CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
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Iris Everton
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Augos, 927 PC
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Harlow was alive and well, wherever he was. Held against his will, of course, but he was being treated fairly and eating scrumptious food. Iris had read scrumptious for Urman, partially because of his unfamiliarity of the word and partially because it was spelled exactly how Harlow would spell it – incorrectly. A nice touch by the Purist forger if she had to say so. That’s what the letters always said in one form or another, that Harlow was somewhere between a house guest and a prisoner with some strange group of people in some stranger faraway land covered in trees and snow. In truth, Master Rellin still hadn’t a clue where the other Gant brother was but that didn’t stop him from having the forged letters show up at the university every third day. Always short, always sweet, exactly how she imagined Urman liked them.
Urman sat by the toasty ovens reading one such letter now, tears in the corner of his left eye, the only one that ever seemed to leak, teeth clenched so tight the muscles in his jaw practically jumped off his face. Something about the observant nature of his eyes planted a seed of caution in Iris’ mind. It was almost as if the man knew the letters were a scam but he had no other choice but to believe them. For now.
He stood, folding the letter neatly and tossed it into the fire of the oven before wiping the corner of his left eye. Always the left one, like only it had tears in it and even those were at a premium.
He and Jameson exchanged a glare two starving hounds might share at the feeding bowl as he walked toward them.
“Cunt.”
Jameson’s leash was too short to offer a response and risk having to use his magic when things inevitably escalated to a brawl. She’d told him quite clearly that if he used his magic inside the walls of the university or in her presence at all, she’d disappear with his child and she’d never see her or the baby again. No matter how good a cause Urman provided him. Unfortunately, Urman was wise enough to recognize a circumstance that could be easily exploited, throwing jabs left and right.
“Listen closely,” she said. They both reluctantly peeled their eyes off one another to hear her instructions. “All you have to do is watch as many beakers as you can.” Twenty-three perfectly clean beakers sat along the top of the workbench. Each with a thin layer of orange liquid magic coating the bottom; not enough to quench your thirst. Twenty-three smaller breakers sat directly in front of their partners, each filled precisely three quarters of the way full with one of the many variations she’d made of the concoction she believed could turn the liquid magic into powder. “If”–she spoke deliberately now– “you see a beaker begin to bubble, even the slightest, carefully slide it forward. No rushing. No spills. And no arguing. I will have only a few moments to proceed with the next step. Mess this up and we’ll have to start over.”
“Hear that idiot,” Urman said, waving his dry, cracked hand at Jameson and putting his face at the same height as the beakers. “Don’t fuck this up.” Jameson glared at the commoner who was trying to use his reflection from the beaker to see if there was anything in his teeth.
She lifted the first small beaker and poured the mixture in slowly, letting every drop she could fall in. She eyed it as she poured the next beaker, hoping something would happen. Nothing. On and on she went while failure followed her like a hunting cat. She was over halfway done when she finally noticed Jameson slide a beaker forward in the corner of her eye. A thin grin formed on her lips. She gnawed at it excitedly as she continued. Urman slid one, then another. I’m so close. By the time all twenty-three mixtures had been poured, six beakers had been pushed forward, bubbling to different degrees. There was no time to sit and gaze at them though. She spoke as she rushed to the counters along the wall. “Dump the failed mixtures into the vat over there.”
Her volatile assistants gathered up the useless beakers behind her as she collected the instruments she needed for the next step, rushing back to the workbench with her hands full. If any of the mixtures stopped bubbling before she completed the next step, they’d become useless to her.
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If she had it her way she would have taken these unnecessary risks out of the equation, given each attempt its own attention, but she wanted to have a sample of her work ready, and hidden, for when Master Rellin and Master Styner returned from their trip to Pearl City. Three days to create a working sample of her vision. Did a part of her feel dishonest hiding her work from her colleagues? Of course. But the more she observed the incredibly meticulous pace at which the two old men worked, the more she understood why they hadn’t reached these heights on their own. It was she who would push them forward and doing so while they were absent meant less resistance.
“Stand back.” Both men took the seriousness of her tone as a warning that something bad might happen, finding places equally far from the bench but nowhere near each other. She slid the six remaining mixtures closer together and started dumping alchemicals and powders into them. She too stepped away from the workbench and watched the beakers intently. Two mixtures burst into flames, tall enough to sprout from within like a short volcano but not too dangerous to fear, they were gone a moment later, two did nothing, one looked like it was trying to do something but couldn’t find the courage, and one did exactly what she expected; let off a thin, misty gas as the liquid slowly turned into a powder.
She put her hands on her head and turned to Jameson. He had Cora in his arms. She barely noticed. “I did it.”
“Now what?” he asked.
“I need the Apple Core.”
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Iris stood at the window of the common laboratory and stared in the direction of Wicket’s apartment. Unseen to her eye, he and his men, plus Urman, were executing the plan she’d devised for them. Jameson had struggled to bite his tongue as she ordered Yormir and Reggie around but if she’d learned anything at all, it was that Jameson Wicket couldn’t formulate a successful plan if he read it from a book. No, she had to plot these points perfectly.
All but Yormir would load the wagon full of Apple Core, leaving a few boxes behind for other purposes. Urman would lead the wagon back to the university while Jameson used his magic to kill Reggie without a fuss, leaving his corpse behind to appear as though it belonged to Jameson. Reggie had turned out to be one of Jameson’s more likable lackeys but Jameson’s hunch that he’d betrayed them had been true and he had to pay for that. Yormir would show up with the City Guard shortly after. The only one amongst them that hadn’t had a run-in with authorities. He’d turn them over to Jameson who would do the same to them as he had with Reggie. Once the bodies were positioned believably he’d set a small fire in the apartment and get as far away as possible. When the fire spread enough, the remaining crates full of Apple Core would explode, killing everyone inside a second time and, if they were lucky, ending the investigation and clearing Jameson’s name.
Urman appeared along the road leading to the iron gates of the university, leading the horses that pulled the covered cart. Not a soul alive would suspect what was beneath the canvas cover. Hate him or love him, the man knew how to get a job done.
She was still smiling when the explosion lit up the sky; a ball of red flames surging upward, high enough to warm The Creator, dark clouds forming along the sides and bottom. The city rumbled and roared; people screamed, horns blew. The insanity, as far away as it was, entranced her. It was all her eyes could see.
She was still standing at the window when Urman walked through the door. “Get one of the students to carry that shit inside. My back’s stiff.”
Iris was in a generous enough mood to grant the criminal that request. “Very well.” She made her away across the lab, heading toward a napping Cora in her basket on the workbench. “Do you believe Jameson-”
The basket was empty.
She spun toward Urman. “Where is she? Does he have her?!””
“What?”
“My baby! Does he have my baby?!” He couldn’t, could he? How long had it been since she checked on her? Half an hour? A whole hour? She realized then it had been much longer than she’d thought. She’d been distracted, fixated with her accomplishments, but not enough to let a murderer walk out of the lab with her baby! Yet, it sure appeared as though she had. She felt like the teenager she was instead of the mature adult she always tried to be.
“Who? That prick, Wicket?”
“Yes, that prick, Wicket!”
Urman nodded. “Aye. Thought ya saw him carry her out of here…”
“No.” Not a response to Urman. A plea to The Creator.