Tables and shelves lined the walls, covered in wizardly bric-a-brac. A long table ran down the middle of the room, almost entirely occupied by a scale model of downtown Chicago made of pewter, right down to the streetlights and trees.
My apprentice had a workstation at a tiny desk between two of the tables. Though she had continued to add more and more of her own notes, tools, and materials as her training continued, somehow she had kept the same amount of space open. Everything was neatly organized and sparkling clean. The division between Molly’s work area and the rest of the room was as sharp and obvious as the lines on a map.
I’d upgraded my summoning circle, which was set in the concrete floor at the far end of the little room, a five-foot hoop of braided copper, silver, and iron that had set me back three grand when I ordered it from a svartalf silversmith. The materials weren’t all that expensive, but it took serious compensation to convince a svartalf to work with iron.
Each metal strand in the circle’s braid was inscribed with sigils and runes in formulae that harnessed and controlled magical energies to a far greater degree than any simple circle. Each strand had its own string of symbols, work so tiny and precise that only svartalves and maybe Intel could have pulled it off. Flickers of light, like static discharge but more liquid, slithered around each strand of metal, red light, blue, and green dancing and intertwining in continuous spirals.
I’m still young for a wizard—but once in a while, I can make something that’s fairly cool.
One shelf was different from all the others in the room. It was a simple wooden plank. Volcanic mounds of melted candle wax capped either end. In the center of the shelf was a human skull, surrounded by paperback romance novels. As I watched, orange flickering light kindled in the skull’s empty eye sockets, then swiveled to focus on me. “Too many Hammer Films,” Bob the Skull repeated. “Or, possibly, one too many nights at the Rocky Horror Picture Show.”
“Janet, Brad, Rocky, ugh,” I said dutifully. I went to the shelf, picked the skull up off of it (“Wheee!” said Bob), and then carried it over to a mostly clean space on one of the worktables. I set the skull down on top of a stack of notebooks, and then put Martin’s manila folder down in front of him.
“Need your take on something,” I said. I opened up the folder and started laying out the photographs Martin had given me.
Bob regarded them for a moment, and asked, “What are we looking at, here?”
“Metacapacitors,” I said.
“That’s weird. ’Cause they look like a bunch of ritual objects.”
“Yeah. I figure metacapacitor is code language for ritual object.”
Bob studied the pictures and muttered to himself under his breath. He isn’t actually a talking skull—he’s a spirit of intellect who happens to reside inside a specially enchanted skull. He’s been assisting wizards since the Dark Ages, and if he hasn’t forgotten more than I ever knew about the wide world of magic, it’s only because he doesn’t forget anything, ever.
“They’re traveling in a single group. I need to get a ballpark estimate on what they might be used for.”
“Tough to tell from two-dimensional images,” Bob said. “I start getting confused when there are any fewer than four dimensions.” He rattled the skull’s teeth together a few times, thoughtfully. “Is there anything else? Descriptions or anything?”
I opened the folder. “Just the inventory list.” I put my finger on the picture of the stone knife and read, “ ‘Flint blade.’ ” I touched an old brick with crumbling edges. “ ‘Brick.’ ”
“Well, that’s just blindingly useful,” Bob muttered.
I grunted. “It’s possible that this is just miscellaneous junk. If you don’t think it has a specific purpose, then—”
“I didn’t say that,” Bob interrupted sourly. “Jeez, Harry. Ye of little faith.”
“Can you tell me anything or not?”
“I can tell you that you’re teetering on the edge of sanity, sahib.”
I blinked at that. “What?”
Bob didn’t look up from the pictures. “Your aura is all screwed up. It’s like looking at an exploding paint factory. Crazy people get that way.”
I grunted and considered Bob’s words for a moment. Then I shrugged. “I’m too close to this case, maybe.”
“You need some time in a quiet place, boss. Unkink your brain’s do. Mellow your vibe.”
“Thank you, Doctor Fraud,” I said. “I’ll take that under advisement. Can you tell me anything about those objects or