Dana Stabenow: Powers of Detection

Gwynn wasn’t actually trying to eavesdrop on the headmaster. But how could she help overhearing when his study door hung wide open?

Just then he looked up and saw her.

“You wait here,” he said to someone Gwynn couldn’t see. “I’ll talk to Master Justinian.”

What did a murder-even a magical murder-have to do with the Maestro, Gwynn wondered.

But she didn’t dare ask. Radolphus strode out of his study, beckoned for Gwynn to follow, and set off in the direction of Justinian’s quarters at a half run, his voluminous black robes billowing behind him. When they arrived outside the familiar carved wooden door, Radolphus stopped. He fished a handkerchief out of his sleeve, pushed up his thick spectacles, and wiped his red and sweating face.

Gwynn bent down to put her ear to the door.

“Is he out?” Radolphus said, panting slightly.

“Oh no, headmaster; the Maestro doesn’t feel well enough to go out,” Gwynn said softly. “I just don’t want to wake him if he’s sleeping.”

Radolphus nodded approvingly and patted her head. Gwynn sighed. At twelve, she’d considered it an incredible honor, being apprenticed to Westmarch College ’s most powerful mage. She still wouldn’t trade with any of her fellow students, but after two years, she’d begun to wonder if she owed her assignment to her superior magical talent or her reputation for working harder than any of the other students. Justinian did create a lot more work than the other masters. And needed more looking after than a first-year student.

Suddenly a loud “Achoo!” rang out inside.

“Oh, bother,” the Maestro exclaimed.

“He’s awake,” Gwynn said, pushing open the study door.

The tall diamond-paned windows, normally open wide even in January to let in sunlight, breezes, and any interesting bugs that might be passing by, were closed. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight, though a lot of light leaked through the places where the Maestro’s cat had shredded them. A mysterious haze drifted through the room from a burning brazier just inside the doorway. Though the healer had assured Gwynn that burning this particular assortment of herbs would ease a stuffy nose, it didn’t seem to have had much effect, apart from evicting the goblins who had made a nest under the dining table. To her surprise, Gwynn missed the goblins, if only because they normally kept the place moderately tidy by devouring anything organic that fell on the floor.

The Maestro’s great chair stood so close to the hearth that he was in serious danger of setting his slippers on fire again, and he sat, his long frame wrapped in several blankets, frowning at a selection of vials, jars, and flasks arranged on the table beside him. His hair, uncombed for several days, stuck out in random directions, making him look far younger than his thirty years.

And just in case anyone doubted how sick the Maestro was, a small mechanical cigar-cutter in the shape of a gargoyle lay on the table among the medicines, still in one piece. Under normal circumstances, it would take all of fifteen minutes for Justinian to begin disassembling any mechanical object unlucky enough to fall into his hands. The gargoyle had lain on the table untouched for three days.

A teacup teetered in midair in front of Justinian, levitating just beyond his grasp.

“Take care of that, Gwynn, if you don’t mind,” he said.

Gwynn glanced around to see if the Maestro’s latest sneeze had done any other accidental damage. No, nothing that she could see. No singing andirons, talking cats, invisible furniture, or randomly summoned demons. She sighed with relief. Then she grasped the teacup firmly, removed the levitation spell with a few quick gestures, and set the cup back on its saucer.

“Thank you,” the Maestro said. “My head feels twice normal size, with about a tenth of its usual speed.”

He sank back into the chair and closed his eyes.

“Oh, dear,” Radolphus said. “I was so hoping you only had a slight chill. Because I’m afraid you’re needed up at the castle.”

“Whatever for?” Justinian muttered.

“There’s been a murder,” Radolphus said. “It’s magical. And also political. The duke asked especially for you to come and deal with it.”

“Magical how?” Justinian asked. “Was someone killed by magic? Or did someone kill a mage? Or-achoo!”

A few blue sparks twinkled through the room.

“Bother! What now?” the Maestro asked, appearing to brace himself.

“The bats,” Radolphus said, pointing to the archway between the study and the workroom, where the fledgling bats usually slept.

The bats were now brightly colored. Some had stripes.

“Oh, bother.” Justinian sighed.

“I think they look very festive,” Gwynn said. “I’ll change them back later; they’re not hurting anyone now.”

She was relieved when neither mage objected-she already had the faint beginnings of a headache, the kind you got from doing too many spells in too short a time. Or undoing them, in this case.

“I know you’re in no shape to do magic,” Radolphus said. “But-”

“We have to at least look as if we’re doing something,” Justinian said. “Put up a good show for a day or so until my powers are back to normal, and I can actually solve this.”

He snagged his glasses from the nearby table and shoved them onto his nose in a determined fashion. Gwynn realized, with dismay, that he’d apparently sat on them again, then mended them with bits of sticking plaster. Ah, well; she’d fix them for real later.

“That’s the spirit,” Radolphus said. “The duke’s manservant’s waiting in my study-shall I bring him down? He can tell you more about the problem.”

“Might as well,” Justinian said. “Just give Gwynn a few minutes to tidy up.”

Fortunately, Justinian’s definition of tidying only meant throwing an old tablecloth over the cold medicines and helping him into the velvet smoking jacket he liked to wear to impress visitors. Gwynn decided not to mention that at the moment its burgundy color brought out the chapped red condition of his cheeks and nostrils.

“Try not to sneeze while he’s here,” Radolphus said as he hurried off.

“Mind over matter,” Justinian muttered, standing and looking polite as Radolphus escorted in the manservant. Who didn’t seem the least bit awed or even curious at being allowed to enter the study of a master magician. He planted himself on the hearth with his back to the fire and stuffed his hands in his pockets-blocking the path to Justinian’s favorite chair. The Maestro had to clear the books from one of the other chairs to sit down. Radolphus, long familiar with the condition of Justinian’s furniture, chose to stand.

“You Justinian?” the manservant said. “If you are, the duke sent me to fetch you.”

“I am,” Justinian said. “Welcome to my study.”

His dignity was only slightly undermined by the fact that all his m’s came out as b’s.

“Young for a wizard, aren’t you?” the manservant said. “I thought you were all supposed to have long gray beards and warts.”

Gwynn glanced at Master Radolphus, who fit the stereotype perfectly.

“Master Justinian is the most gifted mage of his generation,” Radolphus said, in his sternest and most dignified headmaster’s voice. “Indeed, of our age.”

The manservant shrugged.

“And you are?” Justinian asked.

“Name’s Reg,” the manservant said. “Been working for the duke a month now.”

“What seems to be the problem up at the castle?” Justinian said.

“Duke’s men caught a pair of anarchists skulking about,” Reg said. “Notified the king, and a party of royal guards comes down to take them back to the capital. Duke goes down to oversee the transfer, and one of the prisoners suddenly falls down bleeding and dies. Duke’s personal physician checks him over and finds a fresh stab wound in his chest. Only nobody in the room had a sword, or even a large knife, just muskets, and anyway, there’s no hole in the bloke’s clothes. We figured a magical attack, but the duke’s personal magician says he can’t detect any magic. So he says for you to come and figure it out.”