Haslow of the Sparrow Clan was running out of options. He was sick of hiding away, covered in sweat, idling away at a rolling boil in a cellar when there was work to be done.
Gods, I need off this rock!
He had never enjoyed living in Phrygia. The only reason he came was to learn how to do something useful for his clan. Everything he’d done, he’d done for the Sparrows—for people all around the Wyse, really, even those city slicking imposters behind their dour walls. Hell, especially them. Them’s whose marching on the Golden City…
Perhaps he had acted rashly. Perhaps he had acted too quickly. None of that mattered now. What’s done is done and now it was time to move on—if only there were somewhere to move on to. That was the trouble with Phrygia, twenty-two days out of a calendar month the place was no better than a prison, suspended in the clouds accessible only by magic.
Sure, he could try to fly—that wasn’t a difficult spell nor an uncommon enchantment, but the act of flying out of the city was uncommon enough to draw untoward attention. He’d be made in minutes. Can’t jump, either—the distance was such that the sea below would be hard as stone.
The obvious solution was to open a rent into the In Between. Goldenscale had warned him against that once, long ago. The In Between seemed solitary at a glance, but you’re never alone—prying eyes from every agency, bureau, and organization watched from the shadows. Right now, all eyes were on him.
His stomach growled. Gods, he was hungry, though he’d already eaten all his daily rations. Waves of nausea rolled over him as if he laid supine on the shore during high tide. Before he learned his Art, no one had warned him the cost such knowledge bore. No one told him a thing, they never have.
All because I’m a strider… because my people came from over the sea before their ancestors were born. I’ll bloody show them—I’ll show the world once I’m off this damned rock.
But he wouldn’t show anybody anything if he was arrested before the weekend. Just a few more days, he thought as he picked up the black, horned mask his generous guardian had fetched for him. He had one shot, and it would be waiting for him on Wednesday night at the Illusionists’ Round.
Just a few days…
Before going off to meet with Detective Malcolm, I spent my Tuesday morning experimenting with the trinkets I’d acquired. The sterling silver ring was nothing special and did exactly as Marta said it would—turning me mostly invisible.
The problem with invisibly as a phrase is that it implies total vanishing, as if you weren’t really standing where you perceived yourself to be standing, but instead viewed the scene remotely from a safe location. This function is better served by oneiromancers—dream wizards who can enact their art at bedtime to observe most anything, anywhere, or anyone they choose, so long as they adhered to a set of arbitrary, draconian rules.
The most famous example is Phrygian Black’s explorations into Pandemonium, which consisted of remote viewing through dreams and courageous delving into the depths on his own two feet—I’ve read his collected journals on the subject many times, both in school and for my own pleasure.
By stroking my ring—rather, Camilla’s ring—two times with my index finger fires off a minor incantation that turns my physical form entirely translucent. I ensured to check to its effectiveness in the washroom mirror (bad chameleon enchantments might turn your skin translucent, leaving everything else inside of you exposed). Thankfully, I had found a quality piece of kit, I could hardly see myself aside from a slight warp of the light around my silhouette. With cover of darkness, I’d be damn near invisible.
I removed the ring with some reluctance, cringing as my twisted visage reappeared in the mirror. I almost wished I could remain obscured from human perception. Alas, magic rings have rather stringent limitations. I couldn’t be sure until I tested it, but I’d imagine I’d get about an hour of use per day—recharged by the sun’s rise every morning.
The ivory mask given to me by the strange apparition in the street, I stared at for most the morning before I deigned to wear it. I must have probed it a hundred times, searching for curses or hidden clues. Though I detected no ill will woven into the magical fabric of the mask, I didn’t detect anything inherently useful or powerful, either. That, to a wizard, is most terrifying. At the same time, it makes the item ludicrously alluring.
About forty-five percent of curses placed wizards are triggered by the wizard’s curiosity, after all.
I took the mask into the washroom, weighing it my hands—enchanted items weigh more than their mundane counterparts, but ivory is remarkably dense, making it ideal to house hidden magic—as the two sides of my brain argued their case for whether I should wear it. Supernatural beings are usually bound to honesty—its in their nature, cried the left, passionate side of my psyche. Demons are bound to no such rules, retorted the right, analytical side.
“We do not speak slant…” that strange woman had said. She spoke with direct simplicity—yet Common Law cannot account for the wide reaching loopholes of lexical ambiguity. “Speaking slant” is a metaphor, and metaphors are inherently slant, hard to pin down.
The back and forth went on and on. I think what finally drove me to don the mask was my frustration towards my own indecision. Perhaps it was that niggling force in the back of my head feeding violent fantasies, driving me to uncharacteristic bouts of rage.
I felt nothing when I put on the mask. My first thought told me that it really was just a mask—that the spirit, for some reason, just wanted me to attend the masquerade. Looking up into the mirror, the effects of the mask hit me. I felt nothing—as in no pain. My arms were no longer covered with incongruous scar tissue.
Aside from a gaudy mask, I looked as I had before the accident. I couldn’t hold back the deluge of emotion that came over me—catharsis, a dash of anguish, and not a hint of anger this time. It was too much.
I breathed deep and began counting back from ten. Then I removed the mask.
Malcolm was waiting for me when I got to Colover’s on Brewer Street. I felt ill walking in, beset by tainted memories of a hundred late nights spent drinking and talking with my old friend—now sworn nemesis. I did my best to shake it off, but the nausea lingered even after I sat across the detective at our corner booth.
“You alright, Lafey?” she asked in that indifferent tone.
“Fine,” I said, rubbing my temple, breathing through the ache radiating across my burns. “Since the attack… episodes now and then.”
A server brought us drinks. Scotch for the detective. Tea for me. I chose not to drink while the sun was up as a matter of principle—a wizard’s mind must stay sharp and all that. Malcolm must have thought me a might prude; she poured a bit of her drink into my cup.
“Takes the edge off,” she said, sipping her morning spirits, “I’ve had migraines since I was a girl.”
“Thanks,” I said half-heartedly. “So what was it you wanted to discuss?”
“It occurred to me that I should tell you more about Goldenscale—I apologize for my conduct yesterday. We’ve been tailing him a long time… seeing blatant evidence of his bullshit made me lose myself a bit.”
“Tailing a Council member?”
“Aye—he’s a dirty one, always has been. Everyone knows it. Problem is, he wrote the damned laws.”
I snorted, sipped my spiked tea. The scotch did take the edge off. Added a smoky flare to my earthy dandelion root tea, too. “So, he commits less-than-ethical acts but never actually breaks Phrygian law?”
“Exactly.”
“I assume he hasn’t violated the tenants of the Citadel, either.”
“Famously less strict—so no, he hasn’t.”
“So here’s my question,” I said, leaning forward and tapping my finger on the table. “What does Goldenscale have to do with Haslow? We agreed, no Worldfire on the victims, Haslow was not involved.”
“Actually, I know for a fact he wasn’t” Malcolm said, withdrawing a folder from her leather document sleeve. She opened it, flipping and pointing to various documents. “Goldenscale has been researching the creation lycanthropes for about twenty years.”
“Right,” I said, “I’ve read some of his papers. Brutal work, but interesting.” That was an understatement. I left the lecture hall on the day we presented our analyses of Goldenscale’s most recent work.
“Well, in order to test his hypothesis of conversation—you know, making a werewolf from scratch—he need willing test subjects.”
“You don’t mean—”
“Both our victims were willing participants. I subpoenaed the Goldenscale Labs. Docuements provided confirmed that both had signed waivers, agreeing that they may be killed in the process of conversion. All Goldenscale did wrong was dispose of the bodies at inappropriate locations, a minor offense that his lab has been fined for as of this morning—one that he wasn’t required to explain.”
“Okay…” I said. “Haslow—if he didn’t kill those men, then why did he give me one of Goldenscale’s handkerchiefs?”
“Your friend…” Malcolm turned her cup to the ceiling and finishing her drink. “He did his ninth-year residency with the Pandemonium expedition, correct?”
“Yes, he was assisting a research team in the Burning City for three years.”
Malcolm tilted her head.
“Time dilation. Time moves unpredictably in Pandemonium.”
“Bloody wizards…” she huffed. “It turns out that Venati Goldenscale himself was not only the sponsor of your friend’s residency, but the head researcher on staff.”
“No kidding… So they have a personal relationship?”
“That has been neither confirmed nor denied. Goldenscale won’t speak with us directly, I’ve only talked with his secretaries and lawyers,” Malcolm rolled her eyes, her face flushed with frustration. “But it’s not a stretch to assume that they’ve spoken, given one worked under the supervision of the other.”
“So what’s the next move?” I asked. “Go after Goldenscale? Sounds like he could be harboring Haslow, which could explain how he’s seemed to vanish.”
Malcolm narrowed her eyes, leaned in close and whispered. “As an officer of the Phrygian Constabulary, my hands are tied—Goldenscale is clean. But you…” she lowered her voice a step further. “You’re a free agent.”
Perriander Lafey found himself standing on the portal town pier, looking up to the night sky as a golden dragon and an amethyst dragon roiled in sorcerous, mortal combat. They’d been locked in a stalemate for as long as the young sorcerer sat watching, and even longer still. The golden dragon spat fire, which sent shivers down Perriander’s spine. The amethyst dragon quelled the fire with its vacuous breath, a spell that swallowed all other magic.
He did not need to look beside him to know the dark angel of his dreams stood there with him. He could feel her there—watching as she always did. He wondered if she watched him while he was awake, when his memory of her visitations eroded like the soft bedrock of the Idraani desert, battered by eons of sharp sand.
She did not need to speak for Perriander to hear her message. “You will be tested, tomorrow.”