The Maelstrom

~ 16 ~ In the Dragon's Coil

One week later, Max sat astride YaYa and surveyed the Trench Rats as his battalion stood at attention. While the afternoon sun may have caused the soldiers to squint, its rays also imparted a coppery gleam and pleasing uniformity to the rows of dented helms and mismatched armor. Max was grateful for that sun. He was grateful for the weather in general. On dark days when it was bitter cold, the troops could not stand still for long; they tended to fidget and stamp, appearing less like a crack battalion and more like kindergartners during an assembly. But not today, reflected Max proudly. Today they seemed content to stand at attention, bask in the warm breeze, and allow the sun to work its ennobling magic.

“I think they look every bit as good as the Wildwood Knights,” Max remarked, unable to contain himself. Standing taller in his stirrups, he cocked his head at the formations. “And those lines are pretty straight!”

Tweedy glanced up from his perch on a neighboring stool. “One cloud and the whole effect will be ruined,” he sniffed. “You think a bit of sunlight and boot polish is going to fool the Director? Ha! Look at her! She’s only drawing out this charade to punish me for my … my moral implosion!”

Looking out, Max spotted Ms. Richter trailed by a dozen aides and advisers as she inspected the companies and platoons. As a rule, she did not allow commanders to accompany her during reviews; she liked to question the rank and file directly and believed that a superior’s presence stifled candor. At present, the Director was speaking earnestly with a young refugee whose longbow was as tall as its owner. In response to an apparent request, the archer slung her quiver off her shoulder and presented it to Ms. Richter.

Tweedy nearly fell off his stool. “Do you see that?” he exclaimed. “She’s inspecting their arrows! She knows!”

“I’ve already told you that she knows,” said Max wearily.

“Well, that’s it, then,” moaned the hare. “My reputation is officially ruined. The Director thinks I’m a degenerate. She probably lumps me in with that loose and saucy crowd at Cloubert’s, and why shouldn’t she? Evidently, I am the sort of hare who lurks about casinos and wharves giving significant looks to passersby in the hope that they’ll stop and say, ‘Hey there, old fellow, how’d you like to get your paws on some Zenuvian iron?’ ”

“I thought Madam Petra invited you into her sitting room and offered you tea?”

“Well, she did,” the hare admitted. “But I had to do lots of investigating before it came to that. Aside from sullying my own paws, you’re now drowning in debt to a person of questionable character. For all her charm—perhaps because of it—I do not trust that woman. She says she only took your property for collateral, but do you realize she’s probably already sold it for fifty times what you owe her?”

“We’ve been over this, too,” said Max. “Bartering was the only way to get the iron. I can’t do anything else with it, and she promised not to sell it for a year. I’ll get it back.”

“What was this treasure you bartered?” asked YaYa, shifting beneath him.

“My torque,” said Max, touching the bare space at his neck. “The Fomorian made it from Nick’s quills. Do you think I was wrong?”

“You used it in the hope of saving lives,” replied YaYa. “What better use is there?”

A cloud passed before the sun and the battalion’s splendid gleam died a slow, flickering death.

“Well, that’s it,” sighed Tweedy. “We’ll be assigned to guard a pumpkin patch.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” replied Max. “This isn’t the part I’m worried about.”

He gazed at the neighboring hill where Lucia and Cynthia were making final arrangements for the upcoming simulation. The Director had personally dictated the simulation’s parameters, and Max had no idea what they would be. Over the past week, he’d ratcheted up the intensity immensely—conditioning, weapons practice, and the execution of various maneuvers and formations. The formations ensured that the battalion’s firepower could be directed at critical targets and that its defenses—or even retreat—would not devolve into a mad scramble in the midst of battle. Without training and discipline, the Trench Rats would be no better than a mob.

Fortunately, the battalion was not merely willing but eager to put in the additional work. They seemed to take a perverse delight in the fact that Max not only survived assassination, but also showed no trace of the attack. The more superstitious troops considered this a magnificent omen; their commander was apparently invulnerable and naturally they must be, too. When they also learned that YaYa would be joining their ranks and that Zenuvian iron had been procured for arrows and pike tips, confidence spiraled up to the stratosphere. Now, instead of naming their battalion with an apologetic shrug, many were sporting homespun patches with sinful pride. While no two were exactly alike and some of the “rats” were not readily recognizable as such, they still had the intended effect. A black rat—or blob—on an ivory background signaled that its wearer was a member of the Trench Rats. And this had become a very good thing.

Fortune could be fickle, however. Max knew that if they failed this review, the Trench Rats’ station and spirits would sink very low indeed. It would be humiliating to be reassigned. If this occurred, the troops would no doubt find themselves inside the citadel, protecting a building in Old College or perhaps joining civilian patrols about Rowan Township. Necessary work, but the Director would undoubtedly put someone else in charge and redeploy the battalion’s prized and unique assets to more critical functions at the front.

Something caught Max’s eye. A bannerman was waving his standard to signal that the commander could rejoin the group. YaYa descended the hill at a slow, heavy walk. It was an adjustment getting used to her; the ki-rin was far more massive than the biggest destriers and moved with an entirely different gait. And she was a truly ancient creature. Max would never have voiced his misgivings (her offer to serve him was a tremendous honor) but privately he worried if YaYa was really up to this task. Her body was powerful, but it was also arthritic. She grew tired easily and he had yet to urge her beyond the meager trot with which she covered the last fifty yards to where the Director was waiting.

“So, Commander McDaniels,” said Ms. Richter amiably, “shall we see a few demonstrations?”

Max nodded and wheeled the ki-rin around to face his troops. When he blew his horn, the entire company broke apart like the pieces of a machine, each company and platoon jogging to their assigned positions in the practice trench while the ballistae were wheeled into place behind them. They faced a broad field where numbered targets had been set up at various distances and intervals.

“All archers,” said Ms. Richter. “Their nearest target.”

The signal was relayed to the company commanders and lieutenants. Seconds later, six hundred bowstrings were drawn in unison and held until Sarah gave the command to fire. They did so in a single whistling volley that thudded into their targets with a truly satisfying sound. A few had missed, but the vast majority struck their mark.

“Company two, target eleven,” said Ms. Richer calmly.

Ajax relayed the order to his company and gave the command. Within ten seconds, arrows were nocked, bows raised high, and a volley arced toward a target some hundred yards away. About half hit their mark at such a distance: decent if not outstanding. One of Ms. Richter’s aides jotted down the result.

“Company four is under attack by vyes,” said the Director. “They are to fire two arrows apiece as fast as they can. Starting … now.”

The ensuing arrows flew with considerably less uniformity and precision than previous volleys. Max was less concerned with the speed than he was with target selection and accuracy. The Director was clearly probing to see if the archers knew the proper distances at which to fire at a charging vye. One had to take into account the creature’s speed, and conventional wisdom held that even an expert bowman would only be able to get off two shots on a closing vye before it was upon them. The optimal distances were at one hundred yards and twenty-five yards. Gazing out, Max exhaled as most fired at the proper targets. Some missed, some plunged into the wrong haystacks, but the general performance was respectable.

For the next hour, the Trench Rats’ bows, ballistae, and pikemen were put through their paces. The results were mixed, but there had been no gross embarrassments.

That could change in a heartbeat, thought Max, gazing uneasily out at the wood.

“Very good,” said Ms. Richter. “Let’s see a live demonstration of an ogre charge with Company Three, Platoon Six.”

Inwardly, Max groaned. The Director had chosen the worst pike unit in the entire battalion. He doubted this was an accident. Max could practically see the boy named Richard droop when the unit had been named. Swapping out their weapons for padded training pikes, the unit assumed a proper wedge and faced the woods.

Bob emerged. Hefting his cudgel, the ogre wore a steel breastplate and a horned helm whose fearsome grating obscured his kindly face. He looked nothing like his typical self, and it was unnerving to see him standing there some hundred yards away. When the ogre broke into a trot and then an all-out clanking sprint, it was downright terrifying.

As Bob charged, Max watched the soldiers closely. Thus far they were maintaining a tight formation and digging in their heels. A few pikes were trembling, but no one simply threw down their weapon and fled as had happened on several occasions. Everything depended on timing, on the unit’s ability to stand firm and deliver a single, concentrated blow. Should they fail, they would not have another opportunity. If an ogre managed to invade a trench, all nearby could expect a sudden and savage death. Each group of pikemen had to hold their ground; a single weak link could mean ruin.

The earth shook. Lowering his head and giving a hoarse roar, Bob crashed into the formation at full speed. The impact was tremendous. One of the pikes shattered outright and its owner was thrown back. But the rest held, striking Bob’s breastplate as one and jolting him upright so that he staggered backward and toppled onto his behind. The pikemen were ecstatic, flinging their weapons into the air and rushing to help Bob up. Climbing wearily to his feet, the ogre removed his helmet and caught his breath.

“I think you must pass them, Director,” he croaked, wiping sweat from his knobby forehead. “Bob not do that again.…”

An hour later, Max was feeling almost giddy as he strode down the dormitory hallway toward his room. The corridor was fairly crowded with Fifth and Sixth Year boys, leaning against the walls in their academic robes and chatting before they would all head down to supper. Max nodded hello as he swept by, highly conscious of his ring but oblivious to the mud he was tracking with each long stride.

Max stopped, however, when he saw Omar Mustaf. The boy was technically Tweedy’s steward, which Tweedy interpreted to mean that he had been granted legal authority to function as Omar’s official guardian, tutor, and scold. While other students were off playing with their charges in the Sanctuary, Omar was forced to endure Tweedy’s heavily advertised, sparsely attended lectures on everything from Greek architecture to the exhaustive works of David Hume. Omar had not merely approved Max’s request to speak with his charge about serving as aide-de-camp; he had given his enthusiastic blessing.

“How did it go?” inquired Omar cautiously.

Laughing with pleasure, Max lifted the boy three feet off the ground.

“We passed!” he exclaimed, spinning Omar about. “The Director has ‘every confidence’ that we’re the group to hold Trench Nineteen. Tweedy’s brilliant!”

“He’ll be the first to tell you,” said Omar, grinning as Max set him down. “But I’m glad—Tweedy’s been such a nervous wreck.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Max, regaining his senses. “Bob’s whipping up a late supper for the officers up at Crofter’s Hill. Tweedy will be there. You should come!”

“I’d like that,” said Omar, “but I’ve got to wolf something down and get back to my own unit. We’re doing night exercises beyond Southgate.”

Max glanced at Omar’s magechain and blinked at the brilliant aquamarine at its center.

“A full-fledged aeromancer!” he exclaimed. “Look at you!”

Reddening, Omar gazed down at the glittering stone. He downplayed its significance, joking about “battlefield promotions” and the recent spate of advancements, but he nevertheless looked pleased. Very few Fifth Years could claim official Agent or Mystic status, and the honor was far greater than the ever-humble Omar would admit. With a promise to stop by Bob’s if he could, Omar departed and Max entered his room.

To his surprise, David was home. His roommate was occupying one of the armchairs on the lower level, scratching at his severed stump and staring at the fire. He glanced up as Max descended the stairs, muttered something about “muddy boots,” and returned to his thoughts.

“We passed!” Max crowed, padding back down in his stocking feet.

“I heard,” David groused. “I’d imagine everyone in the dormitory heard. So the troops have ‘won’ the right to occupy a muddy trench in harm’s way. An odd thing to celebrate, but I guess people will jump at anything so long as they’re convinced it’s prestigious.”

“Nice to see you, too,” said Max, plopping down in the opposite chair.

Slumping back, David gazed wearily up at the stars beyond the Observatory’s glass.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, closing his eyes. “That was rude. Truly, I’m sorry … I’m just tired and more than a little frustrated.”

“What’s bugging you?”

“Oh, just that thing,” he sighed, gesturing absently beneath Max’s chair.

Leaning forward, Max spied a pair of large, undulating antennae between his feet.

The ensuing shriek—both its pitch and volume—were unprecedented, as was Max’s Amplified leap to the upper level. Clinging to the railing, Max shouted furiously at his roommate while the pinlegs scuttled out from beneath the toppled chair and meandered about in a state of apparent confusion.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was under my chair?”

“I’m sorry,” yelled David, also in a state of apparent confusion. “I forgot!”

“What’s it even doing in our room?”

“I needed a break from the Archives!”

“Why didn’t you tell me it was under my chair?” Max roared again, his rage and revulsion coming full circle.

Pleading with his friend to come back down, David righted the chair and picked up the pinlegs to demonstrate that there was really nothing to fear as the creature was on a docile setting. This did not have the desired effect, as the pinlegs flailed its many limbs about while clicking its maxillae and issuing a high-pitched chittering. Max groaned and clutched the railing tightly.

But reason—or at least a willingness to conquer rational terror—prevailed and Max crept back down the stairs. By now, David had released the pinlegs, which promptly moved away to settle on the fireplace mantel like some glistening Jurassic horror. Even as Max inched forward, he saw that the chitinous plates along its back were covered in faint, glowing pentacles.

“Why did those appear?” he asked suspiciously.

“Heat illuminates them and the hearth is warm,” replied David, settling back into his seat. “Nothing to worry about. Again, I’m very sorry I didn’t say anything.”

“Neither did Ghöllah,” muttered Max, glaring at his ring and easing back down.

“Remember that this is just a prototype,” said David. “There is no demon—or any part of a demon—inside. It hasn’t been paired with a dreadnought.”

“What the heck is a dreadnought?”

“That’s what Varga calls the creatures that the pinlegs summon. He’s had glimpses of them in his visions … says they’re bigger than Old Tom. I’d love to speak with someone who’s seen one in person, but we can’t find any. Nobody who has seen a dreadnought summoned has survived to tell about it.”

“What about that Workshop engineer we kidnapped?” asked Max. “He must know something.”

“Unfortunately, no,” replied David. “The Workshop partitioned the project so that only one or two people have detailed knowledge about all the components. Dr. Bechel only worked on the pinlegs. He knows very little about the dreadnoughts or the process by which the Workshop splits an imp’s spirit in two.…”

Unscrewing a nearby coffee thermos, David sniffed at its contents, sighed, and set it back down.

“Honestly, Max, I’ve never been so frustrated. I feel like I’ve been handed a big jumble of knots to unravel, and every time I manage one, I find that three more have appeared. The Director, Ms. Kraken … everyone’s counting on me to solve this, but I just don’t know. I’ve hit a dead end.”

“Impossible,” said Max, trying to cheer him up. “You’re a genius!”

“Charitable,” said David. “Even if that’s true, I’m not alone. The Workshop has more than its fair share. For example, I have tried everything I can think of to confuse this pinlegs’ settings—block incoming signals, manipulate outgoing signals.…” He trailed off, looking utterly worn and dejected. “Miss Boon is beside herself. Varga too. Dr. Bechel says that they incorporated a slew of poison pills to guard against tampering.”

“What’s a poison pill?”

“A clever defense tactic,” replied David wearily. “Every time we try to crack the pinlegs’ symbolic code, that code becomes twice as complicated to break. We’re now at a point where it could literally take millions of years to run through the current permutations and we’d only be digging ourselves a deeper hole.

I’m ready to scream. We’re all so close to the problem that we’re not even thinking clearly anymore. I came up here to get away from the Archives, sit by the fire, and clear my head. I’m tired of staring at runeglass.”

“How’s Miss Boon doing?” asked Max delicately.

“Better now that it looks like Grendel’s going to make it, but I’m not certain anyone took the attack on you harder than she did. Ms. Richter has absolutely forbidden her to go searching for Cooper. Miss Boon’s been trying to help with the pinlegs, but it’s hard for her to focus. Any sign of Cooper?”

“No,” said Max. “Umbra goes out searching every night, but no luck.”

“Umbra goes out searching,” David repeated with peculiar emphasis.

Max had not yet told David of Umbra’s true identity. He’d only seen his roommate once since the attack in the tent. There had been so much happening that Max hadn’t had the opportunity to speak with his friend in private. And thus he wondered at the wry twinkle in David’s pale, almost colorless eyes.

“What do you know?” asked Max, shifting uneasily in his seat.

“Well,” said David, betraying a ghost of a smile, “I don’t know anything for certain. I can only say that Max McDaniels has been trying very hard to compose some poetry and has been struggling to come up with anything to rhyme with Scathach. He does seem to have the ‘roses are red, violets are blue’ part down pretty well. It’s appeared in every draft.”

Max turned fire red. “I was just using that to get the ideas flowing,” he snapped, before turning about to find that his waste-basket had been moved. “Did you go through my garbage?”

David looked sheepish. “I did,” he admitted. “I didn’t mean to, but the pinlegs knocked it over and all these papers spilled out. I was cleaning them up when I glimpsed a few lines. I knew it was wrong to read them, but …” He winced. “Not my proudest moment.”

Digesting this, Max settled slowly back in his chair. “Oh, it’s all right,” he sighed. “I’ve snooped in your stuff plenty of times. I guess the real question is whether you think there’s anything I can use?”

“I’d say you’re building a strong foundation for future success,” replied David diplomatically. “Anyway, tell me about Scathach.”

Max did so, unable to keep the grin off his face. “It’s hard to concentrate when I’m around her,” he confessed. “But it’s even harder to pretend she’s Umbra in front of everyone else.”

“Well, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so happy,” David reflected. “Perhaps love does conquer all—or at least fear of the Atropos and the threat of invasion. I always suspected there was something between you two.”

“Please,” Max scoffed. “I hardly ever talked about her.”

“Exactly,” said David with a knowing grin. “Anyway, I look forward to meeting her. I only got a distant glimpse of her at Rodrubân. Is she the reason behind the Trench Rats’ recent success?”

“One of them,” said Max. “But lots of people have made the difference.”

“And how are the Mystics in your battalion?” inquired David, casually examining his fingernails. “I’d imagine they must have done some good things.”

“Lucia and Cynthia have been fantastic. During tonight’s simulation, Lucia created an entire troop of deathknights that were so realistic you’d have sworn we were hiding back in the woods near Broadbrim Mountain. Amazing detail!”

“Hmmm,” said David, frowning. “Lucia’s got undeniable talent, but I find her magic—ooh—a little temperamental. Cynthia’s work might be a little less flashy, but every outcome is rock solid and reliable. Utterly dependable in a pinch. There’s real bottom there.”

Max gave him a sidelong glance. “I’ll take your word.”

“It’s just refreshing to know someone like that,” David continued dreamily, swinging his legs up onto the ottoman. “Someone who’s always cheerful, always willing to laugh or listen.”

“She’s a good friend,” Max agreed, thumping his armrest. “A real steady item.”

It was David’s turn to blush. Blinking rapidly, he opened his mouth, but evidently words failed him and he merely stared at the fire in mortified silence.

“We agreed to keep it a secret,” he finally whispered.

“But why?” said Max gleefully. “Love should be shouted from the rooftops! I think it’s great that Toby helped you sort through your special feelings.…”

David moaned, slouching ever lower until his eyes were level with his knees. “Who else knows?”

“Just Sarah and Lucia,” replied Max. “And the Tattler gossip columnist …”

“You are a very witty person.”

“I am very witty,” Max agreed, rising from his chair to stretch. “Not everyone can come up with these little gems and also make a battalion work. It’s not enough to focus on each platoon or even a whole company; all the pieces have to fit together perfectly. If they don’t, you’ll have a weakness, and if you have a weakness—”

“Shhh!”

“You’re much too sensitive.”

“No,” said David, waving him off. “Be quiet—I need to think.”

And think he did, curling into a ball and staring ahead with a preoccupied air that Max knew all too well. The sorcerer glanced occasionally at the pinlegs and then back at the fire, as though they were two separate equations he was trying to reconcile. At length, he got up and began to pace. Max knew he would be late for Bob’s supper, but he could not leave. David seemed poised on the cusp of something truly momentous. Twenty minutes passed before he finally stopped and stared at Max with an expression of profound wonder.

“You’re a genius.”

“I could have told you that in half the time.”

“No,” said David, pacing again. “It’s what you said about all the pieces having to fit together perfectly.” He absently made to knit his fingers together, recalled that he had but one hand, and abandoned the demonstration. It did not diminish his enthusiasm. “The Workshop has somehow split the soul of an imp and embedded one half in a pinlegs and the other in a dreadnought. That’s what allows the pinlegs to instantly summon its other half.”

“Okay,” said Max, trying to follow where David was going.

“We’ve been totally focused on trying to identify the pinlegs’ vulnerabilities so we can prevent it from summoning its dreadnought. But as we’re learning—and as Dr. Bechel confirmed—there are a million safeguards to prevent anyone from sabotaging it. As an individual component, it’s almost impossible to crack. But what happens after it’s summoned its dreadnought and the pieces are put together?”

“Everything gets destroyed,” said Max.

“True,” David allowed. “And it’s a terrifying prospect, but I wonder if the dreadnought is actually more vulnerable than the pinlegs. Not physically, of course, but … Well, how does a soul function once it’s been split in half and is then reunited? Is it really whole and seamless, or is it compromised in some way?”

“I have no idea.”

“Neither do I,” said David excitedly, grabbing the startled pinlegs from its apparent slumber. “But it’s promising. Come with me to Founder’s Hall. I have to speak with Ms. Richter!”

“But Bob’s making dinner—”

“Leftovers are delicious!” cried David, hurrying up the steps. Flinging open the door, he rushed out, clutching the hideous pinlegs to his chest as though it were his firstborn.

David was wheezing by the time they reached Founder’s Hall. It was as crowded as ever and David was half stumbling as he wove through the many analysts and scholars and domovoi. A shriek went up as someone spotted the pinlegs and a path soon opened. Barging through the crowds clustered around the Director, David plopped the pinlegs right on her table.

“I need to borrow all the Promethean Scholars,” he gasped. “Right away!”

Ms. Richter merely stared at the revolting creature splayed before her. She had not flinched or even blinked at its sudden appearance, but when its long antennae brushed her chin, she spoke with unnerving calm.

“David Menlo, be so good as to explain why I should not have you pilloried.”

“Can we speak in private?”

“Will this thing be joining us?”

David nodded, coughing hoarsely as he scooped the pinlegs up. The Director rose, muttered an apology to the rest, and stepped into the adjoining conference room. She glanced up at Max as he followed them inside and shut the door.

“McDaniels,” she observed. “I believe we already had your review. I hope you rewarded your battalion for a job well done.”

“They have the next two days off,” he replied. “They need it.”

“Good,” she said. “Hard work should be rewarded. Now, what has David Menlo in such a state of excitement that he’s determined to startle me into cardiac arrest?”

Catching his breath, David summarized their difficulties with the pinlegs and his theory that the dreadnoughts might present a different sort of opportunity.

“The dreadnoughts are huge,” he said. “But it’s just an imp’s mind and soul that’s controlling it. I’m sure they’d rather use a more powerful demon, but it’s probably much more difficult to split their soul in two. I think—and it’s just a theory at this stage—that it might be possible for us to take control of a dreadnought by possessing the imp inside it.”

“You’d need the imp’s truename,” reflected Ms. Richter.

“You would if its spirit is intact,” replied David. “But these spirits have been damaged; they’ve been torn in two and the halves reunited. Perhaps they’re weaker in some way.”

Glancing at the pinlegs, Ms. Richter considered David’s words.

“So what is it that you need from me?” she said. “And be very specific. I have no uncommitted resources. Anything you request must be taken from something else.”

“I understand,” said David. “I’m asking for all the Promethean Scholars for the next two weeks.”

Ms. Richter shook her head. “David,” she replied. “The latest intelligence estimates that Prusias’s main fleet will be here in two weeks. Meanwhile, the Promethean Scholars are working on a dozen initiatives that I know have value. Your pinlegs project is the most critical, but there’s been no real progress in over a month. I realize that you’re excited about this new theory, but it’s still in its infancy and may well come up empty. I simply cannot redirect all of Rowan’s best minds to help you research your hypothesis at the expense of everything else they’re doing. It’s too big a gamble at the eleventh hour unless you can prove to me that Prusias’s force is more than two weeks away. Have you been able to use your observatory for scrying?”

“No,” David admitted, pacing once again and looking irritated. “Scrying hasn’t worked at all since the demons went to war with one another. I think the Book of Thoth is behind it; otherwise I might be able to break the spell.”

“So you think Astaroth is causing it?” asked Max.

“No,” replied David. “I think Prusias is causing it—creating his own fog of war to blind his enemies. Don’t forget that Prusias has a page from the Book embedded in his cane. I think that would be enough.”

“So you can’t tell me when Prusias’s armada will arrive,” said Ms. Richter pointedly.

David shook his head.

“If that’s the case, then I have no choice but to rely on intelligence reports,” she said. “And my most reliable sources say that Prusias is due here sooner than we could wish. So let’s negotiate.”

The pair went back and forth in rapid succession, making offers and counteroffers until Ms. Richter finally agreed to let David have three Promethean Scholars along with four spiritwracks of his choice.

“Names?” she asked, retrieving a slim notebook.

“Smythe, Oliveiro, Wen, and Olshansky.”

“Done,” she muttered, jotting them down. “Now, you must excuse—” She broke off as someone started knocking furiously upon the door. Raising an eyebrow, Ms. Richter strode over to the door where she found Ms. Kraken looking like she’d seen a ghost.

“Come outside, Gabrielle,” hissed the aged teacher. “Something’s happening!”

Suspicious at this urgent intrusion, Max touched his ring, but it was cool. Glancing uneasily at one another, Max and David followed the Director back into Founder’s Hall. The huge room was eerily silent. All eyes were fixed on the wall that displayed the Florentine spypaper. A dozen glowspheres were converging at a section whose larger, unencrypted sheets were used to correspond with distant Rowan settlements. One sphere settled above a sheet marked for Grayhaven. Another halted at Sphinx Point while others slowly came to rest by Blackrock, Fellowship, North Spit, South Spit, Cold Harbor, Anvil … every coastal township within two hundred miles. All of the spheres began to pulse, their collective radiance filling the hall with a sickly yellow light. Max heard gasps as the messages started to appear. Ms. Richter called for silence, walking briskly through the crowd with Ms. Kraken, Max, and David trailing in her wake.

Even from a distance, Max could read the messages. They appeared simultaneously, and each contained but two words scrawled in heavy black ink.

SAVE US!

Quickly scanning the other parchments, Max found the sheet for Glenharrow and saw that it and most of those for the inland settlements were still blank. Just as Ms. Richter was about to speak, drips and smears of black ink appeared like pattering raindrops to muddy and obscure the pleas from the coastal towns. Recognizable patterns soon emerged, as though fingers were dragging through the wet ink and tracing a common design: three circles set between opposing sheaves of wheat.

It was the seal of Prusias.

“That’s impossible,” muttered Ms. Richter. “Alistair insisted that they wouldn’t land for at least two weeks. They’re supposed to be in the middle of the ocean!”

Flipping open a portfolio where she kept highly classified correspondence, the Director riffled through several pages of spypaper before removing one and reading it through her decrypting lens. From where Max stood, its grisly message was perfectly clear.

ALISTAIR DIED BADLY

As Ms. Richter crumpled the sheet, Old Tom’s bell began to toll in deafening peals that shook the very hall. The Enemy had been sighted.