The Crown Tower

CHAPTER 9

Hadrian stayed five days in Colnora while the rain poured, sleeping most of the time. The rest he spent wandering the streets, visiting taverns and inns, looking for that familiar hooded head. He never found him but saw Vivian’s face everywhere. Just about everything from his journey since leaving Vernes had been erased. If not for the horse, he might have concluded it had all been a bad dream. When the rain finally relented, he was glad to get on his way. He needed to put distance between himself and the strangeness, to add miles to separate him from still more ghosts.

He had a new mount, thanks to trading the heavy tow horse for a pretty rouncey named Dancer, who sported two rear white socks and a white diamond on her forehead. He had new clothes too-wool and leather, sturdy and warm. In no time at all the rain made them feel like old friends. For two days he had traveled, hood up and head down, but never lost the haunted sensation.

With the city far behind, he entered farmlands of brightly painted barns that faded to gray the farther north he went. Soon the barns disappeared, as did the fields, and he found himself on the third morning in a thick wood. The tunnel of oak, thrashed by another storm, cast a leafy bed of red and gold over the road. Big leaves, bright and beautiful against the black mud. Something about the wet always brought out the best colors. Trunks and branches became ink-black, but the otherwise dull leaves were yellow as gold and red as blood.

Hadrian drew his horse to a stop and waited. He was alone, but it didn’t feel that way.

The air was still. He could hear the patter of water dripping from the trees, the deep breath of the rouncey, and the jangle of the bridle as she shook her head. She didn’t like stopping. Dancer felt uneasy too.

This was how bad things always started in stories told at campfires or around small tavern tables. The young man rode deep into a forest. He was alone in the gray stillness, and all he could hear was the sound of dripping water, the hush of leaves, and then … A hundred things could follow. The man would see a light in the trees and follow it to his doom, or he would hear the pursuit of some creature stalking him.

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” Hadrian asked Dancer. “Ask Sheriff Malet in Colnora and he’ll agree with you.”

He gave a gentle nudge and the rouncey started forward again. The moment she did, Hadrian caught sight of movement. Not a falling leaf-something big, something dark, moving somewhere behind the bright colors. He turned and stared. Only trees.

“Did you see that?” he whispered.

Dancer continued to plod forward.

Hadrian kept his eyes fixed on the spot but saw nothing. Soon he was carried too far down the road to matter, but he continued to cast nervous glances over his shoulder. In the stories the stalker would be half-man half-wolf, a troll, or a ghost. And if it were one of Packer’s tales, it would have been a goblin wearing a waistcoat and a tall hat. While his imagination could conjure many possibilities, at least he knew it wasn’t a goblin. Perhaps a highwayman? A lone rider like himself, with new clothes and tack, would prove a tempting target. He continued to travel, keeping an eye to the wood and an ear to the breeze, but nothing ever revealed itself.

What little geographical information Hadrian retained from his nights before the hearth with Packer ended mostly with Colnora, as did his personal travels as a soldier. He was still in Warric, still in the kingdom of Ethelred, though near the north end. Sheridan was north of Warric-he knew that much. Somewhere along the road, but exactly how far he didn’t have a clear idea, and he wasn’t certain if there would be a sign or indication of the school along the way. He had passed several trails, which he ignored, guessing a university would be along the path most heavily traveled. The only thing north of Sheridan that Packer had ever mentioned was a land called Trent. The old tinker had described that place as a mountainous realm settled by violent people. Hadrian didn’t think he’d overshot, but he’d done stupider things.

By midmorning he entered a small village of simple thatch-roofed homes, zigzagging fences, and stone-cleared fields. No inhabitants were visible in the drizzle. He considered tapping on the door of a house that had smoke rising from the chimney when he spotted a man wheeling a manure cart.

“What village is this?”

The cart driver looked up slowly, as if his head weighed more than most. Hadrian recognized the body language. He’d encountered it often, usually in the company of a well-armed troop. Fear. The reaction was no less irrational than a deer’s flight, and Hadrian was certain that if this man and his cart could bolt with the speed of a whitetail, he would have already been gone. Hadrian had been in the employ of many armies, and none had questioned the right to seize such a village. The commander would take the best home for his headquarters. He’d give the others to his lieutenants, driving the previous owners out into the elements, keeping even their blankets. Pretty daughters were allowed to stay. Should the father object, he might receive only a beating-if the commander was in a good mood. But commanders of war-faring men were rarely in good moods. Hadrian could not recall if he’d ever stayed in this particular village. They all appeared alike, just as all the battlefields blurred meaninglessly together in his mind. Fear was a taught lesson, though, and Hadrian guessed this man had seen or felt the pain of men on horseback before.

Hadrian dismounted and softened his tone. “Pardon me, sir, I didn’t mean to startle you. I am merely passing through and hoped you could lend me directions.”

The man stole a peek at his face.

Hadrian smiled.

The man smiled in return. “Windham.”

“Is that the name of the village, or yours?”

The man looked embarrassed. “Ah, the village, sir. My name is Pratt, sir.”

“Nice to meet you, Pratt. And what river is that?”

“The Galewyr, sir.”

“And that would make this what kingdom?”

“We’re standing in the province of Chadwick, in the kingdom of Warric.”

“Still in Avryn, then?”

The man looked surprised. “Of course, sir. But that far bank begins the kingdom of Melengar.”

“Still in Avryn?”

“Yes, sir.”

The man set the cart back on its haunches and wiped his face with the crux of his sleeve. “Are you headed to Trent, then?”

“No, to Sheridan. I’ve just been traveling for several days and thought I might have overshot.”

“To Sheridan? Oh no, sir. You have half a day’s ride before you.”

Hadrian looked up at the leaking gray sky. “Wonderful. Anything you can tell me of the road ahead?”

“I don’t cross the river, sir.”

“Are there hostilities between the banks?”

“Oh no, Ethelred and Amrath have been peaceful neighbors for years. There hasn’t been a guard on the Gateway Bridge as long as I’ve lived here, and I’ve lived here all my life. I’ve just never had an occasion to cross. Bib the Potter, he’s been over. He sells his clays in the city of Medford. Goes twice a year, he does. That’s the royal seat of Melengar. It’s just up that way.” He pointed across the river and slightly to the left of the bridge. All Hadrian could see was vague gray shapes curtained off by the rain. “On a clear night in winter when the leaves are gone, you can see the lights of Essendon Castle, and on Wintertide morning you can hear the bells of Mares Cathedral. Bib, he brings back salt and colored cloths, and once he even came back with a wife. A pretty girl, but”-he lowered his voice-“she’s lazy as a milkweed. He can’t get her to fix a meal, which is just as well since she also can’t cook any better than a woodchuck. Bib’s place is a wreck now.”

“So to get to Sheridan, do you know how I would go?”

“Certainly. I ain’t never been, but plenty of folk going both ways through here. I talk to a few. Not many as nice as you, but I’ve talked to some. Seems the road splits just past the river. No sign or nothing Bib says, but the left heads to Medford-that’s the King’s Road. You want to stay right all the way up through East March, past the High Meadowlands. Bib’s never been that way-he only goes to Medford-but others say the school is near the Meadowlands, off to the east a bit.”

“Well thank you … Pratt, is it?”

“Yes, sir. Where you coming from, sir?”

“Colnora.”

“I heard of that. Big city they say. Not sure why people would want to live so close to one another. Unnatural really. And it’s people like that who come up here to escape Maribor’s wrath when he lets them know it. That’s what happened when that plague came through here six years ago. Plenty good folk died, and it was them that brought it. If it weren’t for Merton of Fallon Mire, we’d all be dead, I suspect. How are things down there now?”

“Strange, Pratt. Wet and strange.”

By evening, the sun managed to cut holes in the clouds, and slanted shafts of light streamed into Sheridan Valley as Hadrian approached. That Maribor-chosen look gave Hadrian hope his luck might have changed, but he wasn’t holding his breath.

Hadrian had been on a miserable streak ever since receiving the letter. How it found him in the wilds of the east was a miracle-or a curse. He was still working that one out. He had been deep in Calis in the city of Mandalin-the big arena with the white towers-which always had the best crowds. He performed three fights that night but remembered only the last one. Maybe he would have felt the same way afterward even if he hadn’t read the letter. He wanted to think so to restore some of his self-respect, help ease his guilt. The notion that it took his father’s death for him to quit suggested a connection and made him culpable. The idea was irrational, but sometimes those were the best kind. He wasn’t responsible, but he wasn’t innocent.

Pratt’s directions proved accurate, and the moment Hadrian spotted the bell tower to the east, he figured he had found his goal. He couldn’t remember a more pleasant valley. University buildings circled the shaded common like the stone monoliths in the jungles of the Gur Em. The tribal shrines had the same mystical quality, both sacred and inscrutable. These were just a lot larger. At the center stood a huge statue of a man holding a book in one hand and a sword in the other. Hadrian had no idea who he might be, perhaps the school’s founder. Maybe it wasn’t a statue at all but the giant who had constructed the mammoth buildings, somehow turned to stone. At least that would explain the stone halls. Hadrian hadn’t seen any exposed rock for miles, and it would take ten heavy horses and a greased sled just to move one of the blocks, much less stack them four stories high. If it wasn’t a giant, he couldn’t think of any other way to account for the place.

As he ambled into the circle, he spotted dozens of young men all dressed in gowns. They moved along walkways, careful not to get the hems of their robes wet in the lingering puddles. A number paused to look his way, making Hadrian uncomfortable, as he had no idea where to go. He had expected the university to be a single building, likely no more than one room, where he could just knock and ask for the professor. What he found was a good-sized town.

Reaching a bench, he dismounted and tied Dancer to the arm.

“Are you intending to be a student here?” one of the older boys asked, looking him over.

Hadrian got the impression from the wrinkled nose that the student didn’t approve. The boy had a haughty tone for someone so young, small, and weaponless. “I’m here to see a man by the name of Arcadius.”

“Professor Arcadius is in Glen Hall.”

“Which one of these…” He looked up at the columned buildings that appeared even taller with his feet on the grass.

“The big one,” the boy said.

Hadrian almost chuckled, wondering which ones the boy thought were small.

The student pointed to the hall with the bell tower.

“Ah … thanks.”

“You didn’t answer me. Do you expect to attend this school?”

“Naw-already graduated.”

The young man looked stunned. “From Sheridan?”

Hadrian shook his head and grinned. “Different school. Easier to get into but literally murder to pass. Hey, watch my horse, will you? But be careful-she bites.”

He left the boy and three others standing bewildered by the bench, watching him cross to the big doors of Glen Hall.

Inside, the architecture continued to amaze him. Hadrian had spent most of his years since leaving Hintindar living in military camps. His scenery had been limited to tents and campfires, forests and fields. He’d seen a few castles, usually while storming the walls, but remembered little. A hundred men swinging sharpened steel and firing arrows made it hard to observe the subtle nuances of chiseled stone and carved woodwork. The closest thing to what he saw here would have been the arenas-the ones he fought in near the end after he’d left the jungle. Grand amphitheaters with ascending tiers filled with stomping feet and clapping hands. They had some of the scale but none of the quality. Glen Hall made him feel he should remove his boots.

The ceiling was three stories above the entrance, where a chandelier holding two dozen candles burned pointlessly, given that tall windows cast radiant spears across the marble. Voices echoed down from a grand stair that was wide enough for five men to walk arm in arm. He moved across the polished foyer, his boots clacking, and peered around corners. The only face he saw was that of an old man captured in a painting as tall as himself. He paused, wondering how a person went about making a portrait of that size.

The bell in the tower began to ring and the pensive mood shattered, replaced by scuffling feet and excited voices. A herd of young men rumbled down the stairs. Gowns of various shades poured through the front doors or peeled off to the side corridors. Hadrian pressed himself against a wall as if caught in a canyon during a stampede.

“No, that’s not right. Professor Arcadius said Morning Star was the stone that glowed,” one boy said. He was either tall for his age or one of the oldest.

“It was magnesia,” replied the one walking with him, holding a book to his chest. He was shorter and thin as a willow; Hadrian almost mistook him for a girl.

“I don’t think so.”

“Care to wager?” The boy with the book took hold of the other’s arm, causing the flow of traffic to break around them. “You take my chores for a month?”

“I’m the son of a baron. I can’t scrub floors.”

“Sure you can. I’ll teach you. Even the son of a baron can learn how to scrub floors.”

The baron’s son smirked.

“All right, Angdon, how about we trade meals for a month?”

“Are you insane?”

“It’s not poison.”

“It would be to me. I don’t know how you eat that slop.”

“You’re scared because you know I’m right.”

The baron’s son pushed the other to the floor and stood grinning. “I’m not afraid of anything. You’d best remember that.” He turned sharply, intent on making a dramatic exit. He would have succeeded except that Hadrian was standing in his way and Angdon, the baron’s son, walked straight into him. “Watch where you’re going, clod!”

“No, sorry, the name’s Hadrian.” He stuck out his open hand and accompanied it with a smile.

Angdon glared. “I don’t care who you are. Go away.”

“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.”

“But you said you had artifacts of my father’s to give me.”

“An artifact to be precise. The last time I visited Danbury he gave me instructions that I should give it to you.”

Judging by the state of the room, Hadrian wondered at the odds of finding this heirloom, assuming it was smaller than a dog. Looking up, he noticed an owl roosting on the second-story balcony rail, the random collection of boxes and chests, and the near-complete human skeleton that dangled from a Vasarian battle spear driven into the wall.

Arcadius smiled and pulled a chain with an amulet from around his neck. Hadrian knew the medallion. His father had worn it every day of his life, even when sleeping or bathing. The amulet was such an integral part of him that seeing it there was like looking at a finger severed from his hand. Whatever fantasies Hadrian might have held that his father still lived were snuffed out, and for an instant he saw the bloodied tiger again, taking its last breath, eyes still open and staring back with the single question: Why?

“Would you like to sit down?” Arcadius asked, his tone gentle. “I think there’s another chair in here. Should be five, in fact. I suppose you could just use my stool. I sit too much anyway.”

Hadrian wiped his eyes. “I’m fine.”

Arcadius offered the sock, but Hadrian shook his head.

“Did he speak of me?”

Arcadius, who had gotten to his feet, returned to his seat. He removed the necklace and placed it on a pile of clutter in front of Hadrian. “He told me of your leaving. Something about an argument between you two, but he didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t press.”

“I called him a coward. It was the worst thing I could think of, and the last thing I said to him.”

“I wouldn’t be too concerned. He’s been called worse.”

“Not by his son. Not by the one person he had left in the world.” Hadrian let his head hang over the desk, over the medallion. The circle of silver was just a bit larger than a coin and was comprised of a ring of twisted knots. “Where did he get this? Did my mother give it to him?”

“No, I suspect this medallion is an heirloom that has been handed down through generations. It is very precious. Your father asked me to tell you what his father had told him. That you should wear it always, never sell it, and give it to your son should you have one. This was the first part of what became his dying wish.”

Hadrian picked up the chain, letting the medallion swing from his fingers. “And the second?”

“We’ll get to that, but that’s enough for now. You’ve had a long trip and your clothes look wet. I suspect you’d like a chance to dry them, perhaps take a bath, have a tasty meal and a good night’s sleep in a warm bed. Sadly, I can only offer you three of the four … Tonight is meat pies.”

“Thank you. I am a bit…” His voice cracked and he could only shrug.

“I understand.” Arcadius looked across the room and shouted, “Bartholomew!”

The door to the office creaked open. “Sir?”

“Be a good lad and see that Hadrian gets a meal and a bed. I believe Vincent Quinn is away, so there should be a vacancy in the north wing dormitories.”

“Ah … certainly, but … ah … how did you know I was still here?”

“Magic.” The old wizard winked at Hadrian.

“Pickles!” Hadrian grinned upon seeing the boy.

Bartholomew led Hadrian up a flight of steps to the dormitory, a long room lined with a row of neatly made beds. All were empty except one. Hearing his name, the Vernes street urchin popped up and offered Hadrian his familiar smile.

“I have made it, good sir. Rushed as fast as I could, fearful I would miss you, but here I am and arriving in this wonderful place two days ahead of you.”

“I had some problems and spent some time in Colnora. You were lucky to have missed that barge.”

Hadrian found the boy’s hand and squeezed tight. They were nearly strangers, but also foreigners with a common history. Even if they had shared only a few minutes walking through a rat-infested city, at that moment, Pickles was Hadrian’s oldest and dearest friend.

“I must apologize again, good sir, for being arrested just as you needed me most.”

“You don’t need to apologize for that, and you can call me Hadrian.”

Pickles looked shocked. “I am your humble servant. I cannot call you by name.”

“Well, sir makes me uncomfortable-and people might think I’m impersonating a knight.”

Pickles wrinkled his forehead in contemplation. Then the smile returned. “Master Hadrian, then.”

Not what he wanted, but he could settle for that.

“This is an amazing place, Master Hadrian. Never have I seen anything like it. So clean. It does not smell at all of fish or horse droppings.”

Horses. Dancer. He’d forgotten all about her.

“I’ve got to find a place for my horse.”

“I know a place,” Pickles said proudly. “I saw the stable. I can take care of all your livery problems. Besides, I need to go down to drop off this book.”

Hadrian noticed a surprisingly large tome on the bed. “You can read?”

Pickles shook his head. “Oh no, of course not, but this book has many pictures. The professor said I could look through it to pass the time while I waited for you to arrive as long as I returned it to the library in the east building where he had borrowed it from. I will drop it off and then see to your horse. Where is it that you left this animal?”

“I’ll show you.”

“You do not need to. I am your happy servant. You can stay here and be most lazy.”

Hadrian looked at the stark room that reminded him of too many barracks. “That’s okay, I’ve been most lazy enough.”

The sun, having disappeared behind the hills, left only an afterglow in the sky. Across the common a boy with a ladder was busy lighting lamps. Walking beside Hadrian, Pickles struggled with the book, which was as cumbersome as a prize pumpkin. The boy grunted as he shifted the weight from arm to arm.

“Can I help with that?” Hadrian asked.

“Oh no!” Pickles burst out as he sped up, walking faster and faster to prove he had everything under control, or maybe just to reach his destination before his arms gave out.

Next to Glen Hall was a smaller building. Hadrian finally noticed that there were indeed different sizes, although still imposing. This one was filled with cubicles, desks, large tables, and chairs in disarray. The library was not very large, but the walls were devoted entirely to shelves on which were books. Far fewer books than Hadrian would have expected. Many of the shelves had dead space, and he guessed the books that belonged there were on loan to students. Pickles let his book slap down on the central table where it landed with an echoing thud.

“There!” he said with a dramatic expulsion of air and collapsed over the table, as if suffering from a mortal blow. “I am not cut out for being a scholar.” He slowly rose, breathing hard. “I do not see how you do it. I understand swords are heavy.”

“Bad swords are.”

“There are good and bad swords?”

“Just like people.”

“Really?” Pickles appeared unconvinced.

“Bad swords are just uselessly heavy, whereas well-made ones are quite light and well balanced.”

“I still doubt I could lift one.”

Hadrian drew his short sword and held out the pommel to him.

Pickles eyed the weapon skeptically. “This does not look like a good sword. Pardon me for saying so, Master Hadrian, but it looks very tired.”

“Looks are often deceiving.”

Pickles’s big smile grew even larger.

The boy reached out and wrapped both hands around the grip, grimacing with anticipation. Then Hadrian let go, and the blade swept up so sharply that Pickles nearly fell backward.

“It is light. Not so light as a feather, but much more than expected.”

“Two and a half pounds.”

Pickles let go with his left hand to hold it up with only his right. “It does not feel even that heavy.”

“Because of the balance I mentioned.”

“Does it not need to be heavy?”

“It doesn’t take much to penetrate skin. Faster is better.”

Pickles dipped his wrist and swung the blade through the air. “I almost feel heroic with this in my hand.”

“And almost is as close as anyone ever feels with one of those.”

Pickles held the sword out at arm’s length and peered one-eyed down the length of the blade. “So was this made by an illustrious weapons master?”

“I made it.”

“You, Master Hadrian? Truly?”

“My father was a smith. I grew up beside a forge.”

“Oh.” Pickles looked embarrassed. “My most humble apologies, Master Hadrian. I am so very sorry about saying it is looking tired.”

“It’s tired,” Hadrian said. “And ugly-an ugly tool for an ugly purpose.”

“That one is not.” He pointed to the spadone on Hadrian’s back.

“I didn’t make that one.”

Hadrian took his weapon back and dropped the blade into its scabbard, where it landed with a clap.

They returned to the common, and he removed the straps that held his gear to Dancer while Pickles untied her lead. When Hadrian hoisted his pack to one shoulder and looked up, he saw the last thing he expected. On the third floor of Glen Hall, in the last window on the left, a man peered out-a man in a dark hood. It took a moment for Hadrian to realize what he was seeing, and the man stepped back, receding into the darkness and dissolving like a ghost.

“Did you see that?” Hadrian asked.

“See what?”

Hadrian pointed. “Up in that window just now-a man in a hood.”

“No, Master Hadrian, I am not seeing anyone. Which window exactly?”

Hadrian pointed. “That one.”

Pickles stared a moment, then shook his head. “Are you sure you saw someone? Why would anybody wear a hood inside? It is very warm in there.”

“I don’t know,” Hadrian muttered, still staring. “You’re sure you didn’t see it?”

“No, sir-I mean master.”

Hadrian felt foolish. It couldn’t be him. If anything, it had to be a student.

“Should I be running up to see if there is a person in a hood up there?”

“No, let’s get Dancer put away,” Hadrian said, but took one more look at the window before giving up.

After settling Dancer, they climbed the steps and entered the big doors of Glen Hall once again. The interior appeared so different from the first time, less bright, less inviting. The chandelier and the wall lanterns were not quite up to the task of illuminating the huge entryway and dark stretches of corridors now that the sun was down. It felt like a cave, deep and black.

“The professor said you were welcome in the dining hall,” Pickles explained as Hadrian dropped off his pack and swords on his borrowed bed.

“What about you?”

“Me? I will stay here and guard your many precious things from many prying eyes and many empty fingers.”

“It’s a school, Pickles. Theft isn’t allowed.”

“It is not allowed in Vernes either, but you would be surprised how many things disappear each day.”

“This is different. You think a kid is going to walk off with my spadone? Where would he hide it?”

Pickles pondered this, looking at the huge blade lying on the bed, then said, “Still, it is my task to watch your many wonderful possessions so they will not be stolen.”

“I insist you come.”

“But I-”

Hadrian folded his arms sternly. “What is more important? My things or my person? It’s inappropriate to walk around a school with weapons, but what will I do if I’m attacked?”

This brought a curious look from Pickles. “I am thinking bad things would happen to anyone who would attack you, Master Hadrian.”

Hadrian frowned. “I still need you to watch my back. A simple warning could save my life.”

“Oh yes. This is true.” Pickles’s head was bouncing up and down in a motion that was far too enthusiastic to be a mere nod. “You are far too trusting. I will come and do the watching and the warning.”

As Hadrian started to walk out, Pickles grabbed Hadrian’s belongings and stuffed them under the mattress. Then he grinned up at him. “There, now no empty hands will be touching Master Hadrian’s many wonderful things.”

“Lead on, Pickles.”

They entered a large hall with long tables where boys crowded together, eating. A few banners hung from the ceiling, but aside from those everything was made from wood, stone, or pewter. The chatter from what looked to be a hundred students created a roaring din.

Pickles had a dreamy look. “Wonderful place. You just walk in and they give you food.” He grabbed a pair of pies from the kitchen table where they were being shoveled out on large wooden pallets; then together they squeezed into seats near the end of a long table. The two stood out, as they were the only ones not in gowns.

As hungry as he was, Hadrian only stared at the pie. He started thinking about the window and the hooded man again.

It couldn’t be him. Why would he be here?

Hadrian was a witness to the murders. He could identify him-the only one left who could.

A witness to what? There is no boat, no jewelers, no Vivian.

It had been just a moment. Perhaps he didn’t see anyone at all. He might have been tricked by the light or lack thereof. Pickles had been right there, and he hadn’t seen a thing.

He couldn’t find me here anyway, could he? Did I mention Sheridan on the barge?

He wasn’t sure. He might have. There had been a lot of talk, the merchants and Vivian always asking questions. It was possible. But how did he get into the school? Not that anyone had stopped or questioned Hadrian. The boys on the common didn’t count. Neither would have likely spoken to the hooded man, and had they, Hadrian was certain he would have been even less deterred than Hadrian had.

“Who are you? You’re not students.”

Hadrian recognized the face. Angdon, the baron’s son, who’d run into him in the foyer.

“Guests,” Hadrian replied. “And we already met. I’m Hadrian, remember? Bumped into me just an hour or two ago.”

“Oh yes-the ignorant oaf who doesn’t know how to get out of the way.”

“You got all that just from walking into me, did you?”

“You didn’t move, and you didn’t know where you were going, so yes. And who’s this creature with you?”

Hadrian didn’t like the baron’s son very much. “This fine young man across from us is Pickles.”

“Pickles? What kind of name is that?” one of the other boys said.

Hadrian saw Pickles diminish.

“Memorable, wouldn’t you say?” Hadrian responded brightly.

“It’s ridiculous-but clearly fitting,” Angdon said. “And whose guest are you that you’ve come to steal our food?”

“Professor Arcadius. Oh, and you were right about the Morning Star-the white not the red,” Hadrian offered.

“Do you think that makes you clever? Do you think I will praise you now for siding with me?”

“Just thought you’d like to know.”

“I already know. I don’t need an ignorant peasant boy to confirm my education. I also don’t need your filthy presence at my table. Take your stolen pie and your Pickle and eat outside where you belong. You miserable-”

All Hadrian saw was Pickles’s pie slam into Angdon’s face. The plate fell away, taking the lower crust with it. The rest hung on the boy’s cheeks for a second. The incident would have been hilarious if the pie hadn’t been piping hot. Angdon screamed, clawing the pie from his face.

Across from Angdon, Pickles’s face was also red. He was up on his feet, his hands clenched into fists, and Hadrian wondered if the boy was about to leap the table after the wailing baron’s son.

Scooping up his own pie, Hadrian grabbed Pickles and headed out of the dining hall while the other boys searched for towels and water to aid their friend.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Hadrian said, rushing Pickles from the room.

“You are so right. I should have beaten him with the leg of a stool.”

“That’s not what I meant. You were supposed to be doing the watching and the warning, remember? Not the hitting and the punching.”

They slowed down when they reached the stairs. “Forget it. We’ll share this pie in the dormitory. I wasn’t hungry anyway.”

“You should have let me fight him.”

“You’d get in trouble for doing that. He’s the son of a baron-a noble.”

“He did not seem very noble.”

“Besides, Angdon is bigger than you are.”

Pickles nodded. “But I am tougher than he is.”

“He has a lot of friends.”

“Maybe,” Pickles said. Stopping on the steps, he added, “But I have one worth more than all of his combined.”

Hadrian couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, you do. And apparently so do I.”