10. Sam A Message
Sam: A Message
Spirit thews are capable of perceiving the thoughts and sentiments of people near them, they are able to alter their appearance by mere will, and they enhance the enchanter’s existing capacities a hundredfold.
I myself was already skilled at shifting water, but with the acquisition of my thew I was able to alter the course of the Guadalquivir.
—César Castellanos, Understanding the Realm of Thews
I returned to campus as the bell tolled for the end of class, just in time to see a mended Giles walking out of the Camera with a dazed but decidedly healthier aspect.
The blood and bones of the unfortunate sailor had left Quinn looking jubilant.
Elatedly, he bounced along the walkways, making his way to the edge of the campus.
No courses were offered there, in a row of colonials with cramped rooms that sometimes seemed more like burrows than offices, and his purpose eluded me.
But he walked with a confident step, and when he arrived at the corner building, charcoal gray with steep gables and mullioned windows, he bounded through the door without hesitation.
It was an old house, dating to the seventeenth century, and the entire edifice leaned awkwardly like a crooked tooth.
Inside, the rooms were dark and faintly oppressive, with low ceilings suspended on old beams. The smooth, wide floorboards creaked under Quinn’s light step.
He followed a narrow corridor that turned twice before leading to an office with a door ajar.
The sign, etched in wood, read “Professor E. Throckmorton.”
Beyond the open door, chaos reigned. Four windows of the corner office feebly admitted what sunshine they could to combat the piled books and trunks and—most alarmingly—steel armor that filled the room.
But they were losing the fight; one window had disappeared almost entirely, obstructed by an overloaded coatrack.
Another was unobstructed but so dirty that it admitted only a dim, gray light.
One windowless wall, entirely covered by bookshelves, had taken on the aspect of an embattled dam: the books were barely visible behind the piles of helmets, shields, and breastplates.
In the center of the room, like an island surrounded by ocean detritus, sat a massive desk covered with papers.
Professor Ernest Throckmorton, designer of the Cisneros Steel and confirmed recluse, was hunched over the desk, inches from the printed page.
Wisps of white hair escaped the edges of a black beret, and his gray eyebrows, bushy and wild, covered his brow like a visor.
What was Quinn doing here?
The professor’s spirit thew stood by the brightest window, as corporeal as any woman, but ghostly pale and tinged with green.
Like all spirits, she appeared to float in water.
The skirts of her dress undulated gently, and the lace at her collar fluttered.
She was of medium height and slight build; the single braid of her hair was curled around her head like a crown.
As Quinn appeared in the doorway, the spirit thew turned to look at him.
Her eyes flickered. She had been looking out the open window, like a prisoner in a tower, and now, with deliberate movements, she turned toward the room and waited, clasping her hands before her. Her eyes followed Quinn intently.
“Professor Throckmorton?”
The aged professor looked up from the desk. Well, here was a man who didn’t bother with tokens to assuage his vanity. Sagging jowls and beady eyes gave him the aspect of a ponderous turkey. He removed his spectacles and stared at Quinn. “Yes?” Already he seemed irritated.
Quinn, undeterred, took an eager step forward.
“Professor Throckmorton, I’m delighted to meet you.
I applied to Commonwealth with the great hope of being your student.
Fundamentals of the Spirit Realm was my first choice this semester.
To my disappointment, not only was the course full, but I learned that you’re now emeritus and no longer teaching. ”
“That’s true.” Throckmorton looked guardedly interested.
“It’s quite a loss, Professor.” He reached into his satchel and withdrew a well-worn volume.
“I’ve been reading your Guide to the Spirit Realm for years.
It’s a remarkable book. It was, I must say, life-altering for me.
I…” Quinn paused, overcome. “Professor, it is my favorite book. I’m truly humbled to have the chance to meet you. ”
Given how many hours Quinn had spent bent over the driest textbook known to humankind, I should not have been surprised that he admired the most resoundingly tedious professor on campus, a man who was known to have once given a ninety-eight-minute lecture about a single engraving on a breastplate made by the Dos Aguas armory in Valencia, Spain.
Throckmorton sat back with a decidedly pleased air. Apparently, the old professor had his vanities after all. “I’m glad to hear that the book has been of some small use to you.”
“Oh, it’s changed my entire understanding of enchantment. Perhaps more accurately, it introduced me to enchantment, since I can’t say that what I knew before really qualifies.” Quinn took a deep breath. “Would you do me the great honor of signing it?” He held the book out.
“Certainly, certainly.” Throckmorton reached out his knobby hand to take the book. A Cisneros signet ring, silver with an engraved swan, clung tightly to his pinky finger. He opened the front cover and scrawled his name in large, messy letters.
“I was wondering,” Quinn said hesitantly, as Throckmorton finished signing, “if now that you’re emeritus, you ever offer lectures of any kind.”
Throckmorton handed the book back to Quinn and regarded him with a thoughtful expression.
“Frankly, young man, I haven’t considered offering lectures.
” Quinn looked crestfallen. “Indeed, I have very little to do with the university altogether. I have my office here, for which I’m grateful, but I rarely venture beyond it.
My experience has been that very few students, not to mention practicing enchanters, appreciate the finer points of the spirit realm.
As you know, my area of study for the last decade has centered on protective armor.
Sadly, there’s been little acknowledgment of this most vital research topic. ”
“That’s very troubling. I can’t aspire to the acquisition of a thew,” Quinn said, glancing at the spirit who stood silently by the window, “but I’m fully persuaded that proper armor is essential for those who do.
I do so admire the chapter on sabatons, especially the portion on iron heel plates.
Without adequate footwear, the enchanter doesn’t stand a chance—if I may be so bold,” Quinn amended, checking his enthusiasm.
The professor nodded approvingly. “I can see that you have fine instincts for the aspects of enchantment that matter, young man. What is your name?”
“Clem Quinn, Professor.” Quinn gave a small bow. “At your service. Quite literally, at your service. If you ever have need of an assistant, even just to do some errands, or filing…” Quinn trailed off, his gaze drifting across the clutter of the office.
“Well, Mr. Quinn,” Throckmorton said with an air of benign condescension.
“That’s a very interesting suggestion. While I no longer engage in teaching, my research agenda is very active, and I could benefit from the aid of a research assistant with the right priorities.
Perhaps a little tutoring might happen naturally, in the course of things. ” He gave Quinn a rheumy wink.
Quinn nearly gasped. “Professor—I—that would be the honor of a lifetime. I can hardly believe it. I mean”—he composed himself, adopting a more formal air—“I would be inexpressibly delighted to assist in your research. It would be the defining experience of my studies.”
“Good, very good.” Throckmorton smiled indulgently.
“Well, I must say, I’m gratified on my part to know that some student of the younger generation appreciates the importance of this field.
Livia,” he said, turning to the thew. “Perhaps you would give Quinn here the 1788 notes by Olney. I’ve wanted those transcribed for some time, and my eyes are not up to the task. ”
The spirit thew nodded silently. She waved her arm toward the bookshelf.
With a rustling sound, like a mouse running through the walls, a sheaf of paper wormed its way out through the armor and then floated serenely across to Livia.
She walked forward with the papers, gliding over the cluttered floor, while Quinn attempted less gracefully to step past a breastplate to meet her.
Livia placed the papers carefully in Quinn’s outstretched hands, saying, “The binding looks fragile, but it’s proved quite durable.
Nonetheless, you might treat it cautiously. ”
“Thank you.” Quinn gazed at the spirit in wonder. “I will.” His hands trembled as he accepted the pages. No doubt it was the closest he’d ever come to a spirit thew. He turned back to Throckmorton. “Shall I return later in the week when I’ve completed the transcription?”
Throckmorton waved. “That suits me fine. Come whenever you like; I’m almost always here.”
With a final exuberant flurry of thanks to Throckmorton and a polite nod to the spirit thew, Quinn dashed from the room, racing along the narrow corridor before remembering the pages he carried and slowing to a more reasonable pace.
In the foyer, he opened his satchel and withdrew a leather folio.
Carefully, he placed the Olney papers in the middle and closed the folio again, storing it back in the satchel along with Throckmorton’s book.