The Blue-Blooded League
a Lord El-Melloi II Case File
Table of Contents※
؎ Prologue
♔
“And do you know what the best thing about Lords is?”
A voice dripping with relish stops my hand inches before it touches the door handle, and I suppress the urge to turn on the spot and leave. Even behind the heavy oak door I can perfectly picture in my mind the kind of expression that voice’s owner has on her face right now, however much I wish I did not.
The sound of gritting teeth within my ears is loud enough that I almost miss the response from within the room. Those hesitant words that seemed to have slipped out of a mouth by accident without knowing where to even fall upon are not an annoyance. Mercifully, I am spared that particular problem from where I stand listening in.
“...what is it, Miss Reines?”
A snake’s smile widens and crinkles touch the corners of its eyes. Probably.
“They’re so used to being the biggest fish in the pond that they forget how it feels when an even bigger one swims by.”
Her Ladyship punctuates her words of wisdom with a decidedly unladylike chuckle that never fails to make me want to smash something to pieces. The slowly widening intervals between me needing to buy a new ashtray are another means by which I measure my personal growth as a dignified Lord, a patient instructor, and a self-possessed human being.
Fuck you, my hands aren’t shaking. I just need a smoke, badly. And it just so happens that my case is on my desk, in my office, which I am currently very disinclined to enter.
Naturally I know what she’s referring to. It has persisted as the talk of the Clock Tower for close to two months, to the point that even the most reclusive researcher must have heard about it by now. After all, even if the ritual itself is of little interest, when Magic is involved everyone takes notice.
But even that juicy piece of gossip has been slowly ground down by the collective rumour mill. That is all the more reason why I’m unpleasantly surprised to run into this topic being brought up by the person I least want to discuss it with.
“You mean, that hearing…?” Her voice trails off but I’m sure Grey knows about it as well. Her lack of assertiveness is a habit that troubles me as a teacher, but even more so personally. Simply put, it enables Reines too much.
“Oh Grey, you should’ve seen their faces when the Gemfather himself waltzed in! Lords and Ladies, department heads, all dumbstruck! It was like they forgot how to breathe! Ahahaha!”
The gleeful voice chortles.
“Ahaha…”
By comparison, its uncertain, awkward echo is barely audible.
As for me, I know exactly whose fault that stupid nickname is. I also know who I’m going to take my pent-up frustrations out on later. Still, bizarre as it is to hear it from Reines I can’t say it’s inaccurate. The Old Man of the Jewels had certainly made the Lords of the Clock Tower an offer they couldn’t refuse.
The hearing was a spectacle - not a debate of if but how far heads would roll - right until the moment he walked in, casually and wholly uninvited. To borrow Reines’s analogy the old man was a shark compared to most of the small fry there. Just taking the accused magus in his custody would have been enough, but he sweetened the deal by offering to the high-ranks present a service in return. And just like that they forgot all about failed rituals and lost magics, scrambling over themselves to figure out how to best take advantage of his offer.
I watched it happening all around me, one of the few that stayed put in their seats. Hardly stunned, but occupied. As shameful as it is to even think of, I was deeply interested - if not invested - in the story that the accused had recounted before the assembly. To a great degree it was troubling, and to greater still I could commiserate with the magus - her liberation was a welcome turn of events, even if it was exchanged for another, entirely different kind of torture as the magician’s apprentice. And how could it not?
I had once stood in that very same place. Frightfully young, brought before the stern eyes of the Clock Tower, stared down by wrinkled old faces - almost all the same as now - and called to justify the farce I had been part of. The blood spilt in foolishness that had trickled down to stain my hands, as one of the survivors. There wasn’t a single other person in that room who could understand that.
Of course, I’d never admit to any of that. And with Reines’s preternatural ability to sense my discomfort with the flick of a forked tongue in the air always in mind, it is exceedingly prudent never to stray even close to the subject around her.
Nevertheless I can’t stay rooted outside my own office with my hand hovering over the door handle like some nervous schoolboy. I reach to grasp it, but something catches my eye at the last moment.
A metal handle. This is a repurposed office - somehow there are never enough rooms in this monstrosity of a building for all the lecturers and administrators to go about - and I’d wager that the door has seen off at least a hundred years’ worth of previous tenants. I can’t say I’ve ever paid particular attention to it before, but I think I would have noticed my door handle having this cold, glaring, perfect sheen that reflects my curious look better than a mirror before. Did Grey expand her self-appointed duties from polishing shoes?
My hand stays for a beat, then resumes its course. Fingers curl around the handle. For the most fleeting of moments, so fast that my nerves fail to fully register it, an intense cold grazes them. Then it disappears as if it was never there, and only the tingle of magical energy courses through my skin. I hum my approval despite myself. Not a bad precaution at all.
“Clever girl,” the handle whispers to me.
I take that back. But more importantly, I now know that Reines knows I’m standing on the other side of the door. Her saccharine voice behind it, too, persists.
“And did you know your kind master volunteered to—”
Alright, that does it.
I barge into a quaint if out of place session of tea and scones shared by my ever-discomfited apprentice, perched on a stool and currently attempting to further hide her hooded face behind a chintz teacup, and the bane of my existence, looking comfortable and very pleased with herself in her - my - armchair. The proverbial cat and the canary; I acknowledge neither, do my utmost to radiate nonchalance, and make towards the rack to shrug off my coat. Judging by Reines’s look that I glimpse out of the corner of my eye I have only managed to soothe my own pride.
“Not a word of greeting? How distracted you are, brother mine. What vexes thee?”
I grumble something unintelligible at her and start rummaging the desk’s drawers for my cigars. She shrugs and shakes her head in mock disbelief at this discourtesy. Grey - for lack of words or initiative, I’m never quite sure - has been holding the cup to her lips for an inordinate amount of time. The awkwardness of the moment is a reminder that while she seems to get along with Reines, whom I...tolerate well enough by now, all three of us being in the same room is not what one would call a winning social combination. I bite my tongue, Grey swallows hers, and Reines’s has double the targets to lash at.
A snip, click, and drag later I am ready to face the music - or as it is, Grey, whose partially obscured face is still an infinitely more welcome sight than the room’s other occupant.
“I only offered the girl a letter of recommendation.” I tell her evenly behind a curtain of smoke. “Not that she would need it.” Grey accepts my words, as she does most things, with a small nod that belies how seriously she takes them. Questioned on this matter she once told me that it is my own ability as an instructor - that is, the effectiveness with which I impress an understanding on others - at work; without a whit of modesty but bearing in mind her own, as well as a certain incorrigible student that seems at times suggestible to all but my own influence, I must insist in ascribing this ever reliable trait to the quiet girl before me.
In any case, the looming misunderstanding of impressionable minds is nipped in the bud, but the price of engaging this topic is high. Already Reines peels herself off the back of the armchair to lean forward in predatory interest, elbows on her knees and fingers steepled contemplatively.
“A kinder soul you’d never expect to find beneath this surly visage, Grey. Such capacity for empathy, and how it resonated with the young, beautiful magus and her tragic plight! Alas!” Arms spread dramatically for effect but her grin openly betrays her. She must have rehearsed this performance for some time, awaiting the opportunity to spring it when I can’t just turn heels and walk away. Clever girl, indeed.
“The mantle of lordship rests uneasily on your master’s shoulders. Unused to his prerogatives he hesitated to reach out to her, and how he then regretted it! A letter of recommendation simply cannot compare to a magician’s f—guh!”
Sadly for her I cut the romance short. Reines descends to coughing from the smoke blown in her face and I have a moment to examine my office in peace.
The private tea party is set up adjacent to my desk, with the armchair being dragged from its place next to the bookcases, evidenced by the trailing creases on the carpet. In lieu of a coffee table - this being an office, the official one where the head of Norwich conducts his business even - a book cart has been repurposed, its shelves hosting an assortment of teaware, porcelain sugar cube pots and creamers, small plates with stacks of scones and a selection of toppers and their tiny spoons in equally tiny bowls - where they came from I know better than to ask. Just as well that they did, since all this could have been set up on my desk instead. Briefly I entertain the thought of telling Reines to tidy up afterwards and discard it almost immediately. We both know that even if she doesn’t use Trimmau, Grey will do it herself.
Eyes roaming from the impromptu setup, they settle on an item placed on top of my desk. White folder. A letter, probably. I turn the folder around and sure enough it falls out and partially unfolds on the mahogany surface.
The fact that someone has taken the liberty to open my mail makes me review my repertoire of oaths in order of offensiveness, but the seal stamped on the envelope brings all such thoughts to abrupt halt.
“Intriguing, isn’t it,” Reines pipes in, having finally recovered from her coughing fit. “Especially considering the circumstances.” She makes a show of wiping the side of her mouth with the back of her hand as though she had just finished hacking up a lung. It will not save her. Grey throwing me apologetic looks does not change my mind one bit on who the culprit is.
“Lady,” I try to rein in my irritation as best I can, “is it that prerogative you speak of to spy on people’s mail as well?”
She waves her hand as if to swat my complaint away.
“Can you begrudge me the concern for my beloved brother? I was simply worried that woman wanted to drag you off to some vampire-infested backwater or wherever she parades her troupe these days, but it seems my concern is wasted on you.”
“Master,” Grey chimes in, “I asked Miss Reines not to read it before you return, so…” She trails off and wrings her hands, perhaps torn between negotiating a stay of execution for this poor excuse for a noble that has the gall to act affronted after trying to peek into someone else’s letter and her own curiosity about its contents.
“Hmm.” I will grant her that much - I’m curious too. In no small part because I have been anticipating this letter with a certain sense of the inevitable. However, early in my day as it is, I can think of at least two excellent reasons to curb this curiosity for a few minutes.
The letter is folded with deliberation and my cigar perches in the notch of the ashtray; a teacup soon finds its place on my desk and I am duly rewarded with a look of indignation that hardly ever crosses Reines’s face while I ponder the sugar cubes with little taps of the tongs on porcelain. The moment is sweet, so I settle for one. To her credit she has already recovered in the time it takes me to stir it in.
“Try the scones, they are rather velvety.”
“I think I will, thank you. So, Grey, how are you finding your—fuck!”
“Tch.”
As if a silvery tendril didn’t just shoot out of her sleeve and almost knock over the still rattling teapot in an attempt to swipe the letter from my hand, Reines surveys the bookcases on the opposing wall with a casual sip from her cup. The offending appendage that wiggles for a moment in an imitation of a menacing snake before disappearing back into its hole openly betrays the act. That and my stinging fingers.
Her ability to cloak childishness in a tongue-in-cheek affectation stands out to me whenever our conversations aren’t brimming with sarcasm, though I admit that may very well be me resisting the idea that Reines has a sense of humour milder than her usual acerbic jibes. I can only speculate who could outlast the other’s patience; as smashed fine china, tea spilt on my rug, and inevitable squabbles over getting the last word in are not attractive prospects on any morning I find it wiser to capitulate to a demand I was going to meet anyway.
“Fine, fine.” The long-suffering sigh I cannot suppress.
I take a seat, unfold the letter, and read it in silence, to the annoyance of the two girls clearly expecting me to recite it; though not out of mischief: there simply isn’t much to it. No, rather, what it truly says is not what is written on the paper. Ah, and I woke up in such a good mood today...
“A summons it is, though not as far as the Continent,” I remark when I lift my eyes from the letter. Reines immediately snatches it from my hands and starts reading it out loud, while Grey tilts her head questioningly.
“By the authority vested upon me by blah blah blah…”
“Where to, then?
“...in my capacity as deputy vice-director—hah, that doesn’t have nearly the same effect—request a meeting…”
“London.” Just across the river, actually.
“...at your earliest convenience. Well well,” Reines meets my gaze, “it looks like they’ve finally gotten worried enough to turn to you, sir Detective. You are a victim of your own success.”
Not less lost than before, Grey directs a quizzical look to each speaker in turn and finds no forthcoming elucidation. At the moment, regarding a matter I do not want her involved in, leaving her to her assumptions is fine by me.
“So it seems,” I nod. There is no point in contesting a truth that we both know. And yet Reines asks, with levity in her voice and not a speck of it in her eyes. In contrast, my reply straddles reproach and finality.
“Will you take the case?”
“You know I have to.”
Reines’s exhalation is too small to ascribe to it the nuance of a sigh.
“Right you are.”
As for the how and why, the sum of our choices by now goes unspoken.
She gently places the letter back on the desk. I grind my cigar into the ashtray until my nails scrape glass. Grey fidgets, then occupies her hands by gathering the teaware; porcelain clinks a hundred times louder in the silence - she cringes, and stops.
Suffice to say that isn’t how I had imagined the day going. Noon should have seen me finally getting into the 1790-1800 issue of Eulyphis’ symposium transactions after weeks of it collecting dust on the very same book cart now used as a serving tray. I have an order due for delivery today which I know better than to trust someone like Reines or, perish the thought, Flat with receiving. To begin with, I haven’t even had my tea yet.
Regardless, depending on who’s calling, my earliest convenience may not, in fact, be convenient to me. With a clap of her hands to draw my attention Reines is all too eager to note that this is the case.
“Well then, shouldn’t you be on your way?”
Yes, no matter how I look at it, I have been drawn into something unpleasant.
The thought stays with me like a dark cloud under whose shadow I can muster only the grimmest of moods. It chases me out of the office and haunts my footsteps as I navigate the halls of the Clock Tower’s administrative centre, precipitating increasingly glum scenarios onto and into my head all the way through corridors and stairwells imperceptibly bridging partitioned space with its overlaid geography. The architectural latticework turned spatial nexus, a marvel of thaumaturgy akin to a nervous system underlying the superficial texture of the world, serves for naught but indistinct background, and though routine guides my footsteps while the mind roams elsewhere the contemplations I was absorbed in could by no means be called productive - nor entirely voluntary for that matter.
For lack of activity in the early hour more so than my air of unsociability it takes me no more than five minutes to emerge from an altogether inconspicuous doorway that folds within itself on the surface of solid granite as soon as I pass through it directly into the sunshine of a crisp, early spring morning in the heart of London, more than enough time to have contemplated hypotheticals that would stress out a sealing designate. It is only there, in a cloistered alcove of the British Museum’s courtyard, that the cloud disperses, as though it could not sustain its shape in the sudden brilliance, and for the first time since leaving my office I find myself able to put an end to that rampant anxiety - a habit of my youth that has persisted simply by how often my direst anticipations are proven right - and critically, vitally, begin to think on what is to be done.
I am told I am an excellent brooder but I must contend that the best of us are distinguished not by the depth of their despondence but their ability to, pardon my stretching the metaphor, swim in it, dive deep and rise to the surface at will, regulate their submersion - remain in control. I tend to sink, the letter now as lead in my inner pocket, and the only way to stay afloat is through action. Thought, instant and constant, makes for productive stress. It’s only a matter of getting it going.
Standing there with the hint of a breeze against my skin I resolve to tackle this matter without agonising over what is ultimately beyond my control. Though the prospect of enjoying this fine weather seems unlikely, a good start would be to pick up some coffee on the way.
And what do you know, against expectations, the five-minute walk to Tottenham Court Road station is pleasant enough.
Between the queuing and jostling of morning activity the first conclusion that takes shape is that all things considered my reputation, if I ought to admit to such a thing, has allowed me to tackle an issue that I would sooner or later be mixed up with in an active capacity - always the preferable position in which to greet the inevitable.
Suppose that within a short span of time, in steady succession from one to the other, a not inconsiderable number of magi had met an untimely death in such conditions as to preclude the possibility that their demise had been wrought by their own actions. Even if such conditions had not been in place, their social prominence within the ecosystem of their species would raise that suspicion; and even if they were not among the leaders of their packs - or as it were, families, pillars of the community one and all - their allegiance to a single confederation, a division which evokes such a tribalistic understanding of otherwise complex social institutions in the layman that necessitates this equally primitive comparison to keep them on the same page, would suggest a motive of aggression against what one could represent - comically in error - as a cohesive ideological unit; that is, a faction, one of the most self-negating terms ever employed to describe the structure of the governing body of the Magic Association’s premier organisation.
Then, expand the premise by presuming the existence of an individual who had, through his involvement in affairs of singular nature run through by a common denominator of transgressive criminality - an important distinction, else to assume the violation of some manner of codified penal law that does not, in fact, effect it - and, more significantly, products of premeditated intent, attained a reputation as a problem-solver, a spanner in such devious works so much as an active element of resolution, witting or otherwise - willing or otherwise. What is more, he too is one such pillar of the community, a leader in the confederation as it is, and thus duty-bound to protect its interests if called upon.
Suppose no more, but ask yourself: is it better to wander into the beast’s lair as a champion or as tribute?
This I ponder, depositing the empty paper cup in the awaiting gullet of a trash can before beginning anew my descent into the depths of underground London.
Basking in the mental clarity only coffee concentrate can offer at such a competitive price I must defer to the former. Better to be a Barthomeloi agent if one absolutely has to associate with their affairs, as perhaps by not possessing the luxury of a choice. But is that not, I ask myself as I thumb the envelope through the lining of my coat, the crux of the matter? Not the murders and not the power struggles, but the seal in the wax and the writing on the wall?
Its provocative purpose aside, Reines’s digression was completely on point. However, in contrast to those who bear the title of Lord with a sense of inherited - inherent - dignity, I never forgot how it feels to be the smaller fish. I was never allowed to forget, and never had cause to believe otherwise. The crown did not fit. The credentials just weren’t there. That my status was mutually acknowledged allowed me to observe that microcosm from the seat of an outsider looking in - a trespasser blundering in by circumstance, tolerated until I am finally shown the way out. Then, when the months turned into years and while reprieve remained in the distant horizon the Lords proper were forced to look upon this outsider as one of their own, a persistent fixture that would eventually detach itself, dropping off like a tick that had gorged itself on authority, research funds, or whatever it was the nouveaux thaumaturges aspired for.
But until then I was one of them, and I was to do as they do.
Factionalism among the department heads that comprise the executive members of the academic board of the Clock Tower is at once overstated and undersold, while more broadly misrepresented. The latter is not, however, unreasonable. The vestiges of aristocracy preserved in the organisational structure of its administration are a result of confluence with such systems in the past - a past in which privilege in the world of magic more often than not developed parallel with more mundane pursuits of wealth and status. That a system of hereditary succession benefitted the transmission of both material and spiritual riches was, I imagine, a great convenience. Certainly a better fate for spare children than the contrivances of marital bartering, although with benefits that history contests. The magus as a creature astride two worlds is nowadays considered a misapplication of resources.
While the political pursuits of this academic elite are very much aligned to the perpetuation of their prosperity, they are invariably diverse in terms of motivations in both senses of the word; and while the Clock Tower is functionally a regulatory body for the practice of magecraft as the alma mater of nearly ninety percent of all Western magi, the means by which this regulation is enforced are themselves kept on a tight rein by a single, rock-steady pair of hands. Thus, ideological factionalism is too contingent and conditional to constitute a consistent political climate, too entrenched in some cases and too mutable in others, and petty interdepartmental struggles far outstrip the subtle, far-reaching changes the powers that might be could hope for.
Faculty changes easier than policy. To appropriate an aphorism in brief summation, the Clock Tower’s academic politics are ceaselessly bitter because of the impotence of those involved to effect any significant change on the major matters at stake.
In the midst of it, I was urged to present my agenda. Clinging to my outsider status I declared the reconstruction of the title’s estate as my foremost priority, deferring all other decisions to the future and those more qualified than I.
Nominal allegiance of the El-Melloi lordship could, after all, be inferred. It was a title conferred by the Barthomeloi and they would exact that allegiance in return as they do with all the incipients of their favour for as long as it is sustained - even if at present it avails nothing - and Reines did her part in paying lip service to expectations in the form of cautious ambivalence, “and let it be taken as it may” by those concerned. Her involvement was enough to assuage worries that her regent, the runt playing at nobility, wouldn’t bugger off when the time came for her to succeed, and equally it allowed for speculation that a Barthomeloi seat could possibly be swayed to greener pastures. All the while I undertook the consolidation of my predecessor’s remaining possessions, an effort that culminated in the reestablishment of the El-Melloi classroom. From then on work ran quieter, and much deeper.
Small fry that were dropped in a shark tank, the both of us did our best to keep our heads low and convince our fellows that eating us was not worth the trouble. Almost a decade later that balancing act is finally coming to an end.
One way or the other, single ticket, Epping-bound. The path to destiny runs through the Tube, where crowd congestion leaves no room for errant thoughts to squeeze through. It is only when the loudspeaker heralds arrival at Bank station that I find some measure of relief, even though by riding the human overspill through the sliding doors and out of the carriage I trade the simulation of a sardine’s life in a tightly packed can for the broader hell of one of London’s busiest stations at the tail end of morning rush hour. It is a fair price for convenience - though that is not the only factor currently at play - albeit one I seldom opt for and have not grown fully accustomed to. The frequent trips from my flat to the Clock Tower’s central premises at the heart of London and the town that bears its name are not directly serviced by an Underground line, an axis that my business rarely deviates from. Still I recognise its merits. If I was a student these days and still as strapped for funds I would have saved on the pricey rent of a dormitory room by taking the roundabout commute to lectures; that is, if I could have managed to swallow my pride and kept living with my mother.
Ah, the foibles of youth. Not that I could judge my younger self with how rarely I show my face there.
Fresh off the reminiscence of simpler times and only just beginning to appreciate the anonymity afforded by the dense crowd, a chance meeting in the tunnel connecting to the DLR line seems to refute my belief in both the security of my means of transport from the eyes of other magi and that of my own thoughts against accidentally summoning their very subject.
“Hullo, Professor! What a coincidence to run into you here!”
Hailing more than greeting me, a young man emerges from the uniform crowd and comes to a halt in the middle of the walkway, unheeding of the shoves and pushes of disgruntled commuters flowing around us while his companion offers a nod by way of greeting. Casually dressed, I wouldn’t take them for magi at a glance; on closer examination I vaguely remember the boy as an infrequent attendee of last year’s lecture cycle. Students that treat the study of magecraft more like a pastime than a serious pursuit are not an insignificant demographic nowadays. Whatever the case, I think less of the coincidence and tell him as much. He doesn’t even acknowledge my words and instead proffers a pen and a book bound in cheap plastic spiral.
“An autograph, sir? With your real name?”
“My what--?”
It takes one look at the cover to bring some choice words to my tongue and significant mental effort to bite them back and barrel past the young man without dignifying him with a response.
My real sodding name, now that was some nerve. It’s a good thing this isn’t the time or place to indulge my temper because as far as shows of stupidity involving my person go this one was a masterpiece. I’d heard the rumour but I had not believed - clearly I still haven’t adapted to expect the worst.
Rumours are a slippery slope: one either cares not for any of them or entirely too much about all of them. Doubtlessly some fine nonsense will be spun out of this occasion as well. Something for everyone’s tastes, whether they want to hear about conceited Lords or the guilty silence of a simmering conspiracy. It comes with the position, the audience, and the nature of the institution itself. Thankfully the days in which an exceedingly thin-skinned young man then known as Waver Velvet was first introduced to this climate coincided with an emotional state in which he accepted every insult and denigration as fully deserved as well as, due to recent inspiring events, a slight growth of character, factors which facilitated the transformation of a mighty chip on his shoulder to a more mature indifference for the opinions of the common imbecile. As such, the man that was once that boy emerges into the narrow but mercifully less attended platform of the light railway unburdened by worries of forgathering gossip; though that is not to say there isn’t something to take away from the encounter that is cause for consternation.
Admiration comes in many forms and few of them can be predicted by its object; as an educator I am content with at least some of those resulting from a proper understanding of my instruction - intent conveyed intact and lessons well impressed. Not in order to take pride in my accomplishments, as the satisfaction I derive from my work is not contingent on the recognition of others, and not because admiration begets imitation which in reproducing a flawed understanding may precipitate results ranging from bothersome to dangerous, as everyone has the right to be an idiot. The precondition I would set for one’s high regard for a person to be valid is simply that this person should genuinely uphold the principles which they are being lauded for; in other words, that they are praised for what they would, at that given point, own to, avow, and readily defend.
Incidentally, I would do none of these things for the Inquiry of Magecraft's Path In the New Century, an altogether pathetic display of self-righteousness wholly unfounded by a profound lack of understanding over virtually all the topics addressed in the confines of its three hundred pages. This deeply resentful polemic against a monolithic system of injustice as perceived by a boy who thought himself scandalously deprived of his rightful greatness, a work so monumentally full of itself the reader could be excused to imagine its author engaging in more than mental masturbation during the process of its writing, was a product of juvenile fantasies that I have long outgrown and disavowed, and one which having met appropriate ridicule from its very first reader should have been consigned to the eternal shame of its author and the confidence of dead men who would surely have more interesting tales to tell if they could. And yet it seems that it never found its final resting place in my erstwhile teacher’s fireplace, persisting instead as, I can only assume, a curio passed around in academic circles as an example of the worst that the Clock Tower had to offer until somehow, and here is where speculation fails me, someone, somewhere, for some ungodly reason, found merit in making a copy of it so that its contents may be preserved to be then inflicted on future generations.
Now as is well-attested the future generations generally cannot be trusted to improve upon the previous ones in any meaningful way, so expecting an evolutionary leap that would allow them to derive some sort of benefit from this text was surely unreasonable; and true to the stereotype some dimwits that came across it interpreted it in the worst possible way: favourably. If a curious rattling was heard from within the Archibald family tomb at that precise moment, no one was around to tell.
I may exaggerate slightly but it is no laughing matter. Were I to examine the Inquiry with a critical eye I would doubtlessly encounter arguments with sound principles and instances where I had touched upon an issue where bias could be amended or alternatives explored that would constitute valid criticism if only I had not taken them so bloody personally. Such retrospection, however, is for me to perform. Having my juvenile writings publicised is in itself a source of embarrassment that I can nevertheless endure; having them circulated as an anti-establishment manifesto that destroys the Clock Tower with facts and logic written by a current Lord who may or may not be our man on the inside is downright perilous. This is where the problems converge. A piece of writing whose views I no longer espouse achieves cult status among a group of people whose own interpretation of these views is in turn ascribed back to me - the present me, the one who wants nothing to do with it and operates in circles where being regarded as a champion of the problematique is, to put it mildly, not a good look at all. With such attributions to my person it is no wonder I have so few friends among those who are merely encouraged to detest me on principle.
As expected of Professor Charisma, a mental voice helpfully provides. He has so much clout it’s beginning to break away and seek independence!
Clearly thinking on this is beginning to wear me down. More pressing matters seek resolution before that annoyance is addressed. Being already on the final leg of my transit, seated comfortably in the train carriage with one hand gripping the upright metal pole more to occupy itself than for support, I reckon this is a good time to consolidate some facts, perhaps formulate a course of action - so I try just that. It takes less than a minute. Easy: I have no actual option. The seal of Barthomeloi precludes this, as is its purpose.
Let this be clear. An order from the vice-director is one thing and an order from the Lord Barthomeloi another. The reason I am currently bound for Greenwich instead of walking two floors up from my office to the vice-director’s is this precise, vital distinction.
Once more we may return to Reines’s example. When Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg gatecrashed the trial of Fuyuki’s second owner he could have superseded the charges in a number of ways: nullifying them as a wizard-marshal of the Magic Association that outstripped the judicial power of the faculty of Law, offering the accused the position of magician’s protégé and the unassailable protection it afforded, or simply dispersing any and all objections with a suggestive wave of his reality-refracting walking stick. In any of these cases everyone present up to and including the department heads would have no choice but to accede, in varying degrees of impotence, to his decision - offering an incentive for their accord would be, strictly speaking, unnecessary. Of course, the old man recognised the value in fair exchange or the illusion thereof and did it anyway.
Order someone to do your bidding and they will drag their feet and resent you the whole way. But offer up something valuable to them in return and they might even think they came out on top of the deal. Incentive is incentive, even if they know better, and a gesture of goodwill besides.
The day’s brilliance has not waned in the slightest when I taste fresh air once more. Train tracks winding and twining like leylines of the modern world have carried me to the opposite bank of the river and a maritime station from which my destination is finally within walking distance. On the first road bend the merry flags of the Cutty Sark salute me as I pass by its bow and the watchful gaze of the eponymous witch; then it’s a right at the university and a straightforward walk - the final stretch, and I walk it willingly, my eyes fixed on the bait.
”In my capacity as deputy vice-director and delegate of Lord Barthomeloi I request a meeting...” While there might be several factors obliging me, which one I capitulate to - or give the impression of doing so - is not an inconsequential choice. Therein lies the import of this much-discussed letter.
As a department head I am subordinate to the vice-director’s orders, whether she wants me to investigate a murder or do somersaults on her carpet; this, no one can dispute. But as a Lord that has maintained a policy of careful equivocation in the dealings with my peers, entering the service of the Barthomeloi as their private investigator is tantamount to putting on their colours for all the world to see. Even with a perfectly valid reason the Rubicon, or Thames rather, is irrevocably crossed, and at a bad time too as the collective affiliation of the recent murder victims can attest.
Barthomeloi - a name with enough gravity that with a little effort one can peer between the curvature of the lines on which it rests. For there are different uses for the appellation, but the Lord does not invoke her title in vain. Nor the family seal, nor the stronghold of Greenwich, nor the delegates authorised to carry out her will.
In the not too distant past, one man’s pedigree of excellence had been recognised by the supreme leaders of the Clock Tower as the closest thing to an equal. For services rendered and others more to come he received the greatest honour they would bestow: their name, as much of it as they were willing to share. When Kayneth Archibald became Lord El-Melloi he was inducted into a league few others could claim membership in; it was only when I began to settle his interrupted affairs that I truly realised the enormity of what he had given up to pursue a phantom in a far eastern land.
Now, once more, the invitation is extended. For a service rendered to the Lord, not as vice-director or nominal leader of ideological affiliates but as head of the family, a service will be repaid, as is their way. What was once may yet again be, and I may finally fulfill my oath to restore the work of my predecessor to its former glory.
Solve the case, collect the prize. Put like this it almost seems simple, if only political ramifications were my sole worry.
My shoes exchange smooth concrete for the pleasant crunch of a dirt and pebble path as I duck into the gardens of Greenwich Park. A neatly trimmed, inviting pasture extends within the enclosure all the way to the patio of the Maritime Museum in the distance, but I aim to swing wide on a diverging path that cuts a swath across the lawn to navigate an architectural gathering further afield; the Royal Observatory, and then finally - though it’s scarcely been a full hour since I took off from my office - the Queen’s House.
The name fits its occupant as much as the modest appearance belies it. A short-lived royal residence that was acquired by more magically inclined blue-bloods after the Restoration, it retains a semblance of mundane function only in the sense that the publicly accessible portion is the merest tip of an iceberg that stretches many fathoms deep. The castle of the Barthomeloi is not open to visitors; enmeshed with only slightly fewer protections, its public front is marginally more welcoming. They even have a secretary, imagine that!
As I am soon informed, the guest office where I am to meet and be met is in the west wing of the house’s upper floor, which affords me a good view of the interior, an interplay of marble and canvas in all manners of combinations, along the way. It does not appear on the floor plan, naturally, or the visual cortex of the visitors for that matter, but this is what the seal is for. In ignorance of this magus custom I once found myself in the awkward situation of being unable to attend an invitation simply because I had thrown away the pass that would key me into the wards, an experience I was keen to learn my lesson from. Without it the touch of a bounded field would not be so gentle, nor would space in the corridor before me distend so accommodatingly - rather, I would. Never mind that I’m already fit to burst for other reasons.
That is, this is the second time this morning that I stand before an office door, my hand frozen in hesitation inches from the handle. Only this time the door is already ajar.
Carefully, I nudge it open with my foot and peer inside.
Well, fuck. For all my talk of expecting the worst I still didn’t expect that.
It does not shame me to admit that I stay reeling for a good minute or two, slumped back against the doorframe and staring blankly at a painting of some indeterminate marine horizon hanging on the opposite wall until the thump of blood in my pistoning temples subsides and takes the onrush of weariness with it. I’m not in too much of a hurry anymore, being already too late.
I came in haste and secrecy but my error was in predicting the stage of escalation. Actually, I may have underestimated the scope of this conflict to begin with. One murder was an incident, four was a statement, but a murder in Greenwich is a declaration of war. There is no turning back from striking down one of Barthomeloi’s own. Only victory or annihilation; and good luck to them, as Barthomeloi have extensive experience in both. At least with this timing they’ve earned themselves a head start.
Looking down at the nondescript man that all too briefly held supreme power in his master’s absence I can’t help but empathise. I don’t suppose it was his own choices either that led him to this wide-eyed contemplation of the ceiling. I hold my silence over him but do not disturb his corpse.
Well then. Now what?
A man in a room secured against assailants, quite alive when he enters and rather dead when he is found. In the fifth iteration the man awaited a guest shortly before his demise. I cannot say whether the deviation is incidental or if the poor sod would still draw breath had I decided that lugging myself to Greenwich for doublespeak over Lady Grey wasn’t worth the trouble when I could get the same experience in my office, but I must deal with what I was dealt the moment I stepped foot inside this building. Worrying about anything - or anyone - outside this room is a futile exercise.
In regards to my plan, nothing has changed. The timeframe has been drastically shortened, but for the moment I am enlisted as an investigator at whose convenience a crime scene has already been set up.
Half an hour before the secretary even begins to wonder. I compose myself, face the room once more, and pull a mobile phone from the pocket of my coat.
The game, as they say, is afoot.
Here goes a thing. My gratitude to Dullahan and Kirby for proofreading and creative ping-pong. Any remaining errors are my own.
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Originally Posted by Arashi_Leonhart
