Necrospect: Chronicles of the Wizard-Detective

by J. B. Markes

  “Nonsense,” Gustobald huffed, sending Master Orden’s face into new shades of red. “Nobody’s memory is being dishonored today, whatever that means.”

  “This is the problem with your kind—no respect for the dead. No respect!”

  “You’d know all about that!” Gustobald stood and pointed heatedly at his accusers. “You’ve no respect for anyone outside of your silly little club.”

  “Rogue!” It was Master Warren who now rose to his feet, followed closely by the other headmasters. “How dare you speak to us in such a manner? You were a guest here at the sole discretion of the Archseer, and this is how you repay his generosity!”

  For the first time, Inspector Raines seemed uncomfortable in the presence of conflict. I sympathized with him, wondering how long this argument would last before turning into an all-out duel. With fevers rising, and more wizards jumping into the fray, it was becoming difficult to distinguish one voice from the next.

  I raised my hands to call for quiet, but no one paid any mind to the apprentice in their midst. I had expected more composure from the elite wizards of the academy but ordered chaos reigned supreme, the force of their collective hatred converging on a single point of focus. It might have continued, had Master Fridley not seen my signal of cooperation and pulled a small whistle from her pocket. She placed the bit of metal to her lips, blew into it gently, and all noise drained out of the vaulted chamber.

  The men and women shouted silently against the void but settled quickly when they realized their efforts were wasted. Finally, the enchantment fell and I could hear the rustling of cloth and heavy breathing of those recovering from their tirades. I didn’t give them the chance to start anew.

  “I knew about Mr. Pitch’s plan to recover Master Bartleby’s remains,” I said. “I’m the one who brought the shovel.”

  “Why did you bring a shovel?” Master Rupert of the summoning school asked over the grunts and whispers of disapproval. Master Fridley scowled at his speaking out-of-turn. “He wasn’t buried in the ground.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I replied. “I’m the one who shattered the cemetery fence and I broke into the Archseer’s tomb. I helped Mr. Pitch carry the remains to the Tower of Seeing, and threatened Miss Sinclair when she raised her wand to defend it.” Having said it all out loud, I was shocked at my own behavior, which had seemed so reasonable at time.

  “What exactly was going through your mind?” Master Fridely took over. “Did you not realize the consequences of your actions?”

  Her question reached inside me, deep down to the rational apprentice I had once been. But there was no rational answer. “The consequences were foremost in my mind,” I said. “Those being that the Archseer’s killer should be punished.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know what you meant,” I said.

  “And now that you are facing judgment?” she asked. “Have you come to regret your actions?”

  I looked from face to face. It was so quiet I thought someone had blown the silencing whistle again. Truth be told, I had regretted my actions before I had even put them into motion, but they would never know that. Regret was an emotion too closely associated with guilt.

  “Everyone knows that Master Bartleby was the greatest diviner of his time,” I said. “Is there anyone here who doubts that he called Gustobald Pitch to the Academy Magus for a reason? If the Archseer trusted Mr. Pitch, who are we to question him? I have to believe that he would use whatever means necessary to bring about justice, even if that happens to be necromancy.”

  At this, I saw a brief smile brush past the inspector’s lips, and my beating heart settled slightly. For the first time, I felt the tickle in my mind that told me someone had been monitoring my thoughts. I was surprised I hadn’t sensed it sooner, which was no doubt a testament to their skill in the art.

  “To be young again,” Master Fridley said. “But, alas, things are not so simple. This is quite serious. Whatever the case, Mr. Pitch has obviously misled you to believe you were working for the good.”

  “But we were,” I said, looking to Gustobald, who gave me a gentle nod.

  “I believe you understand that to be the case,” she said. “But the wrong things done for the right reasons are still wrong. We can’t have wizards—especially those in training—flaunting the rules of the academy and, frankly, the laws of the land. You cannot level your wand at another wizard outside of training, and necromancy remains expressly forbidden.”

  “But why else would Master Bartleby put his trust in Gustobald? Why invite him to the academy if not to share his knowledge for the good?”

  “Archseer Bartleby knew the importance of bringing necromancy back to the academy,” Gustobald said, coming to stand beside me. Ruby shifted uncomfortably, ready to strike him down at any sudden movement. “Tell me, Master Orden, headmaster of the divination school, how many necromancers are alive today? Do you even know?”

  “We don’t actively seek them out,” Master Orden said. “You should feel fortunate we have better things to do with our time. When they do cause trouble, the Sentinels bring them in and we throw them in the Hold. We’ll continue to do so.”

  “For each rogue necromancer brought in, there are dozens you’ve never heard of,” Gustobald replied. “Living out their solitary lives, a danger to no one. The problem is not one of necromancy, but of neglect. Master Bartleby saw past the fear and the hatred to the root of the problem. Without oversight or representation, the academy is leaving the necromancers to their own devices. You aren’t combatting rogue wizards; you’re creating them! There is only one solution, the one the Archseer had vision enough to work towards. The necromancy school must be restored.”

  “Over my dead body!” Master Warren beat the rail in front of his seat and several others followed suit.

  “Never!” was the shout that grew into a chant, as one by one the masters stood, unified in common cause. “Death to necromancers!”

  “Order!” Master Fridley grabbed up her whistle, and several of the offenders sat back down. “This discussion isn’t on today’s agenda. Order! I’ve heard enough. For what it’s worth, Miss Ives, I believe you. Mr. Pitch, you will now have a chance to speak on your behalf. In the meantime, I don’t feel that it is necessary to level judgment against this girl. I trust Masters Warren and Virgil will have words of their own for her. Does anyone object to this decision?” She didn’t pause long enough to lose control of the proceedings again. “In that case, Miss Ives, thank you for your cooperation. You may go.”

  “What about Gustobald?” I asked, as the heated objections resumed, but Ruby had already gripped my arm and was pulling me toward the door. My own small voice was lost in the chaos. The vaulted chamber was already saturated with the protests of the angry and the fearful. “What about Gustobald?”

  Chapter 9

  I did my best not to draw attention to myself for the rest of the day. Master Virgil requested I stay away from the novice and initiate wizards, as well as Regina—as if my very presence would inspire others to insurrection. I spent the day and the night alone in my room. Any other time, I might have sparked a light and lost myself in study, but now it hardly seemed worth it. My career as a wizard was over. It was only a question of whether the sickness in my blood would take me before I was kicked out of the magic school.

  At first light, I was still contemplating packing up and leaving on my own when a knock came. I fixed my hair and opened the door, expecting to see Master Virgil, but instead was greeted by my best friend. I invited her in and pulled up the extra chair from the corner table.

  “How are things?” Regina asked.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “I haven’t seen you since yesterday morning. I was worried.” Regina reached out for my hand, but I wasn’t in the mood for useless gestures.

  “Yeah, everyone is so concerned about my well-being.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” she asked, lowering her hand with a puzzled look. �
�I wanted to give you some space, some time to think. But I know you too well. I’m afraid if I don’t come to you, you’ll just stay in here forever. It’s not good to be alone all the time.”

  “Why are you here, Regina?” I asked, standing up and pushing the chair under my desk. “Did Master Virgil ask you to keep an eye on me?”

  “What? No. If it were up to him, I wouldn’t be here at all. I’m supposed to be getting the orange-robes ready for the games.”

  “They should just cancel the whole event.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s the best part of being a hand mage. We always win.”

  “Did you know the Archseer was murdered?” I asked. “It looks like his own apprentice did it.”

  “People talk. I don’t know what to believe.”

  “Anyway, it’s not the right timing. The games seem too much like a celebration.”

  “Maybe a little celebration is just what we need to take our minds off things—you, especially.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to take my mind off of things. I spent an hour yesterday defending myself in front of the Council of Masters for doing the Sentinels’ jobs for them. Gustobald is the only one who cares about the truth, and they treat him like he’s the criminal.”

  “Izzy, what’s gotten into you?” Regina stood up and gave a condescending glower. “I told you that you shouldn’t be spending time with that man. He’s just going to get you into more trouble.”

  “Don’t do that!” I grabbed my satchel and crossed the strap over my chest. “I’m tired of people telling me what I should or shouldn’t do.”

  “I just want what’s best for you. I want to help.”

  I stood up to meet her at eye level. “Well, you’re not.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to see Gustobald, if he’s still there. I expected to hear from him by now. He shouldn’t be alone either. He has fewer friends than me even.”

  “Izzy,” she said as I shrugged her off in passing. I stopped at the door but refused to look back; I couldn’t take any more crying. Her fragile voice confirmed my suspicions. “Be careful.”

  Chapter 10

  Gustobald opened the door at my first knock, and I let out a startled yelp when he grabbed my flailing wrist and pulled me inside the cottage. He closed the door behind me just as quickly, and then immediately rushed to retrieve his satchel and pipe.

  “Good to see you’re still with us,” he said.

  “Master Warren is still threatening to expel me,” I said. “Actually, I wasn’t sure I’d find you here today. I thought they might have—you know.”

  “Thrown me in the Hold? Never! Well, not today anyway. They couldn’t very well do that after we made such fools of them, could they? But between you and me, that’s nothing much to brag about. That Arland, eh? Seeker Sentinel, indeed.” He strung his satchel over his arm and reached for his hat, never once looking in my direction as he spoke. Gustobald never was much practiced at looking people in the eye. “I exchanged a few words with the good Inspector Raines yesterday, as well. He seems a capable man, though I’ll admit he’s just as stuffy as the rest of them. I don’t think he likes me very much, of course.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, stepping back toward the door. “Are you on your way out? I don’t mean to keep you.”

  “You’ve kept me the better part of the morning,” he said. “And yesterday afternoon, actually, though I suppose it’s for the best. It’s good to let the dust settle now and again to get a better view of the landscape. Nevertheless, I really must insist you not make a habit of disappearing for prolonged periods of time. Nobody likes a lazybones, after all. Not when we’re on the hunt!”

  “I do have my own responsibilities,” I replied, not entirely sure what those were anymore. “What hunt?”

  “For the killer, of course.”

  “I thought they took Miss Sinclair into custody. You mean she’s escaped?”

  “You disappoint me, Miss Ives. I gave you more credit than those blind buffoons.”

  Gustobald pulled a bundle of cloth from his satchel and handed it to me. It was deceptively heavy until I unbound it and removed Master Bartleby’s drinking glass from its folds. A shiver passed through me as I realized I was holding the murder weapon in my own two hands.

  “That same piece of evidence that proved the Archseer was murdered also suggests that Miss Sinclair is, in fact, not the culprit.”

  “She protests the accusation, of course,” I said, turning the glass around for closer inspection. “But I don’t see what you see apparently. The evidence is damning.”

  “Precisely!” Gustobald slapped his leg with his palm. “It’s all so perfect, isn’t it? Every piece of evidence we’ve uncovered points to Miss Sinclair as the killer.”

  “Except the Black Hand dagger in the first place,” I said, to which he winced irritably.

  “You saw her face as well as I; either she’s innocent or she’s the most talented mummer this side of Astar.”

  “Not enough to go on,” I said. “She seemed eager from the start to keep us out of that room, doubly so when we returned with the—for a closer inspection.”

  “The loss of her master has left her understandably sentimental, but the real proof lies in the fact that the glass was left in the room in the first place. If the killer had time to place the dagger, he certainly had time to remove the glass. Then the poisoned liquor was emptied out, but again the glass was left behind. Almost as if to draw attention to it.”

  “Someone wanted us to find it?” I asked.

  “Indeed. Someone who knew that Miss Sinclair would be the primary suspect once the possibility of assassination was dismissed.”

  “That only leaves Mathis who had access to the room,” I said.

  “Remember how quickly he volunteered the information that Miss Sinclair removed the bloody sheets from the room?”

  “You’re the one who pointed it out about the sheets.”

  “I—uh, well—yes, of course, but Mathis expounded on it. Almost as if he was waiting to reveal that tidbit of information.”

  “I don’t understand. Did you suspect him from the start?”

  “Barring Black Hand assassins, it was obvious it had to be one of them. They are the only two who can move in and out of the Archseer’s chambers unnoticed. I simply waited for one to accuse the other, and assumed the first person to point fingers was guilty.”

  “But Mathis has no reason to kill Master Bartleby.”

  “None that we know of, since I have it straight from the dragon’s mouth that Master Bartleby hand-selected Mathis as his archivist. And now that his boss is gone, it would seem that Mathis is in danger of losing his situation.”

  “That’s the opposite of motive,” I said.

  “I have to agree.”

  “What was the reason Mathis was chosen for the archives?”

  “Simple,” Gustobald said. “Being a commoner, he would never be tempted to read its forbidden secrets. The script would be gibberish to his untrained eyes.”

  “Clever.”

  “Not so clever in this case.” Gustobald ushered me out into the mushroom garden, and I rewrapped the glass in the handkerchief.

  “I’m not so sure Mathis is involved,” I said. “You’re reaching too far.”

  “It’s possible. I’ve been monitoring him since the night in the Archseer’s Tower and not once has he broken from his daily routine.”

  “You’re following him?”

  “Miss Sinclair, as well. I have eyes on both of them.” Gustobald raised a finger to the side of his nose. His sly smile made me uncomfortable, and I thought back to when he surprised me at the door only minutes ago. “Mathis’s dedication to his work is a flimsy front. I can practically smell the fear on him. But, for his own sake, he cannot run. It would be tantamount to an admission of guilt. It would be a wide world indeed where the Sentinels couldn’t track down a commoner on the run.”

  “If what you’re
saying is true, he can’t stay. The Sentinels will find Sinclair innocent and come to the same conclusion you did.”

  “As far as Mathis is concerned, the Sentinels have their killer—for now. It will be days before the mind mages discover Miss Sinclair is telling the truth, if at all. The enchanters and diviners would never admit to it, but reading minds isn’t an exact science. There are too many things that can muddy the waters of one’s thoughts, not the least of which is fear of death. And if Miss Sinclair is determined guilty, she knows she won’t be headed for the Hold. The Sentinels may never be satisfied with the results of her interrogation.”

  “But if they do read her innocence, surely Mathis will fall suspect.”

  “Perhaps.” Gustobald straightened his hat and took me by the arm, leading me back toward academy grounds. “I must confess, Miss Ives. There is every reason to believe that Miss Sinclair’s life is in danger. The true mastermind of this plot—and, believe me, it’s not that nincompoop Mathis—will never allow her innocence to be discovered. The brother Bartleby was right. There is conspiracy afoot. I wouldn’t be surprised if it went all the way to the top.”

  Days before, brushed up in the emotion of Deblin Bartleby’s funeral outburst, I’d been the one who had entertained the idea of conspiracy. But days later, in the light of cool judgment, it didn’t seem as likely. The more Gustobald explained his reasoning, the more I realized the two of us might be speaking on completely different matters altogether. In his eyes, everyone was working together—not against the Archseer, but against the necromancer himself.

  I stopped abruptly in attempt to encourage Gustobald to listen more carefully. “If you think Miss Sinclair is innocent—if she’s in danger—then we can’t leave her there.”

  “She’s with the Sentinels for now,” he said, “though I’m not entirely sure who can be trusted among them. The only person I am certain of is the outsider Inspector Raines, who is unlikely to stray far from her side during the investigation. Whoever is behind this wouldn’t dare make a move in front of him.”