The Rings of Salammis

The Tower - Part 5

     It was another hour before Thomas emerged from the divination building and strolled in disappointment back to where he'd left Matthew and the others. In his hand he held a few scribbled notes, the pitifully meagre scraps of new information he'd managed to glean from the archives. His disappointment was bitter, but he was glad he'd tried. If he hadn't, he would have spent the rest of his life wondering what priceless clues he'd missed.

     Able Seaman Bakklin came running over the moment he saw the wizard. "Thank the Gods!" he gasped. "The Wing Leader's been pulling his hair out waiting for you. Follow me, please."

     "Why? What's..." But the Able Seaman was already off and Thomas had no choice but to run to keep up with him. Was Matt in trouble with the proctors? Had some ambitious apprentice cast a spell on him? One dreadful possibility after another raced through his mind and he was relieved, therefore, when they passed through a gap in a hedge and he saw Matthew crouching in the haunted vineyards, staring up at the Tower of Lexandros like a cat watching a mousehole.

     "Tom!" cried the soldier as he heard them approach. "What in the name of Hell... Never mind that now. Saturn's in there! In that tower!"

     "Are you sure?" asked the wizard in astonishment.

     "I saw him go in myself. Stone's been watching the rear. We've got him trapped."

     Thomas barked a laugh. "It'll take more than us to trap Saturn. We've got to get word to Seskip. But how? We don't even know where he is." He stamped back and forth in frustration. "If only I knew the Farspeaking spell. Wait a minute! The Trumpets of Farspeaking! They're long gone in our time, but here... But where would they be?"

     "What are you talking about?" demanded Matthew.

     He was talking to empty air, though. Thomas was already running back towards the divination building. Everything else was in that building. It stood to reason that the Farspeaking booths would be as well. He skidded to a halt as a thought came to him. "Have you eaten any of those grapes?" he called back.

     "No!" called back Matthew. "Why?"

     "Don't!" ordered Thomas, and then he was away again, his coat flapping out behind him as he flew along the path.

     Luck was with him. A teaching wizard, a tall thin man with a long black beard, dressed in the green and black robes of the school of alteration, was entering just as he arrived and Thomas put a hand on his arm to get his attention. "Eh-hexcuse me, Master," he panted. "Can you tell me where the Trumpets of Farspeaking are?"

     The alterer glared down at him with disapproval. "Wizards do not run," he chided. "Never, under any circumstances. What kind of example are you trying to set the students?"

     "I apologise, Master," said Thomas, "but it is rather urgent. If you can just point me in the right direction?"

     The alterer sighed. "In there," he said, pointing to a door just inside the entrance, opposite the Head Proctor's office. "And don't let me catch you running again."

     Thomas gasped his thanks and dashed his way into the room that was a cloakroom in his own time. Inside, a number of bronze funnels stood on top of marble pillars of varying height; tall ones for the use of humans and shorter ones for the use of shae folk and nomes. One was already in use. A nomish apprentice, his white robes trimmed with the blue of the school of divination, was standing before the shortest pillar and still had to stand on his toes to bring his lips level with the mouthpiece of the funnel. He was speaking, but Thomas couldn't hear his words. The funnel, a kind of magic trumpet, was taking his words and sending them hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles to where someone, a relative perhaps, was hearing them as though he were standing right next to him.