Free Alistair Grim's Odd Aquaticum by Greg Funaro Page A

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