“It’s time to have a frank discussion about Sir Otrygg,” Lord Gramsteed said, pouring two glasses of wine.
Turold winced. He had been dreading this conversation for years. His Master warned him that even though it wasn’t his problem, it soon would be. He thought of the various excuses he might make to refuse the wine, leave the room, and lose himself in the crowds below. Lord Gramsteed must have suspected as much; a servant closed the door and crossed his arms, either one of which was sufficient to crack his head.
“We don’t even know if he’s alive or dead,” Lord Gramsteed continued, after doffing the entire glass. “He no longer answers letters. No one in the Council has seen him for months, maybe a whole year together. Have you?”
“I—ah, no, my lord. I paid a visit once. Not at home.”
Lord Gramsteed handed Turold a glass of wine as if to reward him for the response. As well he should, since he at least tried to make contact with the errant Astrologer Royal. Most people were too frightened to come within ten feet of him. Turold should know; he was.
“He’s been Astrologer Royal for how long?”
“Nineteen, twenty years?” Turold ventured, taking a sip. “I really don’t remember.”
“And in all that time, have you read a single scrap of his work? Some stray notes? A prospectus?”
“I can’t say,” Turold replied.
“Not a word,” he nodded. “As you might know, he was commissioned to translate the Cinquefoil Codex, the last of the great books, and the only one we can’t read. Yet in all this time, he’s ignored deadlines and played dead to members of the Council. He’s even ignored my dinner invitations, which I restrict to the choicest members (forgive me, I have meant to invite you). So what’s he been doing all this time?”
Turold had many guesses, few of which he wanted to share with Lord Gramsteed. Sir Otrygg was known to be a great eccentric. Of course, he knew more about spellcraft than anyone alive, possibly anyone who had ever lived. Yet he guarded these secrets like a dragon brooding over its treasure hoard. When he accepted the promotion, he promised to not only translate the mysterious document, but to create a complete dictionary of the ancient script, which belonged to no known race or civilization. He claimed he had sources, forgotten libraries, imprisoned spirits with stories to tell, tales never before written in ink.
The years passed, and he made various excuses for not producing his translation; it was always “in the works.” Some whispered that he had nothing to share, that his boasts were lies, idle fabrications. The desperate promises of a man whose power was spent, who pried too deep into the dark places and returned as blank as the void. Turold didn’t believe them. He knew Sir Otrygg’s temperament: he would publish his deadliest secrets if it could advance his career. It had to be something else. Greed? Paranoia? Revenge? All were possible motives.
“You know something—I can see it,” Lord Gramsteed said, interrupting his thoughts.
“Forgive me, I was just taking it all in,” Turold recovered. “Why didn’t the Council intervene sooner?”
“Why do you think? Fear,” Lord Gramsteed said, spilling some wine on the rug. “Respect for his reputation. But mostly fear. No one wanted to confront him.”
“So why now?”
“Because we hired someone, a spy, to sneak into his apartment. To see if he was really up to something, or had merely gone mad, and spent the endless days conversing with a bottle.”
Turold could see that they had found something, or guessed something; probably the same thing he had, long ago.
“He’s been working steadily. Piles and piles of notes. Charts, diagrams, maps, scattered over the tables, on the floor. Obviously the spy couldn’t make out anything specific, and we forbid him to steal a single document. However, he took the liberty to bring us this, a piece of waste paper tossed in a corner. Presumably, it wouldn’t be missed.”
He handed this over to Turold, a balled up page, reeking of cloying spices (or maybe just cat piss). Delicately, Turold unfurled the ball and inspected the words written inside. He read them silently, then in a whisper, just to hear the sounds as they trickled between his lips.
Winter shall wane
fair weather come again
the sun-warmed summer!
The sound unstill
the deep dead wave
is darkest longest.
One shall break
frost’s fetters
free the grain
from wonder-lock.
“Do you know what it means?” Lord Gramsteed asked, his eyes watching carefully.
“It’s a spell, though for what, I can’t imagine,” Turold said, turning it over. “It’s not complete.”
“Nothing you’ve seen before?”
Turold shook his head, wishing he could say he had, as he knew where the conversation would take them next.
“Then you know what we fear. It all makes sense: his silence, his elusiveness. Spells that no one’s seen that speak of winter and darkness.”
“But this could mean anything—or nothing at all,” Turold protested, balling it up again. “Especially since even he discarded it. Perhaps if I paid a visit—”
“Yes, that’s it exactly: I’ve sent for you to pay him a visit. But it’s not a social call.”
“No?”
Lord Gramsteed rose from his chair and removed a sealed letter from his coat. Turold recognized the seal at once: not the Lord’s, but straight from the Council. The Inner Chambers.
“He’s being relieved of his duties, effective immediately. It also mentions his expulsion from the order. The terms of his imprisonment. His trial.”
“You mean…a warrant for his arrest?” Turold rasped.
“Precisely. And we want you to deliver it. Once he’s safely out of the apartment, we’ll make a thorough inspection.”
Turold tucked the letter in his sleeve, weighing what he could safely ask and what he should swallow down to question in private.
“Will I be going alone? No escorts?”
“We can’t risk making a scene. Especially if the search doesn’t give sufficient cause, you understand.”
I never understand you people, Turold thought, but he didn’t complain. He could refuse the honor, but at what cost? He already knew too much, and if he walked away, he might not travel far.
“And if I don’t return?” “Your memory will be honored,” Lord Gramsteed said, raising his empty glass.
