Skyrise Tower’s interior was exactly what happened when wizards had unlimited budget and limited taste. Every surface that could shimmer did. Floating orbs of light bobbed at different heights, occasionally colliding with a soft ‘poof’ and rain of sparkles. The walls displayed moving murals of famous magical achievements, though several seemed to be stuck in loops, showing the same explosion over and over.

  ?Can I help you?? asked a wizard in purple robes that were trying too hard to look mysterious. His pointed hat had actual stars embroidered on it.

  ?We’re looking for information about a wizard who might have worked with the Crimson Hand,? Venn said politely.

  The wizard’s expression went from mild interest to active alarm. ?The Crimson Hand? Here? Absolutely not. You must be confusing sorcerers for wizards. No wizard of standing would ever—?

  ?We’re not accusing,? Reyn interrupted without raising her voice. She didn’t need to. ?Just investigating.?

  ?Well, investigate elsewhere. We don’t associate with criminals.? He noticed Turnip then, who was still dozing on Reyn’s shoulder. ?Is that a rabbit??

  ?Yes,? Reyn said without feeling the need to elaborate.

  ?Pets aren’t allowed in the Tower.?

  Turnip opened one eye, bared its many teeth, then went back to sleep.

  ?It’s not a pet,? Reyn said.

  The wizard then decided he had urgent business elsewhere.

  They tried three more wizards with similar results. A woman in silver robes insisted no wizard would ?lower themselves to criminal association.? A younger mage in green suggested they try the Merchant Quarter ?where that sort of thing happens.? An elderly wizard in robes that had seen better decades just laughed at them.

  Throughout their questioning, Reyn noticed a janitor methodically mopping the marble floors. Old, weathered, the kind of invisible that came from years of being overlooked by people who thought themselves important. He worked with steady rhythm, occasionally pausing to wring his mop, never looking up but somehow always within earshot.

  ?This is useless,? Rast muttered after their fifth rejection. ?These wizards wouldn’t admit to jaywalking, let alone criminal connections.?

  ?Criminal connections?? A new voice cut in. ?That’s a serious accusation to make in these halls.?

  They turned to find a middle-aged wizard in robes of deep brown, his face pinched with permanent disapproval. Unlike the others, he didn’t seem alarmed or amused by the absurd accusation, just offended.

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  ?Randulph Fennes,? he introduced himself with minimal courtesy. ?School of Suggestion. I couldn’t help but overhear your… inquiries.?

  ?What do you…? Rast didn’t hide his self-humoring smirk. ?Suggest??

  The wizard frowned at him.

  ?We’re investigating possible connections between a wizard and the Crimson Hand,? Venn explained. ?We have reason to believe this wizard used to have a connection to Skyrise two years ago.?

  Reyn shrugged. ?Give or take.?

  Randulph’s lips pursed. ?Reason to assume a rogue wizard coming from Skyrise Tower? How narrow-minded, follower of Helea. Ah, don’t give me that look, I reckognize your medallion. Though…? He paused, and something shifted in his expression. ?Two years. This wizard supposedly got with the Hand two years ago??

  Venn tilted her head. ?How did you—?

  ?That’s when Patch left.? The name came out like he was spitting something bitter. ?Patch Hedrick. Mediocre talent, grandiose ambitions. Studied the school of suggestion but could barely manage a simple compulsion without sweating through his robes.?

  ?You knew him?? Reyn asked.

  ?Knew him? I had to share a study floor with him for three years. Always complaining the College didn’t appreciate ‘practical applications.’ Said we were too focused on theory, not enough on results.? Randulph’s sneer deepened. ?As if his failures were our fault rather than his own limited capabilities.?

  The janitor had moved closer, mopping in slow circles near a pillar.

  ?Where did he og?? Venn pressed.

  ?South. Said he’d found ‘patrons who valued real-world magic.’ We all assumed he meant merchant houses, the kind that hire hedge wizards for party tricks.? Randulph adjusted his robes with sharp movements. ?But if he’s mixed up with the Crimson Hand… well, that would explain how someone of his limited talents could afford to leave.?

  ?What kind of magic did he study?? Rast asked.

  ?Suggestion, as I said. But he was obsessed with mass applications. Crowd control, group compulsions, that sort of thing. The ethics committee rejected three of his proposals for being 'inadvisably coercive.’? Randulph smiled thinly. ?He threw quite the tantrum. Said we were holding back progress with outdated morality.?

  ?Do you know exactly where he went??

  ?No, and I didn’t care to ask. He cleared out his office, left a number of unpaid library fines, and departed without the courtesy of a farewell. Good riddance, honestly. He was an embarrassment to the department.?

  Turnip shifted on Reyn’s shoulder, yawning widely. Randulph noticed it properly for the first time.

  ?What is that thing??

  ?A rabbit,? Reyn said.

  ?That’s not a normal rabbit.?

  ?No one said it was.?

  Randulph stared at Turnip for a moment, then shook his head. ?I don’t want to know. If you’re looking for Patch, try checking with whatever criminals value mediocre suggestion spells and flexible ethics. He always said the real world would appreciate him more than we did.? His smile was sharp. ?I suppose he was right, in the worst possible way.?

  He swept off, robes billowing with practiced drama.

  ?Friendly sort,? Rast commented.

  ?But informative,? Venn said. ?Patch Hedrick. Suggestion magic focused on crowds. Left two years ago, right when the Crimson Hand started changing.?

  ?South covers a lot of ground,? Reyn pointed out.

  They stood there for a moment, processing what they’d learned. The Tower’s atmosphere of aggressive scholarship pressed around them, all those important people doing importantly mysterious things.

  The janitor wrung out his mop one final time and looked up. His face was weathered like old leather, eyes sharp despite his age.

  ?That Patch did associate with a Bormecian, he did,? he said conversationally, as if commenting on the produce season. ?Tall fellow, black fur, intense sort. Came by several times before Patch left.?

  They all turned to stare at him.

  ?I’m Gared. You’d be surprised how much you learn cleaning the floors of a learned place like this, you’d be. That thing on your shoulder?? He pointed at Turnip with his mop handle. ?That’s a Rabbid, it is. Haven’t seen one myself, but I am sure as I am sure which foot is which, I am.?

  He picked up his bucket and ambled off, leaving them standing in stunned silence.

  ?Wait!? Venn called after him.

  But Gared the janitor had already disappeared through a service door, leaving only the faint scent of cleaning solution and enormous revelations in his wake.

  Rast swore under his breat.

  ?Guess we’ll follow him,? Reyn said.