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

you can do?”
    “What should I have told them? That Alistair Grim, my once closest friend, is indeed a sorcerer? Capable of feats of magic far beyond the evasion of his creditors?”
    “Someone must’ve gotten word that we went to school together,” Father said. “Why else would they consult a history professor about something so clearly outside his area of expertise? Unless, of course, the professor in question approached
The Times
himself for a bit of publicity.”
    Professor Bricklewick’s cheeks grew red. “What are you doing here, Alistair? I should think being wanted dead or alive would discourage a scoundrel of your repute from making social calls.”
    “You know very well this isn’t a social call. Therefore, let’s dispense with the chitchat and get to the point. I need your help.”
    Professor Bricklewick gasped in astonishment. “My
help
? Surely you must be joking.” Father shrugged. The professor appeared on the verge of a tirade, but upon seeing my confusion, stopped himself and said, “You haven’t told him, have you?”
    “Told him what?” Father replied.
    “About your betrayal.”
    “That’s a bit strong, Oscar, don’t you think?
Betrayal?
”
    Professor Bricklewick sneered and began frantically pacing the room. “Your insolence truly knows no bounds,” he said, incredulous. “Let me tell you something about your father—Grubb, right? It is Grubb, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “What your father here has neglected to tell you is that Elizabeth O’Grady and I were once engaged to be married. And that Alistair Grim, my closest and most trusted friend, stole her from me behind my back. Now, you look like a fairly intelligent lad. You tell me. If that doesn’t qualify as betrayal, what does?”
    Speechless, I turned to Father, expecting him to protest, but he just stood there, arms folded and eyes on the floor.
    “And now,” Bricklewick said, “nearly a decade and a half later, this same Alistair Grim has the audacity to barge into my place of employment asking for my help. You’ll have to forgive my lack of objectivity on the matter, but does anyone else see a problem here?”
    “I do not wish to rehash old rivalries, Oscar,” Father said quietly. “Nor do I wish to pour salt on old wounds.”
    “Oh, but you’re a sanctimonious little twit, aren’t you?” Professor Bricklewick said bitterly. “How dare you come here trying to make amends, after all these years.”
    “I didn’t come to make amends. I came seeking help.”
    “Grubbing for money, no doubt—pardon the expression, lad,” he added, and then made for the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me while I alert the authorities of your presence.”
    “I can get you Excalibur,” Father said quickly, and Bricklewick froze with his hand upon the doorknob.
    “What did you say?”
    “You heard me. Excalibur, the legendary sword of King Arthur, and perhaps the most powerful weapon ever created. I can get it for you, but I’ll need your help in return.”
    Of course! Excalibur! If there was one Odditoria I’d heard of before my arrival at Alistair Grim’s, it was the sword Excalibur. In fact, I’d have wagered that every lad in Britain had at some point or another played at King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. And as I gazed round again at the countless books and manuscripts, all of which had something to do with Arthurian legend, I felt foolish for not having realized why we were here sooner.
    “Have you gone mad, Alistair?” Bricklewick said, but the bitterness was gone now from his voice, and in its place a sort of cautious wonder.
    “You see, Grubb,” Father said, “despite what he told
The Times
, what very few people know about Oscar Bricklewick is that he was once a sorcerer like me, but abandoned the art soon after the love spell he cast on Elizabeth O’Grady wore off.”
    Professor Bricklewick’s eyes became like saucers behind his spectacles. “How dare you accuse me of such a