As always, the squirrel arrived at the worst possible time. The summer solstice was two weeks away and everyone wanted their accounts up to date before the tax and rent bills arrived. Jhegan’s desk was piled high, his eyes were sore and it was near midnight. Jhegan flicked the beads on the counting frame, wrote the final figures on a sheet, added it to the out tray and was about to pluck the next when the damned squirrel landed on the pile, sending papers sliding in all directions.

Jhegan cursed. “Pleriano send you elsewhere! What does the dratted man want now?”.

He gathered the papers, stacked them neatly and only then gave attention to the squirrel, which now sat upright in the centre of the desk, little paws raised. Why does he make it wear a cape? thought Jhegan irritably. It just looks stupid. He hunted through a drawer until he found the box of nuts and gave the animal one. It tucked it into a cheek and pulled a tiny scroll from its pouch. Jhegan looked at it doubtfully. Did he have time for this? His grandfather’s missives ranged from anecdote to urgent demand, with a side order of complaint. Best to get it out of the way. He unrolled the scroll and bent a magnifying ring on the tiny cursive.

I am dead. My will is lodged with the Association. Don’t tell Hersinne until your executorship is approved. Keys in top left hand drawer. Regards from the afterlife. Grandfather.

What?! Jhegan scanned it again. The old man had been in fine shape a month ago. Was this a joke? He looked over the ring at the squirrel, and noticed that the familiar blue cape now had a white border. “He’s really dead?’ he asked the squirrel. It nodded sadly. He gave it another nut and it launched itself into the night with bulging cheeks, cape streaming behind, paws outstretched. It never stayed long. Jhegan sat back and gave himself over to reflection.

He had not really known his grandfather as a child. His mother was not on speaking terms with her father. After her death the old man had made made contact, and eventually settled on Jhegan as – how did he put it – ‘the only one of his descendants who was not a complete loss’. He had invited Jhegan to dine on his visits to town and entrusted him with bits of business. A few months back the old man had casually informed Jhegan that he was the executor of his will. At the time it had seemed merely a routine precaution. His grandfather was in his mid seventies, healthy and active. Magicians often lived into their nineties if they did not blow themselves up, and Jhegan’s grandfather was a cautious man. If his letters were often a bit odd, that was to be expected of a senior magician who spent much of his time in the Wild. Jhegan was not precisely fond of the old man, but he was family, and much less insufferable than Jhegan’s aunt or cousins.

So now he was gone, and Jhegan would have to tidy up. How? Had he met with some bizarre magical accident? Was the letter pre-arranged? Something more sinister afoot? There would be no answers forthcoming tonight, so Jhegan closed the window. His bed awaited.

* * * *

The Dtlag branch of the Association had its being in a mansion in the oldest part of the town. The front was unprepossessing – a tall narrow building of red brick with a plain door reached by three steps. A small platform to one side was reserved for arrival by instant transport and a landing area on the roof for fliers. Jhegan’s legs had brought him here and now took him up the steps and through the door. Within, a bronze lobster on a stand rotated until it faced him, extended its eye-stalks and asked his name and business in a breathy soprano. Jhegan gave these readily, it waved its antenna and then directed him to a room on the first floor. When Jhegan entered he instantly felt at home – it was well-lit, full of cabinets and shelved documents, and redolent of ink and paper. A man hunched over a ledger, stylus in hand, looked up. Jhegan saw a man of roughly his own age, thin, rumpled, a smear of ink on one cheek, skin pale, dark hair in an untidy queue. If Jhegan was stouter, wore his brown hair in two braids and was more neatly dressed, he was still indoors-pale and had the same air of one more interested in paper then people.

Jhegan explained the situation and the man rose from the desk “We keep the wills in the secure area. They are often keyed to the maker’s life, a link which can be used both ways.” He led the way down to the ground floor and then the basement, pausing to register with what Jhegan assumed were alarms or other safeguards. At various points Jhegan was asked to place a hand on a heap of sand, donate a strand of hair or allow his eyes to be scrutinised by a suspicious eel in a tank. At last they came to one particular door along a bare corridor. His guide took a key from a hook beside the door, unlocked with a firm twist and ushered him inside. Within, shelves supported copper caskets, each sealed with twists of paper. Jhegan was cautioned not to touch anything – something he was happy to do – while a small stone turtle was consulted. The man vanished into the recesses to return with a casket, which he placed before Jhegan.

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“Here were are. Just touch the top, say your grandfather’s name and then your own and it will open. Unless you are not the nominated executor, in which case things could get tricky.” This last was added with a jocular smile. Jhegan gingerly did as asked, and the casket creaked open. It held a leather document case and two books. The Association clerk peered over his shoulder.

“He’s dead alright – the ribbon is white instead of red. A great shame, as he was one of our more active members. The will will be in the folder; you can leave the books.”

Back upstairs Jhegan completed the required formalities and was shown to a quiet room. He sat, untied the ribbon and slid out several pages of heavy paper. The first merely read ‘Last Will of Hamiah Ziai tel Kureis, Magician’. Jhegan turned the page and his grandfather’s voice whispered in his ear as he read.

Grandson, I have added the spoken word to this document just in case your sight has suffered, as it is for your eyes (or ears) alone. Well, yours in the first instance, although some busy-body officials will no doubt poke their fingers in. I have put a copy of the bequest to Hersinne on a separate sheet, duly attested, for her to read if she so demands. May she enjoy my final words.

My will is as follows.

After payment of all lawful debts and other expenses, my monies, goods and properties are to be disposed of thusly:

First, to my grandson Jhegan Hailve tel Hudeis, I leave the sum of one thousand League silver tulips, together with the residue of my estate after all other expenses and bequests have been met.

Jhegan gave a pleased nod. It was not a fortune, but still a nice sum – nearly nine months’ earnings free and clear. He read and listened on.

To my daughter Hersinne tel Leisandei, in recompense for the love and care she has bestowed on me throughout my life, I leave five League tulips.

Jhegan bit his lip. It might be best to advise Aunt Hersinne of the bequest by letter, and then travel for a time.

My spell-books, notes and other papers pertaining to the Art I leave to the Association, that others may benefit from my learning.

To Gillisa loki Tsaod, landlord of my rooms on Foxglove Square, I leave ninety League tulips, with thanks for her discretion over the years.

Jhegan raised an eyebrow. When in town his grandfather had stayed at Biyerda’s Hotel. At least, that was where he had always met with Jhegan. He turned the sheet.

To my dear friends Peony, Begonia, Astilbe, Cleome and Tansy, I leave one hundred tulips to each, with a further one hundred jointly that they may be merry and remember me.

Jhegan raised two eyebrows. The ladies were unknown to him. How was he to find them? If he were to wander the streets asking for women with these names his purpose might easily be misconstrued.

The contents of my apartment and my home in the Eig Wild I leave to my grandson’s discretion, to sell or keep as he chooses. Likewise he may sell or keep the house itself, as he chooses.

All well and good, thought Jhegan. Just where was this ‘home in the Eig Wild’? He was not some dare-devil Wild-runner, to go into the lawless Wild. He made a mental note to inquire with the Association.

His grandfather had signed the will last year, before he had informed Jhegan of his allotted role. What if he had refused? Perhaps he should have, although his executor-ship did not look like too much work. The main issue would be Aunt Hersinne’s reaction, sure to be loud and lasting. A last loose piece of paper contained an address in Foxglove Square and the details of an account with Green Sea Mercantile. Jhegan tucked this in an inside pocket, placed the folder under one arm and returned to the clerk’s office. The Association had a resident lawyer, so he would be able to complete most of the formalities with little delay. Green Sea Mercantile would need a statement attested by several parties, so best to begin with the apartment.

Gillisa loki Tsaod, owner of the apartment in Foxglove Square turned out to be a pleasant woman of about his own age. While her name and a copper tinge to her complexion told of Saka ancestry, she dressed in the usual long skirt and hip-length tunic of city folk, both in dark green. The tunic was covered in a complexity of silver embroidery and the hem of the skirt weighted with rounds of dark glass, each incised and the lines filled with white and yellow enamel. There was no oath-band on her wrist; her dark hair was neatly braided, with a single strand left flying. Jhegan’s social antennae placed her as middle-class, comfortably-off but not wealthy and, from the moment she spoke, born or at least raised here in Dtlag. Very like himself, in fact. She seemed genuinely upset when told of his grandfather’s death and as he could not provide any details, he simply expressed his shared sadness, made an appointment with her for two days hence and went off to make inroads into his in-tray.