The Boy Who Went Magic Page 3

  “Nothing,” said Bert. “I just looked in it, and I sort of drifted away. I saw something. I was at the royal palace, I think.” He shuddered as the memory came back to him.

  The Professor nodded thoughtfully.

  “And you’re really a pirate?” said Bert.

  “I’m afraid I am,” said the Professor. “Or so they tell me.”

  “What are you stealing?”

  “Legs,” said the Professor. He wrenched at the hips of the suit of armor as he spoke, and pulled both legs off, sending the whole structure clattering to the ground.

  “What do you need those for?” said Bert.

  The Professor tapped his nose. “That would be telling,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Bert, I’m afraid my little disguise plan has generated a lot more noise than I intended. I think it’s about time I was leaving.” He wrapped up the legs in his cape and tied them behind his back. One of them jolted and kicked him in the ribs. “Good to see they’re still touch-responsive,” he said in a pained voice. “She’ll be pleased, as long as they don’t kick me to pieces along the way.”

  “Who’ll be pleased?” said Bert.

  The Professor shook his head. “It’s a long story.”

  “Won’t the lawmen catch you?” said Bert.

  The Professor knelt and lowered his voice. “About that, Bert,” he said. “There might be some people asking you questions about what happened here—dangerous people. It’s important that you don’t get yourself into trouble. Don’t say anything that might suggest you had anything to do with the magic here. And don’t mention anything about that mark, all right?”

  “Why would they think I had anything to do with it?” said Bert.

  The Professor studied him for a moment. “Best to be careful,” he said. There was a shout from upstairs, and the rending crack of a door being forced open.

  The Professor took the sword from Bert’s grasp. “Farewell,” he said.

  There was a rush of footsteps, and two blue-coated figures burst into the room. “No one move,” they shouted as they drew their swords. “Back against the wall.”

  The Professor was already rushing to meet them. He delivered a strong kick to the closest man before he could defend himself, and sent him flying into the wall.

  “Criminal scum!” yelled the next man, swinging his weapon. Bert saw a flash of movement and heard a clang as the blades met. There was a whistle of sharp metal.

  The man in blue leapt back and raised his weapon in a block, but the Professor was faster—forcing him back, moving his blade around his opponent’s guard.

  “Surrender,” yelled the guard.

  There was another sharp clang, and the thud of a heavy punch, and the blue-coated man fell back on the floor, clutching his side. By the time Bert looked up from where the man had fallen, the Professor was already through the exit.

  Bert sat alone in the school office, clenching his bandaged palm and trying not to appear nervous. He had been expecting punishment at school, but this was different. Mr. Fitzroy had been furious, of course, and had given him detention for a month. But now he sensed that he was in real trouble—deeper trouble than he had ever known. There was a knock at the door.

  The handle turned. A man entered.

  “Don’t get up,” said the man. He was reading a file as he spoke. He pulled out a chair across from Bert and sat down. He was younger than Bert had expected, but he had a heavy aura of authority. He wore a long coat like a soldier, but with a short-peaked cap instead of a helmet or the tall hats that officers usually wore. He carried two swords in his belt, and there was a scar down the right side of his face that his beard didn’t quite hide. “My name is Cassius,” said the man. “I’m a quæstor. I’m here to ask you a few questions. Is there going to be a problem with that?” He rested his hands on his sword hilts as if he expected Bert to attack.

  Bert swallowed and shook his head. I’m done for, he thought. He’d never heard of anyone at school being interviewed like this before, but he had heard of the quæstors. They were a secretive branch of the government. People said they only came after the very worst criminals.

  “What’s your name?” said Cassius.

  “Bert.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Ah,” said Cassius. He smiled coldly. “Well, I’ve heard about the museum from other people, Bert. But I’m curious to hear what you have to say about it.” He paused. “Go on.”

  Bert wasn’t sure how to reply. But he was certain that he shouldn’t tell the truth. It was one thing for people like Freston to joke about “going magic,” but it was quite another to claim that he had experienced it in real life. They would think he was mad. Or worse, they might believe him. Bert sensed that somehow that would get him into even more serious trouble.

  “I don’t know what happened,” said Bert. “I think I knocked my head when everyone was shouting and running around. And I cut my hand on something too. There was a lot of broken glass around.” He pulled the bandage tighter. The burn still tingled strangely. He had managed to keep it hidden from everyone so far. “When I woke up, the Professor was there. He told me to hold a sword for him while he stole some things. Then he just, you know, ran away.”

  “After striking two royal guards?” said Cassius.

  “Yes, after that,” said Bert. “That was very bad of him.”

  Cassius nodded. He seemed almost amused. “Well put,” he said. “It seems you often get into trouble at school. Can you explain that to me?”

  Bert was more prepared for this. “I suppose I get distracted sometimes.”

  “Distracted how?”

  “I just don’t focus on my work. I find it boring or too difficult. I think I’m not as clever as the other children. They pick on me for it.”

  Cassius nodded. “I have some test results that suggest you’re actually much cleverer than most of your classmates. Can you explain that?”

  “Those must be old tests.”

  “Why?”

  “I used to try harder.”

  “So you don’t apply yourself anymore?”

  “No,” said Bert. “Not really. Maybe I’ll try harder in the future.” He looked down at the floor and clenched his fists. Lying didn’t come easily to him.

  “Does your father pay for your schooling?” said Cassius.

  “No, sir,” said Bert. “They tell me my father went away to sea and didn’t come back, after my mother died. I live here now, and I get money from a scholarship—”

  Cassius interrupted. “Do you remember your parents?”

  Bert hesitated. “No,” he said. “At least, I think I remember them sometimes, but only in dreams. I was ill when I was very small—just before I joined the school—and they say I lost my memories then. It’s like there’s this fog where everything should be.”

  Cassius cleared his throat and looked at the file, considering something. “Had you ever met Professor Roberts before the museum?” he said.

  “No.”

  “Has he ever written a letter to you, sent a messenger?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you know what Professor Roberts does?”

  Bert was confused. “Well, I think he’s a pirate.”

  “Do you know what that means, Bert?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Bert. He felt relieved not to have to talk about himself for a moment, but something about the quæstor’s tone told him he was still being tested. “I mean, everyone knows that he steals things,” he said. “I suppose he makes money from treasure that he finds in Ferenor, when he’s exploring the ruins, you know, without proper permission.”

  Cassius gave a short laugh. “That’s one way of putting it,” he said. “Listen, Bert—we need to talk about something serious. Have you heard the story of the metal mage?”

  “No,” said Bert. He shuddered. After all that had happened, magic seemed like a risky subject to discuss with anyone—let alone with a quæstor.


  Cassius leaned closer. “It’s an old story but it’s a good one. There’s this mage who can turn things to metal. This mage has weak hands. So, what he does is he makes himself metal hands. Then he thinks: Now my hands are strong but my feet are weak, so I’d better make myself metal feet. And he keeps going on like that until his whole body is metal. Only his brain is left. Ah, he thinks, now my body is strong but my mind is weak. I need to make myself a metal mind. So he does. Only with a metal mind you can’t be the same person anymore. Do you know what happens next?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The mage kills everyone he used to love, all his friends and family, and no one can stop him. All because he made himself a pair of metal hands.”

  There was a pause in the interview. Bert didn’t know what to say. He felt a growing dread in his stomach, worse than any time he’d been disciplined by the teachers or told lies to his friends. Any moment, he thought. Any moment now he’ll draw his swords. He wondered if it would help to confess to the quæstor first: to tell him about the mark on his hand. But somehow he knew it wouldn’t save him. It was too late now for anything except silence.

  The quæstor clapped his hands suddenly.

  Bert flinched in his seat.

  “Magic isn’t like a fairy story,” said Cassius. “It’s a very dangerous thing. Have you ever wondered why there isn’t a kingdom of Ferenor anymore?”

  Bert felt uneasy. “Magic never existed,” he said. “It’s a myth.”

  Cassius waved his hand dismissively. “But suppose the stories were true—suppose there was magic in the world. Do you think that would be a safe thing?”

  Bert felt confused. “But even if they were true, there aren’t any mages anymore, are there?” he said. “I mean, even in the myths, they died when Ferenor fell to ruin.”

  He tried to keep his voice steady, but he had the uneasy feeling the quæstor could see through his bluff. In fact, Cassius almost seemed amused.

  “Even still, we must be prepared,” he said. “Do you understand?”

  “I think so.”

  Cassius stared at him sternly and lowered his voice. “I have to be certain you understand, Bert, because the old laws of Penvellyn decree that when a person is proved to have engaged in magic practices, they don’t get second chances. And neither do the people that protect them.”

  Bert blinked. “You’re letting me … ?” he blurted out before he could stop himself. He covered his mouth and looked down. Keep quiet, he thought. It’s a trick. He just wants you to admit you had something to do with the accident at the museum before he takes you away to prison.

  Just then there was another knock at the door. A man wearing a light gray suit entered the room. Bert felt a jolt of horror as he recognized the man’s face. It was Prince Voss: the man he had seen through the mirror. The prince appraised him with cold eyes, and gave a brief smile.

  “Quæstor,” he said.

  “Prince Voss,” said Cassius. He stood up and gave a short bow. “I wasn’t expecting you to come here yourself, sir. There’s really no need for your presence.”

  “Isn’t there?” said Voss. He strode across the room and stood behind Bert’s chair with his hand on his sword hilt. Cassius’s expression became stern and unhappy, as if he was about to do something unpleasant. All at once Bert felt the chill of impending death.

  Cassius remained standing as he faced the other man. “Your Highness,” he said. “This is government business, and I’m afraid I must insist that you leave.”

  Voss made no move to go. “I hear a lot about government business these days,” he said. “It used to be that the word of the royal family was reason enough for anything.” He gripped the back of Bert’s chair until it made a creaking sound. “You should be more open to conversation, quæstor,” he said. “After all, I hear you are going to be spending time under my command very soon.”

  Cassius gave a slight start. “It’s true that the inquiry requires me to spend time on your airship, sir. However, I remain under the command of the government.”

  Voss snorted. “I tend to find things work better if the men on my ship follow my orders. Ferenor is a dangerous place. Terrible things can happen to the unprepared.”

  “I will be sure to be careful,” said Cassius, coldly.

  Bert didn’t fully understand what was happening between the two men, but it was obvious that he had stumbled into some long-standing argument between the government and the royals. The men stared at each other for a moment before Bert sensed Voss’s grip loosen from his chair.

  “I felt I should be here in person,” said Voss. “After all, it was my father that opened the exhibit at the museum. I feel somehow … responsible for what happened.”

  Bert felt a shudder as he remembered the sensation of being pulled through the mirror, and finding the prince waiting on the other side. He tried to remain calm.

  “I’m sure no one would suggest such a thing,” said Cassius.

  “This is the boy who had the … accident?” said Voss.

  “We were just discussing the details,” said Cassius. He glanced at Bert. “It seems he had a nervous episode, due to the noise and the lights. He fainted.”

  “Poor boy,” said Voss. His voice remained cold. “It must have been quite the ordeal, meeting that crazed pirate on the loose. Especially in such an odd place.”

  “Indeed,” said Cassius. “Anyway, I had just finished here.”

  Bert held his breath and waited.

  “And?” said the prince, taking a step forward. There was a slight scrape of metal as he adjusted his grip on his sword.

  “And everything’s fine, Prince Voss,” said Cassius, with a note of insistence. “We just had a talk. There’s no problem. In fact, Bert’s just leaving, aren’t you, Bert?”

  Bert’s breath returned to him. “Yes, sir,” he said. He took a last look at Cassius—the lawman was trying to get him out of the room. He didn’t need to be told twice; he gave a swift bow and headed toward the exit.

  Voss stepped forward and put his hand on Bert’s shoulder. The grip felt cold and unnaturally heavy. His fingers were as hard as metal.

  Bert froze.

  “I can tell you something interesting,” said Prince Voss. “Magic is of course a joke to children these days. We’ve moved on in the world. Become more enlightened. But if someone was suspected of being a mage in the old days of Penvellyn, do you know what happened, boy?”

  Bert didn’t look at the prince. He shook his head.

  Voss leaned closer. “They were immediately put to death,” he said.

  Cassius cleared his throat. “An interesting history lesson,” he said. “But I’m afraid the boy really should leave now. I’m sure he’s being missed by his school friends.”

  “Very well,” said Voss. He released his grip, and Bert hurried from the room.

  Thankfully no one followed him into the corridor.

  There were no schoolmates upstairs in his dormitory when he entered. Everyone was still in class. He went to the window and looked out, waiting for the nausea to pass. The gray buildings of Penvellyn City glowed in the sunset, horses and carriages swept by on the wide roads, and everything looked calm and orderly. But inside Bert knew something had changed. He felt as if he’d seen the underneath of his world for a moment. It would never seem peaceful again.

  Two days after he met Prince Voss, Bert was still having bad dreams. There had been a shadow in his latest one—people crying out in the streets—a fire. He dreamt he was looking into the mirror again, only this time a strange face was staring back at him. The face suddenly called his name.

  He sat up in bed and let out a long breath. Then he looked under the bandages on his palm. The burn hadn’t healed at all. In fact, it seemed to be getting worse. He’d been feeling strange too. Sometimes he thought he saw things out of the corner of his eye.

  A ball of paper bounced off his head and landed on the bedsheets.

  “Hey, Bert,” yelled Freston. “Hope you�
�re ready to lose.”

  “What?” said Bert.

  “Open it,” said Freston.

  Bert looked at the notice on the paper—apparently, the yearly sword-fighting exams were being held today. There was also a crudely drawn picture of him with “loser” written above. He frowned at Freston. “How long were you waiting for me to wake up?”

  “You’re going to lose,” said Freston.

  After everything that had happened, it was hard to believe that all the aspects of school life—the bullying and the squabbling and the silly jokes told around the fireplace—were continuing as usual. “Yeah, I got that part,” said Bert. “Was there anything else?”

  Freston flushed. For a moment, he seemed to struggle for a response. “I should have known you’d have no pride,” he said. He clenched his fists and stormed out of the dormitory.

  Bert chuckled to himself. But as he looked around he realized everyone was already down at breakfast. He’d be lucky if there was anything left to eat.

  He dressed hurriedly and slid down the banister of the spiral staircase, avoiding Freston’s cronies along the hall. Ever since the events in the museum—which all the children now agreed were a simple accident, some kind of malfunctioning display—Bert had faced a lot of hostility. People seemed to blame him for helping the Professor. It made school even more uncomfortable than usual. As he weaved through the cafeteria, trying to find anything edible among the service trays, he noticed an unfamiliar girl sitting across the room. She had pale hair and a serious face, and she seemed to be watching him over her bowl of oatmeal.

  He sat down beside Norton—a permanently depressed-looking boy who was the only real friend he felt he could trust—and began to eat his dry toast. Norton hadn’t been at the museum, and didn’t seem especially interested in what had happened either. He never seemed especially interested in anything, except dismal poetry. “Who is that?” said Bert, nodding at the girl.