Timothy clung to the shadows as he moved stealthily through the quiet halls. He rounded the last corner and faced a set of large, double doors, the symbol of the Order of Strychnos etched upon them both, a flowering vine wrapped around a simple representation of the world. Timothy slowly approached. So far, so good, he thought. He took a quick look over his shoulder, then carefully pulled on one of the doors, opening it just a crack. The sound of conversation floated out from within.
“Well, I’m done here,” came a weary voice. “It’s time for me to retire for the night. Can I get you anything before I turn in?”
Pulse racing, Timothy tensed to run, to retreat, but something held him back. He had not given himself away. They weren’t aware of his presence. He remained where he was and listened.
“Set me over by the window, would you?” asked another voice, this one reedy and slow, as though the speaker was quite old. Something about that voice made him shiver. “You know how much I enjoy the sunrise.”
Cautiously Timothy pulled the door open a bit wider. A large man dressed in the dark red robes of the Strychnine was placing an ornate box of lacquered gold upon the windowsill. The boy’s breath caught in his throat. The fancy box was exactly as Nicodemus had described.
“There,” the man said, turning to leave, his body set in a slight, bestial hunch. “Until morning, then.” He started across the room toward the doors.
“Good night,” said the other voice—and it seemed to be coming from the direction of the box.
Quickly Timothy turned and pressed himself against the wall. The double doors opened wide, hiding him from view as the Strychnos disciple left the sanctum. The boy remained utterly motionless, silently hoping that the mage would not look back. Otherwise he would have to rely upon his black garments and the door to hide him.
The mage had nearly reached a bend in the corridor and Timothy needed only to wait a few more seconds, but the doors to the sanctum were swinging shut and he was out of time—he would be discovered. As quietly as he could manage, staring at the retreating back of the mage, he moved out into the corridor and slipped into the sanctum, just as the doors shut behind him.
The room was dark except for a few ghostfire lamps upon the wall, but they burned low and cast deep shadows. Even so, Timothy could see that the place was a cluttered mess. Ancient books, stacks of paper, scrolls, both rolled and not, were sprawled across desks and tabletops as far as the eye could see. There was a mustiness in the air that reminded him of his father’s study back at his house, and suddenly he longed to be there. Soon, he thought. I’ll be back there soon.
“Is somebody there?” a rasping voice whispered.
Timothy whipped around, startled, his throat going dry. He felt himself shudder and he ran his tongue across his lips to moisten them. The voice had come from the windowsill, from the ornate, gold box.
“Hello?” came that eerie voice again.
Timothy carefully picked his way across the room. His gaze darted about, but it was clear that there was no one else in the room.
“I know you’re there,” said the voice again, and this time Timothy was certain of its location. “Why don’t you step closer so that I can see you.”
Timothy stood before the golden box on the window sill. It was set at a slight angle, its top opened toward the window. He reached up and touched its ornate surface, and slowly craned his head around to take a peek inside. The boy gasped. Within the box was a human head, its eyes wide and staring right at him. It appeared to be trying to speak to him, but all that came from its mouth were guttural squawks and gasps, even as its eyes began to roll back in its skull.
“Daargg, putthu duuuuuuarrrrrrrrr,” the head said, its sunken face contorted, a rivulet of drool slipping from one corner of its mouth.
Timothy moved closer, confused and more than a little alarmed. He was reluctant to touch the head, but felt he ought to do something. Then he had a thought. He turned the box so that he could still see inside it, then moved back a few paces.
Immediately its eyes cleared and an alertness returned to its expression.
“That’s better,” it said. “For a moment there, I couldn’t seem to think straight. That has never happened to me before. I must be getting old.”
The bizarreness of the situation suddenly struck Timothy. Here he was secretly inside the tower citadel of one of the most powerful guilds, in the early morning hours, about to have a conversation with a decapitated head. It was enough to make him long for the tranquil sameness of Patience. At least on the island, things seemed to make a certain amount of sense.
“What … what are you?” he asked the head, keeping his distance so as not to cause any problems with its answer.
“I?” the head questioned. “I am the Oracle of Vijaya. And who, may I ask, are you? You are not of the Order of Strychnos, of that much I am certain.”
“Timothy,” the boy said as he studied the head.
It appeared to be very old: a paper-thin covering of spotted, yellow skin stretched over an angular skull, white wisps of hair springing up in sparse patches atop its head. It should have been quite frightening, but there was something warm and friendly about its large, deep brown eyes. They seemed to put him at ease.
“Timothy?” the oracle asked. “Merely Timothy? You have no surname?”
“Cade. Timothy Cade.”
The head smiled, revealing a jagged row of brown teeth. “Argus’s boy? I’d heard his wife was with child—but then again, that was some time ago, not long before I was stolen away.”
He considered telling the oracle about his mother’s sad fate and his father’s recent death, but the oracle already seemed to know.
“It’s all so very sad,” the head said dreamily. “Both of them gone, and you all alone.” The oracle was suddenly silent, its mouth slack, its eyes glazed.
For a moment he wondered if he was still too close. “Oracle?” he called, moving back a few more steps.
The head came awake. “I’m sorry, Tim,” it said. “It’s just so nice to be seeing for an Alhazred again. I shut myself down after I was brought here, damned if I was going to divine the future for the poisonous Strychnine.”
The Oracle of Vijaya again seemed to drift off—gazing into the future perhaps, Timothy thought.
“You have the potential for a very interesting destiny,” the head said to him. “And your gift—it could very well change the world.”
Timothy wanted to know more, but caution told him that time was of the essence, and he should gather his prize and leave. He had yet to find proof of the Strychnos order’s involvement with the attempts on his life, but the fact that they were indeed thieves certainly had to count for something.
“I’m going to take you back to SkyHaven—to Nicodemus,” he told the oracle, “but in order for me to do that, I’m going to have to carry you—your box, and it will probably affect you. You see, I have this problem and…”
The Oracle slowly blinked its wonderfully kind eyes. “I understand, Timothy,” he said. “It will be good to leave this place, to be back where I belong.” Then the head closed its eyes. “I look forward to speaking with you again soon.”
Timothy reached for the box, gently closing it, and snapping shut the latch. On his belt he had brought another of his inventions. It was similar to something he had crafted on Patience using the webbing of a Sundin spider. It was a net of sorts, and on his island home he had used it to help him carry the fruit from various trees as he climbed them. It kept his hands free.
Timothy slid the ornate box inside the netting and attached it to his belt, where it hung at his side. Satisfied that it was secure, he made his way toward the doors.
He was about to push them open when he heard a sound from the hallway. Curious, Timothy pushed open the door a crack, pressing his face against the cool wood to look outside. He was expecting to see more Strychnos mages, so the sight of the two massive beings standing in the corridor outside stunned him. They were dressed in
body armor and fur, their heads covered in fearsome helmets, adorned with spikes and horns.
Legion Nocturne, he thought. They had to be. As he peered at them, one of the soldiers reached into his cloak and produced a rectangular block of a rough, yellow substance, perhaps some kind of cheese. He broke off a small piece and handed it to his comrade.
“I don’t feel right leaving him with that witch,” muttered the Nocturne soldier who had accepted the cheese. He brought out strips of dried meat from a leather pouch and offered them to the other man in turn. “What if she uses her poisons on him? The Strychnine cannot be trusted, and Belladonna least of all.”
The other grunted, taking a piece of meat for himself. “We have been promised safety while we are here,” the warrior said. “Why else would we be allowed to wander these halls?”
“I don’t like this place and I don’t trust them. I’m uncomfortable with their sudden hospitality,” the first growled, taking a bite from his dried meat.
“It is not our job to trust. We are to follow the orders of our superiors. That is how the legion has always endured.”
What are they doing here? Timothy wondered as he watched the warriors through the door, remembering what Leander and Nicodemus had said about the various guilds’ intolerance for one another. Could this alliance be the kind of evidence that Nicodemus was searching for? He backed away from the door carefully, allowing it to close completely.
His curiosity was piqued, but he decided that it was best to return to the gyro and escape with the oracle. But how to do that with the Nocturne soldiers right outside the door? His mind raced with possible options.
Why not ask the oracle? he thought.
Timothy removed the box from the netting at his side and placed it upon a scroll-littered desk. He unlatched the lid and pried it open to gaze upon the head stored inside. Timothy still found the sight of it disturbing, but realized that he was getting used to it. Stepping back, he called out to awaken it from its rest.
“Oracle?” he said in a whisper, not wanting to arouse the attention of the warriors outside.
“Hm? Are we at SkyHaven already?” the oracle asked, eyes springing open. “Did they actually manage to get it up into the air? I can’t wait to see—”
“We haven’t left yet,” Timothy explained. “There are Legion Nocturne soldiers outside the door.” He pointed to the double doors behind him.
“Hmm, yes. I did see that. Didn’t pay it much mind though. What are we going to do?”
“I was hoping you might have a suggestion. Could you look into the future a bit and see how we get out—if we get out that is?”
“A few minutes ahead you say?” the oracle asked. “Don’t see why not.” And then he went abruptly quiet, his rich brown eyes glazing over. They cleared a moment later and the ancient, withered face of the oracle smiled. “You are a clever one, Tim. Perhaps it’s because I haven’t any body, but it never would have occurred to me to use the air ducts.”
Timothy looked about the room and found a circular opening high up in the wall. It was covered in a sheer membrane that pulsed in and out, as if the tower was breathing—yet another reminder that the citadel was not some structure crafted of wood or stone, but a living thing.
With a grin, the boy thanked the oracle and closed up the case to return it to the carrier at his side. He approached one of the desks and quietly pushed it over to a spot beneath the wall opening. Timothy hopped up on the desktop to be at eye level with the duct. He felt the warm, moist air upon his face and reached out to tear at the sheer netting that covered the opening. It must have acted as a kind of filter, he thought, examining the silklike material in his hands; the inventor part of his brain was fascinated. Tearing the delicate sheath away, he hoisted himself up into the circular hole in the wall and scrambled inside.
It was dark and cramped in the circular passage. A steady breeze passed over him like the breath of some great, mythical beast, carrying the sounds of the tower. The shaft was soft and moist beneath his knees, and he began to crawl through the winding passage. Occasionally coming upon another opening, he would peer through the membranous filter covering it, trying to assess his whereabouts. For what seemed like an eternity, he made his way through the ducts, and was just considering consulting the oracle again when the conduit suddenly opened up into a junction of sorts, with a gaping hole above him. Figuring that was the way to the roof, Timothy prepared to climb, but then he heard a familiar sound—a voice carried upon the breath of the Strychnos citadel.
The voice was drifting out from one of the passages before him. Timothy struggled with the idea of ignoring it, of hopping up into the tunnel above him and climbing to freedom, but his curiosity got the better of him. If I’m going to be a spy, I might as well act like one, he thought, leaving the junction to crawl down the shaft to verify a suspicion he’d had since first seeing the Legion Nocturne soldiers.
The voice was loud, bearish, and filled with intimidation. There was no mistaking its source. Another speaker joined the first as Timothy cautiously made his way to a membrane-covered opening. The second voice was softer, calmer, and he was surprised that it didn’t have a more soothing effect upon the other.
“It is as I’ve said for decades,” proclaimed the first. Timothy squatted in the tunnel, peering into the chamber below. “The Grandmaster of the Alhazred cannot be trusted.”
Lord Romulus and Mistress Belladonna faced each other in what appeared to be her private chambers. The Grandmaster of the Strychnos guild casually sipped something from an ornate, green goblet that appeared to have been grown rather than cast in metal or blown from glass. She watched as the menacing Nocturne leader paced, his black, fur-collared cloak billowing out behind him.
“Even if the boy is an innocent, Nicodemus’s motives are to be questioned,” he said, stopping before her. “It would not at all surprise me to see the youth used for ill gain.”
Belladonna set her goblet down on a serving cart, turning to walk toward a high-backed throne upon a raised dais. “I am glad you have brought these suspicions to my attention, Romulus,” she said, taking her seat of authority. “The recent disappearances of guild mages have begun to pique our curiosities as well.” She stroked her lips with long, delicate fingers the color of Patience soil. “Isn’t it interesting that none of those missing has affiliations with the Order of Alhazred? Passing strange, wouldn’t you say?”
Romulus nodded his helmeted head in agreement. “The Alhazred bear watching, Belladonna,” he said to his supposed rival, his voice a bestial growl. “If my suspicions are correct, we may all soon find ourselves in grave danger.”
Timothy was stunned. Doubts that he had harbored from the moment he had met Lord Nicodemus rushed to the forefront of his thoughts, and he found it hard to breathe. Maybe the Strychnine aren’t the ones I should be spying on, he thought as he backed away. He needed time to think.
Quickly he crawled back to the opening he believed would take him to the roof. Sinking his fingers into the soft flesh of the tunnel, he hauled himself up into the shaft and began the long climb.
Chapter Eight
The storm had come, a fierce rain driving down from the tumultuous sky in gray sheets. The wind howled around Timothy like some great, crazed beast, beating against the gyrocraft as if trying to swat it from the air. He struggled to keep his invention aloft, at the same time fighting the inner squall that had been whipped up by the foreboding discussion he had overheard in the Strychnos tower ducts.
… none of those missing has affiliations with the Order of Alhazred … Passing strange, wouldn’t you say?
The words echoed in his mind and a chill crept through him, deep to the bone. Is it possible, he wondered, that what the guild masters said is true?
Lightning knifed across the sky in front of him, jagged spears of white-hot fire descending from swollen gray clouds to illuminate the sleeping city of Arcanum below. The rain continued to pelt his face, and he took one of his hands away from the
craft’s controls to wipe away the water that spattered the circular glass of his flight goggles. Timothy was glad that he had decided to bring them; it had been hard enough to pilot his invention earlier in normal weather conditions, never mind in a driving rainstorm.
He was supposed to return directly to SkyHaven, but he was not at all certain he wanted to do that. And what if I do? Should I just tell Nicodemus what Belladonna and Romulus were saying, ask him if it’s true? Timothy thought it would be wiser to just keep it to himself, at least until he could discuss it with Leander.
Lightning tore across the sky again, followed by a bellowing rumble of thunder. He wiped rain from his goggles and was surprised to see the large, looming shape of the SkyHaven estate floating not too far off over the churning sea. Timothy had been so preoccupied that he had barely noticed the journey.
Then, impossibly enough, over the din of the storm, he heard his name being called.
As he squinted through the rain, he saw a black shape in the distance, growing larger as it flapped toward him. “It’s about time, kid!” Edgar was cawing loudly to be heard above the storm. “We were getting pretty worried.”
Timothy smiled; it was good to see his friend again. It had been only hours, but it felt as though he had been away for a very long time.
“Keep an eye on me and I’ll guide you in,” the rook promised. He glided in front of the gyrocraft as they drew closer to SkyHaven.
Two lanterns of ghostfire had been lit and hung on either side of the window opening, lighting his way, and Timothy began to gradually decrease his speed as he prepared to land.
“Almost there, kid,” he heard Edgar say, the words sucked away by the wind.
The window grew larger and more defined as he approached. This was the tricky part, not to allow the spinning rotor blades to come in contact with the sides of the opening. Total concentration, he thought, slowing his forward progress all the more, now practically hovering before the open window. He felt the weight of the box that contained the Oracle of Vijaya at his side, but could not muster any sense of accomplishment this early morn. It had been tainted by the foreboding conversation of Lord Romulus and Mistress Belladonna.
The Un-Magician Page 13
