Page 23 of A Tower of Half-Truths

Thirteen

When Mavery arrived at his apartment the following morning, Alain was abuzz with something that she suspected had kept him up all night. He was still wearing his faculty robe, his eyes were ringed with dark circles.

She’d barely taken off her coat when he steered her to the sofa.

She lowered herself beside a pile of books that hadn’t been there the previous day: alchemical recipes, herbalism field guides, medical texts on arcane maladies.

He paced back and forth as he spoke. Watching him was like following a frenzied game of shuttlecock.

“Kazamin has given me so much to think about,” he said. “Peer review, for starters. The book chapters, I can read on my own time, but as for the spellcraft…well, that will be more complicated. I think it’s time we talk about my protocol.”

“Protocol?”

“In case of my accidental death.”

“What?”

He stumbled, then yelped as his shin collided with the tea table. “You told me you worked for wizards before,” he said as he rubbed his leg. “Did they never mention such a thing?”

Were these theatrics a ruse to catch her in a lie? She opted for a bit of truth, but not enough to give herself away.

“That work was always temporary. The wizards’ accidental deaths were never a concern.”

He planted himself beside her with so much force, the sofa shifted back a few inches. He grasped her shoulders and looked her squarely in the eye. She laughed nervously at his bloodshot, unblinking stare.

“I’m about to tell you something of grave importance,” he said.

“Pun not intended?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Mavery, I’m being serious.”

The phrase “deadly serious” danced on the tip of her tongue, but she thought better of it.

“Sorry.” She flattened her smile. “What is it?”

“Have you ever wondered how wizards manage to be so long-lived? How even those without elven ancestry can live as long as the Nilandorens?”

“I’d always assumed it had something to do with magical blood.”

“You’re halfway there. If it were merely a matter of arcana, all mages would live a century and a half or more.

Archmage Seringoth is among the oldest wizards in the world—a hundred and forty-three, if memory serves—but he should have died decades ago, dozens of times over.

Remember when I once told you wizards are given certain privileges? ”

She nodded.

“Well, chief among those is that we can be resurrected.”

“What!?”

Her jaw dropped. She had heard rumors of resurrections, but had always assumed they, like most things pertaining to wizards, were nothing more than that.

“Spellcraft, alchemy, what-have-you…these all come with risks. And when those risks prove lethal, assistants are duty-bound to follow their wizard’s resurrection protocol.”

“Why the hells didn’t you tell me this upfront?”

“Because this knowledge is not meant to be shared with the general populace. But now, I will be testing some potentially volatile spells. The chances of a fatal accident are not incredibly likely, but they are more than zero. If that happens, I will need you to resurrect me.”

Her eyes widened. “And how am I supposed to do that? I know a little healing magic, but—”

“Don’t worry, you won’t need to cast any spells.

There is a loose floorboard beneath my bed.

Beneath that, you will find a box containing everything you need.

It is imperative, though, that you follow the protocol as soon as possible.

The longer you wait, the less likely I will be able to return.

And, of course, there are other stipulations, but…

” He shook his head. “We need not get into those now. My protocol will explain everything, if and when the time comes.”

“ ‘If and when’?”

He winced. “Er…one should always prepare for the worst.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the bedroom door. Whatever this “protocol” entailed, it had to be valuable, if it was capable of bringing someone back from the dead. She should have trusted her instincts and checked for loose floorboards when she’d had free rein of the apartment.

“Why not show me now, give it a trial run?” she asked.

“I’d rather not, but I can assure you it’s all very straightforward.

If you’re capable of learning Soudremancy on your own, this will be child’s play.

Just follow my instructions and you will be fine.

I will be fine.” He absently scratched his chest. “Don’t forget: I was once an assistant in your exact position.

I myself have been through the protocol several times.

I wouldn’t task you with this if I didn’t think you could handle it. ”

She should have been thrilled that he trusted her with this secret protocol, that her plan was working. Yet, she was left with a sense of foreboding. Was the procedure so horrifying, he thought she would back out once she knew what it required?

“All right,” she said. “But tell me you’re not going to test any dangerous spells right now. You don’t look like you’re in any state to do that.”

He ran his fingers through his thoroughly mussed hair. “I won’t, and I know. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Mavery narrowed her eyes.

“None at all.” Alain shrugged. “Can’t let something as mundane as sleep get in the way of a research breakthrough.”

“What breakthrough?”

“I can’t tell you yet.” When she opened her mouth, readying a rebuttal, he added quickly, “This isn’t related to the Sensing spell. Not directly, at least. But you can assist me with something else in the meantime.”

He pulled his notebook from his pocket, tore out a page, and handed it to her.

At first, she struggled to decipher his scribblings, but she soon recognized them as a list of alchemical herbs, minerals, and solvents.

Nothing looked out of the ordinary, until she came to the final item on the list: powdered kutauss claws.

Kutausses were often bred in captivity, declawed, and sold as exotic pets.

Mavery suspected the one presiding over the lobby downstairs was a victim of that very practice.

Their claws were ground into a powder that was popular among poisoners, while the kutausses themselves were popular pets among the wealthy.

Neither could be sourced from an ordinary shopkeeper; the demonspawn trade was exclusive to the black market.

What business did Alain have with such an ingredient? A single teaspoon was enough to sap the arcana from a dozen mages, and he wanted two ounces of it. Was his alchemy hobby more nefarious than he let on?

“Some of these ingredients are a tad…exotic,” Mavery said.

“Oh, I’m well aware, but the apothecary I use is nothing short of a miracle worker. I’ve yet to request an ingredient Enid can’t source.”

Mavery had an uneasy feeling about this, but she had no choice but to play along.

“I suppose you want me to go shopping for you,” she said.

“Yes, but I’ll come with you this first time, get you and Enid properly introduced. Besides, I could use some fresh air.”

“I think you could use some sleep.”

Maybe she could convince him to lie down on the sofa before heading out, which would buy her a little time to check under the bed. Maybe even the storage room, if she could manage it.

“My eagerness to start this project means I couldn’t sleep right now even if I tried.

Don’t worry about me, I’ll get some rest later.

If we leave now, we should arrive as soon as the shop opens.

” He stood up. Mavery cleared her throat, eyeing his wrinkled robe.

He looked down. “Er, but perhaps I should change first.”

The Cracked Pestle was a little hole-in-the-wall tucked down an unassuming side street in the Market District.

The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with bottles of every size and color.

Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters, giving the air a medicinal scent.

To get to the front counter, they had to weave around stacks of barrels filled with minerals waiting to be scooped and weighed, or solvents and serums waiting to be tapped and bottled.

One corner of the shop was devoted to broken alchemy equipment—a heap of cracked glass and tarnished metal that had been pushed aside and forgotten. It was little wonder. Everything in this place exuded chaos, much like Alain’s apartment had weeks ago.

Behind the counter was a woman with russet skin and long graying dreadlocks.

She stood over the hearth, stirring something in a small cauldron.

She wore a red-orange dress with ragged hemlines and flared sleeves.

It seemed a risky outfit for working over an open flame.

No wonder Alain liked this woman; perhaps they’d bonded over their shared disregard for fire safety.

Alain rang the bell at the counter.

“Be with you in a minute!” the woman called over her shoulder. She gave her concoction another stir, then donned a pair of thick gloves. With a grunt, she heaved the cauldron off the fire and onto the flagstones.

“Working on a tincture, Enid?”

“No, this is just breakfast for Peaches.” She paused. “Hold on a tick, I know that voice.” She whipped around so quickly, the hem of her dress fanned the flames. “Mr. Tesseraunt! Well, I’ll be godsdamned. It’s been a hound’s age!”

She tossed off her gloves as she rushed around the counter, then pulled Alain into a hug that was no less enthusiastic than the one Declan had given him yesterday. But Alain didn’t seem to mind this one. He returned it with a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“I can’t tell you how good it is to see my favorite customer again,” Enid said as she released Alain.

He blushed. “Oh, you only say that because of my order from three years ago.”

“One thousand, four hundred, seventy-six potins—and twenty-eight coppers. A record sale that has yet to be beaten. Until then, you’ll be my favorite!”