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  Timothy sighed and rolled his eyes. He was afraid, but he was also tired of the gigantic mage’s raving.

  “Go on,” he urged.

  Lord Romulus opened his mouth wide and spewed an arcing stream of fire across the chamber. It scorched the ring table and burned the air above the opening in the floor. Edgar squawked loudly and took flight, darting into the air and up into the eaves of the aerie. The magical flames washed over Timothy, engulfing his upper body and his face.

  They did not even feel warm.

  When Lord Romulus clacked his jaws closed and the fiery blast subsided, the Aerie was silent save for the cooing of seabirds and the gentle lull of the ocean waves far below.

  Nicodemus stood, arms crossed upon his chest. He inclined his head in a ritual gesture of respect. “And now that your questions are answered, my friends, let it be known that Timothy Cade is a member of the Order of Alhazred and remains under the protection of the order, and my personal protection as well. This is to honor the memory of his father, but also in sympathy with a bright, unique child who wants nothing more than to learn about a world that he has been deprived of his entire life.

  “Timothy Cade has come home,” Lord Nicodemus said, and the Grandmaster’s eyes seemed to burn with grim warning. “And he will be left in peace. Or I shall be very displeased.”

  The Grandmaster took a last look around, then glanced at Timothy. The boy could not hold back the smile that bloomed upon his features then. Much as he might be humorless and set in his ways, Lord Nicodemus was a true friend.

  “And now,” Nicodemus said, glancing at the others, “I thank you all for coming. Safe journey home.”

  * * *

  The bright sun shone warmly down upon SkyHaven and her banners flapped and waved in the ocean breeze. The water was a deep, rolling green and the sky a pale blue that seemed to hint of clouds yet to come. If there was a storm to come, however, there was no sign of it on the horizon.

  Leander Maddox stood upon the battlements of the fortress, the wind whipping at his hair and ruffling his bushy beard. The view to either side—the spires of Arcanum or the vast ocean—was breathtaking, yet his focus was entirely upon the activity in the courtyard below. A flock of seven or eight fanquail paraded about, digging grubs from the lawn, their rainbow plumage spread behind them. Songbirds fluttered in among the leaves of the trees on the far side of the courtyard, where a horticulture mage wrung rain from the air above his gardens with a flourish of his fingers, using the sorcery that was unique to his specialty.

  Leander paid little attention to the wildlife or the hortimage. His attention was occupied by the graceful violence unfolding below him. As several lower-caste Alhazred mages looked on, arms folded within their robes, Timothy sparred with Ivar. From the way the boy moved, fluidly and yet with a firmness and confidence that seemed out of place for someone so small and lithe, it would have been obvious to any observer that the Asura had trained him. There was a synchronicity between them, a familiarity that made the sight of their combat one of elegance.

  Ivar’s flesh was the color of the grass. It was difficult at times to keep track of his movements from above. Timothy seemed not to have a problem doing so, but by now he must have been used to the chameleon qualities of the Asura. Against an opponent unfamiliar with his tribe, Ivar would have an immediate advantage. Leander was glad they were allies.

  With a feint that even the Asura warrior believed, Timothy tricked Ivar into lunging for him, then dodged out of the way. He tapped his mentor in the back of the skull with a closed fist, then danced swiftly aside before Ivar could respond.

  The Asura smiled and bowed, then stepped aside and gestured toward the four Alhazred mages who had gathered. Leander could not hear what was being said from this height but when the mages removed their cloaks, one by one, he realized what was happening. Timothy was going to spar with Nicodemus’s followers. The boy seemed vulnerable in the blue breeches and loose white shirt Nicodemus had provided for him. In the uniforms of their rank within the order, the mages were imposing. Four full-grown men against one teenaged boy.

  Leander blinked with surprise and felt a tremor of alarm go through him. It was uncommon for Alhazred mages to be trained in hand-to-hand combat, but not unheard of. If they had been trained, however, he was certain there was reason for it, that Nicodemus would have ordered it to enhance their capacity as security operatives at SkyHaven. Their training would have been completely different, however, from Timothy’s. As the boy’s self-appointed guardian, Leander feared for him. He was, after all, still a child in so many ways.

  As the four mages began to encircle the young un-magician, Leander decided he must put a stop to this exercise. He spun on his heel, searching his memory for the fastest route of descent from battlement to courtyard, and an animal yowl filled the air as he nearly stepped on Alastor.

  Nicodemus stood perhaps twenty feet away, his hair and long mustache blowing in the breeze, hands hidden inside the sleeves of his robes. In the bright sunlight he was pale as a corpse and his pink eyes now seemed nearly as white as a blind man’s. Leander was taken aback by his appearance and startled by his mere presence. He had not heard the Grandmaster arrive and had thought himself alone upon the fortress wall. They gazed at each other in silence for a long moment, there atop the battlement, high above SkyHaven.

  “You worry for Timothy.” The Grandmaster strode to the edge of the battlement and looked down on the courtyard. “You should not.”

  Leander stepped up beside him, hesitant and anxious, worried for Timothy, ever aware that with Argus Cade dead, Leander was responsible for the boy’s well-being. But when he glanced into the courtyard again he gave a sharp intake of breath and blinked several times as if doubting what he saw. Two of the Alhazred mages were on the grass, one of them cradling an injured arm, while a third wisely retreated. Even as Leander watched, Timothy darted toward the fourth and final opponent. The mage struck out at him, but Timothy sidestepped the blow as though the man were moving at half speed, hooked a foot around the man’s ankle, and gave a firm shove, knocking him onto the grass.

  Those mages already on the ground laughed good-naturedly at how easily their last hope had been bested. Off to one side, blending almost completely into the landscape, Ivar watched with an air of approval, but not a trace of surprise.

  “You see,” Nicodemus said. “Nothing to be concerned about. There is danger, certainly, but the order will do whatever is necessary to protect him, even as we discover how prepared he is to protect himself.”

  Leander glanced at the Grandmaster, whose eyes squinted against the light.

  “This is Timothy’s life now.”

  * * *

  In one of the lower levels of SkyHaven, not far from the quarters that Lord Nicodemus had reluctantly set up for Ivar, the Grandmaster had also allowed Timothy to construct a workshop not unlike the one he had had on the Island of Patience. There was a forge and bellows, and there were windows that looked out over the ocean. With all that had been going on since his arrival, Timothy had had time to do little more than assure himself that all of the crates he had packed up at his father’s home had been placed in the workshop.

  Until today.

  Inspired by the new purpose he had been given, Timothy had enlisted Sheridan’s help in moving crates to locate the project he had been in the midst of building before the first assassins had come after him at his father’s home. The model he had constructed back on the Island of Patience had turned out to be a perfect template, at least so far as he could tell.

  The air was thick with the scent of oil and far too warm. A mage could have commanded the spell-glass to disappear, but the windows would only open for Timothy if he touched them, disrupting their magic. Each time he wanted to cool off he had to take a short break and go to the window, negating the spell-glass to get a breeze into the workshop. Eventually he would have to ask Nicodemus to alter the spell on the windows, but for now he kept at his work. Beads of sweat rolled
down his back and forehead as he stoked the fire and let the rotor blades for his new creation heat in the flames. Then he laid the metal flat on the anvil and hammered it down, the clang and spark of his hard work making his heart leap. How he had missed this!

  Timothy took in the shape of his gyrocraft, its small, gliding wings already firmly fastened into place. Edgar fluttered his own black-feathered wings and walked along the craft, investigating the contraption with the abrupt, inquisitive jerks of the head that were a reminder that no matter how intelligent the familiar was, he was still a bird.

  Timothy took a rest and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He set the rotor aside to let it cool and walked over to the workbench where Sheridan was carefully joining together the links of the small chain that would be part of the moving heart of the gyrocraft.

  “How is it coming?” the boy asked.

  The mechanical man’s eyes brightened and his head swiveled around to look at Timothy. Steam sighed from the release valve on his metal skull. “I will be done with this task shortly, Timothy. But I must ask you again to reconsider. You are putting yourself in a great deal of danger, in a craft that is untested.”

  Timothy smiled and wiped his hands on his apron. “Come on, Sheridan. The only way to solve the problem of it being untested is to actually test it.”

  With a loud flutter of wings, Edgar flew the short distance across the workshop and alighted atop Sheridan’s head. “Caw, caw!” the rook cried. “I’m with him. If people were supposed to fly, they’d have wings.”

  The boy put his hands on his hips. “My father brought me many books on the island, Edgar. I know there are plenty of birds who have wings but can’t fly.”

  Both of his friends were agitated and Timothy appreciated their concern, but his mind was made up. He was about to tell them this when Sheridan’s head swiveled quickly toward the door of the workshop and a blast of steam tooted from his release valve.

  “Hukk!” Edgar cried, feathers ruffling. “Company.”

  The massive silhouette that filled the doorway was cloaked in shadow, but Timothy recognized Leander instantly. A moment later the mage stepped into the workshop, smiled at Timothy, and glanced around, shaking his shaggy mane.

  “Never seen anything like it,” Leander said. “Your workshop on the island was extraordinary, Tim, but the speed with which you have adapted this space is even more impressive.” He spotted the frame of the gyrocraft. “And that . . . you’re actually building it, eh? Amazing.”

  With a grin, Timothy bounded toward him and threw his arms around the mage. “I saw you earlier, while I was sparring outside, but I thought maybe you had left already.” He pulled back and shot Leander a menacing glare. “Of course, I would have had to pummel you. It isn’t the same around here without you.”

  Leander’s smile flickered, faded, and then disappeared completely.

  A trickle of sweat slid down the back of Timothy’s neck and he shivered with dread, a frown knitting his brows. “What?” he demanded. “What is it?”

  The mage forced his smile to return. “It’s nothing. Nothing for you to worry about. And I’m glad to see you as well. I had some business at SkyHaven today, and I thought perhaps we might dine together this evening. By all accounts, you’re doing well. I heard how you handled yourself this morning in the aerie, and I’m proud of you, Timothy. I’m certain your father would be as well. It is a difficult situation you find yourself in, and you have given an admirable accounting of yourself thus far.”

  Timothy stared at him grimly. “Stop that.”

  Leander arched an eyebrow. “Stop what?”

  “Tell me what’s on your mind right now. Is there some new danger Nicodemus hasn’t told me about? Have some of the other guild masters come? What’s going on, Leander? Don’t leave me in the dark. That’s far more dangerous than anything else I’m up against.”

  At first the mage began to shake his head again. Sheridan clanked and whirred and hissed steam as he walked over and crossed his arms, eyes glowing brightly as he, too, glared at Leander.

  “Caw! Caw, caw! What’s on your mind, Master Maddox?” Edgar crowed.

  Leander ignored the rook and the mechanical man, his eyes focused on Timothy. “I’m afraid for you, boy. That’s all. With so many guild masters shying away from the conference this morning—and even among those who showed themselves—it’s impossible to know who can be trusted. Especially with . . .”

  Once again he shook his shaggy mane of hair and reached up to stroke his beard. “Never mind. I didn’t come here for—”

  “Leander,” Timothy said firmly, gazing up at the massive mage. “Please. Speak your mind.”

  The mage sighed and glanced away. He hesitated a moment before turning back to them, his eyes alight with intensity. “What I tell you in this room must remain in this room. There are things even the Grandmaster does not know.”

  “Of course,” Timothy replied.

  Leander glared first at Sheridan, who nodded once with only a whisper of steam, and then at Edgar, who cawed his assent. With this, the mage seemed to shrink slightly, settling down into his own skin. He glanced at the others again before at last refocusing on Timothy.

  “Lord Nicodemus and I have both told you of the recent disappearances in Arcanum. Mages from many guilds have gone missing. The fact is that more than two months ago I was engaged by the Parliament to investigate this mystery. They came to me in secrecy so complete that not even my own Grandmaster—not even your father, my friend and mentor—were told of my work for the Parliament.”

  Edgar hopped to the ground and walked toward Leander, talons scritching the floor. “And what have you discovered?”

  Dejected, Leander threw up his hands. “Precious little thus far, I’m afraid. They might well be running off to form a new guild. It has happened before, but not for more than three hundred years.”

  Timothy heard the doubt in his voice. “But you don’t think so. You think something awful’s happened to them.”

  Slowly the mage nodded. “I do.”

  “I don’t understand,” the boy said. “If it’s supposed to be so secret, why are you telling us? I’m glad you did. I just don’t understand why.”

  Even in the mix of firelight from the forge and the twilight that gleamed in through the windows, Timothy saw that Leander’s face reddened. The mage glanced away, as though in shame, and it was several long moments before he looked up again.

  “I fear for you, Timothy,” Leander said. “I don’t approve of you becoming involved in the espionage that you and the Grandmaster have planned. Yet I know that you can do it, that you will likely be very successful at it. And as much as it pains me to confess it, I fear that one day soon, I may need to endanger you further by asking for your assistance in my own clandestine affairs.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The gyrocraft is ready, Timothy thought as he finished tightening the last of the bolts on the lightweight frame. But am I?

  Nicodemus had told him during supper that this would be the night his special skills would be put to use, and Timothy had felt as though he might be sick. He had expected it to be soon, but not this soon. He’d hardly touched his meal, then excused himself from the dining chamber and headed to his workshop. If tonight was indeed the night, he had to be certain that his flying craft was in perfect working order.

  Timothy stepped back and admired his work. He had conceived and designed it ages ago, but now at last he had been able to complete it. The workshop Nicodemus had set up for him was everything he could have hoped for, tucked away on the southern side of SkyHaven, away from prying eyes. All he had to do was spy for the Order of Alhazred and everyone would be happy—well, almost everyone.

  Throughout making the final tweaks to the gyrocraft, Edgar had fluttered nervously about the workshop, black eyes gleaming with disapproval. Now, as Timothy gave a spin to the large rotor on top of the craft, the rook croaked loudly from atop a workstation covered with leftover
parts. “I know you haven’t asked for my opinion. I’m just the familiar, after all. But I have to tell you, Timothy, I don’t care for this one bit.”

  The tiny propellers attached to the short wings and to the tail of the gyrocraft were fastened well enough, but Timothy checked and double-checked the main roof rotor one final time. Though in an emergency he could jettison the rotor and simply glide to a landing, he did not like to entertain that possibility. Better safe than sorry.

  Edgar cawed loudly.

  “I’m sorry,” Timothy said sheepishly. “I’m not ignoring you. I just want to make certain I don’t miss anything. That . . .”—he smiled—“That would be bad.”

  The rook’s feathers ruffled. “Caw! If you’re trying to make me less worried, you’re really bad at it.”

  Throughout his work on the gyrocraft, Sheridan had been his loyal assistant. Now the mechanical man hissed a sigh of steam, and with a whir he raised his chin. It was obvious he shared the rook’s fears. Timothy handed his wrench to Sheridan.

  “I know how you feel, Edgar, but I don’t have much of a choice,” Timothy explained. “They’ve tried to kill me twice now, and if I don’t find out who’s responsible, the third time might be the end of me.”

  The bird cocked his head, light reflecting off his black beak. “I still don’t like it.” With a rustle of feathers he turned his back on Timothy. “You’re just a boy, not a spy—and look at how he’s dressed you.”

  With a frown Timothy glanced down at himself, at the midnight black, tight-fitting clothing Nicodemus had provided him. He reached up to touch the hood that was bunched around his neck.

  “It’s so I don’t get caught,” Timothy said to his disgruntled familiar as he studied himself. “It’ll help me blend with the shadows—that’s what Nicodemus said, anyway.”