Page 8 of A Tower of Half-Truths

When she stepped off the lift, her thoughts became peppered with doubts.

Turn around and tell that old man you’re not his errand girl.

You don’t really want to be here.

It’s not too late to change your mind.

Mavery blinked, and her mind quieted once more.

The first thought had seemed to be her own, but where had the others come from?

She shifted the box to one arm, then closed the gate behind her.

The rattling reverberated down the long wood-paneled corridor.

It contained no windows, but was lit by a handful of sconces—all infused with magic, judging by their halo-like auras.

As she proceeded down the corridor, a new wave of doubts washed over her. These were shorter but more tempestuous than before.

You have no business here.

Turn around.

Leave.

Mavery stopped. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

And there it was: the taste of copper. The air was filled with warding magic strong enough to manipulate her thoughts. With a shudder, she wondered if there was some Mysticism involved. She couldn’t make herself immune to magic this powerful, but simply being aware of it dampened its effects.

As she pressed forward, she focused all her thoughts on the act of putting one foot in front of the next. The intruding thoughts persisted, but now they were suggestions rather than commands.

She did not need to see the number on the door to know she had the right place.

The door at the end of the hall was radiant with magic.

The thoughts now screamed at her, begged her to turn around.

She ignored them and instead focused on the warding magic itself: a half-dozen spells, each represented by a tendril of colorful light, and woven together like an intricate tapestry—a masterpiece crafted from arcana.

Rarely could she recall seeing magic so breathtakingly beautiful, so flawless.

This was a test, she deduced. The wizard must have planned for his applicants to prove their worth by getting through the front door.

She lowered the box and leaned as close as the magic would allow.

Even the most complex ward could be manipulated; it was just a matter of finding a weak point.

With her nose inches away, she could identify the individual spells by color.

Blue for protective wards; violet for soundproofing; gold for alarms; sage green she couldn’t identify, but assumed it represented the thought manipulation spell.

Luckily, she Sensed no red-hued blasting wards, so at least this wizard didn’t intend to maim anyone.

“Aha!”

She spotted the weak point at last: a single thread whose aura was duller than the others.

This spell had nearly run its course. She raised her hand and pinched the thread between her thumb and forefinger.

Of course, she couldn’t physically touch it, but it responded to her magic as though she had.

With the precision of a surgeon, she pulled it loose and created a hole no larger than a pinhead.

Using the same technique she’d used on Baron Roven’s safe, she tried coaxing the tiny hole to widen.

It refused to budge. She held firm and focused her arcana.

“Come on, you,” she muttered.

Like an invisible game of tug-of-war, she pulled, and the ward pulled back. The hole widened to the size of a coin, then the size of an apple. But no matter how hard she fought, she couldn’t freeze the hole in place, much less break the ward. She would have to act quickly.

In one swift movement, she slipped her hand through the hole, gave the door two quick raps—the soundproofing ward muffled them—and pulled her hand back.

With a snap, the hole shrunk to a pinprick again.

Heart thrumming against her ribcage, she sighed with relief.

Early in her career, she’d managed to ensnare herself in a ward—an unpleasant experience she never wanted to repeat.

Moreover, she didn’t want to look like a novice to the wizard she planned to impress.

The magic didn’t take kindly to her efforts. The intruding thoughts now pounded inside her skull, too loud to ignore.

YOU’RE NOT WANTED.

BEGONE, TRESPASSER.

LEAVE, OR ELSE.

She would not leave, not when she’d come this far.

A moment passed, and then the door opened an inch. A face, partially hidden in shadow, peered at her through the gap. The violet tendrils vanished; the stranger had dismissed the soundproofing ward.

“Who are you?” The voice was masculine, though soft and somewhat strained.

“Hello, I’m Mave Reynard.”

She’d put enough distance between herself and Burnslee; it felt safe to resume using her real given name. The surname, however, was fake. It was the go-to alias for thieves who wished to remain anonymous, but she doubted a wizard would know that.

“Did Declan send you?” the voice asked.

“Who’s Declan?”

“Volsegar?”

She shook her head; she didn’t recognize either name.

“Never mind. Why are you here?”

“I’m inquiring about the position.”

“What position?”

“The wizard’s assistantship.”

The door opened wider. The remaining wards dissipated, taking the intruding thoughts along with them. Mavery’s ears rang from the sudden silence.

She stood eye to eye with a disheveled-looking man in a tartan dressing gown.

His dark brown hair hung limply past his shoulders.

It was paired with a thick beard that obscured the lower half of his face, including his mouth.

Though his age was difficult to place, his croaky voice wasn’t due to advanced age.

He had few wrinkles, no noticeably gray hairs.

Even the youngest of Mavery’s professors had been middle-aged, and she couldn’t recall ever meeting a wizard younger than that. Earning that rank took years—sometimes decades—of training, and that was after completing six years of university.

The man standing before her was definitely too young to be a wizard.

And she doubted someone in this state of undress was a wizard’s assistant.

Perhaps he was a relative, or even a lover.

Whoever he was, she assumed he was suffering from some illness.

His complexion was deathly pale, his eyes sunken.

He cleared his throat.

“I believe there’s been a misunderstanding.” His voice grew slightly more robust. “I’m not looking for an assistant.”

Mavery raised her brows. She’d been expecting an elderly man with a beard. Well, he met two of those criteria.

“I saw an ad in the newspaper—”

“What ad?”

She produced the clipping, and he snatched it from her hand. He read beneath his breath, pausing on occasion to add his disjointed commentary.

“ ‘Esteemed’?… Oh, for the love of… ‘Obstinacy’!?… Mother.” He read it a second time, then snapped, “Was this in The Gazette?”

“No, The Burnslee Herald.”

“And when did you see this?”

“Two days ago.”

As he raked his fingers through his hair and muttered something she couldn’t discern, disappointment sank in. Mavery should have recognized an opportunity that sounded too good to be true.

“Sorry for bothering you,” she said, taking a step back from the door. “I’ll be—”

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

She paused mid-step. “What?”

He cleared his throat again. “I imagine coming here—and so quickly—took a great deal of effort. Though I cannot deliver on what this ad promised, it would be discourteous of me to turn you away without at least offering you a cup of tea. Your timing was most auspicious, as I was about to put on a kettle when you knocked.”

She blinked as she tried to reconcile the posh, upper-class accent with the disaster of a man standing before her. This entire situation was becoming more mystifying by the minute, but she wasn’t about to pass up the invitation he’d just offered.

“Sure, why not? Er, I mean—”

Mavery had always found her own voice too raspy and unrefined, her provincial accent too persistent despite her attempts to suppress it.

She’d built up a wide vocabulary over the years, but no amount of reading could prevent her from sounding like a yokel putting on airs whenever she spoke a word containing more than two syllables.

She cleared her throat, hoping she could suppress her inner yokel long enough to trick this wizard into thinking she was worthy of his time.

“Thank you,” she said, bowing her head for good measure. “A cup of tea sounds lovely.”

He opened the door the rest of the way and gestured for her to enter. She picked up the box of mail and crossed the threshold.

She was bombarded with the musty scent of leather, paper, and ink.

She could hardly call this a sitting room, as there was no place to actually sit.

There were books everywhere she looked—a collection that rivaled even the wealthiest noble’s library.

The bookcases lining the right-hand wall were filled to capacity; their shelves bent under the weight of the hefty tomes.

Books that hadn’t fit on the shelves had been scattered over every surface, from the tea table in the center of the room, to the fireplace mantel on the left-hand wall.

But most of them had been dumped on the floor.

Mavery took another step and nearly tripped over a stack.

Her stomach lurched when she saw a fire crackling in the hearth but Sensed no fireproofing wards. This wizard was either insane or had a death wish.

“Oh, this is your mail,” she said, showing him the box. “The old man at the front desk asked me to bring it to you.”

He shook his head. “I should have known Bertie would find a way to get that to me eventually. You can put it…oh, wherever.”

She placed the box and her pack beside the desk in the corner closest to the door. This, too, was piled high with papers and books, but she was glad to keep at least some potential kindling away from the open flames.

“May I take your coat?” the wizard asked.

She pulled it tightly around herself and hoped he hadn’t noticed the bloodstain on her shirt.