The keys began moving, driving the short pistons beneath them to form the words and sentences that made up Dalbert’s daily report to Titus.
The report, partly in shorthand, partly in code, would have made no sense to Titus’s schoolmates—or most mages, for that matter. But to Titus, a half page conveyed as much information as an entire English broadsheet.
Usually he was informed about the decisions of the government, but tonight there were no mentions of the regent or the prime minister. Instead Dalbert supplied what information he had gathered on Fairfax and her guardian.
Haywood had been born on the largest of the Siren Isles, a picturesque archipelago southwest of mainland Domain. His father had been the owner of a commercial fishing fleet, his mother a fishery conservation expert. The couple had three children: Helena, who died in childhood, Hyperion, who ran away from home at an early age, and at last Horatio, the high-achieving offspring to make any parent proud.
The records of his education were typical enough for a gifted and ambitious young man, culminating in his admission to the Conservatory, where his brilliance stood out even among a brilliant crowd. At the end of his third year, his parents passed away in rapid succession, and he began to run with a fast set. There were numerous minor infractions on his record, though his academic success remained undiminished.
The wildness came to an abrupt end when he assumed guardianship of an eleven-month-old baby named Iolanthe Seabourne. The little orphan had been under the care of an elderly great-great-aunt. When the old woman became ill, she had contacted the person named next in the late Seabournes’ will to take charge of the girl.
Interestingly enough, the guardianship had not been without minor controversy. Another friend of the Seabournes’ had stepped forward and claimed that before the child had been born, the Seabournes had asked to put her name in their will, as the one to care for their child in the unlikely event of their demise.
The will was brought out. Haywood’s name was in it, hers was not, and that was the end of the matter.
Everything seemed fine for a while, but seven years ago, Haywood was caught match-fixing intercollegiate polo games. He was relegated to a position at the Institute of Archival Magic, where he plagiarized one of the better-known research papers in recent memory. After he lost that post, he found work teaching at a second-tier school. Still unchastened, he accepted bribes from pupils in exchange for better marks.
Outrageous actions on his part, yet the memory keeper had not intervened.
As for the girl, she was a registered Elemental Mage III, uncommon but still far less rare than an Elemental Mage IV, one who controlled all four elements. Judging by her academic record, she had no intention of becoming a street busker—the choice of many elemental mages these days, eating fire before tourists for a living.
And interestingly enough, the deeper Haywood got himself into trouble, the better her marks became and the more effusive the praise from her schoolmasters. A desirable trait, this, the ability to subsume fear and frustration into a singular focus.
His door opened, and in charged Wintervale.
Titus crumpled the report and threw it into the grate. “We do not knock anymore?”
Wintervale grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the window. “What the hell are those?”
The armored chariots were still there, motionless in the night air.
“Atlantis’s aerial vehicles. They have been there since before supper.”
“Why are they here?”
“I told you I met the Inquisitor today—must have run afoul of her,” said Titus. “Go ahead. Throw a rock at them and start your revolution.”
“I would if I could throw a rock that high. Aren’t they worried about being seen?”
“Why should they be? If anything, the English will think the Germans are up to no good.”
Wintervale shook his head. “I’d better go check on my mother again.”
“Give her my best.”
Titus waited a minute, then left his room to knock on Fairfax’s door. “Titus.”
“Come in,” she said, to his surprise.
She was in a long nightshirt, sitting barefoot on her bed, her back against the wall, playing with fire. The fire was in the form of a Chinese puzzle ball, one openwork sphere nestled inside another, and yet again another.
“You should not play with fire,” he said.
“Neither should you.” She did not look up. “I assume you are here to discuss freeing my guardian?”
Her voice was even. There was an almost preternatural calm about her, as if she knew precisely what she wanted to do with him.
When he was nowhere as certain what to do with her.
“Are you?” she pressed the point.
He had to remind himself that having sworn a blood oath to always tell the truth, he could no longer lie to her—at least not when asked a direct question.
“I came to get my spare wand back and to discuss your training. But we can talk about your guardian, too.”