Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (30 page)

Marik lifted the cloth from the tabletop.  “I know
what this reminds me of.”  He took a deeper sniff.  “It doesn’t smell like what
I remember, but this is like the components I took off that magician in the
Green Reaches.”

“Truly?”  Landon reclaimed the swatch.  “You may be
right.  This may be a type of spell component.”

“But that one Marik did in was hardly another magic
user.”  Dietrik sounded skeptical.

“Not him, but he may have association with one.  Or
perhaps one of the alchemy shops.”  Landon frowned in thought.  “That sounds
more likely here in the city.  If we knew exactly what this powder is, then we
might be able to determine more.  I doubt we would be lucky enough for it to be
a component sold only in one shop, but there is the possibility.  If the shop
itself had no connection to the assassins, perhaps we could learn who purchased
the component and investigate each.”

“You want to stop by a shop,” Marik replied
sarcastically, “and casually ask if they know what that is?  If it is from a
shop, you might pick the one shop we don’t want to be noticed at!”

Before Landon could respond, Dietrik cut in.  “That
would be a bad idea in any event.  Shops don’t like to help you unless you are
planning to spend your coin there.”

“We might need to risk it,” Landon persisted.

“I have a better idea.  Who can we go to who knows
every tidbit of knowledge there is to know about components, and would be happy
to spend an afternoon on the mystery of what this might be?”

The others shrugged.  “An Urliel priest?” Marik
guessed.

“Not at all, mate.  We should take this over to the
Alchemists’ Academy.”

“I’ve heard of that,” Marik said.  Landon looked
thoughtful.

“Indeed.  They’re all scholars, and scholars love
nothing better than a good puzzle.  Since most are noble born, or they are
teaching the noble born, they should be willing to help solve an attack on one
of their own.”

“Especially since the majority of their funding comes
from the aristocracy,” Landon included.  “The apprentices riding on kingdom
grants ought to be willing to lend a few minutes of their time at the very
least.  I like that.”

“So do I,” Marik agreed.  “We can go over there
tomorrow.”

Dietrik waved his good hand in a negative.  “Only one
of us needs to go.  I don’t think it is safe to bring young Hilliard outside
just now.  At least not until we know what we are up against.  Since I am on
the injured roster, I’m the one who can be spared.  I will go over and ask
around.”

He had made up his mind, so Marik accepted his
decision.  His attention was caught by Hilliard and Kerwin, both of whom
stepped into the room.  Marik waved to catch Kerwin’s attention, adding,
“Probably that’s for the best.  Right, we’ll keep Hilliard locked up in our
rooms and maintain a low profile.  We can’t let anyone know where he’s hiding.”

Walsh intercepted Hilliard, probably to express his
relief all over, Marik assumed.  He directed the young noble to a massive slate
board hanging on the eastern wall between the booth row and the kitchen
doorway.  Marik saw the slate’s left side contained roughly fifty names in a
column.  Each name occupied a row that stretched to the right across the
remaining slate.  Lines divided the rows into a grid, making seven column rows.

Several spaces were blank, but Marik did not
understand what that meant until Walsh, banging a giant spoon against an empty
pot, called the attention of the full common room.

“Hey, everybody!  This young man is the one I’ve been
telling you about.  Make sure you all root for the Swan’s Down’s own contender
for the Arm during the tournament!  The future baron of Stonescape, Hilliard
Garroway!”

The crowd roared in support while Walsh, wielding a
chalk stub, wrote Hilliard’s name in the top row, filling an empty slot.

“Gods bloody damn it for a bastard goat!” Marik swore
venomously.  “What in the flaming hells is he doing?”

Kerwin slid into the booth.  He glanced over at the
slate.  “It’s a wagering board, of course.  See all the numbers next to the
names?  Those are odds on the different people.”

“Son-of-a…!  If I’d known he was going to do that, I
would have smashed him over the head with that bloody pot!  No wonder he was so
glad to see us!”

“You should have asked me.  I could have told you in a
heartbeat what that was.”

Scowling mightily, ready to bite the table in half,
Marik slouched in his seat, wondering why nothing in his life ever went the way
he wanted it to.

The facade of the Alchemists’ Academy vied with the
Eternal Twelve’s cathedral for widest.  Though far less grandiose, it too
occupied an entire block within the Second Circle.  Dietrik admired the quiet
taste before pushing through the crowded street to the entrance.

Three separate buildings stood side-by-side set back
from the avenue.  A door in the centermost structure faced the street.  No
additional entrances pierced the facade.  The two other buildings sported
several window rows, the bottom level hovering over a magnificent display of
greenery.  Flowering shrubs, miniature trees and colorful flora artfully graced
the academy’s length.

Five stories towered over Dietrik.  They were built
solidly without much artistic embellishment.  The roofs were slanted into
peaks.  Every minute, two or three people would exit the place.  He had not yet
seen anyone enter.

Dietrik gripped the twisted iron railing lining the
steps with greater force than he normally would have.  With his left arm
immobilized he needed to compensate for uneven balance.

Nothing like an injury to make you realize how much
you take for granted.

The lobby was impressive.  Spacious, it intruded into
the second floor’s domain.  Two massive corridors extended away at angles to
the northwest and northeast.  Where the two met, a reception counter blocked
access to offices beyond.  Unmarked doorways lined the corridors at irregular
intervals.

Few people could be seen wandering the distant
hallways.  Nobody waited behind the counter to aid Dietrik in his quest for
information.  He called out, “Hello?  Is everybody having a lie-in?”

No answer came.  The right corridor had emptied, so
Dietrik wandered down the left, seeing two people exit the furthest room and
turn out a different door.  Sunlight filtered around the edges.  It must lead
to a space between buildings.

All the hallway doors were closed, denying his
curiosity the chance to snoop on the going-ons within these reputed walls.  At
the end he found the kind of door with a brass tab over a handle.  He pressed
it down and stepped hesitantly into a courtyard.

Hard-packed earth was surrounded by five story stone
walls.  The sky was an empty square above.  Dietrik felt he might be a mouse
staring up through an open crate.  Random rickrack of every variety cluttered
the yard.  To judge from the small group of people huddled around a canvas
dome, the mess must be leftover materials from experiments.

He approached the four young men and women, scraping
his boots to draw their attention without startling anyone.  They turned, each
holding charcoal writing sticks over papers already half-black with scribbles. 
Dietrik spoke before they could question his presence.

“Sorry to budge in without warning, but I hoped you
academy types might be able to help me with a dilemma.”

“A dilemma?” replied a young lady with auburn hair. 
“With a project?”

“Aislinn, it’s starting to smoke!” a male voice
emerged from the dome’s interior, which Dietrik recognized must be a strange
form of tent.  Mostly canvas, as any regular tent, the dome’s crown was
actually a sheer veil.

“Is this a bad time?” Dietrik asked.

The auburn-haired Aislinn ignored him to bend
simultaneously with the three men to peer through a small flap.  “What’s the
density?” she demanded while the man to her left said, “Is the veil pulling?”

“No!” the interior voice barked.  “Shut the flap! 
It’s spoiling the air draw!”

“I don’t see any smoke yet,” a second exterior man
observed and pulled the flap open wider still.  “Is the column rising or not?”

“Hey!” the interior voice shouted again before
dissolving into a choking fit.

“Get Orton out of there,” Aislinn ordered in a
distracted tone.  The three men ripped back the flap and groped blindly inside
until they dragged a scrawny, carrot-toped fellow into the fresh air.  He
continued choking, fighting for air, forgotten by his compatriots since they
immediately returned their attention to the dome.

“It’s still not sifting through,” the third young man
pointed out.  “And the tent’s packed with smoke.  The veil’s too thick.”  Smoky
wisps curled through the open flap.

“But any thinner and it will be useless against the
rain.  It’s pushing it as it is,” the second pointed out.

“Maybe we need a different method than sewing it on,”
Aislinn retorted.  “We need to rethink this.”  Dietrik coughed politely to
recapture her attention.  “Oh, sorry!  What did you want?”

“I hoped that a knowledgeable chap might help me
identify this substance,” he answered, showing her the cloth.  Aislinn took it
while the other three continued muttering.

“We don’t study alchemy,” she shrugged after a moment,
handing the cloth back.  ‘We’re with the engineering curriculum.”

“I see,” Dietrik voiced, though why did that matter? 
They were students, were they not?  “And who might be able to tell me, then?”

She frowned.  “Today is end-day for the academy.  Most
of the scholars and their apprentices are out in the city.”

“I’m afraid it is a matter of urgency.  This is
directly related to an attack made on a noble participating in tournament.”

“Oh?”  Aislinn looked mildly interested.  “Well…wait a
moment.”  She quietly conferred with Orton, whose breath had returned.  He
huskily replied, then shuffled to the team arguing beside the dome.  “Head
Gereist is the chief supervisor for the alchemists’ wing today.”

“He sounds like the right chap for the job, then.  How
might I locate him?”

“Down the right hallway, then out the end door.  The
alchemists’ wing is straight across the garden, first entrance you see.”

Dietrik thanked them and then left them to their
debate on whether a conical cap on rails over the dome’s crown would keep the
space between it and the top curve open.  When he stepped into the corridor, a
voice behind his back exclaimed, “Whoa!  Aislinn, the tent’s on fire!”

Double doors down the right-hand hallway opened onto
the promised garden.  But no garden Dietrik had ever imagined.  Shielded from
the city outside by the surrounding buildings, the academy’s garden made his
eyes widen.

Trimmed grass spread in a green carpet across the
square, sixty yards wide.  Except for the gravel pathways connecting the wings,
plants of every sort filled the space.  Keeping the grass trimmed with less
than a square foot uninterrupted by other plant life would be a monumental
chore.

Dozens of trees were sprinkled about, all
fruit-bearing.  No fruit lay on the grass so the garden must be tended
frequently.  Wooden plaques crammed with phylum information rested under every
shrub.  A scholarly collective devoted to plants must reside in the academy, as
odd as that sounded, who looked after the garden.

Several paces down the crunching gravel path to the
alchemists’ wing, Dietrik decided it was not his imagination.  It
was
cooler than in the street.  Forests were never as hot inside as out, and this garden
could be a forest in its own right.  He barely saw the walls.

Other paths branched from his, leading to
unpretentious doors, but the main alchemists’ wing entrance could be mistaken
for nothing else.  It was as wide as the avenue entrance.  Dietrik wrestled the
heavy door open with one arm.  He slipped sideways inside, which obscured his
view of this new realm until after he turned to lean against the door.

Another massive lobby stretched up two floors.  Across
the way, a broad stairway climbed to higher levels, its lowest railing
surrounded by potted plants in a misplaced glade.  Afternoon sunlight streamed
through the windows above him.  To the left a long hallway stretched with many
doors, each bearing plaques.  Far away, the hallway bent around a corner to the
right.

The lobby’s right wall held three impressive dark oak
doors, each with a brass plaque displaying a name with smaller lettering
underneath.  It spoke of organization and serious business, but the floor
stunned Dietrik most of all.

Pure midnight marble, blacker than ink.  The tiles
were fitted together so perfectly the seams were concealed.  Were it not for
the spidery gray veins winding through the stone, he would have sworn there
was
no floor, that the outer door had opened onto a great pit descending into
eternity.  Polished to a shine, a reversed Dietrik hung upside-down below him,
connected foot-to-foot.

A momentary vertigo clutched him, a certainty that if
he lifted his foot, the tenuous membrane between them would snap, sending his double
tumbling through the dark into nothingness.  Dietrik shook his head.  It was
solid floor, and no more a threat to him than the walls or the ceiling.  Still,
he wondered how Marik would have handled this, given his light head for
heights.

No one wandered the alchemists’ wing.  With no people
to ask, Dietrik decided to check the three doors in the right wall.  They
seemed suitable for the heads.  One might belong to Head Gereist.  He crossed
the Floor of Eternity to the offices.

It happened so suddenly, Dietrik thought his heart
would stop.

A loud crack, like a snapping whip.  It burst all
around, assaulting him without warning!  Memories erupted; Marik’s glowing
sphere breaking the very air as it shot toward his target.

Dietrik ducked, his good hand flying to his rapier. 
He spun while crouching, checking his rear.  As he did, two new exploding
whip-cracks sounded.  Whatever was attacking was right on top of him!

He retreated a step further into the lobby, glancing
wildly in twenty directions.  A fresh explosion assaulted him, this time
accompanied by a vibration through his boot and an acrid smell of smoke.

Quick glances down, risking his life by diverting his
attention from his vulnerable sectors, revealed the faint smoke his nose had
detected.  What in the bloody hells was going on?  A second fast sweep assured
him no assailant lunged for the kill.

A wary step proceeded, this time observed closely by
the mercenary.  His foot came down on the black abyss.  The sharp, exploding
bang followed.  Thin smoke puffs billowed from beneath his sole.  Rapier at the
guard position, compensating for his bad arm, Dietrik remained stock still,
utterly confused, ready for an attack.

What caught him by surprise were faint giggles, heard
only when the ringing permeating his ears faded.  Dietrik brought his sword up
further.  The crash from behind startled him badly, making him whirl, causing
twin explosions from below.

One of the three doors had burst open.  Framed within,
a tall, bald man in a silk shirt and cotton breeches glared out at the world
beyond, angry as a wounded bear.  His broad torso and muscled bulk made him
resemble the creature in more than manner.

He cast a hard stare at Dietrik, who tightened his
grip on the hilt.  Despite his training, facing off against a chap who held
himself so worried him.  Instead, the other man’s furious gaze swiveled,
locking at once onto the foliage surrounding the stairs base.  His giant fists
clenched tightly while he bared his teeth and stalked to the greenery.

The mirrored floor beneath his feet began erupting. 
With every step, the small explosions echoed throughout the lobby.  Drifts of
smoke were left in his wake as the man advanced, apparently oblivious to the
hazardous terrain through which he trod.  His anger, his size, the noise, his
dual existence within the floor and the acrid smoke leant him the countenance
of a wrathful deity.

“Whoops,” Dietrik faintly heard through the noise.  A
girlish voice, surreal in this situation.  He tried to pin down where it had
come from.

“Spotted!” came a new voice.  Boyish this one, and
from the foliage the angry man advance on.

Even as he determined this, the leaves started to
shake.  Inside the potted forest, a young boy attempted to escape by clambering
over the staircase railing.  Too late, the bear-man shot his arm through the
plants to grab the boy by the collar.  His other hand lashed out and grabbed
hold of something else.  He reeled in his catch; a pair of children.

Despite the tense moment, Dietrik could instantly see
they were twins, brother and sister.  Both were dressed in matching white
shirts and breeches, tied at the waist with belts.  One belt had been died red,
the other blue.  The children inhabiting the clothing appeared to be nine or
ten years of age.

And they also exhibited no fear of their captor.  “You
two!” the bear roared, light glinting from his naked scalp.  “This is the last
straw!  Do you have any idea how blisteringly stupid you are?”

“Aw, it was just harmless fun,” the boy replied,
undaunted by the fact that his feet dangled above the floor.  “It didn’t hurt
anybody.”

The bear hauled the children around and dropped them
to their feet, eliciting twin explosions from their landing.  “And you’re
damned lucky it didn’t!  If you’d gotten the mix wrong, or put it on too thick,
you could have blown somebody’s foot off,
or,
” he continued in a purple
fury, clearly indicating which he considered the greater sin, “you could have
damaged
the floor!
”