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 and 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.

“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.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

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.

* * * *

“Your grandfather had most of his meals sent up from one of the restaurants on the square. They will certainly miss his custom,” remarked Gillisa as she led the way up the stairs two days later.

“Really? He was only one man. I dined with him quite often, and never saw him have more than two courses.”

Gillisa gave him an arch look. “He usually dined in company; sometimes with one companion, but often two or three.”

Jhegan refrained from asking if she were one of the companions, single or multiple. Instead he cleared his throat and mentioned that his grandfather had left small bequests to several ladies, as well as to Gillisa herself. He was uncertain how to locate them.

“Did he? That was thoughtful of him. If you tell me the names I may be able to direct you. Here we are.”

Gillisa pulled an ornate key from a pocket as they reached the third floor landing. She touched the copper bell-push and spoke her name before inserting the key. “He was a magician, so the place has some extra safeguards,” she explained as she opened the door.

Jhegan looked around. He had expected something basic, furnished for the occasional overnight stay. Instead there was settled comfort, even luxury. It was considerably better than his own home, and he felt a twinge of jealous resentment. Soft chairs and an over-size couch clustered around a carpet of muted reds and glowing greens, three spacious windows overlooked the square, a small dining table and four chairs nestled in a corner. An open door to the left gave on to a small pantry, with an ever-cool keg on a stand, wine bottles in racks and a shelf of interesting jars.

“The bedroom and bath are through that door, and the other is to the study,” Gillisa said. Jhegan peeked into the first, to see an ample room dominated by an enormous bed. Erotic art alternated with landscapes and framed calligraphy. A tabouret held a small number of potions and an open book, while the wardrobe in one corner presumably contained whatever clothes his grandfather had kept here.

“You will need to tell me what here belongs to you and what to my grandfather,” he told Gillisa. She said him she would make up a list over the coming week.

A quick look in the bathroom showed a tub big enough for three. Jhegan closed the door and they went on to the study. This too looked on to the square. The bookshelves were crammed with librams, folios and codices. Jhegan ran a professional eye over the titles – Syllabic Twists in Reference to Tonal Surrounds; Three Theories of Meta-Stability; Modulations Reconsidered… None made any sense to him, so he turned to the desk. This was a handsome piece of furniture, with three drawers each side of the central well, the body of polished red-oak and the top a slab of arzach, the swirling grain stained and varnished.

What had his grandfather’s last note said? The key was in the top left-hand drawer. He pulled on the bronze handle, expecting the drawer to be locked. It slid open easily, to reveal a black wooden case. The top lifted off, and there was the key - a long brass shaft with elaborate teeth. Key to what? Jhegan plucked it from the case and was stretched, pulled, compressed. The last words that reached him were Gillisa’s dismayed “Oh dear. Oh, shit!”