Code of the Necromancer

by Deck Davis

  “Quartermaster Tomkins.”

  “Damn it. Inquiry, my ass. They’d already decided I was leaving before I even set foot in there.”

  “I’m sorry if-”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Jakub. “It’s not your fault. This used to be my room, that’s all.”

  “You’re a necromancer, aren’t you?”

  “How do you know?”

  “You have that look.”

  “Grumpy? Pissed off? That’s the look of someone who’s had a gods-awful day.”

  “I’m Troutan Wyrecast,” said the boy. “They call me Trout back at Templeton. But I prefer it if people around here didn’t, actually. So I don’t know why I just told you that…”

  “Trout Wyrecast?”

  “Not Trout. Damn it, shouldn’t have said anything…”

  “The beauty of nicknames is you never know when you’re gonna get ‘em, or who’ll give them to you. Sometimes, Trout, you give them yourself. So you’re related to Mage Wyrecast?”

  “He’s my grandfather. Hell of a legacy to live up to, huh? I guess that’s why they transferred me here. I was failing at Templeton, so they thought the Queen’s Academy might make me get my shit together.”

  “It’d be good to have met you on a different day, Trout, but you’ve caught me at the wrong time. Did they say where they were moving my stuff?” asked Jakub.

  He shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “Well, enjoy the room, and enjoy the view,” he said, nodding at the window. “You get a good view of the constellations at night. Either that, or you can see the horse dung heap just past the courtyard.”

  He left the room. He wanted to be annoyed at Trout, but it wasn’t his fault. Any anger Jakub had needed to be directed at Irvine, Henwright, and Lolo, because they’d already given up Jakub’s room before he’d even gone into his inquiry meeting.

  First they’d made Kortho retire, and now this. It was a sham start to finish, and no matter what he’d said in his inquiry he was always destined to be leaving the academy tonight. He was only surprised they even went through with the charade.

  Well, he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him upset about it. It was time to find his stuff and hit the road. He needed to see Kortho.

  As he walked to quartermaster Tomkins’ office, he turned the token Irvine had given him over in his hand. It was then that he realized there was a paper note stuck to it.

  He took it out and unraveled it, and there, in Irvine’s handwriting, were some words.

  Find the Black Cleric in Dispolis if you need work.

  Get rid of this note.

  The Black Cleric? Jakub had never heard of him, but at least it was a start. Maybe he’d misjudged Irvine, after all. Sure, they’d already decided what was going to happen to him before the inquiry, but at least Irvine had tried to help. Madam Lolo, who he’d always thought of as his second favorite instructor after Kortho, had just walked away.

  He navigated the winding halls of the academy, getting to Tomkins’ office just as the quartermaster was locking up.

  “Jakey,” Tomkins said, smiling. It was what he’d always called him, and was the only nickname Jakub had earned in his ten years in the academy.

  There were worse nicknames to get, he supposed, but there was always a twinge of sadness when he heard it. Tomkins’ son had been called Jakey, and Tomkins had never been the same after he died, and Kortho failed in his resurrection ritual.

  Having a dead boy’s nickname never sat well with him, but Jakub had always tried to ignore it. He’d spent a lot of time with Tomkins in the evenings when the other students were playing games and stuff. The old quartermaster just needed a kid his son’s age to talk to, so Jakub had given him that.

  Jakub offered the quartermaster his hand to shake. “I guess you’ve heard,” he said. “This is it.”

  Tomkins pulled him into a hug, squeezing him hard against his chest.

  Jakub felt his eyes sting then, but he pushed the feeling back.

  “A damn shitshow,” said Tomkins. “Corrupt to the core, the lot of them. It’s not right, Jakey. One mistake, and you’re out? Is that an example to set?”

  “I think an example is exactly what they were looking for.”

  “Might be time for me to leave, too. First Kortho’s gone, then you. The nights are getting lonelier.”

  “Irvine said I can still come by, time to time.”

  “Where are you gonna go?” said Tomkins.

  “Thought I might see Kortho, but I don’t know after that. I need to collect my gear, and then I’m gonna see Abbie. They won’t tell me anything about her.”

  “I heard. Those rituals…”

  Tomkins drifted off then, his eyes glazed. Jakub wanted to kick himself for bringing up the rituals. He wanted to ask the quartermaster more about it, but that would just be a knife in the gut for a man who had lost his son and couldn’t even have him brought back.

  He changed the subject. “Some chubby mage kid told me that you’d know where my gear is.”

  “Mage Wyrecast’s grandson? Yeah, we’ve got a real celebrity in our halls, ain’t we? That family is mage royalty. I don’t see him living up to the name, though. Hold on, Jakey.”

  Tomkins unlocked the quartermaster office and fetched a box. Jakub took it from him.

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s all there; I packed it up myself. I put a little extra surprise in there for you, too.”

  That was just like Tomkins; always thinking of other people.

  “Don’t leave me in suspense…what is it?”

  Tomkins scratched his ear. “When I heard about your inquiry, I guessed you might need a new soul necklace. I found one ages ago and left it in lost property, but nobody came back for it. It’s broke, so you’ll have to get it fixed before you can use it, but after that it’ll be good enough.”

  In a place where everyone walked around with a detached, academic cool, gestures like this tugged on Jakub’s emotions. It made his throat dry up a little.

  “You’re a saint, you know that? You’re wasted in this place. Thanks for everything,” said Jakub. “Listen, Irvine gave me this token…”

  “Irvine? So he had a heart, after all. Let me grab the stuff for ya.”

  “You ever heard of the Black Cleric?” asked Jakub.

  “Is that a book? Hmm. Can’t say I have. Let me borrow it if it’s any good.”

  There wasn’t much that Tomkins didn’t know. It was strange enough that Irvine had pressed the note onto the token, but who was this guy?

  Well, Jakub was going to have to go to Dispolis anyway if he was to sell some of his stuff and buy passage on a wagon to get to Kortho’s house, so he might as well go and see the man.

  “You know, I never thanked you for all the times you came to visit,” said Tomkins.

  “I wasn’t doing you a favor; no need to thank me.”

  “No, I do, because when my boy was still around, I had things all wrong. I never said things to him. Real things. Just kept them all inside, and then it was too late to say anything. So, I promised myself I’d never do that anymore. It’s a hard change to make, but I find with everything true that you say, the next truth comes out easier.”

  “You’re a good friend,” said Jakub.

  “Damn shame,” said Tomkins, after setting a second box on the floor. “We can’t let kids have one screw up…sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. But we should be nurturing ‘em, not turfing them out. Take care, Jakey.”

  When Tomkins left, Jakub set the box on the floor and pressed his thumb tattoo. Swirling text appeared in the air in front of him.

  *Inventory*

  Steel Sword [Blackened blade]

  Vagrant Blade

  Blade of Purge Evil

  Iron sword

  Boots of Focus

  Bracelet of Rest

  Inquisitor’s Belt of Persuasion

  Talent Tome: Basics of Archery [Condition: Read]

  5lbs of Exotic S
pices

  26 Gold

  41 Silver

  109 Bronze

  For all his failings in his first assignment, at least he’d looted a good bunch of stuff. Some of it he would keep and some he would sell, but either way he should have enough to get passage on a wagon to Kortho’s house.

  The question was, should he do that, or should he go find the Black Cleric?

  Going to see Kortho meant a retreat into the quiet Racken Hills. It was the equivalent of scurrying away, licking his wounds like a cat with a sore paw, scared of its master’s boot.

  They’d all talk about him; the instructors, the students. They’d gossip about how he was expelled, how he failed. When a hundred or so of your magical colleagues branded you something, that was what you became. Failure bred failure.

  This was more damaging in the academy where rumors travelled faster than sailor’s cock clap, but there was a way of controlling the narrative.

  What if he found the Black Cleric and got some work? He could apply himself to it, become a success that way, and let word get back to the academy of how little it had mattered to expel him.

  Resting at Kortho’s idyllic Racken Hills house, versus finding out what kind of work a man they called the Black Cleric might have to offer?

  He put all his loot in his leather shoulder bag, which was magically artificed to hold more items than it should, and then headed out of the academy. It was getting dark, and he wanted to walk the road to Dispolis before the bandits came out.

  8

  He was taking what little rebellion was left to him by walking the opposite way down the Path of Returning, when he heard footsteps.

  “Young Russo!”

  Instructor Henwright was running his way, his robes flapping behind him and his boots picking up splats of mud. He wore black leather gloves, which he had only started wearing a year or so ago. Nobody knew why; some students said Henwright had become a germophobe, while others said he was hiding something more sinister.

  Jakub suspected something much more obvious; Henwright just liked how they looked.

  Henwright was the kind of man it was difficult to age; old in the face but young in his body, and when he wasn’t pouring over obscure necromancial books, you could usually find him in the sword training fields, dueling with novices decades his juniors. He was full of contradictions.

  His black hair was layered like crow feathers, and the robe wafting in his wake could easily have doubled as a giant bird’s tail end. Maybe if he ran at a quick enough speed, he’d actually take flight.

  “A sorry business,” he said when he caught up to Jakub. “I hope this hasn’t dampened your love for studying; one can further their knowledge even without living in a broken down place like this.”

  “I hadn’t even thought about it.”

  “Yes, too soon, too soon. I suspect you’ll practice your crafts again; some novices suffered my lessons with glazed eyes, but not you,” said Henwright. “I’m always thankful for a student who leans on my every word.”

  “A lot of good that did me.”

  “A sorry, sorry business. Some might say it was a split vote, your inquiry. Not everyone wanted you to leave.”

  “If that was you, then thank you.”

  “And if that was me, I would accept that thanks, but with a heavy heart.”

  “It’s getting dark. It’s better I reach the Swanbeak Inn before night sets.”

  “Careful there; the inns outside of Dispolis attract a rough crowd. Ones that eye academy overcoats and rub their hands together,” said Henwright. “Before you leave, young one, there is something I must ask you for.”

  Jakub knew where this was going; he’d broken academy property and he’d have to pay for it.

  “I’m sorry about the soul necklace. I know I smashed it, and I know how precious those things are. Just…if the academy can ease off for a while, I’ll pay when I have more gold.”

  “It isn’t that. What happened in the inquiry room stays in the inquiry room. It’s a more delicate matter, young one, but it is embarrassing to ask a favor of one who has been wronged.”

  “You need something from me?” said Jakub.

  “Coins don’t stretch far in Dispolis, and although you aren’t in the academy’s employ, there is nothing against me offering you work on a more private matter.”

  “Well, I am pretty broke…”

  Henwright passed him an envelope. It was sealed with a wax stamp of an emblem, but not the academy’s. This must have been Henwright’s personal seal. Not only that, but the paper had a scent of mana about it. It was artificer’s gum; a sealant you could put on an envelope that prevented anyone except the person named from opening it.

  “I’ve gone from a necromancer to a postman,” said Jakub.

  “A coin is a coin. With a wise head you’ll still make your talents work, but why not keep hunger at bay until then? It’s a small thing, really, this favor I do for you.”

  In a matter of seconds Henwright had changed it so he was doing Jakub the favor, and not the other way round. But what the hell, he was right – coins were coins.

  “This isn’t anything that’ll land me in a Dispolis guard cell, I take it?” he said.

  “The beauty of a letter is that it fits in a pocket, and the beauty of a mana-sealed letter is that its contents can’t be read.”

  “I notice you didn’t say no. If this envelope was found, and let’s say they found a way to read it, would I find myself staring at a set of iron bars?”

  “Unless the guards of Dispolis have studied up on their ancient Healish panoscript, we don’t have to worry. Would an instructor of the academy let a novice stray on the wrong path?”

  “Maybe when he’s not a novice anymore. I don’t think the academy is going to care which paths I take anymore.”

  “A sorry, sorry business, young one.”

  “Fine, Henwright. I’ll take it.”

  “That’s Instructor Henwright.”

  “Not anymore, not to me. That’ll be five gold.”

  “For a simple letter? Young one, I know that mathematics isn’t on the necromancy curriculum, but…”

  “Okay - I better be going. Good luck with your letter.”

  “Oh you…you little…you aren’t related to instructor Irvine are you, by any chance? The man charges the flies in his bedroom rent. Fine; here. Five gold coins.”

  “Who am I taking this to?” said Jakub.

  “Just go to Dispolis, and he’ll find you. The mana sealant is also a tracker; he’ll know when you get there.”

  “Got it.”

  He left Henwright and walked down the Path of Returning. At least he wasn’t stuck for things to do.

  Now, he needed to find the Black Cleric, give a secret letter to one of Henwright’s friends, get the soul necklace Tomkins had given him fixed…and then work out what the hell to do with his life.

  9- Henwright

  Later that day, after classes had finished and the other students were in their dorms, Henwright headed to his own room with a wheel of cheese tucked under his arm.

  It was always the best part of his day, when classes were done and his time was his own, and he could indulge himself in the things that students wouldn’t imagine such a serious instructor enjoyed; eating his body weight in cheddar and reading stories about barbarians. He was happiest by himself, and it was just a pity that he’d chosen a career that involved spending all day with dozens of students.

  “Henny,” said a voice.

  For a second, he froze. Was it Geraint, the academy chef? Had his cheese-theft been discovered?

  “Hold up a second, Henny.”

  It was Irvine; still wearing his awful checkered shirt and denims, the same he wore while teaching his classes. The only difference in him was that now, with academy lessons finished, stern instructor Irvine was gone, replaced by Ian Irvine, the man with the cheery grin. The students wouldn’t have believed the transformation this man underwent daily.

 
“Stealing from the larder again?” said Irvine.

  “So I’m a cheddar fiend - it could be worse. As vices go…”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen Tomkins. Poor guy can barely speak a word after eleven. The amount of novices who earn coins getting rid of his empty bottles…”

  “So unfortunate for him. A sorry, sorry business.”

  “I ask him to talk to me every night, and I’m going to keep trying every night. A man can’t hold everything in forever. But listen, Lolo’s having one of her poker games in her room tonight. All the snacks a man could dream of, buttering us up before she takes our money. Want to join us?”

  “I’d rather be alone. Me, a hunk of cheddar, and a barbarian novel.”

  “Barbarians? Has it got that bad, Henwright? You know, my brother used to have…episodes. He kept it all inside. I bought him an artificed notepad - you know, like the one we gave novice Russo when he had his nightmares? He never used it. Depression eats a man from the inside, and then when it’s done it spreads and it corrupts.”

  “Is your brother still with the church?”

  “De-robed. Well, he never believed in it anyway. Something our dad used to get mad at. ‘I have one son serving god, the other in the Queen’s academy, and not a single prayer coming from either of you.’”

  “He can still heal, I take it? The church can’t take that from him.”

  “He’s…uh…he’s gone a different way, let’s put it that way. But my point is, he didn’t speak about stuff for years. If he had, it might have lightened his load.”

  “Tell your brother I said hello when you next see him,” said Henwright, and headed away from Irvine and toward his room.

  “He used to eat his body weight in cheese, too, you know” called Irvine as he left. “You need to watch your cholesterol.”

  “Night, Ian.”

  “One last thing,” said Irvine.

  “If you’re going to ask me to loan you some starter coins for Lolo’s poker game…”

  “Do you think we did the right thing with the novice?” asked Irvine.

  “I was on the fence at first, but you’re not always full of crap. Failure breeds failure, and we can’t have an epidemic.”