Such topics had drained the elder magus. The poor man blamed himself for the many mistakes made during the Daemonwar, and had never quite got over the loss of so many friends and colleagues during that daemonic invasion. He deeply regretted the resulting political deadlock that left the Arcanum sitting impotent and idle while the empire crumbled around them. Fortunately I had been able to alleviate some of those worries, when and where I could lend a subtle hand, in my own unique way.
Beyond a warded archway to my left, through studies and libraries and grim guards, lay the personal chambers of the Archmagus. What had happened to my old friend? He had taken a brat from Docklands under his wing, despite my loathsome Gift, only to disappear as I fled the city. Whatever happened that night I had nothing to do with it – I would have taken a knife in the gut for that man.
Next to his chambers were the offices of the Administratum, and below the feet of those merciless bureaucrats lay level upon level of locked vaults containing every ancient artefact ever dug from the desert ruins of the Empire of Escharr by the greedy hands of Arcanum magi. Deadly weapons and devastating magical devices slumbered beneath our feet in the most protected place in the world – so secure I’d never even seen the warded doors to those vaults.
I walked in the opposite direction. A pair of guards checked the scroll provided by Old Gerthan and let me pass into the Courts of Justice without any fuss. Further in lay the Arcanum dungeons, where rogue or corrupted magi were chained and guarded by sanctors until they were put down for good. I’d been on the run for ten years, and if I were caught here then I too would spend my last days languishing in those dank pits.
This area was mostly frequented by wardens and scribes so with any luck I wouldn’t encounter any magi. I confidently entered a large room lined with bookcases and shelves. Eight scroll-laden desks lined one side, occupied by young scribes – those still with sharp eyes – transcribing scrolls. Their quills scratched across parchment, sounding like rats in the walls. One large and imposing writing table guarded the entrance, on the other side of which sat a stern-faced older woman with grey hair pinned back into a tight bob. She set down her quill and scrutinized me, mouth twitching with disapproval. “May I help you?”
I handed over my scroll. “I need access to the evidence rooms and the listed box.”
She unfurled it and scanned the text. “Everything seems to be in order.” She snapped her fingers. “Edmund, show Master Reklaw to evidence room three.”
A lanky lad with a beaked nose jerked upright, chair scraping along the stone. “Right this way, Master.”
He led me through the back and down a corridor to a nondescript door. “May I be of any further assistance?”
Another door opened further down the corridor. A tall woman appeared, wearing azure silken robes, her pale olive skin revealing some mix of Esbanian blood. An elegant gold circlet held back long dark curly hair. My stomach lurched: my old flame Cillian. And then it dropped away into a black pit of dread as a withered old hag of a woman followed her out: Shadea Saverna. With Byzant gone she was now the oldest magus in existence, an elder adept of most forms of magic and a member of the Inner Circle. She was the Arcanum’s foremost expert on blood sorcery and her interrogations were a gory legend. If I was scared of Cillian spotting me, then Shadea made me want to piss myself. If either caught sight of me I was as doomed as a lame horse in a tannery. Spirit-bound blade or not, I wouldn’t stand a chance. The more powerful the magus, the stronger the Gift, and the more their minds and bodies naturally resisted foreign magics. Shadea would be able to resist any mental attack long enough to burn me to ash with the flick of a finger.
I spun to put my back to them. “So how does all this work? I was given some numbers…” It was a poor ruse, but all I could think of.
The boy began explaining the evidence indexing system whilst I sweated and tried to ignore them walking straight towards me. I didn’t listen to a word he said; instead waiting for any gasp of surprise from behind me.
“Indeed, Ahram remains locked in a vicious civil war after the assassination of three prominent philosopher-priests of the reunification sept,” Shadea said, continuing a conversation as they made their way in my direction. “In truth only the impartial librarians of the Great Archive of Sumart hold Ahram together at all. As our main business partners in Taranai this will result in trade remaining disrupted for at least another year, and without those exotic goods coming through our ports the Esbanian merchant princes ply their trade elsewhere and war over more lucrative shipping routes.”
Cillian sighed. “The smaller kingdoms and barbarian tribes across the Sea of Storms also vie with each other. Death walks every land these past few years. Speaking of which, what of the slain warden set to guard that warehouse in the Crescent?”
“If we are to believe the surviving wardens’ story,” Shadea said, “then something sent them to sleep while they were supposed to be guarding the Granton building.”
Oh shite. If they were coming over to review the same evidence I was…
“Whoever this woman they encountered was, we will find her,” Shadea continued. “I am curious – why go to the effort of killing one and disabling two others, then take nothing? One of my own wards was also discovered and broken, and that I did not expect.” She huffed. “This may perhaps be related to the Skinner killings in some manner we are not yet aware of.”
My heart pounded. They. Were. Right. Behind. Me.
“Have you found any trace of an alchemic substance in their bodies?” Cillian said.
“None,” Shadea replied. “The corpse has also yielded no obvious cause of death. I shall obtain the living wardens and research the matter further; however the simplest explanation is most often correct. They shall rue wasting my time if I find they were drunk and taking alchemics on duty. Such incidents have become worryingly frequent of late.” Those poor bastards I had left asleep at the warehouse had no idea what they were in for. Still, better them than me.
“In which case it would seem prudent to remind them of their duty,” Cillian said. “Evangeline of House Avernus has excelled herself of late. The wardens may respond better to her presence than to ours.”
Shadea cackled. “A good choice. I do hope she does not break too many this time.”
They passed by while the boy continued through his list of instructions. I strained to listen as their voices gradually moved out of earshot.
“Master Reklaw?” I blinked, the boy had finished and was frowning up at me. “May I help you with anything else?”
“Ah, right. No, thank you. I’ll be fine on my own.” I opened the door and slipped inside, closed it firmly behind me and let loose a huge sigh of relief.
A broad-shouldered young woman with short dark hair sat at one end of a large bench in the centre of the room. She glanced up as I entered, and I noted gorgeous green eyes in an otherwise plain face. She wore an unadorned tunic and trousers rather than the lavish dress of noblewomen or the warded robes of a magus. She didn’t have the plump flesh of a scribe chained to a desk either. A warden then. I nodded to her and she resumed digging through a box of numbered items, tallying the contents with her list on a scrap of parchment.