CORPUS

Book TWO of the Culpa Magum Series

Corpus

Part One: Ergo Sum

0 - A Deal

“Now, are you going to explain how you’re dead and yet still here, or am I going to have to find another lawyer? It seems only fair if I’m going to tell you my life story that you should tell me yours.”

Felix took a long look at the dagger on the table.

“Well, when you put it like that,” Felix said, and told his client how he had died.

1 - John

Inanimate objects are, by and large, terrible conversationalists. I discount Racelsus in this, firstly because she is hardly what I’d call properly inanimate, and secondly because she’d beat me up. You remember Racelsus, yes? The witch’s skull in the birdcage? Bit of an attitude?

Anyway, if you’ve ever tried talking to a door, or a well, or a thimble, you’ll find the conversation more-or-less one-sided. This had been a completely acceptable state of affairs for most people (and the objects, as far as we can tell) for as long as we have thought about it, but there are always some who insist on taking matters a bit too far.

These days, it is well understood that most ‘things’ are capable of possessing that spark that can lend to it some form of life, allowing something (or a collection of somethings) to think, speak, and, appropriate appendages being present, move. Exactly what constitutes the ‘whole’ of the object largely depends on the person performing the animation. For example, if I were to perform the rather creepy act of bringing a little child’s doll to life, what exactly am I animating? The fluff? The fabric? The little beady eyes? If I remove an arm, will it still flop around? If I breathed life into a bottle of wine, is it the wine, the bottle, or the combination of the two that I have, for want of a better word, birthed?

Perhaps I’m getting a little philosophical. What I really wanted to talk about was stabbing people.

The case wasn’t one of mine, but rather the case of “Vinch vs Whom?”, as it is recorded. The case surrounded the will of a wealthy old man named Vinch who had tons of cash and a tendency towards paranoia. One day, someone found him, quite dead, with a dagger in his back. That’s not an attempt at maudlin poetry, I mean a literal dagger jutting from the man’s ribs. Cue the despairing but also very pragmatic series of relations, friends, co-workers and other grievers all after a slice of the pie. The question was: who killed him? Whoever was found guilty would, of course, be imprisoned, and therefore not reap any of the spoils.

Unsurprisingly, nobody came forward as witnesses. The lawyer (and personal friend) of Mr Vinch, one Ms Cletzi, was a resourceful and indefatigable lawyer, unafraid of scraping the very bottom of the longest barrel if it would help her secure victory for her client. She moved in curious circles, and was on somewhat friendly terms with those on the cutting edge of ‘new’ magic (as it was then called). 

What’s ‘new’ magic I hear you ask? Depending on who you ask, it’s either ‘just what magic needs to stay relevant’, or it’s the ‘death of the industry.’ Old magic, or what is known by the practitioners as the more appealing sounding ‘Classic Magic’, consists of your well-known and reliable middle-of-the-road spells. You know, your Fireballs and Teleporting and whatnot. ‘New’ magic instead seeks to carve out entire new genres of spell-slinging, by experimenting with hitherto untested hypotheses and methods. For the fiscally-minded lawyer, there is quite a living to be made in the dogged pursuit of breaches of intellectual copyright for new spells, since wizards and their ilk are fiercely precious and protective over their achievements… but more on that subject a little later.

Back to the courtroom, then. Several days after the murder, and after several quiet meetings in dark rooms with unnamed collaborators, Ms Cletzi requested a public hearing during which a new witness was due to come forth and speak the truth to the Vinch affair. 

All gathered in the courtroom and the hearing began, and all were surprised to see Ms Cletzi standing at the front, clasping a plain dagger. She thrust it into a cork stump that had been placed on a table, and turned to face the judge.

“This is the dagger that Mr Vinch was killed with. I have substantive paperwork to this effect collated in this file to my right, approved and verified by the lawmakers present shortly after the killing.”

The judge, one judge Orch, nodded and gestured for her to continue. She bowed, and pointed to the knife in the corkboard.

“Your Honour, may I present my witness: John Dagger.”

At which point, a tinny voice like a ladle hitting a spring floated through the room. “Your Honour, if it may please you.”

Of course, mutters were whispered, whispers were muttered, no doubt moustaches were puffed out in consternation, but the judge raised a hand and waited for silence. He raised an eyebrow at the family lawyer, who explained that very recent magicks developed by  the staff at Restastine University could bring mundane objects to life. 

(Oh, a side note. Don’t refer to a Vowel as mundane; they get a little tetchy. Vowel? Oh yes, let me explain.)

Unique Independent Entity Animate Objects, otherwise known as UIEAOs, are more commonly referred to as Vowels, for obvious reasons. It makes you wonder if the chap or chappette who invented the spell (and therefore the term) didn’t start backwards with the naming just to have something to brag about, etymologically speaking. Perhaps, when quaffing a beaker of sherry, if the subject of the Vowel arose, they would push their fogged glasses further up their nose and lean forward with a knowing wink, then say: ‘Hilarious name, wouldn’t you agree? You know I came up with that?’ Bleugh. I wouldn’t put it past them. Where was I? Oh yes.

Vowels don’t have the same set of senses humans or animals do. It tends to vary from thing to thing. Most Vowels can ‘feel’ and ‘see’ to an extent and ‘hear’ fairly well, but after that it gets a bit… well, to put it simply, weird. Let us return to the courtroom, and you will see what I mean.

A momentary pause from the judge. After some time, he nodded once more at Ms Cletzi, who asked John Dagger to start. What followed was a detailed explanation of the dagger’s recollection of the night in question. How it had spent much of its time these past few years hanging decoratively on a wall within a dark cellar, only to find itself quite suddenly whisked away and, not five minutes later, plunged into the unfortunate victim.

Finally moved into speech, the judge leaned forward to stare at the witness. The witness did not stare back, because it didn’t have any eyes. I know, it didn’t have a mouth either, and yet it spoke. Look, I warned you that it would get weird, didn’t I?

“Did you get a good look at the perpetrator?” asked the judge.

“No, Your Honour,” said John Dagger.

“Did you hear them speak?”

“No, Your Honour.” 

“And how,” said the judge to Ms Cletzi, with a sigh as if this was what he was expecting, “does this help our case if the, ehm, person on the stand cannot identify the attacker?”

“Vowel, Your Honour” said John Dagger, a touch indignant.

“...Quite,” said the judge with an arched eyebrow. “The question still remains. How may we proceed if you cannot identify the perpetrator?”

“Oh, Your Honour, but I can,” said the dagger. “I can feel the person that is holding my handle. Their intent. The way their palm fits. I would know that grip in an instant, without a doubt.”

A surreptitious thumbs-up from Cletzi at the practised use of the magic d-word that lies at the heart of almost any legal case.

“Without doubt…” muttered the judge.

“Likewise, I can remember the warmth of every person I’ve been stabbed into.”

“What?” spluttered the judge, standing. “Is this a sick joke?!”

“Please, Your Honour,” Ms Cletzi said, a nervous smile on her face, twitching only very slightly. “John is not used to the rules of propriety and, ehm, decency.” (It had taken her two hours to teach it the phrase ‘Your Honour’, and why it should definitely say it in a courtroom.) 

“What it means is that daggers, spears, forks and other such objects have a sense they have come to call ‘hold’, and another called-” and she glanced at the dagger briefly - “called ‘stab’. John has tried to explain these to me, but it is difficult for a human to grasp, in the same way that to explain ‘smell’ or ‘taste’ to an animated object is almost impossible. Yet, a human can recognise a distinctive taste, for example lemon, without a moment’s doubt.”

The judge squinted his eyes. “A moment’s… Difficult to grasp, eh? I would like to hear… its explanation nonetheless.” Judge Agorio Orch steepled his fingers. “John Dagger, what is ‘stab’?”

John Dagger tried its best, but a human simply cannot understand how it feels to be wielded. Instead, tests were performed, in which members of the gallery (and of curious judiciary) were invited to take a number, then hold the dagger handle through a hole in a box. 

This was to ensure no cheating was taking place, despite repeated assurances that John had no eyes and could not see. Nevertheless, did it possess some vision? Perhaps. Like I keep saying, Vowels are weird.

The test was to see how well John Dagger could recognise the hands that touched it. The volunteers from the public that were watching were lined up and given a number, then told to put their hand through the hole and grasp John’s handle in whichever way they saw fit. Afterwards, John would be tested.

Each person walked up to the box and stated their number, then reached their hand through. Some of them wore gloves, or used their non-dominant hand, or held the dagger in unusual ways to try and trick John. One just prodded the knife with a gloved little finger. After each person had touched the handle, they made way for the next in line.

While this was going on, the judge made arrangements for a court Aleaomancer - that’s ‘chance-obsessed wizard type’ to you and me - to be present. The wizard arrived within a few moments, wearing a tall brimmed hat, and oversaw proceedings. How did they arrive so quickly? If you ask one, they’ll waggle their eyebrows knowingly and talk about how likely it is that they’ll be needed on a given day, and the odds of them being in the right place at the right time so as to be ready when called upon, and other such insufferable chin-stroking intimations. Anyway.

After the twelfth volunteer had done what was asked of them, the volunteers were huddled in a nervous group. The Aleaomancer hushed them with a raised finger, then removed his hat and dumped a handful of wooden balls into it. Each ball had a number painted on the side in bold, golden letters. After jiggling his hat around, he reached in and lifted one out with a flourish. A quick glance at the ball, then he pointed at the person with the allocated number.

The chosen volunteer blinked a few times, then crept over to John Dagger’s box. She reached her hand in, and no sooner had she touched the handle than John announced “Number eight.”

The wizard returned the ball to his hat, and started jiggling them again. “Odds of correct guess: one in twelve,” he intoned. “Eight point three percent.” He drew another ball out and pointed to another person.

“Number one,” said John. 

The Aleaomancer’s mouth twitched. “One in one-hundred-and-forty-four,” he said. “Zero point zero zero seven percent.”

A third time. “Number eight again.”

“Number eleven.”

“Number five.”

Sparks were flickering above the wizard’s head while he watched and calculated.

“Number five again.”

“Number twelve.”

Every time, John was correct.

By the twelfth repetition, the chance wizard was sweating.

“Zero… point…” he was saying with great effort. “Zero zero zero… zero zero… zero zero zero zero zero zero zero…” he paused for breath. “...one percent.” He reached into an inner pocket of his robe and pulled out a flask, taking a swig. “One in…” a flash of electricity arced from his head and formed a brief, crackling halo of blue light before vanishing. “Nine… trillion.” He gasped and took another pull on his flask. After a few breaths, he turned to the judge.

“That is far beyond what could be reasonably considered to be chance, Your Honour,” he said.

The judge grunted. “Thank you. You may go.” The wizard nodded in reply, and walked to the chairs for the audience, before collapsing into one of them, a gormless, euphoric smile on his face.

A similar exercise was undertaken with randomised hunks of meat, fruit, fungus and mulch. John was stabbed into each one in turn, and then again in a random order. Each time, John correctly identified the material, even if the fungus made him, in his words, ‘feel a bit peculiar’.

Once the mulch had been cleaned away (and the windows opened to let out the smell), the judge then turned to John. “How is it you can tell, witness?” He then started poking his finger into his palm with great intensity. “Explain ‘stab’ to me.”

“There are many factors,” John tried to say. “The resistance, the sliding, the heat, the grain… the pure ‘stab’ of it,” it said, almost with a sigh. The judge started poking his palm harder, a frown on his face.

 “Meat is the best feeling,” John finished, causing the judge to recoil. “Much better if it’s warm. Uh, Your Honour.”

After glaring at the chance wizard, who was still slumped on his chair, the judge carefully tucked his finger back into his robes. He grunted again, before he finally accepted that John Dagger could, with remarkable accuracy, identify 1) who had wielded it and 2) who, or what, it had been stabbed into.

“All that remains,” he said, “is to find the likely perpetrators and test them against our new expert witness.”

Rather anticlimactically, it turned out to be Mr Vinch’s son, Finlay, who had purloined a dagger from the estate’s armoury, done the deed quite without thinking of the possibility of getting caught, and assumed he’d inherit the lot. It was fairly obvious once he disappeared after the second day of testing, only to be found fleeing the city, newly inherited wealth in tow in the form of property deeds, expensive jewellery, and other small but ludicrously expensive artwork. He was the third to be tested, and the moment he grasped the handle, an unconvincing smug expression plastered on his face, John had yelled out that this was the killer. The smug look hadn’t even vanished by the time he’d been seized by bailiffs.

The question, then, came after. What to do with John? It was suddenly brought to life (quite without its consent), and now its one use had been exhausted. Was John to just be left in a drawer? Returned to the armoury and forgotten? Hung on the wall? Smelted down? Or perhaps its consciousness was to be removed? Undone? Returned to a state of non-awareness? Was that not murder? The Vinch estate, to whom it technically belonged, wanted nothing more to do with it. That included Ms Cletzi. 

I know. Lawyers.

Where do you go if you have no money, no hope, the world against you, and no clear legal path through?

Where do you think?

---

A gentle knock at the door of Lunchers & Co disturbed the relative peace of the morning. Mr Luncher, always dressed in his finest trim-cut black-and-white suit, answered the door, a mug of tea in his hand, a monocle on one eye. A young woman with a mildly concerned face, as if she was having a practical joke played on her and suspected this was the punchline, stood there. In her hands was a block of wood. In the block of wood was a dagger.

Mr Luncher had been around long enough to know that just because someone was brandishing a dagger, it didn’t mean they necessarily wanted to stab you with it. Especially if the dagger was already stabbed into something else.

“Good day,” he said, his mug wavering only slightly. “Can I help you?” The young woman shuffled on her feet.

“He, I mean it, said you’d give me three silvers if I carried it, I mean him, here,” she said, in a restrained voice.

“Who did?” Mr Luncher said. 

“I did,” said a tinny voice. “I’m in need of some legal assistance.” Mr Luncher looked down at the dagger, hesitated for a brief moment, then back to the girl. He cocked his head to the side and pursed his mouth in thought. After a brief consideration, he reached forward and flicked the blade.

“Oi!” came the voice. “What was that for?”

Mr Luncher reached some conclusion. He reached into his pocket, fished out a few coins and exchanged them for the block of wood, a frown on his wrinkled face. The young girl counted the coins, returned the extra that she had been given, then walked off without looking back. Mr Luncher returned inside, then placed the block of wood on the table.

A man walked in, holding a piece of paper in one hand and an orange in the other. He weaved between stacks of books and teetering piles of papers until he came to an untidy desk in the corner. He tutted, moving a still gently-smoking pipe from his mess of a desk onto another equally cluttered desk. 

“Honestly, these things will kill you, you know,” he muttered to himself. Before sitting down, he glanced up, noticing for the first time that he wasn’t alone. He froze there, mid-sit, taking in the scene of his employer sitting by himself staring intently at a dagger sunk into a block of wood. “Er, is that a new decoration?” he said, deciding to stand up again. He waved a hand as he tried to find the right word. “Very… masculine?”

“It’s our newest client,” said Mr Luncher, turning to face him. After a second a shocked expression leapt onto his face and he turned back to the dagger. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask for your name.”

“Call me John. John Dagger,” said the metallic voice. 

Mr Luncher smiled at the man across from him.

“This is John. John, this is Felix.”

“Mister… Dagger?” Felix said tentatively.

“Just John is fine,” came the reply.

“How do you do?” said Felix, letting his manners fill in the void while his brain started whirring.

“How do I do what?” 

Felix blinked and frowned, before reaching for a pencil. “Why don’t you tell me everything.”

“Why don’t you?” John replied.

Felix’s brows raised. “Pardon me?”

“I mean, you’re clearly dead, right? What’s that all about?”

Felix blinked to Mr Luncher, who looked back. “And why would you think that?”

“It’s obvious to anything with a brain. Well, metaphorically speaking, a brain. Your imprint is all wrong.”

“Imprint?”

“Yes, imprint,” said the voice impatiently. “Now, are you going to explain how you’re dead and yet still here, or am I going to have to find another lawyer? It seems only fair if I’m going to tell you my life story that you should tell me yours.” The dagger shifted uncomfortably, conversationally speaking. In reality, it didn’t move at all. “I say ‘life’... you know what I mean. No offence, I hope.”

Mr Luncher coughed in a way that could have been a disguised laugh. Felix shook his head. With a sigh he smoothed his hair back with a hand that turned from solid flesh to one pale and ghostly. Without having to exert an effort to remain ‘physical’, Felix felt he could relax. He gave the dagger a long look, then shrugged.

“Well, when you put it like that,” he said, and told the dagger how he died, and how he didn’t.

Journal Entry A - Copyrite

Reference case [GTvHh] (GerTun v. EldFur & FelSha & Fir et al), year 1295, Judge Greenway presiding.

It’s a common enough storyline. The nefarious and mystical grimoire that contains spells so powerful that if the evil sorcerer were to read them, the safety of the very world would be at stake! Or maybe the story of the wizard obsessed with knowledge, putting himself in mortal peril just for a peek at Ye Greate and Teriyble Spellbouke Of Scethrog The Darke, or something. Let’s face it; spellbooks are cool.

We all know they exist, of course, and not just in stories. But not many people think about why these spellbooks are written. What if I told you it’s for the same reason that most things are written?

Artistic expression and the collective struggle for human advancement.

I’m kidding, obviously. The answer is cash.

People become wizards or mages or spell-breakers etcetera for a number of reasons. Some genuinely do want to make the world a better place, and so spend their days undergoing academic research, working and developing magicks of all varieties to answer life’s problems, big or small. Most want to use their combination of brains and bureaucratic prowess to bleed each other dry.

Consider this: the classic light-globe spell. It’s a dark room, you want to conjure a globe of light in order that you can see. Simple right? Well, the quickest, most reliable and most energy-efficient version of this spell is Lady Effa’s Simple Light-Globe. I understand that it requires only a few specific gestures and no reagents at all. The problem is, if you want to learn how to do the spell, you have to either A) figure it out yourself, B) have an experienced wizard teach it to you, or C) read it in a book. 

Good luck with ‘A’. If you can do that, more power to you (literally.) ‘B’ only works if you have befriended (or blackmailed) someone, or coughed up enough cash to enrol at one of the universities, which rules most people out. So that leaves us with ‘C’.

The going rate for a half-decent spellbook of, say, thirty spells (though these days, spellbooks seem less about the ‘spells’ and more about the ‘art’...) is around sixty golds, give or take. Yep, two golds a spell. Pricey stuff! What’s worse, if you want to learn the latest development from an experienced spell-weaver like Lady Effa, you can’t just buy that one spell, oh no. It’ll be included in ‘Lady Effa’s Mysterium-Arcane, Volume XII’, along with twenty rites you already know. Does that reduce the price? Of course not. 

Oh, and I use the word ‘rite’ here deliberately. As far as I can tell, a ‘rite’ is the same as a ‘spell’, but about fifteen times more expensive. I will hereafter use the word ‘spell’, because I’m not a snob.

If you want to remain on the cutting edge of magic, well, you’ll have to fork out for these ‘new’ spells. I say ‘new’, because it’s not unknown for books to just rehash existing magic with a slightly different aspect. Perhaps a spell of ‘air displacement’ instead of ‘gentle wind’, or a new ‘spell of darkness’ that promises to be 10% darker than the last one. Universities in particular have little choice but to cough up for the latest in magickery. A cynic might wonder if the book was padded out with bulk to increase the eye-watering sales price.

There’s also the hype that surrounds a completely new spell. Imagine practising magic for twenty years, only for someone to announce a brand new, never before seen spell. It’d be like an artist being given a brand new colour. 

(Incidentally, some wizards have claimed that they have invented a new colour, but no one has ever really believed them. Helda bought a jacket that is supposedly this new colour. It just looks like a greenish-yellow-purpley thing to me. The cat loves it, though.) 

And how does one see or learn this new spell, this new facet to existence, this latest branch of the universe? Exactly. Cough up, matey.

 So, it’s no wonder that the thought of a hidden and unknown spellbook buried in the depths of an ancient tomb is enough to besparkle the eyes of any explorers or academics. It could be full of all manner of undiscovered spells… promising huge returns. Or, untold dangers. Perhaps both.

But what if you don’t have the money to buy access to premium magic, or the wherewithal to go tomb-diving? There is… an option. You could try your luck with Gergle O’Tunken’s Budget Magic For The Everyman, a hefty volume of one hundred spells for the bargain price of three golds. How could you say no?

Aha, you mutter knowingly, but surely the other wizards who make their living from the expensive spellbooks would object? And you’d be right. They did. And they took him to court.

“Page fifteen,” whined Elder Furrow. “Icicle-Spray. It is exactly the same entry as in my own book, page seventeen: Furrow’s Frozen Spears.”

“And this,” moaned the Witch Felicity Shadowmind. “So-called ‘darkness spell’ - it is a blatant copy of my own spell: Shadowmind’s Cloak of Purest Night.”

O’Tunken’s lawyer stood up and shook his head. “I think you will find that there is a final step in each of my client’s spells that you are missing.” He flipped open the grimoire and stopped at page fifteen. “Step three, form the above shape with your fingers and thrust them forward in time with the words from step one. Step four, wiggle your fingers and say: habooba.” 

“That last step is totally pointless!” screamed The Great Warlock Firemouth. “It has just been inserted into each spell at random to make it technically different from the spells in our books!”

“So you admit that it is a different spell?” asked his lawyer calmly. Firemouth’s face reddened even more.

O’Tunken lost the case and had to destroy all remaining copies of his work, as well as pay the assembled cadre for the alleged missed earnings. Apparently, he did so, almost instantly, with nothing but a shrug.

Mr Luncher told me he had a pint with the grand old mage, once. He’d recognised him from the back page of a copy of the above grimoire that he’d bought when he was a lad. When he asked O’Tunken about how hurt he must have felt, as well as the financial implications, the old man swigged his pint and shook his head.

“I made my money as a youth,” he sighed. “But as I got older, I learned that true wealth comes from knowledge and kindness. The best way to spend it is to spread it.” He had laughed, a broad, welcoming laugh. “Do you really think I destroyed all the leftover copies of my book? Of course, I destroyed all the ones I possessed. I had to. But I know for a fact that people still buy and sell illicit copies of it. How? Trust me. I can’t tell you any more than that. And I tell you what…” He leaned in close. “That whole legal rigamarole? How many people do you think knew about my book before, and how many after?”

~journal entry ends