Magic Zero (15 page)

Leander glanced at the Grandmaster, whose eyes squinted against the light.

“This is Timothy’s life now.”

*  *  *

In one of the lower levels of SkyHaven, not far from the quarters that Lord Nicodemus had reluctantly set up for Ivar, the Grandmaster had also allowed Timothy to construct a workshop not unlike the one he had had on the Island of Patience. There was a forge and bellows, and there were windows that looked out over the ocean. With all that had been going on since his arrival, Timothy had had time to do little more than assure himself that all of the crates he had
packed up at his father’s home had been placed in the workshop.

Until today.

Inspired by the new purpose he had been given, Timothy had enlisted Sheridan’s help in moving crates to locate the project he had been in the midst of building before the first assassins had come after him at his father’s home. The model he had constructed back on the Island of Patience had turned out to be a perfect template, at least so far as he could tell.

The air was thick with the scent of oil and far too warm. A mage could have commanded the spell-glass to disappear, but the windows would only open for Timothy if he touched them, disrupting their magic. Each time he wanted to cool off he had to take a short break and go to the window, negating the spell-glass to get a breeze into the workshop. Eventually he would have to ask Nicodemus to alter the spell on the windows, but for now he kept at his work. Beads of sweat rolled down his back and forehead as he stoked the fire and let the rotor blades for his new creation heat in the flames. Then he laid the metal flat on the anvil and hammered it down, the clang and spark of his hard work making his heart leap. How he had missed this!

Timothy took in the shape of his gyrocraft, its small, gliding wings already firmly fastened into place. Edgar fluttered his own black-feathered wings and walked along the craft, investigating the contraption with the abrupt, inquisitive jerks of the head that were a reminder that no matter
how intelligent the familiar was, he was still a bird.

Timothy took a rest and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He set the rotor aside to let it cool and walked over to the workbench where Sheridan was carefully joining together the links of the small chain that would be part of the moving heart of the gyrocraft.

“How is it coming?” the boy asked.

The mechanical man’s eyes brightened and his head swiveled around to look at Timothy. Steam sighed from the release valve on his metal skull. “I will be done with this task shortly, Timothy. But I must ask you again to reconsider. You are putting yourself in a great deal of danger, in a craft that is untested.”

Timothy smiled and wiped his hands on his apron. “Come on, Sheridan. The only way to solve the problem of it being untested is to actually test it.”

With a loud flutter of wings, Edgar flew the short distance across the workshop and alighted atop Sheridan’s head. “Caw, caw!” the rook cried. “I’m with him. If people were supposed to fly, they’d have wings.”

The boy put his hands on his hips. “My father brought me many books on the island, Edgar. I know there are plenty of birds who have wings but can’t fly.”

Both of his friends were agitated and Timothy appreciated their concern, but his mind was made up. He was about to tell them this when Sheridan’s head swiveled quickly toward the door of the workshop and a blast of steam tooted from his release valve.

“Hukk!” Edgar cried, feathers ruffling. “Company.”

The massive silhouette that filled the doorway was cloaked in shadow, but Timothy recognized Leander instantly. A moment later the mage stepped into the workshop, smiled at Timothy, and glanced around, shaking his shaggy mane.

“Never seen anything like it,” Leander said. “Your workshop on the island was extraordinary, Tim, but the speed with which you have adapted this space is even more impressive.” He spotted the frame of the gyrocraft. “And that . . . you’re actually building it, eh? Amazing.”

With a grin, Timothy bounded toward him and threw his arms around the mage. “I saw you earlier, while I was sparring outside, but I thought maybe you had left already.” He pulled back and shot Leander a menacing glare. “Of course, I would have had to pummel you. It isn’t the same around here without you.”

Leander’s smile flickered, faded, and then disappeared completely.

A trickle of sweat slid down the back of Timothy’s neck and he shivered with dread, a frown knitting his brows. “What?” he demanded. “What is it?”

The mage forced his smile to return. “It’s nothing. Nothing for you to worry about. And I’m glad to see you as well. I had some business at SkyHaven today, and I thought perhaps we might dine together this evening. By all accounts, you’re doing well. I heard how you handled yourself this morning in the aerie, and I’m proud of you, Timothy. I’m
certain your father would be as well. It is a difficult situation you find yourself in, and you have given an admirable accounting of yourself thus far.”

Timothy stared at him grimly. “Stop that.”

Leander arched an eyebrow. “Stop what?”

“Tell me what’s on your mind right now. Is there some new danger Nicodemus hasn’t told me about? Have some of the other guild masters come? What’s going on, Leander? Don’t leave me in the dark. That’s far more dangerous than anything else I’m up against.”

At first the mage began to shake his head again. Sheridan clanked and whirred and hissed steam as he walked over and crossed his arms, eyes glowing brightly as he, too, glared at Leander.

“Caw! Caw, caw! What’s on your mind, Master Maddox?” Edgar crowed.

Leander ignored the rook and the mechanical man, his eyes focused on Timothy. “I’m afraid for you, boy. That’s all. With so many guild masters shying away from the conference this morning—and even among those who showed themselves—it’s impossible to know who can be trusted. Especially with . . .”

Once again he shook his shaggy mane of hair and reached up to stroke his beard. “Never mind. I didn’t come here for—”

“Leander,” Timothy said firmly, gazing up at the massive mage. “Please. Speak your mind.”

The mage sighed and glanced away. He hesitated a moment
before turning back to them, his eyes alight with intensity. “What I tell you in this room must remain in this room. There are things even the Grandmaster does not know.”

“Of course,” Timothy replied.

Leander glared first at Sheridan, who nodded once with only a whisper of steam, and then at Edgar, who cawed his assent. With this, the mage seemed to shrink slightly, settling down into his own skin. He glanced at the others again before at last refocusing on Timothy.

“Lord Nicodemus and I have both told you of the recent disappearances in Arcanum. Mages from many guilds have gone missing. The fact is that more than two months ago I was engaged by the Parliament to investigate this mystery. They came to me in secrecy so complete that not even my own Grandmaster—not even your father, my friend and mentor—were told of my work for the Parliament.”

Edgar hopped to the ground and walked toward Leander, talons scritching the floor. “And what have you discovered?”

Dejected, Leander threw up his hands. “Precious little thus far, I’m afraid. They might well be running off to form a new guild. It has happened before, but not for more than three hundred years.”

Timothy heard the doubt in his voice. “But you don’t think so. You think something awful’s happened to them.”

Slowly the mage nodded. “I do.”

“I don’t understand,” the boy said. “If it’s supposed to be so secret, why are you telling us? I’m glad you did. I just don’t understand why.”

Even in the mix of firelight from the forge and the twilight that gleamed in through the windows, Timothy saw that Leander’s face reddened. The mage glanced away, as though in shame, and it was several long moments before he looked up again.

“I fear for you, Timothy,” Leander said. “I don’t approve of you becoming involved in the espionage that you and the Grandmaster have planned. Yet I know that you can do it, that you will likely be very successful at it. And as much as it pains me to confess it, I fear that one day soon, I may need to endanger you further by asking for your assistance in my own clandestine affairs.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
he gyrocraft is ready,
Timothy thought as he finished tightening the last of the bolts on the lightweight frame.
But am I?

Nicodemus had told him during supper that this would be the night his special skills would be put to use, and Timothy had felt as though he might be sick. He had expected it to be soon, but not
this
soon. He’d hardly touched his meal, then excused himself from the dining chamber and headed to his workshop. If tonight was indeed the night, he had to be certain that his flying craft was in perfect working order.

Timothy stepped back and admired his work. He had conceived and designed it ages ago, but now at last he had been able to complete it. The workshop Nicodemus had set up for him was everything he could have hoped for, tucked away on the southern side of SkyHaven, away from prying
eyes. All he had to do was spy for the Order of Alhazred and everyone would be happy—well, almost everyone.

Throughout making the final tweaks to the gyrocraft, Edgar had fluttered nervously about the workshop, black eyes gleaming with disapproval. Now, as Timothy gave a spin to the large rotor on top of the craft, the rook croaked loudly from atop a workstation covered with leftover parts. “I know you haven’t asked for my opinion. I’m just the familiar, after all. But I have to tell you, Timothy, I don’t care for this one bit.”

The tiny propellers attached to the short wings and to the tail of the gyrocraft were fastened well enough, but Timothy checked and double-checked the main roof rotor one final time. Though in an emergency he could jettison the rotor and simply glide to a landing, he did not like to entertain that possibility. Better safe than sorry.

Edgar cawed loudly.

“I’m sorry,” Timothy said sheepishly. “I’m not ignoring you. I just want to make certain I don’t miss anything. That . . .”—he smiled—“That would be bad.”

The rook’s feathers ruffled. “Caw! If you’re trying to make me less worried, you’re really bad at it.”

Throughout his work on the gyrocraft, Sheridan had been his loyal assistant. Now the mechanical man hissed a sigh of steam, and with a whir he raised his chin. It was obvious he shared the rook’s fears. Timothy handed his wrench to Sheridan.

“I know how you feel, Edgar, but I don’t have much of
a choice,” Timothy explained. “They’ve tried to kill me twice now, and if I don’t find out who’s responsible, the third time might be the end of me.”

The bird cocked his head, light reflecting off his black beak. “I still don’t like it.” With a rustle of feathers he turned his back on Timothy. “You’re just a boy, not a spy—and look at how he’s dressed you.”

With a frown Timothy glanced down at himself, at the midnight black, tight-fitting clothing Nicodemus had provided him. He reached up to touch the hood that was bunched around his neck.

“It’s so I don’t get caught,” Timothy said to his disgruntled familiar as he studied himself. “It’ll help me blend with the shadows—that’s what Nicodemus said, anyway.”

With a jerk of his head, the rook twisted to fix him with a dark, riveting stare. “It scares me.”

A whistling geyser of steam was released from the side of Sheridan’s head as the mechanical man began to tidy up the workroom. “Edgar speaks for all of us,” he said as he picked up Timothy’s tools. “We are all anxious about this sneaking around business.”

Timothy was annoyed. This wasn’t what he needed to hear. He already had his own doubts about this assignment, and his friends’ fear wasn’t increasing his confidence any.

“I have to do this.”

“Do you?” came a wizened voice from across the room.

Timothy glanced over to find that at some point Ivar had slipped into the workshop. Now he stood silently at a window
looking out at the night, his skin as white as the moons that hung weightless in the sky.

“Oh, Ivar, not you, too,” Timothy said. “I thought that you would understand.”

As always, the Asura thought carefully of his answer before responding. Then he spoke directly from his heart, for he was incapable of lying. “I know of the hunt, of confrontation and battle—of victory and defeat,” he said as he looked away from the quiet beauty outside SkyHaven. “I know what it is to skulk in shadows in the camp of my enemy, or to elude capture. But to spy upon your allies because you suspect duplicity . . . There is no honor in this.”

Timothy flushed, momentarily ashamed, but then he frowned deeply and shook his head. “This is more complicated than that. I haven’t been among other people very long, but with mages it seems pretty obvious that it’s difficult to tell who’s an ally and who’s an enemy. I know you’re all concerned for my safety, but without magic, I have to take any advantage I can get. In this world, that means knowing what the guild masters are up to. I’m sorry, but I have to do this. I’ll be careful.”