The Boy Who Went Magic Read online

  “Oh, her,” said Norton. “She’s new.”

  “When did she turn up?”

  “They introduced her while you were with … you know,” said Norton. He didn’t seem to want to talk about the quæstor either. “You like your toast dry?”

  Bert ignored the question. “Where’s she from?”

  “No one knows,” said Norton. “She hasn’t spoken to anyone since they introduced her. I expect she’s perfectly miserable. I can’t say I blame her, really.”

  Bert tried to concentrate on chewing his breakfast, but every time he looked up, the girl was still watching him. She didn’t seem to care when he tried staring back.

  “Good breakfast?” said Norton.

  “Not really,” said Bert between mouthfuls. “Better than nothing.”

  Norton sighed. “That’s the spirit.”

  The girl was still staring at Bert as he rose to put his plate away. He avoided her table and passed a group of girls gathered around the morning newspaper. They seemed to be excited about something on the front page and didn’t pause to give Bert their usual cold stare.

  “I heard it was a man dressed in black,” said Garnet.

  “I heard it wasn’t a person at all,” said Samantha. She lowered her voice. “It was a ghost. It ran straight through the front doors and started destroying the place.”

  “That’s stupid,” said Garnet. “There’s no such thing.”

  Olivia shook her head. “They could see the flames from Portside.”

  Bert felt a chill. He hesitated for a moment, then dropped his plate into the wash rack and approached their table. “What are you talking about?” he said.

  “There was a fire at the museum,” said Garnet. “Someone destroyed the special collections wing. They say if it had spread it could have burned down half the city.”

  “That place obviously wasn’t safe,” said Samantha. “I mean, after the accident your friend caused, I suppose we’re lucky to have gotten off with a few lights and noises.”

  Bert tried not to show any reaction to the news, but as he made his way back upstairs he felt troubled. He had a vague impression that the museum had been in his dreams, along with a fire in the sky and people shouting. But with so much on his mind, it was hard to say for certain.

  “What you learn here could save your life,” bellowed Mr. Pavlo, as Bert’s class gathered on the dueling field. The grass was still wet with dew, and people were watching from the gray windows of the school building. “You all know the rules by now,” said the fighting instructor. “It will be an elimination contest until we get to the final five. You may only be using stick-swords today, rather than cold steel, but I still expect you to fight like you mean it.”

  Bert looked across at his first opponent. Norton was chewing on a grass stalk and holding his stick loosely over his right shoulder. “Are you ready?” said Bert.

  Norton made a noncommittal gesture.

  “Keep your guard up, everyone,” yelled Mr. Pavlo. “You’re meant to be simulating what you would do in a real fight, not preparing for a dance.”

  “This is what I’d do in a real fight,” mumbled Norton. Without waiting for the signal, he stepped forward lazily and swung his stick over Bert’s head.

  Bert dodged and tapped him with a swift strike.

  “And so I die,” said Norton. He gave a brief bow. “Good luck, Bert.” He knocked aside the daisies with his stick as he walked away to the observation benches.

  “What are you doing over there?” asked Mr. Pavlo.

  Bert looked around. “I just finished my first fight—”

  “No dawdling,” interrupted Mr. Pavlo. “Come over here and get ready. I shall expect you all to strike at each other with full swings. Don’t forget to use grapples too.”

  Bert was used to teachers not listening to him. He caught the new girl staring at him again. She was close enough to speak to this time. “Can I help you?” he said.

  She grinned, and twirled her practice sword.

  Bert was beginning to feel uneasy about her.

  “All right, Bert,” said Mr. Pavlo. “You’re against Freston.”

  Bert sighed inwardly. He badly wanted to beat Freston, but his opponent had been exam champion every year. He wished sometimes that he could stop caring, like Norton. As he looked over he saw that his friend was picking flowers rather than watching the contest.

  “I’m surprised you even got this far,” taunted Freston. “I hope you have a defense for the Hyperion gambit.” He swished his stick over his head. “If you even know what that is?”

  Bert ignored him and raised his stick over his right shoulder, waiting for Mr. Pavlo to give the signal to commence. He was determined not to let Freston get to him.

  Freston grinned as they waited. “You look pathetic.”

  Bert kept his gaze steady, trying not to show any reaction.

  “I’m not even going to feel proud of beating you.”

  Bert remained silent.

  “Did your parents abandon you out of shame?”

  Bert felt a flash of anger. His hands shook.

  “Go,” yelled Mr. Pavlo.

  Bert leaned onto his back foot as Freston stepped in, then lunged forward. He aimed straight for his opponent’s head, putting his full power behind the blow.

  Freston brought his stick up to block the attack.

  There was a sharp crack.

  Two halves of stick went spinning through the air and Freston collapsed on the grass, clutching his arm and gasping in pain. “That’s not fair,” he whined. “He cheated.”

  Bert felt elated for a moment, but he quickly realized that something was wrong. As he looked down he saw a faint red glow pulsing from under his bandages. Not now, he thought. He glanced worriedly at the classmates nearby, wondering if anyone had noticed.

  “What’s going on over here?” said Mr. Pavlo.

  Bert clenched his fist. “Nothing,” he said. His panic grew as he thought of having to face the quæstors again. A stinging sensation spread up his arm.

  “He must have put metal in his stick,” said Freston. He stood up and retrieved the broken halves of his weapon. “Nothing could have broken through my practice sword.”

  Mr. Pavlo took both sticks and stared at them for a moment. “I see what you mean, Freston,” he said. “You’ve clearly been doctoring your stick with filcher’s putty, haven’t you—making it as hard as a rock?” His face darkened. “So not only have you cheated in my exam, and lost, but you also have the nerve to accuse this other boy, whose weapon is perfectly normal.”

  Freston turned pale. “But he snapped it in two.”

  “You will see me later,” said Mr. Pavlo. “Perhaps this explains how such a talentless sprig could win so often.” He cleared his throat. “Something wrong with your hand?”

  “No, sir,” said Bert hurriedly.

  “All right,” said Mr. Pavlo. “You progress to the next round.”

  Bert would have liked to enjoy his victory over Freston, but he was too afraid of what was happening to him. He stood in line with the remaining competitors and dared a peek under the bandages. The mark was still there, but to his relief it seemed to be fading.

  “Does it hurt?” said the new girl.

  Bert flinched. She had been standing behind him the whole time. She must have seen the mark. He froze for a moment, unsure of what to say.

  The girl seemed to be smiling at him.

  “Listen up,” said Mr. Pavlo. “The first playoff will be Bert, against … sorry, what’s your name?”

  “Finch,” said the girl, in a strong, clear voice.

  “Finch against Bert,” said Mr. Pavlo. “You two seem to be our best fighters this year. I look forward to seeing what you will make of each other.”

  Bert was too shocked to say anything as the girl led him over to the central dueling court. She carried her stick casually under her arm. “Good luck,” she said.

  “Yeah, good luck,” managed Bert. He lifted his s
tick over his shoulder and tried to remain focused. A string of questions ran through his mind about the girl: Did she understand what she’d seen? Would she tell on him? He felt like he was caught in a trap.

  The girl suddenly shot toward him.

  Bert jolted and swung his sword in a desperate block. He hadn’t heard the signal to go. He felt a rattling thud as the sticks connected and leapt back as something whistled by his ear.

  The girl seemed to move around him in a blur.

  Bert blocked again as a swipe shot toward his stomach and the impact almost threw his weapon out of his hand. “Whoa!” He swung his guard back to center.

  The girl ducked around his block and kicked.

  Bert brought his arms down to meet the blow but the force of it hit him like a sledgehammer. He flew backward and hit the ground with a heavy thump.

  As his breath returned, he had a vague awareness of wet grass against his ears, and Norton reaching down to help him stand. Finch was already preparing for the next fight, but she nodded to him as she took her stance. “Sorry,” she mouthed, twirling her stick and walking off.

  Bert held his ribs. “What are her feet made of ?”

  Norton looked at him pityingly. “That’s why I don’t try.”

  At least no one was looking at him anymore. Bert peeked under the bandage and sighed in relief. The glow appeared to have faded completely, but he hardly felt good about the idea of it starting again at any moment. Something must have triggered it. The more he thought about it, the more certain he felt that it had been his anger. He couldn’t afford to let that happen again.

  Bert was still bruised and sore as he made his way across the school courtyard after classes that evening. He hung back from the rest of his schoolmates and leaned against the archway that led to the dormitories. Small birds skimmed the rooftops. He wasn’t sure exactly how long he stayed there, but after a while he became aware that Norton had joined him.

  “Are you all right?” asked Norton.

  Bert shrugged. He didn’t really feel like talking.

  “Sword fighting isn’t everything,” said Norton.

  “I suppose.”

  “I mean, what’s it even useful for?”

  “Not getting killed in a sword fight?” said Bert.

  Norton looked thoughtful. “Yeah, but what else?”

  Bert laughed, despite himself. “It’s not really the competition that’s bothering me,” he said. “It’s more just a feeling I have. Like something’s not right.”

  “Since the museum?” said Norton.

  Bert wasn’t used to Norton being so observant. He wanted to trust his friend, but he honestly didn’t think it would help to talk. It might even get Norton into trouble too.

  “Did the pirate you met use a sword?” said Norton.

  “He did,” said Bert. “He didn’t hurt anyone with it, though. He just sort of knocked them down, and ran away.”

  “He sounds … curious,” said Norton.

  “He was.”

  “Do you think you’ll see him again?”

  “The Professor?” said Bert. “He’s a pirate, Norton. I doubt it.”

  “Shame,” said Norton. He stared toward the sky for a while. His face had taken on its more usual bored expression. “Do you want to hear my poem about a pirate?”

  Bert winced. He didn’t share his friend’s love of poetry, and right now he wasn’t sure he’d be able to disguise his feelings. “Maybe not right now.”

  “Later?”

  “Of course.”

  Norton hesitated, looking a little downcast. “It’s probably not that good anyway,” he said. He walked away, and disappeared into the shadows of the nearest doorway.

  Bert closed his eyes and leaned against the cool stone wall. He wasn’t sure if anger was the only strong feeling that might provoke the mark in his hand, or if other things might set it off too. Over the course of the day he’d made an effort to avoid strong emotions.

  But he was beginning to wonder how long it could last.

  Something caught his eye across the courtyard. There was a figure moving by the high wall that joined the street. As he watched, the figure crouched and sprang upward.

  Bert gasped. Whoever it was had jumped onto the top of the wall—three times their own height—like it was nothing. He blinked and looked again. The person was still there, looking back toward the school. He thought he caught a glimpse of long hair but it was hard to tell in the low sunlight. Then the figure was gone—leaping down the other side of the wall.

  He squinted at the wall. “What on earth was that?”

  He told Norton what he’d seen later as they prepared for bed.

  “Are you sure it was real?” said Norton.

  “Do you think I’d be talking to you if I wasn’t?”

  “I don’t know,” said Norton. “I don’t really know why people talk to me at all.”

  Bert lay back on his pillow. Sometimes it was frustrating having a friend who didn’t care about these things. “I just feel like something strange is going on,” he said.

  “Well, if I was a different sort of person, I’d say we should sneak out of the school and investigate. We could make some disguises, and try to follow their trail.”

  Bert turned to face him. “Couldn’t we be that kind of people?”

  “No. I don’t think so,” said Norton, yawning. A few moments later he was snoring softly, his breath keeping time with the fluttering curtains over the dormitory window.

  Bert lay awake for a while, wondering if Norton was right. He secretly thought that he was the kind of person who went on adventures. But he had to admit there was a certain appeal in leaving them aside for the time being. Especially when his bed felt so comfortable.

  His dreams were strange and murky. There was some kind of shadow following him. Every time he looked around it was a few paces behind, beckoning to him, as if it wanted to talk. There was something familiar about it, but however hard he tried, he couldn’t see it clearly. Then the dream changed. He was back in the basement of the museum. The room was filled with ashes. He saw a metal hand searching through the rubble. The hand closed around a fragment of glass and a harsh voice spoke:

  “This is where it happened. It’s already here.”

  Bert woke to the sound of startled voices. He saw the silhouetted shoulders of six boys from his dormitory gathered in the doorway, peering into the corridor. Norton wasn’t among them. He heard a voice say something about a fire. “Norton?” he said.

  There was no reply. Norton didn’t seem to be in the room.

  He rose and joined the others. “What’s going on?”

  “There was an intruder in Mr. Fitzroy’s office,” said a tall boy named Rickard, who was peeking over the heads of everyone else. “They say he burned something.”

  “An intruder?” Bert thought of the figure he’d seen jumping over the wall. He looked around again for Norton, and spotted him by the window. “What are you doing over there?” he said. “There’s some kind of commotion downstairs. They said it was a fire.”

  Norton yawned. “I’m too tired for all this.”

  “You’ve had plenty of sleep,” said Bert. He lowered his voice. “Think about it—I saw that strange person hanging around, and now this. Do you think it’s connected?”

  Norton shook his head. “It’s probably the usual stuff.”

  “Usual how?” said Bert.

  Norton didn’t bother to reply.

  Bert heard a stern voice approaching from the corridor. “You will all go back to your rooms,” said Mr. Fitzroy. “There is no danger to anyone.” He appeared in the doorway, dressed in a sleeping cap and pajamas. If they’d dared, the boys might have laughed at him. “You, Bert, will come with me immediately. We will get to the bottom of this matter.”

  Bert tensed. “Me?”

  Mr. Fitzroy beckoned him impatiently.

  Bert followed him downstairs to the teacher’s office and found Freston already waiting. The other boy lo
oked pale and worried. There was a strong smell of burning in the air, despite the open window, and he could see fragments of scorched paper littered across the floor.

  “What happened here?” said Bert.

  “I will ask the questions,” said Mr. Fitzroy. “Where were you for the past hour?”

  “In bed,” said Bert.

  “Can anyone verify that?”

  “People in my dormitory, I suppose,” said Bert. “I was sleeping.”

  Mr. Fitzroy picked up a piece of ashen parchment. “This is all that’s left of your school records. Every note we have on you in this school, all gone up in smoke.”

  Bert shook his head in disbelief. “How?”

  “That is exactly what I’d like to know,” said Mr. Fitzroy. “Someone must have come down here, unlocked my door—goodness knows how—and burned it.” He glared at Bert.

  Bert felt confused. “You don’t seriously think it was me?” he said. “Those are my grades. I mean, they’re not perfect, but they’re still good grades.”

  “Didn’t you get an F in dance class?” said Freston.

  Bert frowned. “Is that relevant?”

  “Mr. Pimple said it was the worst dancing he’d ever seen.”

  Mr. Fitzroy rubbed his brow in obvious exasperation.

  Bert suppressed the urge to knock Freston off his seat. “My point is, there are plenty of good grades there too. I’m the last person who would want to wreck them.”

  Mr. Fitzroy swallowed and looked down. He seemed to be considering the logic of the matter. “Let’s leave that for now,” he said. “I also have a report from Freston.”

  Bert looked at the other boy. He seemed shaken.

  “I-I was attacked by someone,” stammered Freston.

  “Speak up,” said Mr. Fitzroy.

  Freston wiped his eyes. “I was standing in my dormitory, looking at the stars, and s-suddenly someone picked me up over their head and threw me out of the window.”

  Bert gave an involuntary snort of laughter.

  “It’s not funny,” snapped Freston. “I could have been killed. It’s only because my pajamas caught on the window latch that I was saved. I was nearly murdered.”

  “What does this have to do with me?” said Bert.