Introduction
Of all the innovations introduced by Emily of Schooled in Magic, none had so immediate an effect as the printing press and the new alphabet, putting the power of the written words in the hands on anyone capable of memorising and learning to read a relative handful of letters and numbers. The concept of newsletters and suchlike was not altogether unknown on the Nameless World prior to Emily, but they were the domain of noblemen and magicians until the printing press unleashed a flurry of new broadsheets, ranging from serious newspapers to gutter tabloids. It was perhaps inevitable that someone would eventually start a school newsletter at Whitehall …
Chronologically speaking, The Muckraker’s Tale takes place between The Artful Apprentice and Oathkeeper, but you don’t have to have read any of the mainstream books to read and enjoy this novella.
Prologue
This is the greatest story ever told.
Hyperbole, of course. But Dad always said a little hyperbole never hurt anyone and believe me, he should know. He was a broadsheet reporter before broadsheets were even invented and his job meant he had to keep himself employed by keeping his clients invested in his work. If that meant exaggerating a few details, he did it. And he had very few qualms about it as well
My father was a bastard, by birth if not in behaviour. He was born on the wrong side of the blankets and while his father had made provisions for his support and education, the rest of his family were nowhere near so welcoming. His stepmother hated him — he was a grim reminder that her conduct had to be above reproach while her husband could go whoring and no one would say a word — and his half-brothers and sisters loathed him. He had a reasonably decent education, but what could he do with it? I don’t blame him for going into quasi-exile and heading to Dragon’s Den, where talent sometimes rose above birth and breeding. He had enough magic as well as education to make a living. And he had something to offer.
His family wanted to know what was going on in Dragon’s Den. Who was in, who was out, who was on the rise and who was going down… my father, armed with talent and determination and a certain willingness to let the pureblood aristocrats make fools of themselves, slotted neatly into his new role as correspondent. He collected gossip, verified it as best as he could, and then wrote it in letters for his clients. He called himself a correspondent and wrote to anyone willing to pay his fees. They called him a muckraker and regarded him with the same kind of loathing and contempt they reserved for whores, scullery maids, and mercenaries, even as they made use of their services. Dad found it amusing to watch how none of them would be seen in public with him but begged him — when they were firmly out of the public eye — to keep them informed of what was going on. The first person to hear the news, in the distant mansions of the rich and aristocratic, would have an edge over his competitors. And Dad was the best in the business.
He had few principles, but the ones he did have he held tightly. He dug up the truth as best as he could and did everything in his power to make sure it was the truth. He guarded his reputation for honesty like aristocratic women guarded their reputations for chastity. Truth was a defence against his clients, when they questioned his word. They considered him a deniable and ultimately expendable asset, but they knew better than to break their word with him. He’d ensure that the entire world knew what they’d done, and, due to his reputation for veracity, no one would ever trust them again.
I don’t know how he survived long enough to get married and have a daughter, let alone raise her to follow in his footsteps. His profession was hazardous. By his retelling — and for once I don’t think there was any hyperbole — he’d come close to death a thousand times in his first decade as a correspondent. He’d been beaten up by private guards, turned into animals and objects by magicians, even attacked in the streets by faceless assassins who could have been sent by anyone, anyone at all. Mum always feared that one day he’d go out in pursuit of a story and never come back, but he survived. Personally, I suspected it was because he was useful to everyone, even the ones who hated him. They didn’t kill him because they wanted to make use of him. His best tips often came from people who wanted to make trouble for their rivals.
And then the New Learning changed everything.
Dad was the best in the business, but even he couldn’t write to everyone. There weren’t many scribes willing to work for him — the Scribes Guild frowned on correspondents — and there were limits to how much news he could send to his contacts. The printing press and cheap paper changed all that. Dad bought one of the first presses and expanded his services, then — when he heard about broadsheets — started his own. Everyone — everyone who thought they were anyone, at least — bought copies, just to make sure their names weren’t amongst the gossip. The vast majority of new broadsheets lasted only a few editions before folding and vanishing, their writers and editors unable to bring in enough money to keep themselves going, but Dad survived and prospered and grew wealthy. He was rich enough to send me to Whitehall to study magic. And that was when I started the school newsletter.
The Whitehall Times was my baby. I liked to think it would keep the students informed of what was going on, from minor matters to major; I also liked to think that its stories would rock the establishment and keep the tutors honest, as well as giving the students a chance to get involved in running the school. But, in truth, my lofty dreams crashed straight into reality. It wasn’t easy to keep the paper interesting and some of my colleagues had weird ideas of what would actually sell copies. I mean, who cared about the kitchen staff’s plans for the dinner welcoming the new students? They served the same thing every year!
I told myself we needed a scoop. And fast.
And that, my readers, was why I was sneaking into the sport captain’s office on a very early morning.
Chapter 1
If you ask an old student of Whitehall, they will tell you there is a tradition of trying to sneak into the offices and escape without being caught. What they won’t tell you, I reflected sourly as I made my way through the air vents, is that it is very hard to avoid being caught. The youngest and least experienced of the tutors still has at least five or six years of experience on even the oldest students, meaning that it is rare for anyone to get through the wards and escape without being detected. They may tell you that you’ll get a pass, if you steal the exam questions ahead of time, but it hardly ever happens. It’s much more likely you’ll be trapped in the wards and held prisoner, until the tutor arrives to free you. And then you’ll be in deep trouble.
I concentrated on breathing through my mouth as I crawled on. The sports captain had been careful, very careful, to protect the doors to her office and I doubted I could crack them, certainly not without setting off the alarms. But, like most students who weren’t particularly interested in the nuts and bolts of her profession, she might have missed the air vents when she layered wards over her office to keep out intruders. It was claustrophobic as hell — and I was sure there were mutated rats scurrying around in the darkness — but no magic blocked my way as I reached the end of the passage and peered through the darkness. I’d checked the outline of the office carefully, the last time I’d been forced to enter, and if I was right…
Got it, I thought.