by J. B. Markes
“Lucky,” I said. “It’s unlocked.”
“Lucky there was no magic seal, for certain,” he replied. “But the prying bar has done its job. I had it fabricated years ago for just this sort of work. There is no door or lock it cannot open. It would be best if you never mentioned I had it. Let’s continue.”
“Wouldn’t a magic key have been easier to carry?” I asked.
“Is there no end to your questions, girl? Let’s concentrate on the task at hand. The door may not be sealed yet, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t defenses in place. You should probably go in first.”
“What? But you’re the expert wizard here!”
“Don’t get yourself into a huff.” His eyes widened indignantly. “I’m too important. You’ll want me safe and sound if something does go wrong.”
It was easy to see why Gustobald never had an apprentice, or perhaps he did at one point and the poor soul met her untimely end in one of her master’s many misadventures. I shook my head at Gustobald one last time—just in case I’d never get another chance—and pushed the stone door open. It was surprisingly well-balanced on its hinges.
The inside of the tomb wasn’t as magnificent as I expected. There seemed to be no magical embellishment whatsoever, save for the eternal flames burning in the braziers in each corner. It was one single, simple room with a granite sarcophagus in the center. The floor was smooth, level, and clean; and an intricate false door was carved into the ceiling directly above the final resting place. Archseer Bevlin Bartleby was ready to walk among the stars.
“We shouldn’t linger,” Gustobald said, pushing me up to the sarcophagus. “Come. We have to get this lid off.”
I slid the sharp end of the iron bar into the tight seal, leveraging it up and down until the lid began to rise and fall with each push. It was too heavy for me, so Gustobald condescended to lend me his muscle. Within a minute, we had raised the lid over the inner lip and Gustobald shoved a holding block in place. We did the same with each corner until we were able to slide the cover enough to see inside.
“Try doing that with a magic key,” he said, catching his breath.
The stench was a musty, sour smell that made my eyes water. I rushed away and gasped for enough breath to cough, but ended up gagging on the foul air instead. By the time I passed back into the fresh air of the open cemetery, it was already too late; my nausea had turned to spasms and I retched uncontrollably.
I moved around the corner of the sepulcher to allow the gagging to run its course, but the act brought back the memory of Mr. Bartleby and his maggot pancakes, and I lost it again. I removed my handkerchief from my satchel and wiped my lips, startled at the crimson stain it left behind.
“It happens,” Gustobald said, appearing behind me. “My first time was worse. You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. It’s said you must keep your emotions in check in order to view a fresh corpse objectively, with the cool mind of a researcher. I’ve never found that to be very useful. No. You must be wholly committed to your desire to put right this wrong. Our discomfort is a small sacrifice to make. Keep that mindset in the coming days; eventually, you’ll get used to the sights and smells.”
I nodded and coughed, wiping my mouth again to remove any evidence I might have missed. I straightened my robes, adjusted my ponytail, and stood as straight as possible. The smell was still in my nostrils, and I wasn’t sure if it was because it had crept into my clothes or if it was all in my mind. Whichever the case, I was more prepared the second time I entered the tomb.
“Now, then,” Gustobald said, unfolding the duffel to its full length and spreading it open on the floor. “I’ll take the head; you grab the feet.”
“Can’t you just levitate him out?” I asked. “That was your focus at one point, wasn’t it?”
“They’ve put enough magic on him already. Don’t you think? You wouldn’t know this, but everything leaves a trace. We’re racing against time and decomposition. The fewer aberrant processes we have to contend with, the better, particularly if he was slain with magic.”
“How long have you done this?” I asked, taking Master Bartleby’s feet as Gustobald dragged him from his stone coffin. “Solved murders, I mean.”
“This will be my first,” he said. “Officially, my knowledge of necromancy is purely theoretical and it was intended to remain as such for the duration of my stay. Lay him down right here on the bag.” We dropped Master Bartleby roughly on the canvas. Gustobald stretched his back and looked at the ceiling. “I don’t mind it so much. I have no pupils to train, which leaves me plenty of time for independent research—using academy facilities when I’m allowed.”
I covered my mouth and nose and scanned the body, amazed at the fine job the transmuter Gretel had done. The Archseer looked the same as he might have in life. If not for the stench, I might have guessed him to be sleeping. Gustobald noticed my astonishment and just scoffed.
“They try their best,” he said. “But they are only transmuters, after all.”
Gustobald removed a fine-edged knife the size of a feather quill and cut a slit in the chest of the Archseer’s robes. He pulled the cloth to the side and revealed the undamaged skin, nodding all the while. He opened his hands and began to wave them above the body, then stopped abruptly. “Steel yourself,” he said, and he completed the cancellation spell.
A vertical gash appeared on the victim’s chest, much cleaner than I expected. But the dark discoloration of the flesh and the sudden movement of the robes as the body bloated were too much for me. I turned away until my heart and stomach settled. I was sweating profusely as I balanced my nausea with my nerve.
Gustobald was chanting a rough guttural arcane language I had never heard. I prided myself on my knowledge of spellcraft, but the more intently I listened, the more foreign his words sounded to me. It was the black speech students had been so warned against by the esteemed masters of the Academy Magus. This was real necromancy, and—Sentinels, be damned—my heart leaped at the chance to witness this forbidden art.
But nothing happened. The necromancer completed his spell and fell silent. He stared at the body with only the slightest crease in his brow, then nodded to himself and stood up. “That settles it,” he said. “He’s been out too long.”
“What did you do?” I asked. “Did you try to bring him back to life? Can you do that?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve heard one too many fairy stories. I mean, it’s possible, of course, but not something you’d want to see. The flesh never stops decaying once it’s started. Terribly messy business! Would you really want Master Bartleby wandering around, leaving bits and pieces of himself wherever he goes?”
“Okay, okay.”
“It’s unfortunate I wasn’t notified immediately. This really does put a fine point on the current state of affairs. The first academy-sanctioned necromancer in an age and they neglect to inform me when my services could be of greatest use.”
“So that’s it, then?” I asked, feeling my last great adventure slipping through my fingers.
“Not even close,” he said. “Let’s tuck him in the bag. We have to get the body back to the place where it died. Sometimes the spirit resonates.”
“What? How are we going to do that? What about Miss Sinclair?”
“Hum! The day I let an apprentice tell me what to do is the day I give up spellcasting altogether.”
Chapter 6
“No. Not this time.” Adele Sinclair shouted from across the room. “What are you doing here, Gustobald?”
It was still the early morning hour, so we had hoped to find the apprentice away from her post. Myself being exhausted from the night’s adventure, I wasn’t in the mood for any more delays. Miss Sinclair seemed as fresh as she had been the last time I saw her, and it reminded me of the wonders a little magic could do—when it wasn’t slowly ripping you apart from the inside.
The pending aggravation was more than I could bear, so I cast a quick ward to stave off fatigue for th
e coming day, reckoning it was a drop in the bucket compared to the exertions I had performed on the cemetery gate. I made myself the most solemn promise that it would be the last time I would needlessly squander my energy until I had a proper night’s rest.
“What’s in the bag?” she pursued. “Whatever this is, I don’t need it right now.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Miss Sinclair,” Gustobald said, waving me to continue up the stairs with the bulky hand-cart holding the body bag. “We’ll only be an hour at most.”
“I have to see whatever it is you’re bringing in here,” she said. “You’re not even officially allowed access to the Archseer’s chambers. I let my emotions get the better of me last time, but now you’re really out of line. You can’t just walk in and out of here whenever you please.”
“Give it a rest,” I said, struggling on the stair as Gustobald rushed up to help balance the hand-cart.
“Excuse me?” Miss Sinclair’s self-righteous contempt reminded me of Regina, and it gave me particular pleasure putting her in her place, despite the fact that my friend and I had just reconciled not a day before.
“You heard me. You wouldn’t talk this way to any other proven wizard in the academy,” I said. “You’re lucky Mister Pitch doesn’t have you put under review for bad conduct.”
“How dare you?” She followed behind us, stomping her feet deliberately to the rhythm of her own voice. “This is my tower, and my master’s memory you are debasing. And I won’t have it!”
She grabbed hold of the hand-cart and tried to wrest it from my grasp, but succeeded only in knocking me off balance. Gustobald placed a gentle hand on her shoulder to calm her, and she almost jumped clean out of her robes. She twisted her ankle and cried out, stumbling down the three lowest steps and taking the hand-cart with her. As the black bag tumbled out, the Archseer’s body fell free of the canvas, rolling down and landing face-to-face on top of his former apprentice as she cried out in terror.
Gustobald rushed down the steps as she rolled Master Bartleby’s body off of her and sprawled to her feet. She retreated a few steps and thrust her hand into her pocket with malice in her eye, so I flexed my wrist to free my own wand from its thong. She had just leveled her wand at Gustobald when I spoke the command word, unleashing a crack of lightning barely a foot above her head. The bolt rebounded from the stone wall and floor behind, finally streaking into the upper recesses of the tower before its roar finally died out.
Miss Sinclair ducked instinctively, but not in time to save her had I been aiming directly for her. She stood with her arm outstretched, her wand inches from Gustobald’s blanched face.
“Drop it,” she said, her voice as unsteady as the tip of her wand.
“Perhaps you should do as she says, Miss Ives.” Gustobald kept his hands out to the side. “It’s not worth someone getting hurt.”
“This one’s all talk,” I said. “Pay attention, Miss Sinclair. The real threat is over here, and I’m guessing you won’t be able to change targets before I take you out. Do you really want to cross wands with a trained manifester? Think carefully; you’re in my school now.”
“You wouldn’t dare strike me down,” she replied, her eyes not quite as certain as her message. “You’re already facing banishment tonight. Would you turn that into a death sentence?”
“You have no idea who you’re talking to,” I said, moving down a step but keeping my wand fixed on her position. “I have nothing to lose. You’re a diviner; read my mind and see if I’m bluffing.”
She didn’t bother reading me. Instead, she lowered her wand and took a few steps back from the necromancer before turning full tilt and sprinting out of the tower’s main entrance. I made my way down to the foot of the staircase, keeping one eye on the door.
“I might need a place to stay once I’m expelled,” I said.
“You and me both,” he replied. “Grab his head and let’s head up. She’ll be back before we know it.”
The bookkeeper Mathis was absent when we passed through the archives, likely getting his rest in the traditional mortal manner. It was the first stroke of luck we’d had since the beginning. I couldn’t help but glance up at the star-strewn ceiling that had so captivated me during our last visit. It brought to mind the false door in Master Bartleby’s tomb and rekindled my sense of shame at having disturbed what should have been an honorable man’s last rest.
Gustobald wasn’t concerned with such petty sentiments. He always lived by his own code of honor, stating that, if one’s purpose be true, all atrocities could be forgiven in the grisly end. It served him well enough for the most part, except when it didn’t.
We snuck past the Labyrinth to the wall concealing the passage into the Archseer’s quarters. Leaning the hand-cart against my side, I waited while Gustobald retrieved his pipe from his belt and tapped its stem against the stone portal to ensure it hadn’t been resealed. Surprisingly, it was open, and the pipe passed through without hindrance. He shot me a knowing glance and proceeded through the stone.
The Archseer’s chamber was as cozy as I remembered, with the eternal flame still burning in the fireplace. The bed linens had been changed out to remove the macabre reminder of the ghastly crime that had been committed. Gustobald bid me help him lay out the body in the center of the floor, and afterward to remove the bag and hand-cart from the room entirely, giving him more space to work.
“I don’t suppose you know any wards that might seal this room for a time?” Gustobald asked, his shoulders dropping at the shake of my head. “Thought I’d ask. It was never my specialty. Well, let’s be on with it, then.”
A sudden movement at the stone portal startled us. It was the servant Mathis. He held a steaming cup of tea in one hand and Master Bartleby’s discarded body bag in the other. He was staring down at the Archseer’s body in unmitigated horror. “What the hell is going on in here?” he asked, dropping the shroud on the floor beside him.
“I—uh—Gustobald.” I wasn’t sure if I should draw my wand on a commoner armed only with a teacup. I erred on the cautious side, brandishing my walnut stalk and causing him to drop his porcelain with a shriek. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mathis. This is important. We’re just trying to help. Please do us the favor of standing in the corner and not making any trouble.”
“This is unacceptable,” he said. “Have you no decency at all? No respect for the dead?”
“More than you’ll ever know,” Gustobald said, removing a vial of cloudy liquid and a silk pouch. He rubbed the pouch between his fingers and then dumped its contents into his palm, revealing a sparkling green stone. “The exceedingly rare iridescent carbuncle,” he said, answering my inquisitive stare. “Also known as the rainbow garnet; necromancy is an expensive trade. I do hope the academy sees fit to reimburse.”
“Don’t count on it,” I replied.
“Well, it should be interesting anyway.” He unstopped the vial and slid the gemstone into the liquid to no visible effect, and I reinforced my aim to stop Mathis’s fidgeting. Part of me felt sorry for the man, who no doubt woke up that morning expecting another peaceful day in the library.
“Why are you doing this?” he whispered. “Necromancy is forbidden. Master Bartleby doesn’t deserve this.”
Gustobald was already deep in his chanting, barking the same harsh tongue I had heard him use in the tomb. The sharp, coarse utterances at times sounded more like the growl of some beast than actual words. Mathis grew paler by the second.
“They are coming,” Mathis said. He was correct. I could hear the displaced shouts propagating from the entrance like the vibrating strings of some otherworldly instrument. “You’d better stow that spell stick, for your own good.”
My nerve was shook. Gustobald was lost in his incantation and unable to help. He swirled the vial and the gem glowed faintly as it dissolved into the substance. The consumption of materials usually meant success in spellcasting, and I was drawn to the effect in spite of the impending intrusion.
Gust
obald poured the quicksilver mixture over Master Bartleby’s corpse and took a step back as the body gave one violent twitch and then lay still. I was so startled at the sight that I fell back into the corner beside Mathis, who had pressed himself hard against the crease in the wall, his eyes bulging. I watched the body for any more signs of movement, but it was perfectly still.
Just then, three wizards rushed out of the portal to find Gustobald with his hands in the air, a look of quiet satisfaction on his face. These were the Sentinels. I had seen their kind many times around the Academy Magus. They were an elite force, the first line of defense against the evil rogue wizards of the world, which I had heard so much about during my lectures at the academy but had yet to actually see with my own eyes. They had responded quickly to Miss Sinclair’s call. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been so quick as to save Master Bartleby in the first place.
“Nobody move,” the first sentinel said in a bold, clear voice, “or you will be struck dead on the spot.”
Mathis and I were paralyzed, both staring intently at Master Bartleby’s fingers, which trembled subtly. My first instinct was to run, but I told myself that Gustobald was in control. The pep-talk did nothing for my nerves, and I started hiccupping as the finger-twitching grew more intense. It wasn’t enough to draw the attention of the guards, though, who spread out to cover each of us with their wands. Miss Sinclair appeared at the portal in time to gloat over her ultimate victory.
“Abomination!” The sentinel circled Gustobald, keeping his arm leveled at the old man. He was older than me, with the short-cropped hair peculiar to the Sentinels. His lapel marked him as a mind mage. “I’ve been looking for a reason to get you in front of my wand, necromancer. You’ve overstepped your bounds this time.”
“Let us see what Master Bartleby has to say about that, shall we?” Gustobald asked, and he lowered his hand in an odd gesture to the corpse at his feet. “Hakhamdak!”
