The Last Smile in Sunder City

by Luke Arnold

  I don’t like jumping through hoops but I was too desperate for the money that might be on the other side.

  “Ditarum: the technique used by Wizards to control magic.”

  “That’s correct.” He held up his right hand. “Using the four fingers to create specific, intricate patterns, we could open tiny portals from which pure magic would emerge. The masters of ditarum – and there was only a handful, mind you – were crowned as Lumrama. Did you know that?”

  I shook my head.

  “No.” A disconcerting smile hung between his ears. “I would expect not. The Lumrama were Wizards who had achieved such a level of skill that they could use sorcery for any exercise. From attacks on the battlefield to the most menial tasks in everyday life. With just four fingers they could do anything they required. And to prove this—”

  BANG. He slammed his hand down on the desk. He wanted me to flinch. I disappointed him.

  “To prove this,” he repeated, “the Lumrama lopped off their thumbs. Thumbs are crude, primitive tools. By removing them, it was proof that we had ascended past the base level of existence and separated ourselves from our mortal cousins.”

  The old man pointed his mutilated hands in my direction and wiggled his fingers, chuckling like it was some big joke.

  “Well, weren’t we in for a surprise?”

  Burbage leaned back in his chair and looked me over. I hoped we were finally getting down to business.

  “So, you’re a Man for Hire?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why don’t you just call yourself a detective?”

  “I was worried that might make me sound intelligent.”

  The Principal wrinkled his nose. He didn’t know if I was trying to be funny; even less if I’d succeeded.

  “What’s your relationship with the police department?”

  “We have connections but they’re as thin as I can make them. When they come knocking I have to answer but my clients’ protection and privacy come first. There are lines I can’t cross but I push them back as far as I can.”

  “Good, good,” he muttered. “Not that there is anything illegal to worry about, but this is a delicate matter and the police department is a leaky bucket.”

  “No arguments here.”

  He smiled. He liked to smile.

  “We have a missing staff member. Professor Rye. He teaches history and literature.”

  Burbage slid a folder across the table. Inside was a three-page profile on Edmund Albert Rye: full-time employee, six-foot-five, three hundred years old…

  “You let a Vampire teach children?”

  “Mr Phillips, I’m not sure how much you know about the Blood Race, but they have come a long way from the horror stories of ancient history. Over two hundred years ago, they formed The League of Vampires, a union of the undead that vowed to protect, not prey off, the weaker beings of this world. Feeding was only permitted through willing blood donors or those condemned to death by the law. Other than the occasional renegade, I believe the Blood Race to be the noblest species to ever rise up from the great river.”

  “I apologize for my ignorance. I’ve never encountered one myself. How are they doing post-Coda?”

  My naïvety pleased him. He was a man who enjoyed imparting knowledge to the ignorant.

  “The Vampiric population has suffered as much, if not more, than any other creature on this planet. The magical connection they once accessed through draining the blood of others has been severed. They gain none of the magical life-force that once ensured their survival. In short, they are dying. Slowly and painfully. Withering into dust like corpses in the sun.”

  I slid a photo out of the folder. The only signs of life in the face of Edmund Rye were the intensely focused eyes that battled their way out of deep sockets. He wasn’t much more than a ghost: cavernous nostrils, hair like old cotton and skin that was flaking away.

  “When was this taken?”

  “Two years ago. He’s gotten worse.”

  “He was in the League?”

  “Of course. Edmund was a crucial founding member.”

  “Are they still active?”

  “Technically, yes. In their weakened state, the League can no longer carry out their sworn oath of protection. They still exist, though in name only.”

  “When did he decide to become a teacher?”

  “Three years ago, I made the announcement that I was founding Ridgerock. It caused quite a stir in the press. Before the Coda, a cross-species school would have been quite impractical. Imagine trying to force Dwarves to sit through a potions class or putting Gnomes and Ogres on the same sports field. It would have been impossible for any child to receive a proper education. Now, thanks to your kind, we have all been brought down to base level.”

  He was baiting me. I decided not to bite.

  “Edmund came to me the following week. He knew that he wouldn’t have many years ahead of him and this school was a place where he could pass down the wisdom he’d acquired over his long and impressive life. He has served loyally since the day we opened and is a much-loved member of staff.”

  “So, where is he?”

  Burbage shrugged. “It’s been a week since he showed up for classes. We’ve told the students he’s on leave for personal matters. He lives above the city library. I’ve put the address in his report and the librarian knows you’re coming.”

  “I haven’t accepted the job yet.”

  “You will. That’s why I asked you to come early. I was curious as to what kind of man would take up a career like yours. Now I know.”

  “And what kind of man is that?”

  “A guilty one.”

  He watched my reaction with his narrow, know-it-all eyes. I tucked the photo back into the folder.

  “It’s been a week already. Why not go to the police?”

  Burbage slid an envelope across the table. I could see the bronze-leaf bills inside.

  “Please. Find my friend.”

  I got to my feet, picked up the envelope and counted out what I thought was fair. It was a third of what he was offering.

  “This will cover me till the end of the week. If I haven’t found something by then, we’ll talk about extending the contract.”

  I pocketed the money, rolled up the folder, tucked it inside my jacket and made for the exit. Then I paused in the doorway.

  “That film didn’t differentiate between the Human Army and the rest of mankind. Isn’t that a little irresponsible? It could be dangerous for the Human students.”

  Under the dim light, I watched him apply that condescending smile he wore so well.

  “My dear fellow,” he said chirpily, “we would never dream of having a Human child here.”

  Outside, the air cooled the sweat around my collar. The security guard let me go without a word and I didn’t ask for one. I made my way east along Fourteenth Street without much hope for what I might be able to find. Professor Edmund Albert Rye; a man whose life expectancy was already several centuries overdue. I doubted I could bring back anything more than a sad story.

  I wasn’t wrong. But things were sticking to the story that knew how to bite.

  3

  Sunderia was an inhospitable land with no native peoples. In 4390, a band of Dragon slayers followed flames on the horizon, thinking they were closing in on a kill. Instead, they discovered the entrance to a volatile, underground fire pit. Rather than wallow in their mistake, they decided to put the flames to use.

  Sunder City began its life as one giant factory, owned by those who had founded it. For the first couple of decades, the only inhabitants were the workers who spent their days smelting iron, firing bricks and laying foundations. As the city found stability, those who finished their employment were less inclined to leave, so they set up homes and businesses. Eventually, Sunder needed leadership separate from the factory so they elected their first Governor: a Dwarven builder named Ranamak.

  Ranamak had come to Sunder to advise on constr
uction, and never got around to leaving. He had all the skills that Sunderites valued: strength, experience and affability. He was a simple fellow with a fine knowledge of mining so most locals agreed that he was the perfect leader.

  After twenty years, most of Sunder City was still satisfied with Ranamak’s service. Business was booming. The trade roads were busy and everyone’s pockets were filling up. It was only the Governor himself who believed his leadership was lacking.

  Ranamak had traveled the world and he knew that Sunder was in danger of becoming obsessed with production and profit while overlooking the other areas of life. He feared that the culture of the city was being neglected and wanted to find a way to give Sunder City a soul. In the midst of his struggles, he met someone who existed completely outside the realms of productivity.

  Sir William Kingsley was a controversial character at the time; the disgraced son of a proud Human family, William turned away from his duties in favor of a nomadic life. He read, he ate, he wrote and he practiced the oft-reviled art of philosophy.

  Kingsley came to Sunder spreading poems and ideas, and somehow he found his way to Ranamak’s table. Legend says that sometime between their fourth and fifth bottle of wine, Sir William Kingsley was appointed Sunder City’s first Minister of Theater and Arts.

  Over the next three years, taxes were raised to cover the cost of Kingsley’s creations: an amphitheater, a dance hall and an art gallery. He funded the Ministry of Education and History, which went about building the museum. Ranamak and Kingsley transformed Sunder from a workplace to a vibrant metropolitan city over a handful of years. Then, a mob of angry taxpayers brutally murdered them because of it.

  These days, Sunderites all seem to hold the same opinion of the event: it had to happen, they’d gone too far, but the Kingsley years made the city what it is today and everyone is proud of what they accomplished.

  On the anniversary of his assassination, to honor his service, the people of Sunder built the Sir William Kingsley Library, a grand redwood building perched on a small rise at the eastern end of town. A short uphill walk revealed a bronze statue of mighty Sir William himself. He was a round-faced, jolly-looking fellow with no hair. In one hand was a book, in the other a bottle of wine. Beneath the statue was a plaque with the iconic verse from his most famous poem, The Wayfarers:

  The spark will breed the fire,

  And the fire take the track.

  We move forward through the mire,

  But we can’t go back.

  The library was one of a few wooden buildings that had survived Sunder’s habit of unexpected combustion. Before the Coda, while the fires were still flowing, the pits ensured free heating and energy for every member of the population as long as you didn’t mind a portion of the city going up in smoke once in a while.

  The isolated position of the library had kept it safe. Mostly. Nearby flames had warped the timber frontage with enough heat to streak the golden brown with charcoal black. There was a dated charm to the stained-glass windows, arched frames and pointed spire; it was strangely spiritual for a place designed to house old books.

  I like books. They’re quiet, dignified and absolute. A man might falter but his words, once written, will hold.

  The large doors slid open with the sound of a yawning bear and the chalky aroma of old paper filled my nostrils.

  The interior of the library looked more like someone’s private collection than a public building. The aisles had been shaped to accentuate the architecture of the room, creating an intricate labyrinth where no path went where you thought it would. I would have happily spent the day foraging for the perfect paperback to stuff into my back pocket but, for a change, I had a job to do.

  It was clear that the rest of the city didn’t share my passion for the library. Only after strolling through the winding bookcases did I find the sole occupant crouched down in one of the aisles. The librarian was in her early thirties, dressed in a navy cardigan and gray slacks. We were around the same age, though time had treated her like fine wine and me like milk left out in the sun. A braid of brown hair dropped down the length of her back, and her skin was freckled caramel. She saw me approach and smiled with lips you could throw to a drowning sailor.

  “Well, you must be the Principal’s errand boy.” She stood up and we shook hands. Her fingers were long and thin and wrapped around mine entirely. They were fingers made for witchcraft.

  “Fetch Phillips,” I said. “How do you know I’m not a patron?”

  “I know a drinker when I see one. If the sun’s on the way down and there isn’t a glass in your hand, I’d bet good money that you’re on the job.”

  The girl was double-smart: book and street. I thought all those flowers had been picked from this garden.

  “This is one hell of a building. You been here long?”

  “Ten years,” she said, letting her fingers slide from my wrist. “Through fire, Coda and Vampire.”

  “Which was the worst?”

  “You really want to know that, Soldier?” She gave me a look that was full of knowing but free from blame, then brushed past my shoulder and down the aisle. “It certainly wasn’t Ed. At first, I was just happy to have the company, but it didn’t take me long to realize how lucky I was that we’d crossed paths. The Professor is undoubtedly the most intelligent creature I’ve ever met. Come on. I’ll show you to his room.”

  She led me through a narrow passage of books towards a ladder that rested against the back wall. It stretched up past the romance section to a hole in the roof.

  “Go ahead.”

  I placed my foot on the first rung, and the ladder shifted on the floorboards.

  “You’re not coming?”

  “Of course. But you’re wearing a jacket and I’m wearing tight trousers. I imagine a decent fellow would offer to lead the way.”

  I nodded my head, grinned like an idiot and started the climb. The ladder gave a shake when she followed behind me.

  “The old man climbed up here every day?” I asked.

  “Not quickly, and not without groaning, but he always said the exercise did him good.”

  I assisted the librarian off the ladder and on to a small landing. From there, I had the opportunity to admire the intricacy of the room’s design. Bookcases curved and flowed into every corner like the roots of an unruly tree. The filing system must have been a nightmare.

  The Witch’s long fingers pushed open a door to reveal a large loft-space built above the ceiling. She ducked her head beneath the arch of the doorway and walked me into the sun-drenched room.

  We paused, adjusting to the afternoon light that spilled in all around us. The sides of the room were more window than wall. Outside, the sky was cloudy but the reflected glare still burned my hungover eyes.

  “Originally, this floor wasn’t here and the skylights flooded the entire building. It turned out that the sun was damaging the books so they built this platform to keep it out. When Edmund saw it, he asked if he could move in.”

  “This is the home of a Vampire?”

  The bedroom was a bright world without shadows. Spacious and circular with an extravagant bed in the center and low, wooden shelves on every wall.

  “It’s the blood,” she said.

  “What is?”

  “In the old times, Edmund never could have stayed somewhere like this. But once things changed and the blood no longer nourished him, the sun also stopped having any effect. I think that’s why he liked this place so much. It made up for all those years in the dark.”

  I took my time examining the room. The books on the shelves and by the bed were varied and in apparent chaos. Against one wall, an impressive wine rack gathered dust beside some empty bottles.

  On one of the side-tables was his mail, opened but unsorted. The envelope on top was marked with a blue star inside a circle and the letters LOV: The League of Vampires. Inside was a mass-produced newsletter of obituaries, community catch-ups, items for sale and other mundanities.

>   “They come every week,” she said. “The remaining members of the League keep in touch, swap stories, try to be there for support. Edmund ignores most of them.”

  I flicked through a few more but it was just like she said: outdated invitations to Vampire meet-ups and sad articles about their homeland of Norgari.

  “Any chance he left town?”

  She shook her head. “He would have told me, and I can’t see how. It takes him an hour just to walk to the school, and a horse or carriage would shake him to pieces.”

  I opened a solid wooden trunk at the end of the bed and found six identical leather satchels: Rye’s teaching files. Inside each bag were the appropriate documents for each subject: class lists, course outlines, reading materials, student evaluations. Every folder was titled, indexed and in perfect condition; a level of care that was not evident in the rest of his jumbled life.

  The last satchel had no label and contained a set of colored folders with individual student reports.

  “Tutoring,” the librarian explained. “Some kids who are interested in specific fields made time with Edmund to pick his brain. I don’t think they knew what they were in for. He’s very generous with his time but demands complete commitment in return. Sometimes he’s a little hard on them, but it’s only out of passion. He can’t understand why everyone doesn’t share his thirst for knowledge.” A small laugh started to escape her lips before fear hooked it and reeled it back in. “I think mortality has made him panic. He wants to absorb as much as he can, while he can, before it’s all over.”

  I flicked through the files. Edmund was teaching a young Werewolf about the evolution of the Human-animal hybrids collectively known as Lycum. A teenage Siren wanted to be a singer, so Rye was subjecting her to the entire history of music. He had a number of students who were studying a course in “modern Human-Magic politics”. If I managed to find the Professor, I thought I might take a session in that myself.