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  He saw it all: The broad, stone steps in front of the mansion ended in nothingness. Some kind of conveyance, a vehicle of sorts, floated in the air at the bottom of the steps. If he walked off the bottom stair, he would plunge into a nighttime abyss that would tumble him down and down for hundreds of feet before he at last collided with the face of the mountain cliff upon which the mansion had been built. Timothy whipped his head to the side and noted the place where the corner of the house was rooted—anchored—to the mountainside, and wondered if that was to keep the structure from falling or from floating away. There was magic in every inch of architecture here.

  The night sky was painted with swaths of milky luminescence, and beyond that veil was a sky filled with stars and ghostly orbs that must have been moons or nearby planets. Timothy tore his gaze from the heavens and cast it downward, beyond the stairs, beyond the base of the mountain, to the pale, glittering rainbow of lights that flitted about the sprawling landscape of the city below.

  Arcanum.

  Home? he wondered.

  It was breathtaking. All of it. But he was not ready to step off into the abyss just yet. Timothy Cade reached out and closed the door, then turned to look back into his father’s house. He stood in the foyer with his friends around him. Ivar was crouched by the door, on guard as always. Edgar was perched atop Sheridan’s shoulder, black eyes gleaming. Leander had only just reached the bottom of the circular stairs. He wore an expectant gaze.

  Timothy smiled. “I think I’ll start small.”

  * * *

  One week later, on a beautiful morning when migrating birds filled the blue sky above Arcanum with song, Leander returned to the Cade estate under very different circumstances. The world still mourned the passing of Argus Cade, the Parliament still recalled his memory at every session, and even the most hideous of magical guilds professed to honor his name. None of them were aware of the extraordinary events that had transpired that night when Leander Maddox had first attempted to deal with the aftermath of Argus Cade’s death, to collect his research and fulfill his final wishes.

  The world did not yet know about Timothy Cade.

  Leander had spent every night since at that home at the peak of August Hill, and during the day he stayed every hour he could be spared from his duties at the University of Saint Germain. Along with the savage Ivar and the mechanical man, whose every word and motion still astounded Leander, Timothy had traveled back and forth to the Island of Patience many times during that long week to gather supplies from his workshop. Timothy saw everything as a challenge, as a puzzle to be solved, and he was quickly adapting the house to deal with his magical handicap.

  Extraordinary boy, Leander thought now.

  Upon his high seat, the navigation mage had his fingers splayed before him, reins of cobalt energy guiding and lifting the carriage. Behind his veil, Caiaphas was silent, though Leander knew the man must be exhausted from a week of journeying up and down the sheer face of August Hill. He made a mental note to reward Caiaphas in the next wage cycle.

  Leander leaned over to gaze out the window of the carriage, his eyes riveted upon the peak of the mountain, upon the turret he could barely see, jutting from those dizzying heights even farther up toward the heavens. A cold ache filled his heart, and for a moment, Leander closed his eyes. These past days had been filled with such wonder and excitement that there were times he could forget his grief at the passing of his friend and mentor. Then he would see something of Argus in Timothy’s face, or think of the old mage in a quiet moment, and his sadness would return.

  “His passing is a loss to all of us,” rasped a voice beside Leander, a voice as deep and cold as the ocean.

  A kind of peace settled upon Leander’s heart, and he nodded once, then turned to gaze at his passenger. Lord Nicodemus was ancient, far older even than Argus had been, yet there was a vitality to him that belied his age. His fine hair was silver, as was the mustache that hung down far below his chin, and his eyes were the pale translucent blue of the deepest ice. Upon the seat beside him sat the gray, hairless feline, Alastor, Nicodemus’s familiar. Not all mages had familiars, and one look at the purring, hideous creature on the seat reminded Leander why he had chosen against one.

  “Yes, of course, my lord,” he replied. He wanted to say more, to explain that while Nicodemus was speaking about Argus’s talent, his skills as a mage, that he himself missed the man, not the magician. That Argus had been his friend. But he knew that Nicodemus was offering his condolences, in a way, and so he said nothing more.

  For several moments they sat together in silence as the navigation mage guided the carriage up August Hill. Leander knew it was an honor to have Nicodemus with him. The man was Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred, the guild to which Argus had belonged, and of which Leander was still a member. Nicodemus was among the most powerful men in the Parliament of Mages, respected both as a diplomat and a sorcerer.

  The world was divided in two ways: into nations and into guilds. Arcanum was the capital city of the nation of Sunderlund, yet the concept of nations had come to mean less and less over the ages as the guilds began to spread across the world. Every country was populated by members of a variety of guilds, and it was truly the Parliament of Mages that ruled, not any sovereign, national government.

  Leander had in his own carriage this beautiful, sunny day one of the most powerful men in the world.

  Lord Nicodemus shifted upon the plush seat, either uncomfortable or impatient. Leander glanced at him and his anxiety grew. The Grandmaster had agreed to accompany him to the Cade estate in Leander’s carriage to avoid drawing unwanted attention. When Leander had told him about the boy, Nicodemus had agreed that the decision to bring him into this world was appropriate, but he had warned Leander that if everything he said was true, Argus Cade might well have been correct in his concern for his son.

  If, Leander thought now. Nicodemus wanted to meet the boy for himself. And why not, since despite his handicap, the boy was a member of the Order of Alhazred by birth. Nicodemus would want to see the progeny of Argus Cade for himself, to witness the truth of his . . . affliction.

  The navigator guided the carriage to the front steps of the Cade estate and held it there, floating in the air. It seemed to Leander that the carriage was steadier than usual, and he wondered if Caiaphas was making an extra effort because of his venerable passenger.

  Leander stepped out of the carriage and held the door for Nicodemus, who scooped the cat up from the seat and carried it in his arms as he exited the conveyance with greater ease than his age should have allowed. Like one of the Wizards of Old, Nicodemus seemed impervious to age. Leander could never hope to have even a sliver of his power, but he was more than satisfied with his research and his teaching. It was a comfort, though, to have a grandmaster as powerful as Nicodemus leading his guild.

  “You may tie off, Caiaphas,” Leander told the navigation mage.

  Caiaphas nodded, but even veiled by the heavy blue fabric that hid his face, he did not gaze long upon his employer or upon the Cade estate, as if whatever Leander might be up to inside was not for his eyes.

  Together the two Alhazred mages went up the stone steps. Leander passed a hand in front of the door and it swung inward. The moment they stepped inside, Nicodemus paused and looked around the foyer, with a chuckle and a gleam in his eye. He dropped Alastor, and the cat immediately raced across the foyer and began to investigate the house. Nicodemus stroked his long mustache.

  Leander waved the door closed behind them, blotting out the sun and the wind. At first glance the foyer looked no different than it had when Argus was still alive, but he knew that it would take the Grandmaster only a moment to notice the subtle difference.

  “What is . . . ?” Nicodemus began, a frown deepening the lines upon his wizened face. “These lights. What are they?”

  Nicodemus strode across the foyer toward a tall wooden stand, upon which had been mounted a fluted glass instrument. Inside the glass, fire burned
, but it was not fire as they knew it, not ghostfire.

  “They are called oil lamps, my lord,” Leander told him.

  Nicodemus glanced around, his gaze taking in the other oil lamps in the foyer, two of which had been fastened to the wall. Another was set upon a table beneath a mirror, and yet one other had been clamped to the head of one of the gryphon finials at the bottom of the spiral steps.

  “But these are . . . the flames within are Hungry Fire, the destructive blaze!” the Grandmaster said, astonished.

  “Indeed.” Leander nodded proudly, as though Timothy were his own son. “The boy is clever. He has tamed Hungry Fire, put it to work for him in the same way sorcery uses ghostfire. Wait until you see the kitchen. He has made the most changes there. Unable to use a magical oven, he has created his own cooking appliance, including a mechanical stove. The bath is another marvel. I opened a waterflow for him, and the boy used metal tubes and other accoutrements to build his own shower.”

  Nicodemus blinked several times, obviously working to compose himself. “And he did all of this in a single week?”

  “Less than a week. A matter of days. Most of the materials he took from his own workshop. Some were already constructed.”

  Leander had more to say, but he did not get the chance. A clatter of metal echoed through the foyer from the corridor to the left of the staircase, and a moment later Sheridan emerged. The mechanical man’s head swiveled with a whir, his red eyes brightened their glow, and he hurried toward them.

  “Ah, gentlemen,” Sheridan said in his crackling voice, executing a courtly bow. “I thought I heard you enter. Master Maddox, welcome home. And I presume this other gentleman is Lord Nicodemus? It is an honor, sir.”

  Leander smiled thinly, hoping his beard would hide the expression. He had spent some time teaching Sheridan manners. He was an attentive student, a fast learner.

  For a long moment Nicodemus only stood staring with his ice blue eyes at Sheridan, stroking the ends of his mustache. In the long, jade-hued greatcoat he wore, the Grandmaster was an imposing figure, and Leander admired not for the first time the mage’s ability to remain calm under extraordinary circumstances.

  Slowly, pensively, Nicodemus pulled his gaze away from Sheridan and turned his attention upward, staring at the circular staircase as though he could see through walls and floors to where Timothy would still be working, deep in the heart of the house.

  “I want to see the boy,” Nicodemus said.

  Leander nodded. “Of course, my lord. Right away.” He turned to the mechanical man. “Sheridan, find your young master and—”

  The air itself was torn asunder with a shriek, a cry of battle that echoed off the walls, spilling down into the foyer from the stairs above. There was the crack of breaking wood and from somewhere distant, shattering glass. Leander looked up just in time to see the Asura warrior, Ivar, thrown against the wooden banister, splintering it. The savage fell end over end, the shadows slipping across his body, swallowing him and then revealing him again. Tribal markings moved fluidly across his skin. With stunning agility, Ivar twisted himself around in the air. As he plummeted toward the floor, he spun and lunged, and his right hand caught the edge of the stairwell below the level from which he had fallen.

  Immediately the Asura began to scramble back upward.

  “Alhazred’s eyes, what is this?” Nicodemus barked. “That . . . that creature. It cannot be what it appears. The savages are all dead.”

  “Not all,” Leander muttered, but he was paying little attention to Nicodemus now. Even as he started for the bottom of the staircase, he heard Edgar caw as the rook soared out over their heads, circling the crystal chandelier.

  “Hurry, mage!” the rook cried. “Intruders! Caw! Caw! Assassins!”

  The final word chilled Leander’s blood. On the bottom step he looked up again. He heard Timothy call his name in the same moment in which he spotted the boy. Tim was running down the stairs, leaping them two at a time, sliding on the banister, anything to speed his descent.

  Behind him came the intruders. Assassins, Edgar had said. Three, at first, then Leander saw a fourth and a fifth and at last a sixth. They were Cuzcotec, a guild comprised entirely of little sorcerers, men and women as small and slender as children, yet more barbaric than the myths had ever claimed of the Asura.

  The Cuzcotec intruders ran low to the ground like animals, leaping down the stairs, one diving downward to catch hold of a banister below. Another vaulted upward to latch onto the chandelier, its crystals tinkling musically as it swayed.

  Silently laughing, they set upon the boy. Timothy Cade, the un-magician, was helpless.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Cuzcotec attacker, its flesh the dark color and texture of a coarse-skinned milknut fruit, sprang at Timothy from its perch upon the banister.

  Timothy halted his descent, watching as his ugly attacker lighted upon the step below. In a hand which seemed too large for his body, the assassin held what looked like a ball of liquid metal. It couldn’t have been. He knew that. For liquefied metal would be too hot to handle. The rough-skinned creature chattered something in a language the boy could not understand, and he watched with a mixture of fear and wonderment as the object in the attacker’s hand flowed into the shape of a cruelly curved dagger.

  The creature thrust the blade at him with a savage grunt, but Ivar had taught Timothy well and he easily sidestepped this attack. There were beasts on the Island of Patience, some of them ferocious, and Timothy Cade had learned how to survive. Yet even as he dodged, the assassin’s blade seemed to extend beyond its limit, as if suddenly elastic, stretching out to find its target. Timothy held his breath. No matter how often he saw it, magic always astonished him.

  The creature’s chatter had become a high, piercing screech, and his attacker slashed at him frantically with the elongating weapon. Again Timothy avoided the blade, jumping two steps farther up the stairs. Ivar’s training again asserted itself as Timothy spotted an opportunity and shot a hard kick at the would-be killer’s face.

  It was as though the assassin had never even contemplated a physical attack, and had no idea how to counter it. Timothy’s heel connected with the rough flesh of the creature’s face, crushing its nose with a sharp snap. The killer cried out in shock and pain as it tumbled backward down the remainder of the stairs to lie in a broken heap at Leander’s feet. The mage immediately dispatched the stunned creature with a blast of bluish flame from his outstretched hands.

  Timothy had no idea how the tiny invaders had gotten into the house. He had been working on some new designs when they had erupted from the shadows, seemingly attacking from out of nowhere. He wanted to explain this to Leander, but he didn’t get the chance. The tinkling of the crystal chandelier above alerted him, and he spun to see one of the assassins dangling there, ready to pounce.

  “Back off, little man!” squawked Edgar. The rook was a black streak as he darted toward the invader clinging to the ornate light fixture. The ugly creature hissed, flecking its thin beard with bits of its last meal, and lashed out with another of those mystic blades, narrowly missing the fluttering, cawing bird.

  Timothy heard Leander below him, barking a litany of guttural, unfamiliar sounds. A blast of blue light sizzled past the boy’s face, struck one of the Cuzcotec, and turned it to stone. Timothy tore his gaze away from this breathtaking sight just in time to watch Leander lift one of his large hands and point at the chandelier. The big mage uttered several more snarling sounds and blasts of ruby fire erupted from his fingertips. The torrent of magical energy roared upward, struck the chandelier, and engulfed the distracted assassin.

  The creature cried out pathetically as it toppled from the chandelier and landed with a crack and a thump upon the stairs, unmoving, petrified by Leander’s spell.

  There was further commotion from behind, and Timothy turned, half expecting to see more of the ugly little killers coming at him. And no doubt they would have been, if Ivar had not been there to stop
them. The Asura warrior had positioned himself on the stairs to block their access to Timothy and was in the midst of fierce combat with a trio of the swift assassins. They shrieked and spat at Ivar in their ear-piercing dialect, and the Asura responded in kind. There seemed to be a connection between the two primitive tribes. Perhaps an ancient rivalry, Timothy thought, overwhelmed with awe as he watched Ivar fight. He knew that Ivar’s people were great hunters and fierce warriors, for his father had spoken of the Asura people on numerous occasions, but nothing had prepared him for this.

  There was a simplicity in the Asura’s movements, every action seeming to come as a natural reaction. It reminded the boy of a dance, a dance with violent and bloody results, but a dance nonetheless. Ivar fought on the stairs with only the knife that Timothy had made for him in his workshop back on Patience. The Asura used the blade as an extension of his body, dipping and weaving from stair to stair, striking at his enemies with what seemed to be very little effort. The expression on Ivar’s face remained void of emotion, as it often was. Only the dark, angular patterns that flowed across his pale body as he fought hinted at the fury raging within him.

  The assassins did not stand a chance; even with their magical blades of liquid metal, they were easily outmatched. Ivar lashed out, his movements a blur, and two of the creatures fell, bleeding, to the ground, their lives slipping away.

  The last of the small killers suddenly spun around and scrambled up the stairs, three at a time, with Ivar in pursuit. Timothy watched captivated as the assassin stopped at the top of the stairs, waving his hands in the air, fingers contorting.

  “Caw! He’s conjuring an escape route!” Edgar cried, diving and swooping in long circles high above the foyer.

  But even as the rook raised this alarm, a tiny hole of solid black appeared in the air above the assassin. The black hole began to grow, and air began to rush into it with a loud, hideous sucking noise. The creature sprang into the opening, slipping into nothingness. Ivar reached out and snagged the assassin’s ankle as a hissing bolt of white energy struck the circle of darkness. The escape route was violently closed and the fleeing sorcerer was severed midtorso.