by J. B. Markes
There was a raw rasp of breath as Master Bartleby jerked upward and swayed to his feet, his movements lacking deliberation, like a marionette too heavy for its strings. He tilted his head back as if he hadn’t the strength to lift it, and sucked air in for longer than I thought was possible, a hoarse wheezing rasp akin to a reverse cough. My hiccupping grew worse, despite the fact I was involuntarily holding my breath. I shivered at the notion that I sounded anything like the dead man in our midst.
Two of the sentinels turned their wands on the revenant, admirably composed in the presence of undeath, though each of them took a step back from the creature for caution’s sake. The living corpse turned in a circle, lifting its arms and spreading its fingers to the music of cracking bones. It twisted its neck at an unnatural angle, its unblinking eyes creeping across each and every person in the room. Words cannot describe the chill that passed through my being as that empty husk shared a private conversation with my immortal soul. Finally, the body twisted and lurched in a gruesome dance and expelled every last bit of air from its ragged lungs.
“Murderrrrr!” The phlegmy voice was unmistakably Master Bartleby’s, which I had heard many times attached to the monthly memo-missives delivered to each wizard on academy grounds. The body gave one last spin, took two halting steps to the bed stand and raised a limp finger at the liquor glass before collapsing in a heap on the floor, returning to death.
“What is this?” Miss Sinclair’s sudden tear-filled shout caused everyone present to flinch noticeably, but Gustobald was already examining the bed stand which we had seen during our previous visit.
“Gustobald Pitch!” The sentinel was unshakeable, his voice deep and proud. “By the authority of the Second Sentinels, I, Seeker Arland, order you to surrender yourself to our custody. This is your one chance to come quietly.”
“Hum!” The necromancer held out his hands as the man placed him in the special manacles peculiar to the wizarding world, designed more to restrict finger movement than anything else. “You shall yourself be tried for gross negligence of duty should you escort me from this scene prematurely. As I have given myself freely to your custody, you are obliged to hear my case. I assure you it will be most illuminating.”
“Get him out of here,” Miss Sinclair said. “He’s already done enough. The girl, too.”
“Settle down,” the closest sentinel said, grabbing hold of my wrist with one hand and gently removing my wand with the other. She had a strong grip to go with her muscular build, the unusual mark of a mage who didn’t neglect her body, even as she undoubtedly spent many hours a day training her mind. With jet-black hair and steady eyes, she wore the sigil of the mancers, the same starburst that graced my own tunic, yet I couldn’t remember seeing her around the manifestation school before. She stood beside me and awaited the Seeker’s order to escort me to the Hold.
“Should we put her in irons, too?” the youngest sentinel asked. “She’s an actual hand mage.”
“I only had the one pair,” she said, holding fast to my wrist.
“I won’t be any trouble,” I said, pulling my hand away. “You’re hurting me.”
“Be quiet,” she said, twisting my arm behind my back and shoving me against the wall. It was such a quick maneuver that I barely had time to cry out. She was truly strong for a mage, and I blinked away the pain as she wrenched my shoulder and put her mouth against my ear. “You’re a disgrace to our order.”
“Easy on the apprentice, Ruby,” Seeker Arland said. “She won’t be any trouble, will she?”
“I won’t,” I said, wincing as the woman leaned her full weight against me and released my arm. I turned around to see her wand pointed at my face. It was a peculiar instrument—half wand, half dagger—with a long toothy blade jutting out of the base. Noticing my interest, she spun it in her hand dexterously to threaten me with the other side.
“She shot a bolt of lightning at my head,” Miss Sinclair shouted. “She’s as crazy as he is!”
“Relax, Sinclair,” my captor said bitterly, twirling the wand once more. “Don’t be such a little girl.”
“Shut your mouth, Ruby. You weren’t even here.”
“Enough!” Gustobald waved his manacles up and down. “I’ve no time for your penny-ante bickers. A man has been murdered and I alone know the cause!”
“Assassinated,” Arland corrected. “I saw the black knife myself.”
“Subterfuge sufficient enough to dupe the fragile minds that pass through the Hold day-to-day, but no match for someone who knows where to look.”
“Which would be you, I take it?” Ruby asked with an incredulous grin.
“Not me,” Gustobald hummed, using his eyes to point to the dead body. “Now, if you’ll permit me. The necromancer stepped over to the bed stand and leaned down over the items resting upon its polished surface. “Just as I thought. The killer has already returned once to cover up his tracks, but left in quite a hurry before he could finish the deed.”
“How can you be so sure?” the third sentinel asked.
“Miss Ives. Might I ask you to recount each item you saw on the bed stand during our last visit?”
“Um—rosewater and a towel,” I said. “A damaged silver comb and—”
“Yes?”
“A glass of liquor. Half a glass.”
“Not bad,” Gustobald said, stepping to the side and revealing the exact items I had stated, save the glass was now empty. “Miss Ives is correct; this glass was still in use the last time we were here. In fact, you can still catch the scent of—spiced rum, if I’m not mistaken. It has since been emptied of its contents, the same glass Master Bartleby himself just indicated in his short sojourn back to the world of the living. Without a doubt, the Archseer was poisoned.”
“This is ridiculous,” Ruby said.
“The Sentinels are no doubt equipped to detect poisons,” he continued. “Though, why they didn’t perform a simple search in the first place will likely remain unanswered.”
“There was a search, and the Archseer was poisoned,” Seeker Arland said. “We found traces on the knife buried in his chest.”
“Excessive, don’t you think?”
“The Black Hand doesn’t take chances,” Seeker Arland said.
“No.” Gustobald raised his shackled hands. “Master Bartleby was dead long before he was stabbed. You can see this wound didn’t bleed in the proper fashion. He was poisoned and died in his bed—else he was moved there—then the killer placed the dagger before he left.”
Arland’s face flushed and he pushed Gustobald back to sit on the bed. He stood staring at the body for what seemed like a minute, running a hand over his close-cropped head. He then proceeded to the bedside and waved a hand over the collection. When the glass glowed a dim green, followed by Master Bartleby’s body, he lowered his wand.
“I’ll be damned,” Ruby said, prompting an impatient glance from her boss.
“I’m guessing the killer returned to this room, emptied the liquor back into the tainted bottle in the cabinet, and made off with the entirety, leaving the glass unwashed in his haste.”
The third sentinel opened the liquor cabinet and waved his hand across the collection of bottles, to no effect, then turned to his leader and shrugged his shoulders. That was one piece of evidence that would never be found.
“So, assuming you’re right,” Ruby said, holding up a finger and staring intensely at Master Bartleby’s corpse, “who all has access to these chambers?”
“Besides the Black Hand and the odd necromancer?” Mathis asked, earning a look of scorn from half those present. “Only Adele and myself—and no one enters without one of us knowing.”
“And which one of you changed the bedsheets?” Gustobald asked.
Miss Sinclair sucked in her breath and shook her head. She took a step away from the third sentinel and put a hand on her forehead. Her eyes were wide with fear, and I thought she might draw her wand again at any moment.
“She did,” Mathis
said. “Just this morning, she came out with the bloody sheets. I saw her.”
“I cleaned the room,” she said.
“A crumpled ball of sheets would make a splendid hideaway for a bottle of spirits, wouldn’t you say?” Gustobald stood up from the bed and straightened his robes and hat as best he could without a free finger.
“It’s true,” Miss Sinclair said. “I removed the sheets. I couldn’t bear the constant reminder of what happened. But I didn’t touch the glass or the cabinet—I swear it! Why would I kill my own master? He was like a father to me.”
“And he loved you like a daughter,” Gustobald said. “Like—a beneficiary?”
“Of course,” she said. “I mean, no. Look, I know what this looks like, but—”
“You’ve hindered us every step of the way,” I said.
“That’s not true. I’m the one who escorted you to the chamber in the first place. Why would I do that if I were guilty?” Miss Sinclair was sweating now. She crossed her arms across her stomach and grabbed her elbows to keep her hands from trembling. She had a way about her that made me want to trust her, in spite of the damning evidence.
“She needed a reason to get back into the room,” Mathis said, mirroring my own thoughts. “To break the warder’s seal under the pretext of independent investigation, so that she could return later, on her own, without questions being asked.”
Seeker Arland’s face was red. He looked to Gustobald and then back to the Archseer’s apprentice. “Is this true, Miss Sinclair? Did you break the warder’s seal?”
“She did,” Mathis said.
“Be quiet, you!” Arland pointed his wand furiously, as if he would curse everyone in the room. “You’d better answer me! Were you the one who broke the seal to this chamber?”
“Please,” she replied. “I was only trying to help.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Ruby said, leaving my side and grabbing Miss Sinclair by the wrist. “Breaking the warder’s seal is a crime in and of itself.” The wands had turned. Miss Sinclair stood in the corner weeping, proclaiming her innocence all the while as the mage-bands were removed from Gustobald’s wrists and transferred to her own.
“I didn’t do it!” Miss Sinclair repeated over and over as Ruby jerked her forward and shoved her through the stone portal. “I’m no murderer!”
“The mind mages will wring the truth out of you,” Ruby said as she disappeared through the wall behind her prisoner.
“And that’s that,” Gustobald said. “Let that be a lesson, Miss Ives. Never match fisticuffs with a necromancer in matters of life and death.”
“You’re not off the hook, either,” Arland said. “You’ve got your own mess to answer for. And as for your little assistant—well, the head of her order will be notified as to how exactly she has been spending her extracurricular hours. Now move.”
“Now, see here—”
“Move, I said!” Arland thrust his wand up again. He was surprisingly quick on the draw for a mind mage. The Sentinels may have recruited from all schools of the academy, but they made each and every one of their members into top-notch duelists.
Gustobald threw his hands in the air and stood up straight, then headed for the portal. The other sentinel pointed at me and thumbed toward the exit, so I followed behind, but before we had even reached the portal, a tall man in a drab long coat entered the room. His dress style was odd, with short hair and unshaven face. I immediately discounted the possibility that he was a local. He had a gallant manner that reminded me of Deblin Bartleby—or perhaps it was just the same bizarre rounded hat they shared.
“Whoever you are,” Arland said. “You don’t belong here.”
“On the contrary,” the man replied in an unwavering baritone. “My name is Inspector Bastion Raines and I carry the full authority of the Crown, which means I belong anywhere I deem necessary to conduct my duties.”
“With respect, I wasn’t informed of this,” Arland said, standing noticeably straighter in order to look Mr. Raines eye-to-eye. “You have no authority in the Academy Magus. The King has given the Sentinels complete autonomy in matters—”
“His Majesty the King understands this to be a special case, having known and worked with the Archseer personally. He wishes every resource to be made available to uncover those responsible. Think of it as a gift.”
“In any case, you’re too late,” Arland said. “We have the matter in hand.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Mr. Raines said, glancing around the sulking sentinel to Master Bartleby’s remains. “But let’s get one thing clear from the start. I won’t be put off by you or anyone else. The gods judge all, but not until I’ve had my say. I am the law.” He paused just long enough to make things awkward before getting down to business. “Now, tell me. Has anyone moved the body?”
Chapter 7
“Dismissal from the academy!” Master Virgil paced behind his oversized desk, pausing every few seconds to slap his hand down on its teak surface. “You’ll be expelled, removed from the order. I’ve seen a lot of things in my time, Miss Ives, but never—not once—has a pupil of mine been delivered to my office by the Sentinels.”
“It’s not exactly as bad as it sounds,” I said, shifting in my seat.
“The Sentinels! You attacked a diviner. Fired lightning right at her head. You might as well have attacked a child.”
“Over her head. And she drew her wand first. What have you always taught me? If someone pulls their wand—”
Master Virgil pounded his fist on the desk, then recovered, straightened his black robes, and crossed his arms over his large chest. His flushed, plump face reminded me of the bloated body I had seen in the cemetery the previous night. I’d never seen my master so mad in all my time under his tutelage.
“Master Bartleby was murdered,” I said. “And I helped prove it. That has to count for something. And they dragged that harmless little diviner off to the Hold. I shouldn’t be treated this way. I should be given a commendation for my service.”
“You can’t be serious,” he said.
“Okay, fine. But expelled? For uncovering a plot?”
“I told you not to get mixed up with that Gustobald Pitch. You should have listened to me. It’s dark magic, Isabel. Unnatural. Evil.”
“You once told me—told all of us—that no magic is inherently good or evil.”
“And for the most part, that’s true. But necromancy is something else entirely. You’re too young in the craft to understand, so you’ll just have to trust me. The dark arts are not to be trifled with. You have no idea where that power comes from or the price that must be paid for meddling. Now go to your quarters and await my call.”
I jumped up, determined to storm out of Master Virgil’s chamber, but his softening expression rooted me in place. I stood before him, unable to chase away the same feelings of shame that he was no doubt experiencing.
“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” I said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You’ve had a tough week, I know, but that’s no excuse to throw your life away. Get some rest while I explain this to the headmaster, hopefully in a way that won’t get you thrown in the Hold or cost me my own position.”
“I’m sorry, Master.”
Master Virgil waved toward the door, so I left it at that. His disappointment stuck with me on the way to my personal quarters. He had always been a caring man and a patient teacher. He didn’t deserve to be pulled into the center of my controversy. On the other hand, Master Virgil hadn’t been there when Gustobald had uncovered the truth behind Master Bartleby’s death. Though he was wise, my master was unfair in his wholesale rejection of this widely misunderstood art. I had cycled through these same feelings three times over by the time I made it to my floor.
It was quiet in the common room. The initiates had returned to their rigorous training schedules now that the period of mourning had passed. It was unlikely I would have many moments to myself over the coming
days—assuming I didn’t get expelled. I crossed my arms and felt the absence of my wand. The sentinel Ruby had never given it back. Without the coin to buy a new one, it would take me weeks to replace it. It was time I didn’t have.
The wind was blowing fiercely, as it often did on the upper levels of the tower. One of the initiates had left the window open again. When I pulled the latch to close it, a sharp pain pierced my finger. I cursed and held my hand up to inspect the wooden sliver embedded in my skin. My vision blurred and I kicked the wall, then reeled back and thrust out my hand, releasing a blast of force that shattered the window and took the curtains out with it.
Seconds later, I felt the warm blood trickling from my nose and wiped it away with my sleeve, a mistake since the smear showed up starkly on the yellow fabric. I cast a cantrip to clean the cloth, but the spell went straight to my head. I felt woozy so I threw myself onto the sofa. I closed my eyes and laid my head back on the cushion, putting my feet up on the half-table and running through the breathing exercises the healers had taught me. There was nothing I could do; once the sickness took hold I could only wait for it to run its course.
I dozed off for a few minutes. When I opened my eyes I was captivated by a painting placed above eye level on the west wall. It was a beautiful young woman in white lace seated at a decorative looking glass. Heaps of jewelry—mostly pearls matching her delicate gown—were piled on the dressing table, glowing otherworldly against the black background. The image within the glass could barely be discerned in the low light of the painting, leaving her reflection distorted and bony.
Try as I might, I couldn’t remember ever seeing the portrait before. I drew my robes about me and made a quick glance about the room, feeling childish at seeing my handiwork with the window. It took me a minute to stand up and stumble through the two remaining corridors to my personal chamber, but I didn’t stop at my door. Instead, I took the extra twenty steps to Regina’s quarters.
Her door was unlocked when I arrived. Regina was sitting at her desk reading, so I entered as quietly as possible and made for her bunk. She waved without looking back at me, and I collapsed on top of the sheets, not even bothering to remove my boots or satchel.
