Michael Sullivan - The Crown Tower

“Love to. Could you show me how to get to Professor Arcadius’s office?”

“I’m not your personal escort.”

Hadrian could see the anger in the boy’s eyes. The kid was mad, but Hadrian was older and taller. Angdon had also noticed the swords and was smarter than the boy near the bench, since he decided not to press the matter.

“It was Morning Star,” Angdon called over his shoulder while walking away.

“Magnesia,” the other boy muttered.

“Friend of yours?” Hadrian offered his hand, pulling the fallen student to his feet.

“Angdon is noble,” the boy explained.

“You’re not?”

The boy looked surprised. “Are you joking? I’m a merchant’s son. Silks, satins, and velvets, which”-he slapped at the material of his gown with a miserable look-“are now filthy.”

“Hadrian.” He held out his hand again.

“Bartholomew.” The boy shook, giving up on his gown. “I can show you where the professor’s room is if you like.”

“Awful nice of you.”

“No problem, this way.”

Bartholomew trotted up the stairs, taking them two at a time. When they reached the second floor, he turned down a corridor, then another, and stopped before a door at the end of a hall. He beat on the wood with the bottom of his fist. “Visitor for you, Professor.”

After a short delay the door pulled back to reveal the face of an elderly man with a white beard and spectacles. What Hadrian knew of Arcadius was limited to boyhood memories of a stranger who visited his father on a few occasions. He would appear unexpectedly, stay with them for a few days, and then leave, often without saying goodbye. He performed magic tricks to amuse the children of the village, making flowers appear and lighting candles with a wave of his hand, and once he claimed to have made it rain, although it had already been quite cloudy that day. Hadrian had always liked the old man, who was soft-spoken and friendlier than his own father. When Hadrian was six years old-shortly after his mother died-Arcadius visited for the last time. He and Danbury had talked late into the night. He never came back after that, and his father never spoke about the old man.

Hadrian stepped forward. “Hello, I’-m-”

Arcadius raised his hand, stopping him, then stroked his beard while his tongue explored the ridge of his teeth. “The thing about the old is that we never change so much as the young. We slip in degrees, adding rings like trees-a new wrinkle here, a shade less color there, but the young transform like caterpillars into butterflies. They become whole new people as if overnight.” He nodded as a smile grew. “Hadrian Blackwater, how you have grown.” He turned to the boy. “Thank you, Bartholomew. Oh, and it was Morning Star-but the white kind, not the red.”

The boy paused, stunned. “But…”

“Out you go.” The old man shooed him. “Close the door on your way in, Hadrian, won’t you, please.”

Hadrian took a step and then paused. Chaos hardly described the interior of the office before him, which appeared as if mayhem incarnate had been locked behind a door. The room was a warehouse of oddities, but mostly it was filled with books. Hadrian had never seen so many in one place. Shelves ran to the ceiling and each was filled, so more books were piled in stacks like pillars that teetered and swayed. Many had fallen, scattering the volumes across the floor like the remains of some ancient ruin. Among them stood barrels, bottles, and jars of all sizes. Rocks and stones, feathers, and dried plants were stuck in every visible crevice. An old wasp nest hung in the corner above a cage housing a family of opossums. There were other cages as well, housing birds, rodents, and reptiles. The room was alive with squawks, chirps, and chatters.

Hadrian failed to see the route Arcadius had used and was left to his own judgment on how best to cross the sea of debris. Stepping carefully, he joined the old man, who sat on a tall stool at a small wooden desk.

Arcadius took off his glasses and began wiping the lenses with a cloth that might have been a sock. “So you received my letter, then?”

“I’m not sure how. I was in Mandalin, in Calis.”

“Ah … the ancient capital of the Eastern Empire. How is it? Still standing, I assume.”

“Some of it.”

“To answer your question, I sent Tribian DeVole to find you and deliver my missive. The man is nearly as tenacious as a sentinel and having been born there is well acquainted with the east.”

“I still don’t see how he could find me, or how you even knew I was in Calis.”

“Magic.”

“Magic?”

“Didn’t your father ever tell you I was a wizard?”

“My father never discussed you.”

Arcadius opened his mouth, then stopped and nodded. “Yes, I can see that.” He breathed on the other lens and began rubbing it with the cloth.

“If you can do magic, why not fix your eyes?”

“I am.” Arcadius slipped on the spectacles. “There-all better.”

“That’s not really magic.”

“Isn’t it? If I shot an arrow and killed Phineas, the frog in that cage behind you, would that be magic?”

“No.”

“But if I snapped my fingers and poor Phineas dropped dead, it would be, right?”

“I suppose.”

“What’s the difference?”

“People can’t normally kill frogs by snapping fingers.”

“Close. The correct answer is, it’s magic because you don’t know how I killed the frog. If you knew I’d poisoned pathetic little Phineas moments before you entered, would it still be magic?”

“No.”

“Now let me ask you this … how does wearing these glasses make it possible for me to see more clearly?”

“I don’t know.”

“Magic!” The old man smiled brightly, looking over his glasses. “You see, as I get older I have more trouble seeing. The world hasn’t changed-my eyes have. Noting the way glass alters perception through focus, I’m able to create these bits of glass that assist my eyes by magnifying my vision. That’s what magic is, you see. Observations, coupled with logic, knowledge, and reasoning, provide a wizard such as myself with an understanding of nature. This allows me to harness its power.” The professor looked up as if hearing something. “Relax, Phineas. I didn’t really poison you.”

Hadrian turned and indeed there was a frog in a cage behind him. When Hadrian turned back, Arcadius was busy adjusting the position of his stool.

“In your case,” he went on, “it was a simple matter of putting one’s ear to the ground and listening for news of a great warrior. I know the kind of training your father provided you. He also informed me of your intentions after you left Hintindar. Together those bits of knowledge all but guaranteed you would be famous by now. Determining your location was easy.”

Hadrian nodded, feeling foolish for having asked. “I want to thank you for notifying me and for taking a hand in administering my father’s affairs in my absence. I’m glad he had someone he could count on, especially since you seemed to have stopped coming around.”

“Your father and I were old friends. I met him long before you were born-just about the time he settled in Hintindar. I visited him often in those days, but the years and our ages got in the way. It’s hard to travel long distances when walking across the hall is a challenge. That happens … time slips by unseen.”

“How did you hear of his death?”

“I visited him last year and we reminisced about old times. He was very sickly, and I knew his time was short, so I asked to be notified of any change in his condition.”

“Did you go back to Hintindar, then?”

“No, and I don’t suppose I ever shall.”