The next morning I walked my old summer commute to The Department of Internal Statistics. It was one of the tallest buildings outside the Citadel itself, a towering spire built of red brick and iron beams. Scattering across its red walls were clouded glass windows that hardly let in any natural light. Inside the lobby, I was met with a comforting beige interior and hard, cold floors.
Most people hate offices. I love them. So predictable, everything in its proper place. Except for me. Something inside me died as I watched Hamator’s receptionist—a woman I had become familiar with as we exchanged pleasantries on my way in throughout the summer—widen her eyes at my approach, her mouth hanging open, poised to catch every fly in the room.
“Mister Lafey…” she said at length, gawking at me as I were some sort of spectacle. “I don’t believe Mister Hamator is expecting you.”
“He isn’t, but I need to speak with him. It’s a Citadel matter—unrelated to my previous employment.”
She shook her head, clearly sent into a nervous spiral by my interruption of the status quo. A feeling I understood firsthand, but had to spent every waking minute ignoring. Flipping through her notes and various planners, the receptionist stammered and stuttered searching for a valid excuse to send me away.
“I can be delayed,” I told her. “I’ll myself to his office.”
As I strode for the stairway she called after me: “He wouldn’t want—”
The door closed on the rest of her words. Frankly, I didn’t care what he wanted. From where I stood, my life was ruined and I had nothing to lose. Bastilion had given me one job, and I intended to carry it out. Apparently, Hamator vouched for me—I’d be surprised if he didn’t expect I’d soon pay him a visit.
Hamator’s office was on the fourth floor. A tiring climb, but I managed it well enough, stopping only a couple times to breathe through the unease of my unfamiliar skin. I knocked on his door, which was closed and presumably locked. I knew from my time working under him that if the door was closed, it was locked. All other times, his office was open to anyone.
“Mister Hamator? It’s Perriander Lafey. I need to speak with you.”
Soft footsteps ambled to the door. A series of rhythmic clacks skittered behind the door as he opened his many locks. Can’t be too careful these days… He must have installed a few more locks, it took nearly an entire minute before the he opened the door a crack.
Feeble eyes stared at me through the sliver. “Perry? It’s you?”
I flattened my lips. “Of course it is. I just said that.”
The door swung open. Mister Hamator leaned on his cane and wave me in. He closed and latched the door behind me. He was an oddball in every sense. Though he worked in a mundane field, he was credentialed by the Citadel and had long ago received the Sorcerer’s Gift. To the untrained eye, he appeared a man in his late 70s, when in reality he was much older—he was among the first graduates of the Citadel, back in the days of the Old Empire.
I didn’t blame him for cooping up in a drab office all day. I couldn’t begin to imagine the things he had seen over the centuries. What might I see, should I succeed in tracking down Haslow, and earn back my right to the Gift. Perhaps all this was a mercy… Shivers rolled down my spine. I’d have to live with my disfigurement for centuries. I was thirty-five, which is rather old among the farmers I grew up with. My grandfather only lived to thirty-eight, but he had lived a hard, hungry existence. But among sorcerers? I was still a child.
“Can never be too careful,” Hamator said, straightening his coat. “Come, have a seat.”
There was a round table and two cushioned chairs in the corner of his office. On the table was a set of crystal—a flash filled with whiskey and two cups. He poured himself a nightcap and gestured to my cup. I shook my head. It was too early in the morning for me. I suppose such things are moot when you’ve been alive for half-a-thousand years.
“So,” I said. “You were expecting me.”
“I figured there was a seventy-five-percent chance you’d seek me out once you woke. Seems I was right. You have questions.”
I nodded. “What can you tell me about the freshman dropout rate? I heard more and more students are going missing, and I wanted to know if that story lines up with up the statistics.”
Hamator smiled. “Good man. You know what I always say…”
“Stats don’t lie.”
“Too bad.” Hamator said.
“What is?”
“First, that you’re not drinking—I’d have toasted to that. If only more of the interns coming through here actually cared… that’s my second worry, Perry. They expelled you. Despite the terrible harm befallen you.”
“Yes,” I said, staring at my feet. “They did.”
“I assume that’s why you’re here. You’re searching for Haslow of the Sparrow Clan.”
I titled my head. Haslow had never told me his surname or honorific—I always assumed he just didn’t have one. Most Wystran striders are eventually granted a new name by their peers, which they adopt for life, related to some valiant deed. But “Haslow” always itched like a given name at birth—nothing like the Life-Stealers and Fleetfoots of northern legend. A pain point, perhaps?
“Yes, sir. You’re right. I think these disappearances, these killings…” I sucked in a dry breath. This was a hard topic to broach, a hard road to tread, even if I had no real choice than to tread it. “I have reason to believe Haslow might be involved.”
“Given the stunt he pulled in Torloon’s lecture hall, I’m not surprised you’ve come to that conclusion.” Hamator sighed. “Before we go further, my boy, my conscience requires I impart upon you an old man’s wisdom.”
“Alright,” I said. “I’m all ears.” I genuinely appreciated Hamator’s old man wisdom. He was something of a father figure—my own father never ventured to understand me. The only good he ever did me was demand I go off to Phrygia so I could burn down other peoples’ sheds.
“The Great City of Phrygia,” Hamator began, “is an old and complex place. I’ve been here since almost the very beginning. I’ve studied under Phrygian Black—Dusk rest his soul—and I’ve known Pascal Doon for longer than the Kaldean Empire existed. I’ve seen it all, and what I’ve learned is that there is no depth too deep for wizards.”
Hamator laughed, seeing he confusion spread across my face. “That’s all to say, Perry, you need to be careful. I don’t know if Haslow is linked with the increase in murders and missing students—though it seems likely he is—but remember that nothing is ever one-hundred-percent. You might dig into a rabbit hole only to find a pit of vipers.”
“I see,” I said, considering his words heavily, though I had no clue what to do with them. “So there have been confirmed murders?”
“Yes. Five in the last month. Two confirmed dead, three missing. All have one common thread—traces of entropic sorcery.”
“Necromancy…” I whispered. The word sloughed off my tongue like bile. “The constables at my tenement mentioned there may have been a failed ritual.”
Hamator nodded. “That’s right.”
I tried to recall if Haslow had ever expressed interest in the Dark Art. It made no sense to experiment on unwilling participants—the School of Entropy provided all the resources Necromancy majors needed to practice ethically. Well, as ethical as killing incarcerated criminal and raising their corpses as thralls can be—which is to say, not very. If he wanted to become a necromancer, all he needed to do was a request a transfer and test into it. He could have even taken an internship with Mortician’s Guild or the Chantry of Keepers if that didn’t work out. Though it seemed Haslow had at some point lost interest in legal ways of earning a name for himself.
“The missing students,” I asked, “necromancy was also a factor?”
“Yes. Law enforcement found no evidence of foul play in those cases, but the same traces of entropic magic in their living quarters. Similar spells were cast upon all of the victims.”
“Is there anything else you can tell, Mister Hamator? Anything at all?”
Hamator frowned, took a deep swig of his whiskey. He rose, picking up his cane and sauntered over to the window overlooking the SOMETHING district. “I have nothing more of use. Everything I told you came straight from the Chief Constable for our routine data analysis. I can, however, book you an appointment to speak with someone who knows more—though I can’t guarantee they’ll go out of their way to aide in your search.”
“Thank you, Mister Hamator,” I wanted to kiss the old man on the forehead but went for the door instead. He fluttered a hand, opening all the locks at once. “You’ve been a great help.”
“Come back to me, Perry,” he said as I left. “When all this is over—you’ll have a nice, boring job awaiting you.”
I smiled on the way downstairs. A boring job was all I’ve ever wanted in life.
I didn’t know what to do with myself—I had an entire weekend alone with nowhere to go and nothing to study. This is the first time such a deficit has ever existed in my life at the Citadel. Usually, and this is especially true for students, there is no shortage of work to be done for Citadel mages.
Late Friday evening, after I had returned home from my meeting with Mister Hamator, a letter from the constables’ outpost arrive at my window sill. Inside the envelope was a terse note written by one Detective Eleanore Malcolm. Written in print so even it seemed to come off a printing press, the note read: Citadel outpost. Front door. Monday. Dawn. Don’t be late.
Realistically, I didn’t have a leg to stand on without confirming that Haslow was involved in the recent murders—I needed to see if the second victim had been burned. Not that Haslow couldn’t kill in other ways, but if he called Worldfire on multiple people, I might begin to figure out what he’s after—where he might go.
Saturday morning, I went for a walk about the Citadel. Usually the rustling leaves of the trees and the birdsong did well to put my mind at ease. That morning, I swore I awoke in an alternate reality wherein no such comforts existed. The sun blared on the street, the air stagnant and dry after a calendar week in the sky. My underarms were drenched with sweat after I had rounded the block and started down the Arbor Path towards the cafes.
Given that every other Citadel mage was either in class, teaching a class, or locked away in their labs and studies, there were few folks out and about. Though the cafes were open, they were empty.
I’d just gone in for a tea when my heart nearly stopped. Marta walked in the cafe, her expression falling as our eyes met. “Perry…” she said, as if I were some ghost of her past, haunting her present.
“Marta…” I said, completely breathless—from heat exhaustion, but also because she was breathtaking. She wore red and gold patterned silk study robes that clung around her round hips and the slender small of her back. Her dark hair was tied up in a bun and braided on the side of her head—her face was unpainted, as it usually was during academic weeks, but her eyes were wide and defined.
She ran to me, catching taking me up in her arms. My chest ached where her soft form pressed into me, as if my disfigurement protested the very notion that someone might deign to love me after what happened. Does she love me, is that what this is? I raised my arms against the burning pain spreading across my extremities, and I leaned into her. She was only a few inches shorter than I—and I’m rather tall fellow—so her embrace always felt tailored to my awkward, lanky form that no other person seemed to be compatible with.
“I heard your were expelled…” she said into my chest, on the edge of tears. “When I didn’t see you again, I thought you had left without saying goodbye.”
“I would never do that,” I whispered, stroking her hair. “I could never forget you.”
We had brunch. Marta had a thousand questions. I did my best to answer. I’d told her about Bastilion’s ultimatum, how I had to hunt down Haslow before I’d be allowed to complete my capstone, what Hamator had told me about the missing students.
“This is bloody foolish,” Marta said, mouth full of blueberry scone. “What the hell was Haslow thinking, anyway? To get a strike in for the Wystrans?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I have no clue what he’s on about, or what happened to him those years he spent in Pandemonium.”
“He’s always had a screw loose, Perry. You know that.”
“Right.” I flattened my lips. She was right—she had told me that the day I introduced her to Haslow a few days before he left for residency. “I never thought he could…”
“This is a reality of our station, Perry. We’re siege mages—we’re weapons owned by the state. We can sit here and with tea and pastries all morning, but it doesn’t chance that our lives will never look like anyone else’s.”
I’d never wanted to major in siege magic. Truly, I hated the idea—I wanted to learn magic that change lives, bring about change—not destruction. When I told the entrance counselor about all those incidents with Da’s shed, I remember she scribbled something down on a notepad. At the time, I thought it was a warning (this one is dangerous, or some such message), but what she’d actually done was mark me as an asset.
I’ve always had an affinity with fire, with lightning. Plasma, really, I’ve had instructors urge me to shift into sanguimancy. But I’ve no interest–in that, or anything else that requires I harm another for my own gain. I’ve studied hard, absorbed the material, then going on to throw away practicals. Perhaps part of me wanted to fail—if I were to be expelled, then I can’t be used to kill.
“What are you going to do now?” Marta asked.
“Well,” I sighed. “I’ve an appointment on Monday with a Detective. I’m hoping she’ll let me know examine the bodies.”
“What are you waiting around for? In the meantime, you should look into the disappearances. Bodies are dead–but these missing students might still be helped.”
“That’s what I wanted to speak to the detective about, Hamator didn’t exactly hand out the addresses.”
“Gods Perry… You haven’t an ambitious bone in your body.” She rose suddenly, shouldering her bag. “Come with me.”
“What? Where are you going?”
“I know one of the missing students. Lets explore her dorm.”
I flushed, my heart raced. “What about class, don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Nothing but electives for me today,” she said, already walking down the street. “You coming?”
I followed Marta down several blocks into another neighborhood I hadn’t spent much time in. She strode ahead of me the whole way, not uttering a word, knowing I’d attempt to dissuade her if she gave me an opening. I cursed my chronic reluctance, though I can’t say I was bothered by watching her walk on ahead, determined in her graceful gait… and so very beautiful doing it.
Marta de la Rose never waited on anyone. If something needed done, she did it. There was a lesson there, I realized in that moment—I needed to pay it heed.
The tenement in question was a run down establishment, almost appearing abandoned at first glance. The stone bricks making up the foundation were sun faded, eroding rapidly as cracks webbed through the stone as if a giant had head-butted the wall.
I never understood what processes students had to go through to get housing. For all I knew, it was all random. My dorm was rather nice and I didn’t have a roommate; I certainly didn’t get it because I was rich.
We entered the front doors—there wasn’t even a doorman or someone sitting at the administrative desk—and walked up six flights of stairs into a dark, oppressively hot corridor. The wallpaper was peeling off the walls and the whole place smelled like rotten eggs.
Approaching a boarded up door, Marta put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips. “No entry…” she read off the sign, nailed to the boards. She shrugged, withdrew her wand and whispered an arcane command. With a flick of her wrist, the tip of her wand flashed a bright white light and the boards came crashing to the floor.
“Mighty covert,” I said, still recoiling from the noise. “Accelerated the oxidation of the nails?”
“Easier than using a prybar.”
The dorm reeked of herbs, as if someone had been burning sage throughout the night—an improvement from the hallway, at least. Light streamed in lazily through the blinded windows, revealing a dismal mess of a scene. All of the furniture in the room had been shoved to the walls making way for a ritual circle drawn on the hardwood floors in chalk. The runes enclosing it were strange, unfamiliar to me.
“Have you seen anything like this?” I asked.
Marta’s silence and wide eyes told me she hadn’t. She crouched over the circle, arcane words on her lips, tracing the shape of the circle in the air with her wand. “This is interesting. Did Hamator tell you if these circles appeared near the dead bodies?”
“He didn’t go into detail,” I said, scribbling down what symbols I could manage into my notebook. “But only the cases where a student is missing are described as rituals.”
“You saw the dead body in our building.”
“Yes. No circle. The constable speculated it was a failed ritual.”
“Can’t have a ritual without a circle…” Marta mused, then stuck her nose into the air. “This whole place stinks of necromancy.”
“Really? I was thinking fenugreek.”
“Don’t be daft.”
I paced the perimeter of the room, searching for any sign of scorch marks or struggle. While the place was a mess, it was more akin to frantic hurry rather than aggression. For all I knew, the person who had lived there was simply disorganized—that wouldn’t be a strange characteristic in an underclassman.
“Haslow hasn’t been here,” I, walking into the bedroom. “I’m not sure how I know—but I do.”
I saw something glint in the runner at the foot of the bed. I bent down, picking up a sterling silver ring, stamped by a local enchanter. A magic ring, eh? I felt Marta’s hand on my shoulder. I rose and presented it to her.
“Perry…” she tittered. “Buy me a drink first.”
“Now you’re the one being daft—what do you think it does?”
I dropped the ring in her hands. It was heavier than it should have been, were it not enchanted. Marta offered an adorable little “Wow” as she tested its weight in her hands.
“See the serial number?” she said.
“Yeah, but I’ve no clue what it means.”
“Devices like this have manufacturing codes, since the Citadel enchanters deal with such large volume. This one, Perry, holds a chameleon spell. Overall, a simple design—nothing useful to mages of our level—but I can see why a underclassman might want it. Expensive toy, though. Strange she didn’t take it with her.”
“Chameleon, huh? How about I hold on to it—until we find its rightful owner.”
Marta stared at me. “You don’t know the chameleon spell?”
I grinned, avoiding her gaze.
“Perry!”
“What? I’m a siege major! Chameleon just never came up in my studies.”
“Gods in hell, that’s like saying you never learned arithmetic because you’re a writer!”
My grin held strong to my face.
“Perry…”
“Yes, Marta?”
“You don’t know arithmetic, do you?”
“I know the basics!”
We didn’t find much else in the dorm. As we left, I felt more confused than I did before. I had assumed Haslow was behind every killing and missing person—it was the simplest explanation. But clearly, the easy answer wasn’t going to suffice when it came to saving my career, my life as a true, gifted Citadel sorcerer. Causation is not correlation and all that.
Time was ticking, and when Monday finally came, I had nothing to show for my efforts aside from a fancy magic ring, certainty that Haslow had never visited an apartment leased by someone I don’t know… and a nice night with Marta.
Perhaps that was worth all my frustrations.