Chapter 44 | PoV: Nur
Someone knocked on the stone door to Nur's office. A dark little cave that sat off the right side from the entry foyer to the academy. There were a few other rooms in this branch, as well. The walls here were bumpy and circular and didn't make for good places to put bookshelves. Whatever, the looks didn't matter, merely the function.
Barakat had yelled to Nur about this on a number of occasions, however. Something about style being important and leaving an impression. Nobody just walked into Nur's office, so its visual shortcomings were okay.
“Come in,” Nur called.
Someone opened the door, Mutamid stepped in wearing a tunic and pants. For once, his face did not carry a smile and his green eyes did not sparkle. He was clean-shaven and tan, more from the sun than his own skin color. He kept his black hair short, but messy.
“Yes?” Nur said. He stood in front of his desk, eyeing the mess of his office critically.
“One of your couriers is here. Urgent news from Glorestra.”
“Very well, send them in.”
Mutamid nodded and left, closing the door behind him.
Nur got back to rummaging through his office. He had put some books here weeks ago . . . somewhere.
There were stacks of papers and books all scattered around his office. They piled on top of his table, tripped unsuspecting feet, and looked like abandoned messes on his bookshelves.
He really needed to clean this up at some point. He found a stack of class grimoires, but a few were missing. Maybe they were in another stack of books somewhere . . .
His mind wandered to the “urgent news.” What befell Glorestra? It probably wouldn't be anything bad . . . right? Everything was fine, the plan was fine.
Someone knocked on the door again.
“Come in!” Nur took a stack of books off the floor and set them neatly into a bookshelf, one-by-one.
The door opened. The courier and Mutamid walked in.
“Greetings, Nur,” The courier gave a light bow. Aeolian mage robes.
Nur flicked his hand. “None of that . . . How long did it take to get here, in normal time?” It would still take them the seven hours or whatever it took, but for the outside world, it would seem like less. He asked just to gauge when any sort of event may have occurred. This morning, then? Overnight? What of the urgency?
“With our temporal mages? About two hours. We pushed hard.”
Nur raised an eyebrow at that. They had temporal mages left after those murders? He guessed that the couriers got lucky. Just the tower mages were hit? Two hours would be somewhere around two-hundred percent increase with speed bubbles. Extremely taxing compared to the thirty-three or even sixty-six percent safe standard.
“Is it that bad?”
“Yes, Nur. Prepare yourself,” The courier responded. He shifted his weight.
Nur sighed. “Just tell me.”
“Don't say I didn't warn you.
“Just—tell me,” Nur frowned. Why couldn't the courier just spit it out already? Nur wouldn't thrash about and order him killed for any news. Nur could take it. The courier was probably overreacting anyway. The news couldn't be that bad. Maybe the courier was really preparing himself for what he was about to speak. Maybe he was meek.
The courier took a deep breath. “His Highness, Jalal Of-Ghalib, is dead. The legislature is taking over. You—”
Nur choked on air. Hold on. “Did you just say the Prince is dead?”
The courier nodded vigorously. “—will probably lose your funds if it's investigated. People will probably be sent here. Do you think you can convince them to keep the funds? Once they find out this was funded by His Highness—and they find out about his . . . experiments . . .”
The courier sure knew how to talk. He finally trailed off.
Nur blinked. “Who killed him?”
“Aisha Of-Jinan and Fazl Of-Salama.”
“‘Of-Salama?’” Nur clicked his tongue. “Isn't there a thermal mage contracted to us under that name?”
“I don't know, sir.”
“Yes,” Mutamid said. “They're siblings . . . Is any of this relevant?”
It wasn't. Nur was just curious. He wasn't going to do anything to the Of-Salama contracted under them, of course. It was just a coincidence her brother ended up in this situation. It didn't even matter if they were in cahoots.
Although, maybe it would, a little. Nur was queasy about having someone on the staff who helped assist in their downfall.
Ah, whatever. Maybe he'd ask her, but he didn't think she was involved. Nur probably wouldn't even do anything if she was.
As for who specifically killed His Highness . . . it didn't matter. What mattered was that he had died.
“We get paid weekly. The week is almost up . . .” Nur thought out loud.
“What should we do?”
Nur scrunched his face. “Are our students ready? We may want to hasten our plans.”
“Nobody has learned the spell yet—have you?” That was to be expected. Nur was withholding the grimoire. He doubted anyone would be able to make it on their own. Had he been wrong to withhold the spatial grimoire?
He had thought they had more time. He had just wanted students to focus on attending to spatial mana first. It would help them in the future if they could do as much as they could on their own. Tinkering with the mana and trying to make their own spells, getting a feel for it without getting a book of theory and facts thrown at them . . . Nur read the spell . . . before the grimoire went poof. Maybe they could hasten their plans.
“We can cheat the spell with enough basic ability and mana channeling. Which I believe we may have now. We have at least twenty spatial mages.”
“That will work?”
Nur rummaged through his office again. He skimmed through a stack of texts. Then dismantled another stack book-by-book. He lifted a bunch of papers and frowned when it revealed more papers underneath—no book.
“Looking for something?” Mutamid tilted his head.
“A grimoire is missing. No matter.”
“The spatial mage grimoire?”
“Yes. With me casting the spell, I think others can feed it.”
“Do you have the spell?”
“I haven't successfully cast it. So no. And with no book, I need to remember it.”
“Do you?”
Nur paused, looking up. He tried to picture the spell's form in his mind. He was missing chunks of it. It was far too complex a spell to commit to memory. And far too dangerous to copy onto paper, which, in retrospect, maybe he should have done. “I—where did I put the book? Did someone steal it?”
The courier cleared his throat. “If that is all. I shall take my leave.”
Nur nodded. “Please keep in touch with any developments in Glorestra.”
“Of course,” The courier left.