“I’m not sure how. I was in Mandalin, in Calis.”
“Ah … the ancient capital of the Eastern Empire. How is it? Still standing, I assume.”
“Some of it.”
“To answer your question, I sent Tribian DeVole to find you and deliver my missive. The man is nearly as tenacious as a sentinel and having been born there is well acquainted with the east.”
“I still don’t see how he could find me, or how you even knew I was in Calis.”
“Magic.”
“Magic?”
“Didn’t your father ever tell you I was a wizard?”
“My father never discussed you.”
Arcadius opened his mouth, then stopped and nodded. “Yes, I can see that.” He breathed on the other lens and began rubbing it with the cloth.
“If you can do magic, why not fix your eyes?”
“I am.” Arcadius slipped on the spectacles. “There-all better.”
“That’s not really magic.”
“Isn’t it? If I shot an arrow and killed Phineas, the frog in that cage behind you, would that be magic?”
“No.”
“But if I snapped my fingers and poor Phineas dropped dead, it would be, right?”
“I suppose.”
“What’s the difference?”
“People can’t normally kill frogs by snapping fingers.”
“Close. The correct answer is, it’s magic because you don’t know how I killed the frog. If you knew I’d poisoned pathetic little Phineas moments before you entered, would it still be magic?”
“No.”
“Now let me ask you this … how does wearing these glasses make it possible for me to see more clearly?”
“I don’t know.”
“Magic!” The old man smiled brightly, looking over his glasses. “You see, as I get older I have more trouble seeing. The world hasn’t changed-my eyes have. Noting the way glass alters perception through focus, I’m able to create these bits of glass that assist my eyes by magnifying my vision. That’s what magic is, you see. Observations, coupled with logic, knowledge, and reasoning, provide a wizard such as myself with an understanding of nature. This allows me to harness its power.” The professor looked up as if hearing something. “Relax, Phineas. I didn’t really poison you.”
Hadrian turned and indeed there was a frog in a cage behind him. When Hadrian turned back, Arcadius was busy adjusting the position of his stool.
“In your case,” he went on, “it was a simple matter of putting one’s ear to the ground and listening for news of a great warrior. I know the kind of training your father provided you. He also informed me of your intentions after you left Hintindar. Together those bits of knowledge all but guaranteed you would be famous by now. Determining your location was easy.”
Hadrian nodded, feeling foolish for having asked. “I want to thank you for notifying me and for taking a hand in administering my father’s affairs in my absence. I’m glad he had someone he could count on, especially since you seemed to have stopped coming around.”
“Your father and I were old friends. I met him long befor
e you were born-just about the time he settled in Hintindar. I visited him often in those days, but the years and our ages got in the way. It’s hard to travel long distances when walking across the hall is a challenge. That happens … time slips by unseen.”
“How did you hear of his death?”
“I visited him last year and we reminisced about old times. He was very sickly, and I knew his time was short, so I asked to be notified of any change in his condition.”
“Did you go back to Hintindar, then?”
“No, and I don’t suppose I ever shall.”
“But you said you had artifacts of my father’s to give me.”
“An artifact to be precise. The last time I visited Danbury he gave me instructions that I should give it to you.”
Judging by the state of the room, Hadrian wondered at the odds of finding this heirloom, assuming it was smaller than a dog. Looking up, he noticed an owl roosting on the second-story balcony rail, the random collection of boxes and chests, and the near-complete human skeleton that dangled from a Vasarian battle spear driven into the wall.
Arcadius smiled and pulled a chain with an amulet from around his neck. Hadrian knew the medallion. His father had worn it every day of his life, even when sleeping or bathing. The amulet was such an integral part of him that seeing it there was like looking at a finger severed from his hand. Whatever fantasies Hadrian might have held that his father still lived were snuffed out, and for an instant he saw the bloodied tiger again, taking its last breath, eyes still open and staring back with the single question: Why?
“Would you like to sit down?” Arcadius asked, his tone gentle. “I think there’s another chair in here. Should be five, in fact. I suppose you could just use my stool. I sit too much anyway.”
Hadrian wiped his eyes. “I’m fine.”
Arcadius offered the sock, but Hadrian shook his head.
“Did he speak of me?”
Arcadius, who had gotten to his feet, returned to his seat. He removed the necklace and placed it on a pile of clutter in front of Hadrian. “He told me of your leaving. Something about an argument between you two, but he didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t press.”
“I called him a coward. It was the worst thing I could think of, and the last thing I said to him.”
“I wouldn’t be too concerned. He’s been called worse.”
“Not by his son. Not by the one person he had left in the world.” Hadrian let his head hang over the desk, over the medallion. The circle of silver was just a bit larger than a coin and was comprised of a ring of twisted knots. “Where did he get this? Did my mother give it to him?”
“No, I suspect this medallion is an heirloom that has been handed down through generations. It is very precious. Your father asked me to tell you what his father had told him. That you should wear it always, never sell it, and give it to your son should you have one. This was the first part of what became his dying wish.”
Hadrian picked up the chain, letting the medallion swing from his fingers. “And the second?”
“We’ll get to that, but that’s enough for now. You’ve had a long trip and your clothes look wet. I suspect you’d like a chance to dry them, perhaps take a bath, have a tasty meal and a good night’s sleep in a warm bed. Sadly, I can only offer you three of the four … Tonight is meat pies.”
“Thank you. I am a bit…” His voice cracked and he could only shrug.
“I understand.” Arcadius looked across the room and shouted, “Bartholomew!”
The door to the office creaked open. “Sir?”
“Be a good lad and see that Hadrian gets a meal and a bed. I believe Vincent Quinn is away, so there should be a vacancy in the north wing dormitories.”
“Ah … certainly, but … ah … how did you know I was still here?”
“Magic.” The old wizard winked at Hadrian.
“Pickles!” Hadrian grinned upon seeing the boy.
Bartholomew led Hadrian up a flight of steps to the dormitory, a long room lined with a row of neatly made beds. All were empty except one. Hearing his name, the Vernes street urchin popped up and offered Hadrian his familiar smile.
“I have made it, good sir. Rushed as fast as I could, fearful I would miss you, but here I am and arriving in this wonderful place two days ahead of you.”
“I had some problems and spent some time in Colnora. You were lucky to have missed that barge.”
Hadrian found the boy’s hand and squeezed tight. They were nearly strangers, but also foreigners with a common history. Even if they had shared only a few minutes walking through a rat-infested city, at that moment, Pickles was Hadrian’s oldest and dearest friend.
“I must apologize again, good sir, for being arrested just as you needed me most.”
“You don’t need to apologize for that, and you can call me Hadrian.”
Pickles looked shocked. “I am your humble servant. I cannot call you by name.”
“Well, sir makes me uncomfortable-and people might think I’m impersonating a knight.”
Pickles wrinkled his forehead in contemplation. Then the smile returned. “Master Hadrian, then.”
Not what he wanted, but he could settle for that.
“This is an amazing place, Master Hadrian. Never have I seen anything like it. So clean. It does not smell at all of fish or horse droppings.”
Horses. Dancer. He’d forgotten all about her.
“I’ve got to find a place for my horse.”
“I know a place,” Pickles said proudly. “I saw the stable. I can take care of all your livery problems. Besides, I need to go down to drop off this book.”
Hadrian noticed a surprisingly large tome on the bed. “You can read?”
Pickles shook his head. “Oh no, of course not, but this book has many pictures. The professor said I could look through it to pass the time while I waited for you to arrive as long as I returned it to the library in the east building where he had borrowed it from. I will drop it off and then see to your horse. Where is it that you left this animal?”
“I’ll show you.”
“You do not need to. I am your happy servant. You can stay here and be most lazy.”
Hadrian looked at the stark room that reminded him of too many barracks. “That’s okay, I’ve been most lazy enough.”
The sun, having disappeared behind the hills, left only an afterglow in the sky. Across the common a boy with a ladder was busy lighting lamps. Walking beside Hadrian, Pickles struggled with the book, which was as cumbersome as a prize pumpkin. The boy grunted as he shifted the weight from arm to arm.
“Can I help with that?” Hadrian asked.
“Oh no!” Pickles burst out as he sped up, walking faster and faster to prove he had everything under control, or maybe just to reach his destination before his arms gave out.
Next to Glen Hall was a smaller building. Hadrian finally noticed that there were indeed different sizes, although still imposing. This one was filled with cubicles, desks, large tables, and chairs in disarray. The library was not very large, but the walls were devoted entirely to shelves on which were books. Far fewer books than Hadrian would have expected. Many of the shelves had dead space, and he guessed the books that belonged there were on loan to students. Pickles let his book slap down on the central table where it landed with an echoing thud.
“There!” he said with a dramatic expulsion of air and collapsed over the table, as if suffering from a mortal blow. “I am not cut out for being a scholar.” He slowly rose, breathing hard. “I do not see how you do it. I understand swords are heavy.”
“Bad swords are.”
“There are good and bad swords?”
“Just like people.”
“Really?” Pickles appeared unconvinced.
“Bad swords are just uselessly heavy, whereas well-made ones are quite light and well balanced.”
“I still doubt I could lift one.”
Hadrian drew his short sword and held out the pommel to him.
Pickles eyed the weapon skeptically. “This does not look like a good sword. Pardon me for saying so, Master Hadrian, but it looks very tired.”
“Looks are often deceiving.”
Pickles’s big smile grew even larger.
The boy reached out and wrapped both hands around the grip, grimacing with anticipation. Then Hadrian let go, and the blade swept up so sharply that Pickles nearly fell backward.
“It is light. Not so light as a feather, but much more than expected.”
“Two and a half pounds.”
Pickles let go with his left hand to hold it up with only his right. “It does not feel even that heavy.”
“Because of the balance I mentioned.”
“Does it not need to be heavy?”
“It doesn’t take much to penetrate skin. Faster is better.”
Pickles dipped his wrist and swung the blade through the air. “I almost feel heroic with this in my hand.”
“And almost is as close as anyone ever feels with one of those.”
Pickles held the sword out at arm’s length and peered one-eyed down the length of the blade. “So was this made by an illustrious weapons master?”
“I made it.”
“You, Master Hadrian? Truly?”
“My father was a smith. I grew up beside a forge.”
“Oh.” Pickles looked embarrassed. “My most humble apologies, Master Hadrian. I am so very sorry about saying it is looking tired.”
“It’s tired,” Hadrian said. “And ugly-an ugly tool for an ugly purpose.”
“That one is not.” He pointed to the spadone on Hadrian’s back.
“I didn’t make that one.”
Hadrian took his weapon back and dropped the blade into its scabbard, where it landed with a clap.
They returned to the common, and he removed the straps that held his gear to Dancer while Pickles untied her lead. When Hadrian hoisted his pack to one shoulder and looked up, he saw the last thing he expected. On the third floor of Glen Hall, in the last window on the left, a man peered out-a man in a dark hood. It took a moment for Hadrian to realize what he was seeing, and the man stepped back, receding into the darkness and dissolving like a ghost.
“Did you see that?” Hadrian asked.
The Crown Tower trc-1 Page 13
