Magic Zero Read online

  Shocked and repulsed, Timothy turned to see where the deadly bolt of supernatural energy had originated and for the first time became aware of the stranger in the house. He was a tall, older man, thin and almost regal, with a long, silver mustache. The strange mage stood beside Leander; at his sides, his hands were still wreathed in a crackle of magical energy.

  Timothy stared down from the circular staircase at this newcomer, who had about him an air of authority and power. “Who . . . who are you?” Timothy asked.

  Leander seemed about to reply, but he was interrupted as the regal figure gave a curt bow of the head and began to speak.

  “I am Nicodemus.” His voice was rich and melodious. “Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred.”

  The Grandmaster’s piercing eyes focused upon the boy, and for the first time since arriving in his father’s house, Timothy felt like an object of curiosity.

  “I am most happy to make your acquaintance, Timothy Cade.”

  A terrible dread filled Leander Maddox. His chest felt tight, as though he could not get enough breath, and he felt cold, though he knew the house was quite warm enough. He watched Timothy’s familiar glide across the room. A moment later Edgar touched down upon the boy’s shoulder.

  “Are you all right?” the bird asked. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?” Edgar craned his neck, surveying Timothy’s body for injuries.

  “I’m fine, Edgar,” the boy answered, a slight tremor in his voice. “Just a little shaken up.”

  Fine, yes. But had Nicodemus and I arrived any later . . . Leander did not want to entertain such thoughts. A terrible truth had begun to make itself clear to the young mage: His mentor, Argus Cade, had not been entirely wrong to think his son would be in danger should the world learn of his existence. By removing him from the Island of Patience, by bringing him through that secret dimensional door, Leander had put Timothy’s life in peril. Though he’d had the boy’s best interests in mind, his heart ached with the burden of guilt.

  Now Leander moved toward the stairs and motioned for the boy to join them in the foyer. “Timothy, please come down here.”

  The boy descended the remainder of the circular staircase. Just as Edgar had done, Leander examined the child for injuries. Timothy had been lucky. The Cuzcotec were notorious for the savagery exhibited upon their chosen enemies. If the boy had been alone in the house . . . Leander couldn’t even imagine the consequences.

  “It’s okay, Leander, really,” Timothy said, managing to muster a small, nervous smile.

  Leander brushed the boy’s hair back affectionately. He had quickly grown quite fond of Timothy. He was brilliant, his father’s son, and yet he was also open and warm and amiable in a way Argus had never been. What a fool I was to doubt you, Argus, Leander thought. Yet now, what can I do to correct my mistake?

  Softly and with purpose, Nicodemus cleared his throat, capturing their attention. Leander placed a hand upon the boy’s back and ushered him toward the Grandmaster.

  “Nicodemus is the one I was telling you about, Tim,” he explained to the youth. “Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred. If there is anyone in all of Sunderlund who can help you with your . . . affliction, it is he.”

  Timothy glanced about nervously as he stood before the great mage, then he lowered his head to stare at his bare feet. Even though Leander had provided the boy with adequate footwear, he insisted on going about barefoot, as if still living upon a tropical island.

  “I’ve heard great things about you, sir,” the boy managed, still refusing to look up.

  “And I, you,” Nicodemus replied. The Grandmaster reached out and lifted the boy’s chin, forcing Timothy to meet his gaze. A sad smile appeared upon Nicodemus’s face. “You have your father’s eyes. Argus was among the greatest of us, not merely in our own order, but in all the world. He is sorely missed.”

  Timothy nodded gratefully, visibly relaxing now that he grew more comfortable in Nicodemus’s presence.

  A whistling noise filled the foyer, startling Leander, who turned in alarm to find that it was no new attack, but merely a blast of steam from the angled pipe that jutted from the side of Sheridan’s head.

  The mechanical man clomped closer. “Where are my manners?” he said in his echoing, metallic voice. “Can I get anybody some refreshments? An herbal decoction perhaps?”

  “Not now, Sheridan, maybe—,” Leander started.

  “Yes,” Nicodemus interrupted. “A warm libation would be just the thing.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “And please have it brought to the study. This special young man and I have much to discuss.”

  Sheridan bowed his head and started off toward the kitchen with the grinding of gears and a hiss of steam.

  Nicodemus’s feline familiar strolled into the lobby as if he had been living there for years, and leaped into the waiting arms of his master. Alastor began to purr as the Grandmaster stroked his hairless back. Leander’s mind was in turmoil as he began to wonder how word of Timothy’s existence had gotten out, why the Cuzcotec had attacked, and if there might be other enemies already on the hunt for the boy. Still, Nicodemus exuded a calm that was almost intimidating, and Leander felt that he must follow the Grandmaster’s example.

  “Well,” he said, shaking his shaggy head to clear his mind. “Shall we proceed to the study then?” He motioned toward the hallway at their left and they all began to move in that direction. From the corner of his eye he saw that Ivar had cautiously descended to the foot of the stairs, his skin mimicking the colors of his surroundings, rendering him almost invisible. Despite having thwarted the attempt on Timothy’s life, the warrior remained wary.

  “It’s quite all right, Ivar,” Leander assured the Asura warrior. “We just need to speak with Timothy about some very important matters. He’ll be safe with us.”

  Leander gestured for the warrior to accompany them, but Nicodemus frowned and glared at him.

  “The primitive will stay outside the study,” the Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred proclaimed with obvious disdain. “Our discussion is not for his ears.”

  Timothy stopped, obviously startled. He glanced uncomfortably at Ivar. “But—”

  “Come, boy,” Nicodemus interrupted, and then he escorted the boy into his father’s study at the end of the hall as though Timothy had never spoken.

  Marks of jagged black flushed upon the warrior’s passive face, the only real sign that he had been in any way affected by the Grandmaster’s harsh words.

  “I’m sorry for that,” Leander said softly, embarrassed by Nicodemus’s insensitivity. He was well aware of the order’s lack of empathy for peoples of less civilized cultures. “He doesn’t understand the relationship that you and Timothy share. Let me explain to him and—”

  The Asura raised a pale hand, silencing him.

  “This is fine, Leander Maddox,” Ivar assured him. “Go and be with the boy. I sense that he is still very frightened.” Abruptly the Asura turned and strode toward the scattered corpses of the Cuzcotec assassins. He lifted one of the dead off the ground and heaved the body onto his shoulder as if it weighed nothing. “I will dispose of our enemies’ empty shells,” he said. “It is my duty as victor.” And he continued on his way up the stairs.

  Leander hesitated only a moment before following Nicodemus and Timothy into the study. In moments, Sheridan had brewed a hot drink made from several herbs, and the rich, spicy smell of the refreshment filled the room with its soothing aroma. The metal man had then dismissed himself, saying that he was going to assist Ivar with cleaning up after the afternoon’s incident.

  Leander sat in a high-backed chair and gazed sadly about the study, its floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with every conceivable kind of writing. This had been Argus’s favorite room. He had loved to read and would often retire here to unwind after a long day. Now, with the discovery of Timothy, Leander understood all the more the pressures of being Argus Cade.

  An individual pot of the herbed drink and a cup and saucer had be
en placed on a tray before each of them. Timothy had not yet touched his. He sat nervously next to Nicodemus on the long sofa; Edgar perched behind him. The Grandmaster sipped his brew and delicately placed his cup on the saucer. Alastor had curled into a tight ball on the great sorcerer’s lap.

  “I’ll be blunt, Timothy,” Nicodemus said, slowly turning his gaze to the boy. “Word of your existence has leaked to the outside world, and a panic has begun.”

  A shudder went through Leander. The Grandmaster had confirmed his fears.

  Timothy twisted around to fix the Grandmaster in his gaze. “A panic? About me? Why would they be afraid of me?”

  Edgar flapped his wings from his perch atop the back of Timothy’s seat. “Yeah, well that pretty much describes the Parliament,” the boy’s familiar croaked, squawking voice laden with sarcasm.

  “Hold your tongue, Edgar,” Leander warned.

  “Perhaps it was not only the primitive that should have been excluded from this gathering, eh, familiar?” Nicodemus noted idly, filling his cup with more drink from his brewpot.

  For once, Edgar managed to be silent.

  Leander leaned forward to set his empty cup and saucer down on the tray. “Grandmaster, I think Timothy is having a difficult time grasping how he might pose a threat to anyone.”

  Nicodemus continued to sip his libation, the hairless cat dozing in his lap. “In order to understand the guilds,” he proclaimed, “one must have the ability to think like them. Certainly they will show great interest in your handicap, some decrying the cruelty of your fate and others thinking you a blight upon our race. There will be debate about you, boy, all of it regarding what ought to be done with you, whether you are an unfortunate child or an aberration of nature. But in secret, the debate will focus upon only one thing: whether or not Timothy Cade is a threat to the guilds and their power.”

  Timothy grunted in disbelief and confusion, shaking his head. “But I still don’t—”

  “It isn’t that you cannot do magic, boy,” Nicodemus noted, sitting slightly forward and stroking his long mustache thoughtfully. “What has them all skittish is what else they have heard . . . that you are unaffected by it. Undetectable. Invisible.”

  “And that’s what scares them?” Timothy still wasn’t sure of the meaning of it all. He had yet to see the entire tapestry of the problem, choosing instead to focus upon the single threads. “That makes me dangerous?” he asked softly.

  “More than you can possibly imagine,” Nicodemus said, gently stroking the animal on his lap. “Try to think as they do, Timothy,” he said, tapping the side of his head with the tip of a well-groomed finger. “Imagine if somebody of your unique persuasion were used as a tool—a weapon against a rival guild.”

  The boy seemed taken aback. “Me? A weapon?” he asked incredulously. “But I could never—”

  “And they would not believe you, even if you swore on the spirit of your dear, departed father,” Nicodemus said, scratching Alastor behind one of his pointed ears. “The guilds wear a mask of solidarity when Parliament meets,” he explained. “But there is always mistrust amongst them. Dozens of secret grudges and wars play out in the shadows.”

  Leander’s heart ached for the boy. It was an ugly situation, but there was no use hiding it from him. “What Nicodemus says is true, Timothy,” he said, speaking in his calmest voice. “Even now Parliament is investigating the disappearances of a number of sorcerers who were probably victims of the kinds of covert activity the Grandmaster is speaking of. Mages do not traditionally disappear for no reason. The guild masters are always suspicious of one another, but this is only making them worse. It’s likely they’re being killed. And thus for the investigation—”

  Panic seemed to set in upon the boy, and he stood, fists clenched at his sides. “Why are you telling me this?” he demanded. “Are you trying to scare me?”

  Leander shook his head. “No, Timothy,” he soothed. “We don’t want to scare you, but you must be made aware of the dangers you face in this world.” He paused, running his fingers through his thick, red beard. “On the way here the Grandmaster and I discussed ways to keep you safe. And after witnessing the Cuzcotec attempt on your life, I believe that Nicodemus’s plan is most sound.”

  Timothy turned to Nicodemus. “And what is this plan exactly?” he asked warily.

  Nicodemus narrowed his eyes, brows knitting thoughtfully. “It isn’t safe for you here.” The Grandmaster’s tone was resolute, and as he spoke his feline familiar lifted its angular head and yawned languidly, displaying its needle-sharp fangs. “You will come and live at my estate where you can be properly protected. At least until we can be certain no one else will try to do you harm.”

  Timothy scowled and crossed his arms. “No, thank you. I want to stay here. This is my home now.” The boy moved to stand beside Leander’s chair. “Tell him,” he said, and though the words formed a command, they were more of a plea. “Tell him that it will be fine for me here.”

  Nicodemus had first made the suggestion back at the ministry, and Leander had dismissed it, but that was before the attempt on the child’s life. He reached out and took hold of the boy’s arms, drawing him closer. He looked Timothy in the eyes. “I swore to your father that I would do everything in my power to protect you. If the Cuzcotec know of you, then others know of you as well.”

  Timothy’s eyes had begun to well with tears, and he fought the show of emotion, lowering his gaze. “But Ivar and Sheridan can protect me,” he said.

  “Hukk! Don’t forget the bird,” said Edgar from his perch atop the sofa.

  Leander ignored the rook and continued to speak to his charge. “Perhaps they could, but there is no way to be certain. We have no way to know who else might mean you harm, and how powerful they might be. I will not risk your safety. I could not bear it.” He glanced past the boy to Nicodemus. The sage old sorcerer nodded his head in approval.

  “What makes you think I’ll be any safer with Lord Nicodemus?” Timothy asked, avoiding looking at the Grandmaster. “My father’s house has safeguards. You told me so yourself. But those . . . those things managed to get in just the same.”

  Leander nodded. “All the more reason. Your father, may he rest, is gone. This manse is compromised. Nicodemus’s estate is perhaps the most isolated, most secure home in all of Sunderlund. It would be almost impossible to enter uninvited, even if anyone would dare. Which is unlikely in any case. He is the Grandmaster of the Order of Alhazred. It would be tantamount to a declaration of war between guilds.”

  Nicodemus leaned forward, waking and dislodging Alastor from his lap. The cat leaped down and the Grandmaster steepled his hands beneath his chin, gazing at Timothy. “If you are not safe with me,” he said, “then there will be no sanctuary for you anywhere.”

  The boy gave a short, bitter laugh. “Well, that’s a comfort.”

  * * *

  The following afternoon a carriage hovered weightlessly in the air at the foot of the stairs that led up to his father’s home. Timothy stood on the last step and studied the floating vehicle that had been sent to take him away. It was the first time he would ride in one, and no matter how difficult things were, he could not stifle his excitement. It was sleek in its design, made of a golden metal that glistened in sunlight. Like Leander’s carriage, it had the image of a dragon at each corner, and it bore Nicodemus’s family crest on each door—a screaming eagle, its wings spread in flight. As a distraction from his anxieties, his brain attempted to devise a way in which a vehicle like this could be made to ride the air without the use of magic.

  A familiar hiss of steam filled the air and Timothy turned to see Sheridan making his way down the steps with Ivar close behind. They were each carrying large satchels containing the boy’s belongings. Behind them Leander was closing up the house with the aid of Nicodemus’s personal assistant, a stout man named Carlyle. Timothy’s eyes grew steely as he watched the men. In the short amount of time he had spent with the Grandmaster’s assistant,
he had decided that he did not care for the man even a little. Carlyle treated him like an oddity, meeting everything he said with a condescending smile and a nod.

  I can’t do magic, that’s all! he wanted to scream at the man. I’m not a simpleton. But he was sure that even that would have garnered the same patronizing response.

  Sheridan reached the bottom step.

  “Let me help you with that,” Timothy said, taking the bag from the mechanical man’s hand.

  Sheridan issued a cheery toot from his steam pipe. “Thank you, Timothy.” The metal man studied the sky carriage floating in the air before them. “My, isn’t it a wondrous craft,” he said, the gears and such within his head whining and whirring as if there were insects trapped inside. “It’s even larger than Master Maddox’s.”

  The carriage’s navigation mage, perched upon his seat at the front of the craft, turned to fix his stare on his passengers. He was draped in robes of yellow, similar to the hue of the vehicle itself. His face, as with all transportation mages, was covered in a veil of a darker hue than his robes. Many wore their faces completely covered, using senses other than sight for navigation. But Nicodemus’s navigator wore only a half veil, and his eyes glared intensely at them over the top of the veil. Timothy decided that this was not a person to be trifled with.

  “The machine and the savage will ride in back,” the navigation mage instructed in a gravelly voice, gesturing with an upraised thumb at a separate compartment that was attached to the back of the larger carriage. “Lord Nicodemus’s orders.”

  Timothy’s anger flared and his eyes narrowed as he stared at the navigator. “These are my friends you’re talking about. Nicodemus may not think much of them, but he shouldn’t be so narrow-minded. He’s just going to have to—”