by Emma Newman
She nodded. “We have the name we were born with, the name passed to us by our predecessor—but only the most powerful of us have that—and the name of our position in the Elemental Court.”
“And what exactly are the people in the Court?”
She leaned back and looked out the window again. “We are the ones who have the closest affinity with one of the elements. It usually manifests in three different ways, and this is how we find potential successors: an aptitude for getting the most of that element out of the ground and in use, an aptitude for engineering or science that increases its use, or artistic ability. You’ll become more attuned as you settle into it. You develop instincts…desires…ambitions. It’s different for each of us.”
“What about the Sorcerers? It sounds like the kind of thing that would freak them out.”
“They’re so out of touch they have no idea what we really get up to. They know there’s something deeper to it, but they seem to think of us like a guild of master craftsmen. They’ll make requests for pieces from you, by the way. They know it’s the purest iron they can get, and that’s used in their artefacts. They don’t ask very often. They know very little about what it’s really like to be in the Court, to be one of us, and that suits us just fine. We’ve never caused them any trouble, we help them keep the Fae in check and we’re polite. They’re the only people who could interfere, so the less they know, the better.” She frowned at him. “How come you know about the Fae and the Sorcerers and not us?”
Sam sighed. “I took a piss in the wrong place at the wrong time and got sucked into all their crap.” He didn’t want to raise the Poppy stuff. He didn’t want her to know how badly he’d screwed up.
“If you have any relationships with Sorcerers or Arbiters, keep it purely professional now.”
Sam nodded. “No worries there. So if it’s not what the Sorcerers think it is, what does the Elemental Court actually do?”
“Business. We make deals, we talk about what we’re up to and how we can help each other. It’s in a different place every year. Last year we met in Rio, the year before was Toronto. We’re due to meet in Manchester in six months’ time, but that’ll be brought forward when you’re announced. There’s a week’s grace, to give you a chance to get your head around it.”
“What if I don’t want to go?”
“Not an option. You’re one of the most powerful people in the world now. All of Amir’s estate, all of his companies, all of his power and influence is yours.”
“But that’s mental,” Sam whispered. “He was mental. He must have been.”
Mazzi held up a hand. “I won’t have you say that about him. He was a brilliant man. Just because this is all new to you doesn’t mean it wasn’t planned carefully. You need to decide what you’re going to do with what you’ve been given, and you need to decide fast. When the rest of the Court find out he’s passed on the mantle, they’ll want to meet you and they’ll want to know how things are going to change. They always do when there’s a new member.”
Sam rubbed his wrist, remembering the feel of Iron’s blood dripping from the gloves. He’d wanted to persuade him to change and it had seemed so hopeless. Now he was being told he was in charge of the very companies Leanne had sought to expose. A pulse of elation rippled through him. He could actually do something about it.
“I know exactly what I’m going to do with his business,” he said. “I’m going to shut it all down.”
Mazzi shook her head. “You can’t do that, not for at least ten years—it’s built into the rule of succession. If we let every new member make changes as drastic as that, the world would be in chaos.”
“But I own it all now, that’s what you said.”
“There’s a small army of people waiting to speak to you. They’ll explain it all,” Mazzi said. “Don’t worry. It will get easier.”
Sam nodded, not really listening to her properly. If he couldn’t close the corporation down he could still change it. And he could protect people from the Fae too. There was one right at the top of the list, the one they’d treated as badly as him. He would give Cathy the freedom she’d always wanted.
Margritte tossed the letter onto her desk and walked away from it, cursing the Peonias. She went to the window and looked down on Turl Street, wondering how busy its anchor was in Mundanus. She wanted distraction, she wanted people to watch to rid her of her tense loneliness, not the silent streets of Oxenford. Only twice had she seen anyone walk past; there were few parties in these troubled times.
She went back to the letter and scanned it for any hidden messages or even a subtext from which she could squeeze some hope, but there seemed to be nothing.
William Iris may be young and may have achieved the throne in unfortunate circumstances but he’s already proving himself to be an admirable Duke.
She read the line twice. Was it supposed to be an insult? Was she supposed to infer that opposing his reign was the wrong thing to do?
…and that is why we’ve decided to remain in Londinium rather than suffer the upheaval of moving to a new city.
It was the fifth letter that week and it was clear no one was going to make the move to Oxenford. Georgiana was the only one who seemed genuinely upset at the prospect of staying in Londinium, though that was probably because Freddy had yet again ruined her chances to do anything exciting. Her letter had explained what William Iris had been doing to win the fickle Court over and Margritte was sickened by tales of his success. It seemed friendships spanning hundreds of years meant nothing; all forgotten when a handsome boy tackled a few robbers. How in the Worlds could he have managed to track down their stolen jewellery and return it? He was getting help from someone other than his patron to achieve that; Lord Tulip had secured a promise from the Prince that Iris would be prevented from helping him directly again.
Margritte scrunched up the letter and threw it into the fire. As she watched the edges char and then catch alight she wondered if she was wrong to want to pursue her revenge. Her son didn’t want to be Duke, her friends—or at least those she thought were friends—seemed all too happy to be charmed by the boy, and Rupert was so busy planning his own revenge she hadn’t heard from him in over a week. Not that she wanted to see him.
She wanted to see Bartholomew. She wanted to hear his voice and smell his skin and feel his hand cup her cheek. She looked up at the painting over the fire, hidden beneath a veil of black silk so only his painted shoes could be seen. She sobbed every time she saw his face and so she’d covered it up and tried to get on with things. She’d been working hard trying to rejuvenate old alliances in Oxenford to gain support but her relationship with the people there needed to evolve. They had to think of her in some way other than as the grieving widow or she would be marginalised and—
She sagged. What did it matter? What was the point of keeping herself in social circles when she had no desire to socialise? She could go to her sister in Jutland and disappear from Albion’s memory. She could appeal to her parents and ask them to give her something to do for the family, something that wasn’t riddled with anger and hatred. She could do many things, but none of them appealed. A new life in Jutland would be without him, a new task for the family would be done without him. Everything was defined by his absence. Even herself.
Margritte shook her head. She couldn’t just run away or ask someone else to keep her busy—she already had a clear idea of what she ultimately wanted to achieve and losing Bartholomew didn’t mean that she should let go of everything in her grief. There was the monthly group at Mr B’s to consider and she still hadn’t been able to track Miss Rainer down. She’d hoped that once she was Duchess she’d have new resources with which to search for her, another thing William Iris had denied her.
But the thought of fighting for women’s rights alone was something she’d never had to face. Once she’d realised Bartholomew felt the same way they’d planned everything together, discussed it and steadily increased their influence in the hope that
one day they’d have the opportunity to really make a difference. When the chance of the Dukedom presented itself they’d spent hours talking excitedly about what they could do. Now she was alone and without any power of her own. What could she achieve now? She’d already lost Charlotte and Rainer, now Bartholomew and so many others. She missed them all so much she could feel it in her chest like a heavy block of granite where her heart used to be.
A loud knock startled her and she realised how maudlin she’d become. She took a deep breath and called, “Come in” as cheerfully as she could.
Rupert walked in, dressed just as untidily as usual, this time with stubble. He looked like he hadn’t groomed himself since the last time she saw him.
“Maggie!” he cheered. “You’re not doing anything, are you?”
“Well, I—”
“Good.” He held out a hand. She didn’t want to take it, not being certain it had been washed recently, but it was too rude to ignore. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“My place. Don’t worry, it’s safe. I want you to see something.” She placed her hand in his and he clasped it tight. “You look like you need some fun. There’s nothing more fun than killing a traitorous fuckpig Sorcerer, I reckon.”
“You really want me to come and witness you killing another Sorcerer?”
“It’ll be brilliant. Really. I’ve got popcorn. And afterwards we can get ice cream from G&D’s, you know, that place opposite Somerville, and then destroy William Iris. Sound like a plan?”
Margritte nodded, chilled by how casually he spoke his intentions but not wanting to alienate the only person she knew who could get past Lord Iris’ protection Charms. But then she could hardly judge, considering what she wanted to do. “It’s certainly more appealing than what I had in mind.”
He pulled the silver yo-yo from his pocket and winked at her before aiming it at the wall. It felt strange to hold a man’s hand again and she wished it wasn’t his. A Way opened and he pulled her through as if he were a child running towards a table laden with cakes. She’d hoped the recent silence had been an indication that he’d lost interest in having her as an audience but nothing seemed to have changed in that regard.
The Way led straight into his office in the Stacks and she was relieved it wasn’t Convocation House. Some of the equipment from the den had been moved there including the computer and a projector screen. He finally let go of her hand as the Way closed behind them. One of the metal men was in the corner but she didn’t know if it was Benson or Hedges.
“Before you start, Rupert, may I ask you a question?”
“Yup.” He grabbed a large glass bowl filled with popped corn, something she remembered tasting on a trip to the Colonies across the Atlantic. He stuffed a handful in his mouth before holding the bowl towards her. She declined.
“Whilst I’m flattered to be asked, I must confess I’m not sure why you wish me to see any more of your sorcerous…business. When I came here before, it was in the most extraordinary circumstances, however this time you elected to bring me here. Is there something you need me to do?”
“Well,” he began, speaking around a mouthful of popcorn, “I was talking to one of the people in the psychology department a couple of days ago about grief and trauma and that kind of stuff. From what she was saying, I started to worry that you might not be sleeping, or that you had what they call flashbacks—intense memories that can be triggered after a traumatic event. We did nearly die, after all.”
She shook her head. “I haven’t had any.” At least, she hadn’t had any about the events in Convocation House. She’d seen Bartholomew run through a thousand times since that awful day. “It was distressing but we recovered.”
“Oh. Right. Cos I thought if you saw me hand Ekstrand his arse, it might be a good kind of closure for you.”
“I see. I don’t feel I have any need of it.” His hand, full of another load of popcorn, stopped halfway to his mouth. “But if you feel I should be here…”
“I want you to be here,” he said, more calmly than usual. “I like you. I shouldn’t, but I do.”
Margritte tensed and silently berated herself for accepting his invitation so readily. “But I’m in mourning.”
“That doesn’t stop me liking you. It stops you liking me back, I know that—I’m not a complete twat. I’m just…trying to be more honest and open. Like the Yanks.”
“The who?”
“The…colonials, I think your lot calls them. The Americans. You ever met one? They’re so fucking open. Probably because they didn’t live through Victoria’s reign. I don’t know what their Fae-touched are like, but the mundanes are fantastic. There are loads at the university.” He shrugged, her silence wearing his words down. “We hang out. Sometimes.”
Margritte had no idea why he’d taken such a liking to her but it made everything far more complicated than it needed to be. She didn’t want to manipulate him like one of the Rosas would without a thought, but she didn’t want to lose him as an ally. Could he detach his strange affection from the way they could work together to achieve their own goals? Either way, she had to be truthful and she had to try and keep him focused on what was important.
“I’m sorry, Rupert, I just can’t think about anything like that at the moment.”
“Shit, yes! I know, it’s cool, I…Let’s just kill Ekstrand, shall we?”
To her immense relief he set down the popcorn bowl and activated the screen. After a moment the white screen changed and displayed a map of a city. Once she saw a couple of the street names she realised it was Bath.
“The thing about Sorcerers is that they’re bloody hard to find, especially when you want to kill one.” Rupert pressed another button and the map was overlaid with dozens of red dots. “I’ve always known he was somewhere in Bath, just from the way he talked about the place, but I had no idea where. I sent some of the Proctors to release some of my gadgets down there to see if they could find anything that might be an anchor. I found something much better instead.”
“What are the dots?”
“Sensors, ones that Ekstrand has placed all over the city to monitor the Fae-touched there. See, this is what happens when you have a Sorcerer who doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s going on because he doesn’t work with you people. I realised—hundreds of years ago—that you weren’t the enemy. The Fae are the ones who cause all the problems, you guys just get roped into doing stuff for them. You can’t turn around and say bugger off to the Fae so you’re just as much victims as the mundanes are.”
Margritte just nodded, keeping quiet. She’d wondered why Oxenford was run so cooperatively.
“I figured that if we worked together the innocents would be more likely to stay that way. But Ekstrand is a paranoid little shit and has set up this network all over Bath so he can track the residents of Aquae Sulis going in and out of the Nether.”
Margritte didn’t have to fake her surprise. “And they have no idea?”
“Nope. It’s probably why his Arbiters are so low profile,” Rupert said. “Now, my boys did a bit of work on these things and they’re all wired—he’s so nineteenth-century!—to send the data back to this location.” He tapped another key and all the dots disappeared, leaving one large house highlighted on the outskirts of the city.
“Is that where he lives?” she asked and he nodded, his eyes bright with excitement. “What are you going to do?”
“Watch and see.”
The image changed from a map to that of a house in Mundanus. It was a beautiful property with a fountain in the centre of the drive and stone pillars either side of the door. A bird flew out of a tree and she realised they were somehow watching what was probably the anchor property of the Sorcerer’s home. Margritte clasped her hands together in an effort to keep her nerves under control. She didn’t want to watch a man being murdered, even if he had tried to kill Rupert—and her, albeit inadvertently. Rupert was acting as if he was about to show her a music-hall
performance he’d enjoyed, rather than an act of violence, and it made her feel unsafe. If he succeeded, he would be the only Sorcerer in Albion. What would that mean for the other Nether cities?
“Fly, my pretties,” Rupert whispered, and Margritte saw a dark cloud appear in the top left corner of the image, which headed straight for the house.
“Are those insects?”
“Really fucking amazing nanotech insects made of a completely new material he can’t have possibly warded against.”
“Are they going to sting him to death?”
Rupert laughed. “No, they’re going to give me control of the anchors in his property. Once I have that…” He focused on the screen, forgetting to finish the sentence.
The swarm landed on the house, giving it the appearance of being smudged with charcoal, then coalesced in certain places until it looked like the house had been splattered with huge ink blots.
“Go on, go on!” Rupert sounded like a man watching a cricket match.
A couple of minutes crept by and Margritte wanted to go home. She wasn’t interested in facilitating his fantasies; she didn’t want to be there just to smile at him when it was over and congratulate him on winning this lethal game. That’s all it was; even though he was a Sorcerer, he was still a typical man wanting the approval and adoration of someone he liked but considered beneath him. He didn’t realise she was only there because she hoped he’d help her deal with William Iris. But now, watching his attempt to kill another man, she was losing the desire to make the boy suffer. She just wanted him to clear Bartholomew’s name. She didn’t want to get sucked any further into this downward spiral of hatred and bitterness. She didn’t want to be like Rupert.
“What the fuck…come on!” Rupert glanced at a wristwatch and then back at the screen. “Why’s it taking so fucking long?” He jabbed at the computer keyboard and the image switched to the back of the property with a different distribution of ink blots.
The back door opened and a man dressed as a butler stepped out, holding out a hand to test the weather. Margritte sucked in a breath, fearful that the poor man—only a servant—was about to be bitten to death. But he simply went back into the house and emerged moments later wearing an overcoat.