Chapter 6: Estarón University

Caspar

The Estarón family is one of the oldest great houses in Creu-c'tal. It has the prestige of the University. It has produced two Governors, a Fleet Admiral, and an unmatched seven Archmages. And it is dying, fading to nothing.

-Journal of Don Francesco Estarón

Leveraging the family name turned out to be more difficult than Caspar had envisioned.

While he had the paperwork, the name, and the hypothetical lordship, he also hadn't the faintest idea how the University system worked.

The difficulty was, Caspar reflected, that Father had never had anything but unalloyed contempt for his son. Once the total lack of proficiency in magic- traditional magic- had been established, the boy was useless to the family except as marriage material. As such, the minutiae of paperwork had never been explained. Caspar had been entirely homeschooled up to this point in his life, by both formal tutors and by self-teaching. Indeed, he had been kept out of even public primary and secondary schools, to keep the embarrassing lack of magic from becoming public knowledge.

Thus, the first issue: Caspar did not know how one got into the University. Lacking better options, and with a rough explanation from Maximilian of what the old servant knew of the place, he decided on the direct approach. He would get into the University, physically, and figure it out from there.

It had been one week since his father's death. The funeral was sparsely attended, and closed-casket. And then, the city had moved on. So, Caspar would too.

The journal across Seren va Llynder to Estarón University was not especially arduous. It, too, was in the walled upper city, reserved primarily for the city's elite. It was in a different district, however, occupying the titular University Third. Caspar decided to take the canals, to save energy. His magic had completely wiped him out for the day already. It was a scenic enough journey, and the public canals provided a spectacular view of the route. He attempted to journal idly with his right hand for a bit, then gave up. His writing had been chicken-scratch before; now it was a simple scribble.

The voyage took half an hour, and showed the strata of the upper city well. The magnificent (or, at least, old) townhouses of the reserved third were sharply contrasted by the more modern apartments and bazaars of the University Third. Most of the district was devoted to servicing the school, which in turn served the entire world as the most elite school of magic. Students from wealthy families from all across Creu-c'tal came here to study. And they all needed to be fed, watered, and housed. To the right, on the other hand, was the high, crenelated wall of the city's inner citadel. An eight-pointed star bastion, armed with hundreds of canon, a thousand guards, and countless magical wards and contrivances. All the most critical functions of Federal government lay within. The cathedral, where services venerating the Arcanes for the nobles took place. The Governor's residence, and the Admiralty building. And, most critically of all, the Gate.

Caspar was aware, of course, that Creu-c'tal was a colony. One small part of a larger Federation. Emphasis on small, to hear offworlders speak. Yet it was so endlessly easy to forget, when the ocean stretched out infinitely beneath the perpetual tropical charm of Creu-c'tal skies. He had been, exactly once, through that Gate. To Monttherox, seat of Federal power, the home of the forces that had colonized this place. He was a child then, but still remembered as if in a dream the sights he had seen. A transit station- Metropole Station- which linked a hundred worlds, with a ceiling so high that the building contained clouds and weather patterns. An artificial sun, perched at the center of an inverted globe. A world where busy gods kept themselves occupied with the day-to-day miracles of keeping an empire together. It strained the mind to hold onto.

Yet, whatever else the Federation was, outside that vast bastion, it was distant. The barrier imposed by the guns and stone ran two directions, keeping the colonials away from the levers of power, but distancing the power from the governed. Even Caspar, shut-in as he was, felt it deep within.

He got off at the University stop, and walked the few blocks to the nearest gate. The campus was massive, by Seren va Llynder standards, sprawling across several acres of what was otherwise a dense urban space. The vibrant pop of greens and pastels its gardens and quads offered contrasted pleasantly from the white stucco and red tile roofs the city was known for. The wrought-iron gate Caspar approached was fifteen feet high and trellised with ivy. Some clever sort had charmed it (etched Magitecturally into the gate bars) to flower yearly, with bulbs that sung the University anthem once an hour, on the hour.

The quads were unsurprisingly full of life in the middle of the day. People of Caspar's age or slightly older laughed, studied, played, and socialized on the luxurious lawns. He was acutely aware, as he aimlessly wandered, of just how much he stood out. Caspar's clothes of choice were dark, covered all possible skin, and antique. He wore a black glove on his left hand, to spare himself the trouble of explanation. The average person here, by contrast, wore clothes that better matched the Seren va Llynder sun and dusty air. While the students in times gone by had been required to wear uniforms, those days were long buried under several past university strikes.

He spent a fruitless hour wandering the complex of buildings, trying to find an admissions office. No structure had an intelligible name, however. Every lecture hall and library had long since been named in honor of various long-dead donors. This was not to mention the labyrinthine sprawl of the place: the University was over seven hundred years old, and had been built by accretion and donation rather than plan. To this day, the surrounding fence had a ragged, statacco rhythm, jutting out to encompass recently acquired parcels. As far as Caspar knew, this haphazard expansion was unlikely to stop, merely to slow. There were always new frontiers in study which justified a grant proposal, outbuilding, and two new adjuncts. But regardless, the place was more than a maze. It was illogical, narrow corridors between buildings winding into places they should not possibly go. The dangers of a magical university, Caspar considered. He was standing on the roof of the Olman Memorial Hall of Necromantic Studies, outside a small forest garden. This was troubling not because of any prurient distaste for the subject matter, but rather because he had entered a gap in the hedges at floor level, halfway across the campus.

"I think I'll need to ask directions," he muttered grudgingly, "and possibly for rations at this rate."

Caspar returned through the garden, back out of a hedgerow. Not the same one, of course. That would be too easy. He spotted a group of friendly enough looking people his age, from the Tetrarchy cities unless he missed his guess. It was a mostly male group, laughing and chatting under the shade of a tree. Caspar's heart leapt into his chest as he approached. An entire childhood without leaving the house had ill-prepared him for this moment. He felt his magic playing at the edges of his senses. Did he want to be here? Or did he want to be-

-Somewhere else. His vision blurred, then cleared. A blistering wave of pain rolled up his arm. Caspar was back atop the Necromancy building, staring down in shock. He hadn't really even intended to do that. Looking over the quad, he thought he could see where he had teleported from. The small knot of students looked to be busy discussing in mild shock the sudden disappearance. An acrid, parched patch of grass marked the center point Caspar he left from, with tendrils of dryness extending out dozens of feet into the yard.

Caspar scowled. This was hardly the time for social anxiety. He had power now, and could do traditional magic as well. He could talk to people his own age without fear.

He walked back through the gap in the hedges.

Immediately, the desire to be elsewhere asserted itself. Habits of worthlessness ingrained over nineteen years could not be so easily dismissed He corralled the desire into a deep recess of his mind and soldiered on towards the students. They whispered openly at his approach; a group of mostly Sbanegdal youths by the cut of their dress. Caspar attempted to smile as he approached, and felt the glacial horror of muscles not responding properly. He could have sworn he heard someone snicker.

"Excuse me," he stammered, "Do you know where the, uh, who- that is, the person you talk to to go here-" He winced.

"Are you asking where the admissions office is?" one of the students eventually asked.

"...yes. Yes I am." Caspar affirmed with relief. He felt some of the knot of tightness in his chest release. "Thank you."

"No worries. I know this campus is a maze." The head speaker smiled warmly at him. He was a lanky, dark-haired figure, with a certain corded strength visible under rough Sbanegdal clothes. Long, wavy hair accented a kind, dark-skinned face. "I'll tell you, but only if you tell us something in return."

Caspar raised an eyebrow, attempting to be reserved. Damn it all, this was so much easier with Father. "What's that?"

"Who on Creu-c'tal is teaching you teleportation! What spell was that? I mean, Arcanes above man, you were just here one minute then gone the next!" the student grinned broadly. "No focus, no phrase! And the grass- I mean, it can't be Magister Ryheart. That old bird has us drawing a circle out in chalk first, right?" At this, several in the group nodded enthusiastically, with a few scattered mutters of affirmation. The student turned back to Caspar. "Sorry, by the way, I'm Javi- 'Javier de Leon', as my father would no doubt like me to introduce myself. You are?"

De Leon? As in the noble family? Caspar was vaguely familiar with the name, though of course they were never accorded much attention in political discussions. They were Sbanegdal based- hardly important. He debating lying, but couldn't think of a useful alibi. "I'm Caspar."

Javi chuckled. "Haven't been out in a few centuries, eh?" he gestured to Caspar's worn, archaic clothes. Then, he frowned "Sorry, I'm- I'm working on that. You look fine. Anyway, seriously, what's the deal with that spell?" he squinted conspiratorially "You aren't studying with the Archmage, are you?"

Caspar couldn't help but laugh at this. A good laugh, he thought, one that both hid and helped the nerves. "I haven't even gotten into the school yet. How could I possibly be getting private tutoring from Drummond?"

Javi shrugged cheerfully. "Who knows? You could just be rich!" He laid a finger on his lips. "Now, come on, tell us. We'll keep it quiet, won't we lads?"

He was so very persuasive. Caspar didn't know what the right way to proceed was. Was his strange magic more common than he knew? Or was he about to provide unspeakable revelations? He decided on the middle path. "It's... a family secret. A different variation of magic than is traditional. I'm not at liberty to disclose any more."

"Non-traditional magic, eh?" Javi stroked his beardless chin. "What family are you from?"

"Volgrinsk," Caspar lied quickly.

"Volgrinsk." Javi looked like he was about to say something else, but stopped himself. He patted Caspar on the back comfortingly. "Whatever you say, I suppose. The office is just this way- you need to go through that door twice, once each direction..."

. . .

The admissions interview was confusing for all parties. At first, a thoroughly disinterested secretary attempted to tell him that admissions for the current semester had concluded, and that admissions for the upcoming semester were not for several months yet. Bluster and the papers of nobility got him over that hurdle, but the next conversation was even more frustrating. Caspar was feeling more than a little woozy by now- that teleportation had taken even more out of him than he had realized. As such, the fastidious insistence of the man in front of him on strict bureaucratic norms was not being taken well.

"...as I said before, rules are rules. Just because you're the Estarón heir doesn't mean you're able to simply come barging in in the midst of the semester and-"

"And as I said before, I'm Don Estarón now!" Caspar snapped.

"So you've said, so you've said. But no death certificate has been produced, and no ennobling ceremony has taken place. Besides, as everyone knows-" the bureaucrat lowered his voice to an embarrassed whisper, "-you can't do magic. So, why don't you run along-"

Caspar clutched his head. No. No, he wasn't doing this for another hour.

He didn't want to.

The candles in the room blew out, as the windows blew open with a clatter. A chill wind filled the air. Caspar reached out, sensing the power in this place. A massive furnace in the basement kept the admissions building heated. He pulled on that heat, felt it rise into him. Briefly, miraculously, his skin flushed to a more healthy hue. The black glove on Caspar's left hand burned off, revealing an incandescent glow beneath. And then, he destroyed the paper shackles that were keeping him bound.

This was a very literal expression of rage, as enacted. Every piece of parchment, paper, and even cardboard in the room suddenly turned to sand, settling in drifts on the floor of the office. Caspar very pointedly said nothing throughout this, ignoring the administrator's cries of shock and panic.

Below, the generator was guttering low. Caspar's connection was becoming tenuous. He gritted his teeth, pulled the remainder of the power, and snapped his fingers. The sand dunes all turned to glass, locking their forms in place in strange, sinuous forms across the stone floor.

"Wrong again." Caspar snapped. "I have power now, in both senses. Now, are you going to keep standing in my way, in the university named for my family? Don Estarón demands his birthright."

. . .

Outside, Caspar barely made it down the steps. He stumbled on the smooth stone, landing gratefully on the lawn, and immediately leaned over to throw up in a hedge. Arcanes above, his arm hurt like it was being crushed. But, on the other hand, he had walked out with everything he had asked for. He would join classes in the winter semester, in two months' time. Entrance exams would be waved, on account of "apparent aptitude". He felt awful. He felt phenomenal.

A lifetime of wanting, redressed in a snap of your fingers.

The sentence slipped into his mind, a thought-invader clad like his own mental cacophony. Yet, it was not of his mind in origin- Caspar was sure of it. He would have phrased his emotions slightly differently. Odd. Not wrong, obviously, but the sensation was unpleasant and-

A friendly hand patted him on the back. "You alright there, friend?"

Caspar whirled, wiping his lips. Threatening sparks crackled from his fingers, only to immediately flicker away as he saw Javi smiling down at him. Caspar coughed awkwardly. "Oh, hi. Javi. I'm fine, yes. Just... had some bad wine. You know how it is."

Javi smile was uncertain, nervous. "Are you sure? What happened to your hand? That doesn't look fine to me, it looks like... well..." he trailed off. "Well, I don't know what, I guess. Dark magic? Arcane secrets?

"Don't worry about it" Caspar snapped. "I'm fine. Why are you here, anyway?"

The student pressed on: "No, really, I want to know! Does this come from your mysterious magical studies? Is this a family thing, something you Estaróns inherit? Like albinism or heterochromia?"

Caspar held up a hand halting the torrent of words. His brewing headache was protesting loudly against the intrusion of sound. "Wait, wait. Estarón?"

"Yes, your family name. You aren't feeling well, are you? Is that also from the magic? Does not using a focus make you nausious? Because I think I'd rather use a focus in that case, and besides-"

"No, hold on. How do you know my family name is Estarón? I didn't tell you, and we've never met before."

Javi shrugged. "Lucky guess. You looked important, and people around town know what the most important nobles look like. I put it together."

"No," Caspar said slowly, "no, that's not it. I can count on both hands the number of times I've left the house in the last decade, and one of my hands- as you so kindly reminded me- isn't working. Nobody knows what I look like." He lurched away from Javi. "I don't need your help."

"Yes you do. You do! Look at you, Caspar, you can barely walk!" Javi threw up his hands in exasperation. Caspar didn't look back, but rather continued to limp away slowly. "Alright! Fine, alright, yes. You've got me."

Caspar paused.

"I was eavesdropping, happy? That window up there blew open, and I heard everything." Javi tried to smile, but it didn't quite have his normal easy grace. "Now let me help you, yeah?"

"Why?" Caspar deflected the offered hand feebly.

"Why what?"

"Why were you interested?"

"You seem like an interesting person. No, really," Javi hastened to add," I mean it. Strange magic, strange clothes, keeping one hand covered- you're the picture of mystery! I've never much cared for mystery myself- in Sbanegdal, we just like the plain truth." Javi paused. "And, in all seriousness, abnormal magic is something of a fascination of mine."

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Caspar shrugged, wincing as he did. It was as good an excuse as any, he supposed. He took the excuse to lean heavily on the offered shoulder. "Abnormal magic? How'd you get into that?"

"Well, for one, I kept being told it didn't exist." Javi's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Only magic the way the wizards do it, that's the line. Hear that enough times, it really makes you start asking questions, eh?"

This was promising. Wildly more promising than all other options Caspar had considered up to this point. Finally, someone who knew what they were talking about! "So, you're studying that now?"

Javi coughed awkwardly. "Well, no. Not exactly. I'm still starting out- they won't let me into the interesting classes yet. But I've been doing my research! I know where the AbMagic building is, even if they won't let me in yet." He looked Caspar over. "Here, I'll tell you all about it over a pint. On me. Friends?" He extended a hand.

Caspar didn't need to think about it. He clutched it weakly. "Friends."

. . .

A month passed. And it was glorious.

Caspar had no classes, no responsibilities, and the still sizable cash reserves of a pauper nobleman. He, perhaps, could have studied, prepared for the coming term. But he did no such thing. Instead, Caspar spent four weeks learning how to have a friend.

Javi also apparently had no classes, or at least acted like it, because he was perpetually hanging around Estarón University on the quads, talking and relaxing. Together, the two of them explored every bar, park, and bookstore near the campus. Javi took the time to introduce Caspar to his other friends, most of whom also seemed to be studying abnormal magic, and most of whom Caspar immediately forgot. He did try valiantly to remember Javi's girlfriend, though she was a much more diligent student, and rarely accompanied them.

Unlike the bare seedling that was his friendship with Isla, this grew deep roots quickly. Max even commented on the change in demeanor, as Caspar spent multiple consecutive hours outside, for the first time in his life. The two became inseparable. Every day was an adventure, an expedition to parts of the city that Caspar had never seen before.

Though, separate they must. Every day of that month ended with a glorious, Seren va Llynder sunset, long and vibrant. Every day, they would have a nightcap, and then part ways. There was something that troubled Caspar about that last part, a little pebble of misgiving. Javi asked repeatedly about the House of the Open Book, and about when he could visit. Caspar put him off again and again, not wanting to let a friend into a building stained so deeply with rancid memories. He in turn asked about the Hall of Oars, the de Leon residence in the city (a small embassy of sorts from Seren va Llynder. He was, in turn, rebuffed, with various awkward excuses. Caspar couldn't help but wonder if Don de Leon was dead. Or, more likely, he didn't want his son associating with a tarnished name like Estarón.

Regardless, they were good days. The best Caspar had known, as far as memory served. And then, they ended.

. . .

An example of their escapades might serve well to illustrate this blossuming friendship:

Two weeks in, Javi had proposed that they go out to do something unique. After 18 days of knowing one another (for the Creu-c'tal week is nine-days long, in honor of the Arcanes), Javi proposed a trip to see the lighthouse.

Caspar scoffed, at first. "The lighthouse, Javi? Are we boats, or are we scholars?"

"Well, I'm not sure we are either!" Javi grinned to take the string out of it "Or have you started classes without me knowing?"

They were walking and talking on their way out of the University. This was the point where their evenings usually bent in the direction of the pubs. Today was different, however.

Caspar grumbled. "You know what I mean. It's a light for showing boats the way in. Hardly the 'greatest Magitectural wonder of our age' or anything of the like."

Javi laughed at that. The phrase was something of an in-joke between them, a mocking reference to an advertisement seen above the tawdry wandering carnival parked in Lightview Park. "What, you aren't impressed by pens that don't run out of ink? Or instruments that can play a few notes by themselves? No, seriously Cas, you haven't done the city until you've seen it properly! The view in the upper city doesn't do it justice."

"Cas?" Caspar raised an eyebrow. "Still trying to make that work? What works for Javier does not necessarily do so for Caspar."

"Worth a shot! You need to lighten up, my friend- and that's why we're seeing the lighthouse tonight!"

Caspar groaned and protested further, but there really was no point. Once Javi had a potential adventure in mind, he couldn't be diverted by means short of cannon-fire. It was a trait they mostly shared in common, Caspar sometimes was willing to concede.

The Exalted Lighthouse was, in truth, something of a 'greatest Magitectural wonder of our age'. It was wonderous, at any rate. It bore only passing resemblance to the vertical form of traditional lighthouses; the Exalted Lighthouse as instead shaped roughly like a lowercase "i". A stocky stone tower bore a massive crystal geodesic ball, situated on a sandbar off the coast. Seren va Llynder was surrounded by the things; two major sandbar systems and a coral reef made most approaches somewhat difficult. There were three major ports on the island, but threading one's way to them required either a competent local guide, or, well...

They had made their way down into the lower city, the first time Caspar had been in many years. The guards at the gate simply nodded them through, alongside the evening work rush. Caspar was somewhat thrown by this; he had never considered how many of those who worked in the wealthy districts wouldn't be able to afford to live there. Inquiring into the home lives of the servants was always strongly discouraged in noble circles. But, regardless, down into the hungry depths of the city they went. The lower city was tighter, more colorful, more teeming with life. The street were an impossible maze, laid out seemingly at random. Javi navigated them with unnatural ease, however, guiding the pair through the crowd towards the waterfront districts.

Caspar had rarely been to the lower city; he had never been to the less patrician districts. The streets- alleys, really- they trod as they approached the shore were poorly lit, and lined with foreign architecture. The broad boulevards, stucco walls, and spacious lawns afforded in the upper city were long gone. Here, close to the lighthouse, there was only wood and the smell of brine. And then, without ceremony, they were over the edge.

At the corner of the island closest to the Exalted Lighthouse, the city streets did not cease. Instead, a long series of pilings and docks had been built out into the water, an overflow of urban matter across the waves. The region was called the Fingers, as it stretched like a grasping hand towards the Lighthouse. The shacks and dive bars were rugged and oddly proportioned, Caspar thought. And then, there were the mirrors. Hundreds of them, affixed to every conceivable locations- on pilings, on walls, on the sides of the walkways. Caspar swore he saw one tied to a seagull, in the distance. But that was unlikely; the Derringers had ruthlessly hunted seagulls to near-extinction. The most remarkable thing, of course, was not the mirrors, or this strange accumulation of living space. For, wandering about the docks were the city's most iconic Offworld lineage, the Zoanil.

They were not native; according to the official Federal histories of the world, no sentient species was. Rather, the Zoanil were a transplant from an ocean on another world within the Federation. They had taken to this world unsurprisingly well; they were adapted for such conditions. They were fish-people, originally hailing from the depths of some oceanic trench, with the resulting massive eyes and pale skin. They dwelt happily in a number of the reefs around Creu-c'tal. The Altais reef off the coast of Seren va Llynder wasn't even the largest settlement of theirs. Caspar knew little of their culture outside of the absolute basics. Fraternizing with nonhuman Offworlder lineages was looked down on among noble circles. Yet, from what he could see here, a number of concessions were made by the Zoanil in the name of good relations with their land-dwelling neighbors. They were all clothed in at least a passable imitation of Llynderite garb, and were conversing with human passers-by in clear tones. They also all had metal collars clamped around their necks, constructs of brass and glass. Magitectural filters, supplementing gills; otherwise, this liminal space where ocean-dweller could meet land-dweller wouldn't exist.

"Did we really need to go here to see the lighthouse turn on?" Caspar whispered to Javier. "I think the view from the university would have been fine. Not to mention-"

"Not to mention you aren't comfortable around people who don't look like you?" Javi winked. "That's alright, we're working on it."

Caspar reddened. "That's hardly fair, Javi. I have nothing against Offworlders, whatever they look like. I'm just not sure why we needed to leave the safety of the inner city's walls to look at a light."

"Safety?" Javi laughed bitterly. "What, would you prefer it if we had Blueheel patrols going around? Leave these people alone, Caspar. They're plenty safe." It was an unusual response for someone as upbeat as Javi was, Caspar thought. Javi sighed, then gestured towards a bench set up on the dock. There were many scattered about, Caspar noted, and many of the Zoanil were dispersing to sit on them. "Come on, sit down, you shut-in."

They sat. Caspar looked around. The sun was gracefully kissing the horizon at this point, forming a glorious red semicircle at ocean's edge. And then, it sank. As soon as it did, the distant sphere atop the Exalted Lighthouse began to glow from within, with the signature shifting rainbow of magic light. The multihued ball slowly rose into the air, growing brighter and more colorful as it did. At a height of what looked to be several hundred feet, it stopped. And then, it began to emit its rays.

The purpose of the geodesic faces quickly became clear. Each tiny face of the massive sphere was capable of letting loose a highly concentrated beam of light, a targeted, shifting ray, that magically bent and warped in directions that no normal optics could produce. Each beam- and the Lighthouse could produce hundreds at a time- could individually steer a ship to safe harbor, forming a flowing liquid-light path to their intended destination. Through this kaleidoscopic marvel of Magitecture, there had not been a wreck on the reefs in four decades.

This close, the effect was marvelous. It was rendered even more so by the mirrors, which reflected the shimmering rays of the Exalted Lighthouse around the Fingers in wild whirls and shimmers. Caspar laughed in delight. He couldn't help himself. It was beautiful, in such an unexpectedly delightful way.

"That's why we came here." Javi said quietly.

"What, to hear me laugh?" Caspar asked archly.

"Well, sorta, yeah. Two reasons, really. To get you to see the difference between reading about a thing and seeing a thing, for one. And to get you to let yourself have fun, for another." Javi put an arm around Caspar's shoulder. "Look, we're friends, right?"

Caspar shrugged. "Sure."

"Oh, stop with the aloof noble bit. We're friends. I like spending time with you. But let me tell you Cas, the dark and brooding bit can get old. You can have fun! It's allowed! I saw you smile just then, you idiotic genius!"

"You know, I've really got no problem with the Zoanil." Caspar muttered. "They were instrumental in many of the early voyages of the Explorers' Guild. Still are, on some of the most far-ranging ships. I just... well..."

"You haven't been exposed to them." Javi said gently. "I know. You haven't been exposed to a lot." He looked over at Caspar and laughed. "So, I'll take it that's the closest I'm getting to an admission that I'm right?"

He was too damn convincing. Caspar rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say, Javi."

Javi laughed triumphantly. "That's what I thought! We'll get you out of that shell yet, mark my words. Now come on, there's a bar around here I really want you to see. They light it entirely with those mirrors, and half of it is underwater...."

. . .

One Month Later

He came home that night drunker than he'd previously thought it possible to be.

Caspar had never had a phenomenal alcohol tolerance, given that he weighed little more than his clothes, but another side effect of his magic was apparently leaving him vulnerable to inebriation. He suspected he might consider that a problem, come morning.

As it happened, for the moment, he was doing just fine however. Dandy. Better than he'd felt in months. He rambled along the cobbled streets of the Governor's Third, home to the city's middle-class nobles. It was good it was so late, he mused, or else someone might be mad about his zagging and zigging. He stroked his chin thoughtfully; made contact on the third attempt. To his intense interest, his mouth was open. How curious. And it appeared to be moving- to be enunciating. That could only mean-

And indeed, Caspar realized, he was speaking. Declaiming, really. Orating, perhaps. Not singing, he decided with some relief, he had that much dignity. No, instead he was merely reading his poems aloud, to the ears of a grateful sleeping populace. He tried to stop, but found himself unable to. The people simply needed to know his heart-hurt, to bathe in the inky black waters of his emotions!

Caspar was going on in this way when he stumbled into something rather sobering. Or, perhaps, someone. Looming outside the House of the Open Book was a shadowy figure, nine feet tall or more, standing in the convenient obscurity of the door frame. Caspar squinted. No, that wasn't anyone he knew or cared to know. And so, he turned around, only to walk headfirst into another mysterious figure. This one was only his height, but more solidly build- enough for Caspar to ricochet off and sprawl out on the cobbles with a cry of indignation.

"What is the meaning of this?" Caspar sputtered. "Don't I know- I mean, don't know you- I mean-"

"Is anyone else in the house?" The short one asked tiredly. He wore a wooden mask cut to look like a mouse's, covering everything up to the hairline.

"What?"

He nodded at the large one, who cracked his knuckles impressively. He wore a mask cut in the visage of a caiman. "Is. Anyone. In. Or does Caiman need to start asking the questions?"

He hiccupped. Adrenaline was languidly clearing his mind, but not quick enough. He debated whether it was worth attempting a spell to cleanse the alcohol from his system. No, he decided quickly, casting magic while intoxicated was a profoundly bad idea, and besides, the two mooks who had him surrounded were unlikely to take spellcraft well. "Ah- no. Max went home. 'S late."

"Good. Caiman, if you would?" The giant nodded, and opened the door. The lock, apparently, had already been picked.

As they spilled into the entrance hall, Caspar had two things on his mind. First, he was dying for something to eat. All he'd had at the bar was the beer and a few bits of bread, and he hadn't recovered from casting earlier. Second, these people were starting to ring a distant but insistent bell in his mind. There was danger here, he seemed to hear, even more so than from ordinary shakedowns. He knew something about them.

The masked figures brought the gas lights up. In so doing, their full figures were revealed- simple working clothes, cut practically, with only the animal masks to distinguish from ordinary day laborers. The Mouse pulled out a chair. "Sit."

Caiman looked across the hall. "Do you have him, Mouse?"

"I do."

"I'm going to go make us some tea then."

"Very well, Caiman. Just stay in earshot, and not too much sugar in mine." Mouse turned his mask to point at Caspar's face. "Now. I assume you know who we are?"

Caspar did not. Or, he thought he might, but booze was denying him access. "Upset neighbors?" he hedged.

"No." Mouse paused. "Although your singing voice was... never mind. That's not why we're here. Did your father really never tell you about us?"

Ah. There it was. "The Menagerie?" Caspar guessed.

"There he goes." Caiman said from the kitchen. "You want anything for the head, little man?"

Caspar thought about it. This felt like an obvious trap. But, on the other hand, he hadn't been stabbed yet, and felt like his odds of fighting off the two of them were nil regardless. "Please. Top left drawer, red crystal bottle. Two drops." He attempted to stand, felt his balance collapse. "Three, actually."

He couldn't tell if Mouse was rolling her eyes, due to the mask. But he had a suspicion.

"That's right, the Menagerie. Criminal syndicate. Your dad owed us a lot of money. Not to be messed with." He paused. "Is any of that new information?"

He plowed right through her sarcasm. "Not quite, but only by a few days. Thanks." He took the proffered tea, sipped greedily at it. Already cooled to drinking temperature- Magitectural wonders never ceased. His head rapidly cleared, without even a trace of hangover. And, with the removal of the pleasant fog, his head filled with the inky tar of dread instead.

"Good. Then, and you'll have to forgive my vernacular here, why the fuck would you think it was a good idea to pin a murder on us?"

Caspar paused before responding. A sarcastic response almost sallied forth, but he choked it back. He was uncomfortably aware that these people were, in fact, armed. Each had a sword visible, and Caiman had a brace of pistols hung on each side, though cunningly disguised in his clothes. Wait- how did how know that? It wasn't eyesight alone- the flickering gaslights merely enhanced the moody shadows on the mooks. No, it was his other senses. His new senses. He didn't quite sense the gun- he sense the powder.

His eyes widened. Ah. That could become a problem, very quickly. His scars stung at the memory.

"Honestly?" Caspar ventured, "I thought you did it. Father's journal mentioned the Menagerie, and everyone knew he had steep gambling debts. It was the most likely answer."

Mouse looked at Caiman, who shook his head slightly. He sighed theatrically. "Kid, come on. Don't lie to us. Otherwise we'll have to start taking fingers, and nobody wants that mess. Was this some kind of stupid prank? Trying to impress friends?"

"How do I know you didn't do it?" Caspar asked defiantly. "Who else would do it?"

There was no response. Caiman passed Mouse a glass of tea, and a large butcher knife.

"I, ah... why do you care anyway? Port Fortune is a month away by sea, and you don't operate here. Who cares about who gossips about you? This, it, well, it enhances your reputation, right? Makes people pay their... dues?"

Caiman and Mouse looked at each other through their masks for a mere moment before they both collapsed. Collapsed into raucous laughter. Mouse went beyond chuckles, venturing into snorts and guffaws, while Caiman hit that rarified plateau of silent laughter, so entertained as to lose the capability to make sounds. He pounded the table enthusiastically, doubled over. Caspar flushed.

But, he also took the time to take stock. He was beyond too drained to do his kind of magic- really needed a name for that, too. He could feel the darkness flickering at the edges of his vision already- he'd just knock himself out. Semiotic magic would be an option, if he knew anything besides absolute basic cleaning spells. As it was, he could use the tea to stain a document to look older, or use the napkin to magically mop the floor. If only there was something to pull from...

The mooks had finished laughing, with one or two false starts, and Mouse was now looming over him once again. They hadn't even bothered to tie him, Caspar noted absentmindedly. He really didn't seem like any kind of threat to them. "You're a hoot, y'know that? A treasure. Why, if we didn't have orders, I'd love to take you back to the boss, just to blow your mind wide open." Mouse chuckled. "But we do."

"We're here to make sure any rumors stop. Permanently. And as for why we care- the Shackled Queen doesn't like bad press. That's all you need to know." Caiman added. He loomed behind Mouse, carved teeth flickering in the gaslight. "All we need to know, too."

"So, why'd you do it kid? It's okay if the answer is something stupid- I expect it to be." Mouse's eyes met Caspar's through the gap in the wood. They were amused, but merciless. "Just remember, here on in, we take something from you for every lie you tell."

Caspar breathed in. Alright. Here goes. "I just needed a scapegoat. Someone everyone would believe did it."

Caiman nodded slightly. Mouse continued: "Good job. Sounds like you know who did it, huh? Well, I don't actually give a shit. You go to that fancy Estarón University, right? Well, you picked the wrong scapegoat, and now you're getting a valuable learning experience. Here's what's gonna happen. You're gonna tell everyone who actually did it- or, hell, find another scapegoat. Like I said, we don't give a shit. And, for your troubles, you can pay off Daddy's debt. How's that sound?"

"How much did he owe?" Caspar asked.

"Fifty thousand electrum, give or take." Caiman said. "Best find a job fast. So, what's it going to be? We've got places to be, and other things to do."

Caspar shrugged. Here goes. "Sounds like I don't have a choice, right? It's that or you shoot me here in my front hall."

Mouse nodded. "That's exactly right kid. Seems like that university is paying off after all. Now are you-"

"But," Caspar continued, "you can't kill me, can you? That would prove to the public that I was right to blame the Menagerie. I mean, gosh, they'd be sure that the Menagerie killed me to shut me up."

Mouse responded to this eloquently with a fist to the stomach. Caspar wheezed, but stayed planted on the chair. He palmed the napkin.

"Not an issue kid, not an issue. You want to play it like this? Fine. I'll start removing parts until you feel more cooperative." Mouse cackled. "Plenty of ways to do that without leaving a mark." He reached into a pocket, pulling out a tiny filleting knife, ignoring the large blade Caiman had left. "Be a dear and get us some more tea, would you Caiman? I think I'll be at this for a while..."

Caiman turned and made for the kitchen. As he crossed through the threshold, Caspar reached out, found the pistols hidden in the man's chest pockets. And then, gingerly, he let a spark of his magic touch the powder within.

The doorway errupted in a column of smoke and blood, as Caiman's torso was flung straight up, smashing into the ceiling with brutal force. The four simultaneous blasts, situated where they were, simply severed top half from bottom, destroying the chest and hips in a shower of viscera. Mouse whipped around. "Caiman!" he yelled, sudden emotion filled the previously monotone growl. "No!"

Caspar said the words of the mopping spell, consuming the napkin. The ground between Mouse and Caiman- well, Caiman's stump- grew wet and slick. And then, pulling intuitively on what felt like six things at once, Caspar let out a blast of wind straight into the small of Mouse's back. The blast carried him partway into the slick, where Mouse's legs finally slid out from under him. His head hit the stone floor with a sickening squelch.

Caspar stood up wearily. He looked around. The gaslights, extinguished. The tea, frozen over. Even the fresh corpse of Caiman was drained of heat, leaving icicles of blood hanging from the ceiling like ghoulish teeth. Mouse did not move. Caspar walked over, looked down. There was no life in the eyes behind the mask.

"You shouldn't have underestimated me." Caspar said simply. "Nobody should do that, not anymore."

"I don't want them too."