Magic Zero (18 page)

It was dark and cramped in the circular passage. A steady
breeze passed over him like the breath of some great, mythical beast, carrying the sounds of the tower. The shaft was soft and moist beneath his knees, and he began to crawl through the winding passage. Occasionally coming upon another opening, he would peer through the membranous filter covering it, trying to assess his whereabouts. For what seemed like an eternity, he made his way through the ducts, and was just considering consulting the oracle again when the conduit suddenly opened up into a junction of sorts, with a gaping hole above him. Figuring that was the way to the roof, Timothy prepared to climb, but then he heard a familiar sound—a voice carried upon the breath of the Strychnos citadel.

The voice was drifting out from one of the passages before him. Timothy struggled with the idea of ignoring it, of hopping up into the tunnel above him and climbing to freedom, but his curiosity got the better of him.
If I’m going to be a spy, I might as well act like one,
he thought, leaving the junction to crawl down the shaft to verify a suspicion he’d had since first seeing the Legion Nocturne soldiers.

The voice was loud, bearish, and filled with intimidation. There was no mistaking its source. Another speaker joined the first as Timothy cautiously made his way to a membrane-covered opening. The second voice was softer, calmer, and he was surprised that it didn’t have a more soothing effect upon the other.

“It is as I’ve said for decades,” proclaimed the first. Timothy squatted in the tunnel, peering into the chamber
below. “The Grandmaster of the Alhazred cannot be trusted.”

Lord Romulus and Mistress Belladonna faced each other in what appeared to be her private chambers. The Grandmaster of the Strychnos guild casually sipped something from an ornate, green goblet that appeared to have been grown rather than cast in metal or blown from glass. She watched as the menacing Nocturne leader paced, his black, fur-collared cloak billowing out behind him.

“Even if the boy is an innocent, Nicodemus’s motives are to be questioned,” he said, stopping before her. “It would not at all surprise me to see the youth used for ill gain.”

Belladonna set her goblet down on a serving cart, turning to walk toward a high-backed throne upon a raised dais. “I am glad you have brought these suspicions to my attention, Romulus,” she said, taking her seat of authority. “The recent disappearances of guild mages have begun to pique our curiosities as well.” She stroked her lips with long, delicate fingers the color of Patience soil. “Isn’t it interesting that none of those missing has affiliations with the Order of Alhazred? Passing strange, wouldn’t you say?”

Romulus nodded his helmeted head in agreement. “The Alhazred bear watching, Belladonna,” he said to his supposed rival, his voice a bestial growl. “If my suspicions are correct, we may all soon find ourselves in grave danger.”

Timothy was stunned. Doubts that he had harbored from the moment he had met Lord Nicodemus rushed to the forefront of his thoughts, and he found it hard to breathe.
Maybe the Strychnine aren’t the ones I should be spying on,
he thought as he backed away. He needed time to think.

Quickly he crawled back to the opening he believed would take him to the roof. Sinking his fingers into the soft flesh of the tunnel, he hauled himself up into the shaft and began the long climb.

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
he storm had come, a fierce rain driving down from the tumultuous sky in gray sheets. The wind howled around Timothy like some great, crazed beast, beating against the gyrocraft as if trying to swat it from the air. He struggled to keep his invention aloft, at the same time fighting the inner squall that had been whipped up by the foreboding discussion he had overheard in the Strychnos tower ducts.

 . . . none of those missing has affiliations with the Order of Alhazred . . . Passing strange, wouldn’t you say?

The words echoed in his mind and a chill crept through him, deep to the bone.
Is it possible,
he wondered,
that what the guild masters said is true?

Lightning knifed across the sky in front of him, jagged spears of white-hot fire descending from swollen gray clouds to illuminate the sleeping city of Arcanum below. The rain continued to pelt his face, and he took one of his
hands away from the craft’s controls to wipe away the water that spattered the circular glass of his flight goggles. Timothy was glad that he had decided to bring them; it had been hard enough to pilot his invention earlier in normal weather conditions, never mind in a driving rainstorm.

He was supposed to return directly to SkyHaven, but he was not at all certain he wanted to do that.
And what if I do? Should I just tell Nicodemus what Belladonna and Romulus were saying, ask him if it’s true?
Timothy thought it would be wiser to just keep it to himself, at least until he could discuss it with Leander.

Lightning tore across the sky again, followed by a bellowing rumble of thunder. He wiped rain from his goggles and was surprised to see the large, looming shape of the SkyHaven estate floating not too far off over the churning sea. Timothy had been so preoccupied that he had barely noticed the journey.

Then, impossibly enough, over the din of the storm, he heard his name being called.

As he squinted through the rain, he saw a black shape in the distance, growing larger as it flapped toward him. “It’s about time, kid!” Edgar was cawing loudly to be heard above the storm. “We were getting pretty worried.”

Timothy smiled; it was good to see his friend again. It had been only hours, but it felt as though he had been away for a very long time.

“Keep an eye on me and I’ll guide you in,” the rook promised. He glided in front of the gyrocraft as they drew closer to SkyHaven.

Two lanterns of ghostfire had been lit and hung on either side of the window opening, lighting his way, and Timothy began to gradually decrease his speed as he prepared to land.

“Almost there, kid,” he heard Edgar say, the words sucked away by the wind.

The window grew larger and more defined as he approached. This was the tricky part, not to allow the spinning rotor blades to come in contact with the sides of the opening.
Total concentration,
he thought, slowing his forward progress all the more, now practically hovering before the open window. He felt the weight of the box that contained the Oracle of Vijaya at his side, but could not muster any sense of accomplishment this early morn. It had been tainted by the foreboding conversation of Lord Romulus and Mistress Belladonna.

“Timothy, be careful!” Sheridan cried out in his metallic voice, snapping the boy’s wandering mind back to the here and now.

He was drifting to the right, his spinning blades dangerously close to the window frame. Timothy’s heart raced as he tugged the controls, focusing again just in time to bring the gyrocraft to a graceful landing inside the workshop.

That was too close,
he thought, angry that he had let his mind wander at such a crucial moment. He was tired and anxious, but he knew that his lapse could have gotten him hurt, not to mention his friends. It troubled him deeply and helped him make up his mind as to what he ought to do next.

“Caw! Caw!” Edgar cried as he flew around the gyro. “Had us worried there for a bit,” the bird said as he looked for a place to land.

Silently Timothy unhooked himself from his seat restraints and climbed from the vehicle.

“Glad to have you back, Timothy,” Sheridan said, his metal feet clumping closer. The mechanical man released a whistling cloud from the valve on the side of his head. “I’ve been holding my steam until your safe return, I must say.”

Timothy didn’t respond, checking inside the netting at his side to make sure that the oracle’s case was in one piece. It appeared fine, and he removed the ornate box carefully.

Ivar emerged from the shadows, ghostlike, his skin a luminous white. “Timothy,” he said, his dark gaze seemingly reading the boy’s troubled demeanor. “Is all well?”

It was a unique trait the Asura warrior had, to be able to read his mood—to know when something was wrong.

Timothy shook his head, moving past them all to make his way from the room. “I’m not sure,” he said, pushing open the door and stepping out into the hall. “But once I am, you’ll be the first to know.”

*  *  *

Timothy rapped on the door to Lord Nicodemus’s study before entering. Normally the enchanted door would have announced the arrival of a guest, but Tim was, as always, invisible to the magic.

“Come in, Timothy,” Nicodemus called out.

It is not an easy job I have been elected to perform, my boy,
Nicodemus had said to him when they studied the designs of the Strychnos tower.
The fate of so much weighs heavily upon my shoulders, but now you have come, and I see that there is much that we will accomplish together to provide for the safety of the world.

Timothy had felt important that night, as if he suddenly had a purpose and was no longer an aberration to be pitied. The Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred had recognized him—Timothy Cade—as being important. But now, stepping into the room, he wondered about the validity of those feelings.

Nicodemus rose from his chair before the hearth of dancing ghostfire. There was no warmth from the supernatural flames, but they danced and shifted color within a magical field of containment. In addition to being a source of light, he’d heard that many used the mesmerizing movements of the supernatural flame as a means to relax. Nicodemus’s familiar, Alastor, had been curled up on his master’s lap and now jumped to the floor without a sound.

“Thank the stars that you’ve returned safely,” the Grandmaster said, a concern in his voice that Timothy had not noticed before.

The hairless cat padded across the ornately woven rug to rub against the side of the boy’s leg.

“It appears Alastor is pleased that you’ve come home safely as well.”

Home.
Timothy had never thought of SkyHaven as his home before, had never really considered it a possibility.
He’d always imagined it as a brief stopping point, before being allowed to return to his father’s house. He wasn’t sure if he really cared for the idea of living here permanently.

Yet there was a warmth in the Grandmaster that Timothy had never seen before, and suddenly the suspicions he had carried back with him from the Strychnos citadel seemed foolish. Leander trusted Lord Nicodemus, and Timothy’s father had as well. The man was the Grandmaster of their order. There had to be a logical explanation for the insinuations and concerns of the other guild masters. There had to be. Both Nicodemus and Leander had told him about the pettiness and the infighting between the guilds. He could not allow himself to be taken in by idle gossip.

Timothy was about to begin his report, his step-by-step review of what he had done this evening, when the Grandmaster cut directly to the chase.

“By the looks of the box you have beneath your arm, I gather that your mission was at least partially successful?” Nicodemus asked, a wry smile upon his aged features.

“Very successful, Lord Nicodemus,” Timothy responded, feeling a brief moment of pride.

“You entered their domicile unimpaired, walked the halls unnoticed, and relieved them of a priceless supernatural artifact?”

Timothy nodded.

The Grandmaster played with the ends of his mustache. “And as you skulked about their tower did your ears happen upon anything of interest?” he asked. “Dire plots that would
perhaps incriminate the Order of Strychnos in the attempts to take your life?”

“Nothing about me,” he said, glancing away as he chose not to reveal the conversation he had heard. Nicodemus was so pleased that Timothy did not want to give the old mage the impression that he had doubts. He looked up quickly. “Lord Romulus was there, though. With some of his Legion Nocturne. He was having a meeting with Mistress Belladonna.”

The pale, slender old man knitted his white brows. “Was he indeed? That is interesting. But not terribly unexpected. I imagine they’re all trying to figure out what to do about you.” Lord Nicodemus’s gaze ticked toward the ornate box in Timothy’s hands. “And you returned with a prize. The oracle?”

“Yes, sir,” Timothy said quickly, presenting the box to the Grandmaster. “Proving that you were right about the theft.”

“So it does,” Nicodemus replied, as he accepted the ornate, golden case that held the clairvoyant, disembodied head. “You’ve done remarkably well on your maiden mission, my boy,” he said, turning toward a circular table across the room that looked as though it had been hand carved from a single piece of veined, milky white stone. The mage crossed the room and carefully set his prize down upon it.

Alastor hopped up onto the stone table, rubbing the skin of its hairless neck affectionately upon the box as Nicodemus prepared to open it.

Timothy let out a long breath, as though he had been
holding it for a very, very long time. “I have to say, I was a little shocked when I saw what the oracle was,” he said, caught up in the Grandmaster’s excitement. “A talking head, I couldn’t believe it.”