Alistair Grim's Odd Aquaticum (9 page)

“Right-o, sir,” Nigel said, and upon reaching the outskirts of town, Father parked the demon buggy behind a large clump of trees. He gave some final instructions to Nigel, and then Father and I set off across a bridge toward the town on the opposite side of the river.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” I said, “but may I ask where we’re going?”

“To visit someone who, quite literally, holds the key to my plan.”

My heart nearly burst with excitement. “You mean we’re going after some more Odditoria to defeat Prince Nightshade?”

Father stopped and held me by the shoulders. “You must never say his name in public, son,” he whispered. “One never knows where his spies might be perched.” Father glanced up at some nearby trees, and I understood. Crows. Prince Nightshade used his flock mainly to locate animus, but who knew what other tricks those crafty birds were capable of? I swallowed hard and nodded, and then we were on our way again.

After winding our way through a labyrinth of cobblestone streets, Father and I eventually came upon the soaring edifices of the university. Carriages rattled and horses clopped as crowds of scholarly gentlemen milled about, many in strange square hats and hooded robes that appeared much too big for them. Father paid them no mind, but would often pause to look at something and mutter to himself, “Ah, that’s new,” or, “I don’t remember that.” He knew where he was going, and just as a bell began to toll, we passed through a wide stone archway and into a squarely groomed courtyard.

“Right on schedule,” Father said, gazing up at the clock tower, and a mob of students began pouring out of the surrounding buildings. Father quickly led me into one of them, where we climbed a narrow staircase and shut ourselves inside a cluttered study. Books and manuscripts were piled everywhere, and portraits of sour-faced gentlemen stared back at us as if irritated by our presence.

“Please, have a seat, Grubb,” Father said, and he plopped down behind the desk and began perusing a newspaper. I cleared off a stack of books from an armchair, and then the two of us just sat there waiting, the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece the only sound. My curiosity quickly turned to impatience.
Who are we meeting and why?
I kept asking myself, and then a muffled voice startled me from my thoughts.

“I’ll expect your rebuttal by noon tomorrow,” a man said just outside the door, and the knob began to turn. My body tensed, but Father seemed unconcerned, and just carried on with his reading.

A tall red-haired gentleman with ruddy cheeks and wire spectacles entered the study. He did not see us at first, and tossed a large leather volume upon a table by the door. He then hung up his robe on a nearby coatrack and, catching sight of Father in a mirror upon the wall, wheeled around with surprise.

“You!”
was all he could manage, and Father folded his newspaper and smiled.

“Hello, Oscar. Long time no see.”

F
ather and I rose slowly to our feet, and a long, tense silence passed in which the three of us just stood there, sizing each other up. The red-haired gentleman looked terribly anxious. For a moment, I was certain he would bolt, but then, with a heavy sigh, he appeared to resign himself to our presence. He thrust his hands into his pockets and said, “But you’re a cheeky blighter, aren’t you?”

“I believe some introductions are in order,” Father replied. “Grubb, I’d like you to meet Oscar Bricklewick, world-renowned scholar and Regius Professor of Modern History. Oscar, this is my son, Grubb.”

“Grubb, did you say?”

“That I did. Spelled like the worm but with a double
b
, should you care to write it down.”

“Is he…?” Bricklewick asked, giving me the once-over, and Father nodded.

“It’s a long story, but yes.”

“Then the rumors were true. All those years ago—Elizabeth
was
with child.”

“It appears you’re an expert on rumors as of late,” Father said, and he read from the newspaper. “‘“The only sorcery here is a bit of high-tech flimflam,” Bricklewick said upon inquiry from
The Times
. “Judging from the eyewitness reports of a sparkling green mist emanating from the Odditorium as it took flight, it is clear that Grim unleashed upon the public a powerful hallucinogenic gas—”’”

“That’s enough,” Professor Bricklewick said. He grabbed the newspaper and tossed it in the dustbin. Father sat on the edge of the desk and shook his head,
tsk-tsk
.

“Really now, Oscar,” he said. “Hallucinogenic gas? Mass hysteria? Is that the best you can do?”

“What should I have told them? That Alistair Grim, my once closest friend, is indeed a sorcerer? Capable of feats of magic far beyond the evasion of his creditors?”

“Someone must’ve gotten word that we went to school together,” Father said. “Why else would they consult a history professor about something so clearly outside his area of expertise? Unless, of course, the professor in question approached
The Times
himself for a bit of publicity.”

Professor Bricklewick’s cheeks grew red. “What are you doing here, Alistair? I should think being wanted dead or alive would discourage a scoundrel of your repute from making social calls.”

“You know very well this isn’t a social call. Therefore, let’s dispense with the chitchat and get to the point. I need your help.”

Professor Bricklewick gasped in astonishment. “My
help
? Surely you must be joking.” Father shrugged. The professor appeared on the verge of a tirade, but upon seeing my confusion, stopped himself and said, “You haven’t told him, have you?”

“Told him what?” Father replied.

“About your betrayal.”

“That’s a bit strong, Oscar, don’t you think?
Betrayal?
”

Professor Bricklewick sneered and began frantically pacing the room. “Your insolence truly knows no bounds,” he said, incredulous. “Let me tell you something about your father—Grubb, right? It is Grubb, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What your father here has neglected to tell you is that Elizabeth O’Grady and I were once engaged to be married. And that Alistair Grim, my closest and most trusted friend, stole her from me behind my back. Now, you look like a fairly intelligent lad. You tell me. If that doesn’t qualify as betrayal, what does?”

Speechless, I turned to Father, expecting him to protest, but he just stood there, arms folded and eyes on the floor.

“And now,” Bricklewick said, “nearly a decade and a half later, this same Alistair Grim has the audacity to barge into my place of employment asking for my help. You’ll have to forgive my lack of objectivity on the matter, but does anyone else see a problem here?”

“I do not wish to rehash old rivalries, Oscar,” Father said quietly. “Nor do I wish to pour salt on old wounds.”

“Oh, but you’re a sanctimonious little twit, aren’t you?” Professor Bricklewick said bitterly. “How dare you come here trying to make amends, after all these years.”

“I didn’t come to make amends. I came seeking help.”

“Grubbing for money, no doubt—pardon the expression, lad,” he added, and then made for the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me while I alert the authorities of your presence.”

“I can get you Excalibur,” Father said quickly, and Bricklewick froze with his hand upon the doorknob.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me. Excalibur, the legendary sword of King Arthur, and perhaps the most powerful weapon ever created. I can get it for you, but I’ll need your help in return.”

Of course! Excalibur! If there was one Odditoria I’d heard of before my arrival at Alistair Grim’s, it was the sword Excalibur. In fact, I’d have wagered that every lad in Britain had at some point or another played at King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. And as I gazed round again at the countless books and manuscripts, all of which had something to do with Arthurian legend, I felt foolish for not having realized why we were here sooner.

“Have you gone mad, Alistair?” Bricklewick said, but the bitterness was gone now from his voice, and in its place a sort of cautious wonder.

“You see, Grubb,” Father said, “despite what he told
The Times
, what very few people know about Oscar Bricklewick is that he was once a sorcerer like me, but abandoned the art soon after the love spell he cast on Elizabeth O’Grady wore off.”

Professor Bricklewick’s eyes became like saucers behind his spectacles. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing!”

“And since that time,” Father went on, “in addition to his academic endeavors, Oscar Bricklewick has devoted his life to the search for Excalibur. Thus, out of professional courtesy, as well as a lack of necessity on my part, I never pursued Excalibur for myself. Until
now
, that is.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Bricklewick said contemptuously. “You’re an expert on that, aren’t you? Stealing things from your friends? Why should Excalibur be any different?”

“Nevertheless,” Father said, ignoring him, “as any quest for Odditoria takes significant preparation, given our present state of affairs, there is simply no time for me to carry out the proper research. Fortunately, Professor Bricklewick knows the precise location of Excalibur already. Problem is, he doesn’t have the means to get there. I, on the other hand, have the means but not the location. You see where this is going, Oscar?”

“You really have gone mad, haven’t you?” Bricklewick said. “Even if I believed you, which I don’t, after everything you’ve done, how could you possibly think that I would turn over my life’s work to my most hated rival?”

“Because, like it or not, we’ve run into something much bigger than you and me—something so dangerous that, if you refuse to help me, the world as we know it will cease to exist.”

“What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”

“An evil, magic-absorbing necromancer bent on world domination. His name is Prince Nightshade, and he is more powerful than anything you could possibly imagine—so powerful, in fact, that only Excalibur can defeat him.”

The professor’s mouth hung open, and Father proceeded to give him a brief summary of the events leading up to our arrival in Cambridge, including Nightshade’s attack on the Odditorium, his quest for the animus, and his plan to create an army of purple-eyed Shadesmen. And when he’d finished, a stunned Professor Bricklewick sank down into an armchair and rubbed his forehead.

“Good heavens, Alistair,” he said weakly. “What have you done?”

“You see, Oscar, although I’ve known about Prince Nightshade for quite some time, the old devil had been entirely unaware of my quests for magical objects until his discovery of the animus at the Odditorium last month. However, I am convinced that we first crossed paths a decade earlier—unbeknownst to one another, in the wake of Abel Wortley’s murder. You remember old man Wortley, don’t you?”

“Of course. He was my family’s friend as well as yours.”

“Well, it is my belief that Prince Nightshade murdered Abel Wortley all those years ago for his Odditoria. And since that time, not only has he managed to keep his true identity secret, but he’s also ensconced himself in a suit of magical armor that is virtually impenetrable to both conventional and magical weapons alike.”

“But, Alistair, if what you say is true and this necromancer is capable of absorbing magical power, I should think Excalibur would be useless against him.”

“Unlike most magical weapons, Excalibur does not require a spell to activate it. The sword’s power lies simply in the strength of the blade itself. Therefore, it would be able to cut through the prince’s armor without him absorbing its magical properties.”

Professor Bricklewick thought for a moment. “Indulge me. Let’s suppose that I agree to hand over my dreams to the man who betrayed me. Surely you must remember your history. Excalibur was forged for the Pendragons, the ancestral line of King Arthur, and thus, theoretically, can only be recovered by a descendant of the royal bloodline.”

“I am well aware of that, yes, but I thank you for the refresher.”

“So tell me,” Bricklewick said, leaning back in his chair. “Unless that cold black heart of yours beats with Pendragon blood, just how do you propose to get your grubby little hands on Excalibur?” Again, he added for me, “No offense, lad.”