The Demon and the Fox

by Tim Susman

  A row of marble slabs, distinctive in the slate of the courtyard, formed a path between the Red Tower and the King’s Tower, and beyond that rose the gleaming white Lord Winter’s Tower, with a flag featuring a coat of arms. But none of these, at least in Kip’s eyes, had the majesty of the White Tower in Massachusetts Bay, though at least three of them predated it. Existing alone, he thought, gave the White Tower more distinction and authority. He did wonder whether any of these older towers had spirits bound in their walls, but unless one of them was a Calatian, there might be no way to figure it out.

  The doors of the Red Tower stood open, and enough light pushed in from the courtyard to allow Kip to find his way to the sign that read “Sorcerer Post” over a simple wooden door. He knocked, and when a crisp “Enter” responded, opened the door.

  Inside he found a small office and the strong tingle of peppermint. It had been a while since he’d been in the presence of a demon. It must be invisible, because likely it was not the thin sorcerer sitting behind the desk, the first Moorish sorcerer Kip had met. He glanced up over his gold-rimmed glasses as Kip entered. “Picking up or posting?”

  “Posting,” Kip said.

  A long dark finger indicated the left hand wall, where a number of neatly labeled cubbyholes held rolls of parchment and folded messages. It took him a moment to find the one labeled “Prince George’s, New Cambridge, Massachusetts Bay,” which was currently empty. “Ah, excuse me,” he said. “Which master does the post go to?”

  The sorcerer looked up, and Kip pointed to the box. “At Prince George’s.”

  Master Woodholm frowned. “I believe Headmaster Patris takes the post.”

  Kip held his letter, imagining Patris receiving it and feeding it to his fire. “Is there a way to get a message to a particular person at the College?”

  The sorcerer adjusted his glasses. “Has your master reason not to trust the headmaster? If messages have not been delivered, this is a serious matter.”

  “No, it’s not that, it’s—well, I’m actually an apprentice at Prince George’s and my master is Master Odden there, but I’m sending this to Emily Carswell.”

  Woodholm’s brow lowered. “Personal messages are not generally permitted by Sorcerer Post.”

  “Oh, it’s—I’m helping her with her studies. She’s learning translocation and she sent me a letter, so I need to tell her that it reached me.”

  “Hum.” The sorcerer stroked his beard, black streaked with grey. “And you believe that Master Patris would not relay this message to her?”

  “He doesn’t like me.” Kip took a chance. “He doesn’t like the idea of someone different like myself becoming a sorcerer.”

  Woodholm looked him up and down. “Indeed. Why not address the message to your Master Odden and then ask him to pass it on to its intended recipient. Do you trust him?”

  “Yes,” Kip said, and then had an idea. “Or I could address it to Emily’s master, and he would certainly pass it on to her. Thank you, sir.”

  Woodholm nodded and bent back to whatever he was writing. Kip cleared his throat. “May I, er. Borrow your pen?”

  The sorcerer did not seem to have heard at first, but just as Kip was about to repeat his request, Woodholm half-rose and extended his pen to Kip. “Ink is there. Be quick about it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kip took the pen, dipped it in ink, and wrote Master Argent’s name on the outside of the folded paper, then a quick note inside to ask him to pass it to Emily, and then he had to rewrite the name on the outside because it hadn’t blotted properly while he was writing the inside.

  Master Woodholm set about straightening the already tidy office while Kip did that, and in watching him, Kip noticed a second set of cubbyholes labeled with names. When he had placed his letter in the Prince George’s box, he returned the pen to Woodholm and then walked to the other cubbyholes.

  He recognized some of the names—there was Albright, there was Cott. He stayed there long enough to draw Woodholm’s attention. “If you’re looking to take Cott’s mail back to him, I haven’t sorted it yet. It will be ready this afternoon.”

  “No, no,” Kip said quickly. He had just spotted the box marked “Gugin,” and he rested a finger on it. “If I leave a message for Master Gugin here, he’ll get it?”

  “Hah.” Woodholm’s face broke into a broad smile. “Aye, he will, but faster to go to the roof of the Astronomy Tower and think his name.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, you haven’t heard the stories about him? Heh heh heh.” Woodholm’s smile remained fixed. “He lives at the top of the Astronomy Tower to be away from all the minds below, but if you come into his space, he will hear whatever you think.”

  “That’s…creepy,” Kip said.

  “Not known many spiritualists, have you?” Woodholm’s smile vanished. “But you may as easily place a message into that space. He only checks once a fortnight, though. Nobody writes to him, you see.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “Spiritual sorcerers,” Woodholm said, as though that explained everything.

  So that evening, when Cott left him, Kip opened the window and levitated himself out into the cold winter night. The Astronomy Tower was easy to spot; it was the tallest of the towers, and its roof the smallest, barely five strides across.

  It was deserted, though from its height Kip could look down on the other four towers and the courtyard, where a few people hurried from shelter to shelter. None, so far as he could tell, looked up his way, so he walked to the north side of the tower and looked down on the Thames and London and the Isle of Dogs.

  Far from the smell and the crowds, the town looked peaceful, even cozy, with its small fires and smoky haze, clearer than in the rest of London. From here the Thames didn’t look like a filthy dumping ground for refuse, but a calm, powerful river.

  Master Gugin, he thought, feeling somewhat foolish. The feeling lasted all of fifteen seconds; before he could think the name a second time, a raven alit beside him with a flutter of its wings. He met its shiny black eye. “Master Gugin?”

  The raven nodded and its beak parted. “Penfold. Why do you seek me?”

  “Er.” Was it a common practice for spiritual sorcerers to interact preferentially through their ravens? “I was given a spell to break spiritual holds by Master Jaeger and I wish to know whether I am casting it correctly.”

  “Master Jaeger, eh? You know he and I studied together?”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh aye, down at Prince Philip’s. Terrible thing about that school. Do you know whether Miss Porter survived?”

  “I don’t, I’m afraid.”

  The raven clacked its beak, fidgeting even as it rambled on in its master’s voice. “She made the most lovely peach pies. We get peaches very rarely here and they are almost always off by the time they arrive. Only when one of my friends translocates can I get a truly fresh one. But now nobody goes to Peachtree anymore. Such a pity. Oh yes, Scar, I know how cold it is. The fox doesn’t complain, and neither should you.”

  Kip looked around, but Scar was evidently the raven’s name, because it fluffed up its feathers and looked away indignantly even as it kept talking. “I suppose you should come in, then, if you want help with one of Master Jaeger’s spells. The window is on the south side, first one you meet. You could follow Scar, but I suspect he will fly back to the fire quickly.”

  And indeed, the raven dropped over the side of the tower as soon as the word “quickly” emerged from its beak. Kip hurried to look over the side, but the raven had disappeared into the shadows.

  So he called magic and levitated himself again. It took him half a revolution around the tower to find the window, shutters open. Inside he found a dark room furnished with only a wooden chair and a nightstand upon which sat an old, dusty book. “Close the shutters,” called a muffled voice from below through a spiral stair.

  Kip did so and then descended the stairs into warmer air, meeting a thick velvet drape at the n
ext landing down. When he pushed his way through, he found that the drapes surrounded the entire circular room, only a little smaller than the roof of the tower. A balding middle-aged man, portly, lay back in a comfortable velvet chair next to a tall shelf with some books, though not as many as Kip had seen in most other offices. He did have more empty glasses and a stronger smell of ale than Kip had noticed elsewhere, but his eyes when they met Kip’s were sharp and attentive. “Penfold,” he said.

  “Master Gugin.” He stood awkwardly, but Gugin didn’t rise to meet him.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure at this hour? You have perhaps forty-five minutes of my time until I would be accustomed to retire.”

  “This early?” Kip shook his head and moved on, not wanting to question a sorcerer’s habits. “As I said, Master Jaeger gave me this spell—”

  “I know about the spell, you told me that. Why the hour?”

  “Oh. I’m working with Master Cott on fire sorcery and that keeps me busy for most of the daylight hours.”

  “I see. So Master Cott is more important than your spiritual health?”

  “I.” Kip swallowed. “I didn’t think…I mean, Master Cott is the reason I’m here.”

  Gugin waved a hand and looked over at Scar, who had perched on the top of his bookshelf and was preening. “Yes, well, you’re here now, so let’s hear the spell.”

  Kip took a breath and recited the words. Gugin didn’t seem to be paying close attention, but when Kip finished, he nodded. “Aye, all that sounds right. But does it work?”

  “I don’t know,” Kip said.

  “Obviously. The question was rhetorical. Very well, I will place you in a spiritual hold and you will see if the spell breaks you out of it.”

  “All right.” Kip braced himself. “When—”

  And then he was gripped by the certainty that the tower was going to fall over with him inside it and land in the Thames. He ran to the stairs but the velvet curtains threatened to smother him. Stumbling back into the room, he couldn’t believe Gugin was remaining so calm.

  “When you seem to be acting at odds with how you should, or how others are acting, suspect a spiritual hold.” Gugin’s voice came with the bored flatness of a lecture delivered many times.

  “Right,” Kip gasped, but he couldn’t summon the words.

  The fear vanished. His heart was racing but without cause. “That was terrible,” Master Gugin said.

  The sensation of being consumed by fear and having it vanish just as suddenly weakened Kip’s knees to the point that he sat down on the carpet, breathing heavily to regain his composure. “I’ve never done this before.”

  “Clearly. Perhaps I should not have started with such a drastic one. Let’s try again.”

  “No,” Kip said, and then wondered why he’d said no. Gugin only had his best interests at heart. “I mean, sorry, of course, whatever you like.”

  “Excellent. If I were to suggest that you run down to the Clock and Pull and fetch me a pint—no, no, Penfold, it was only a hypothetical.”

  Kip stopped with his paw on the velvet curtains. “No, no, I like going to the village,” he said.

  “Oh Lord, you’re even mirroring me. All right, how about you try that spell Master Jaeger taught you?”

  “Yes, definitely.” He called magic to himself, recited the spell, and then waited. “How was that?”

  “Hm.” Gugin levered himself up off the chair and tottered across the floor. He stood a few inches shorter than Kip, but Kip didn’t have the feeling of looking down that he did with Cott. “Here is the easiest way to think about it. The spell is you. It is the truth inside you that nobody else can know. Grasp at it, hold it tight, and the spell will work.”

  “I understand,” Kip said.

  “Good.” Gugin waved a meaty hand. “Try it again.”

  Kip took a breath. Find his truth, his inner truth. As he spoke the words of the spell, he thought about his father, about Coppy, about the Isle and about the leaping joy whenever he reached out to fire. Those were the things that lay at the core of him.

  He finished the spell, and looked around the room. “I don’t think it worked,” he said. “I don’t feel any different.”

  “Really?” Gugin dropped back into his chair. “Fetch me an ale from the village. I’m parched.”

  “Right now?” Kip asked, and then stopped. “I don’t want to go to the village now. Why did I then—oh.”

  “Yes. I had thought that the fear would be more recognizable as a hold. The more complicated the hold, the longer it takes to prepare. I took only a matter of seconds because those holds were very very simple. ‘Your life is in danger,’ and ‘you love me unconditionally.’ I didn’t even specify what danger it was. What did you think was happening?”

  “I thought the tower was going to fall.”

  “Interesting. We could make something of that perhaps.”

  “What do you mean?” Kip was still trying to remember how it had felt to cast the spell, and asking himself: if the spell hadn’t worked when he’d cast it with Albright, what did that mean?

  “Just that it can be worth delving into the causes of your fears. But not tonight, obviously.”

  “I thought that spiritual holds would be more complicated. Like would make me believe I was French or something.”

  Gugin shook his head. “The best ones are very intricate and are cast with a specific goal in mind, so they differ from reality in very small measure. Of course in any diplomatic setting there is always the danger of a spiritual hold. They can’t be maintained out of the presence of the sorcerer—at least, binding spells seem not to have the effect one might think on the spell. Current theory—my theory—is that all spiritual holds revolve around the sorcerer in some way and that therefore the sorcerer must be present.”

  “Thank you,” Kip said.

  “Now you know what it feels like, and now you know the spell works. Anything else you need?”

  “I—could I practice more?”

  Gugin squinted up at him from the chair. “I can spend half an hour with you any night you bring me an ale from the village.”

  Kip laughed, but the sorcerer’s expression remained serious. “Oh, I see,” Kip said. “Well—yes, all right. Any night?”

  “Come to the Astronomy Tower and Scar will let you know whether I am receiving company. But I will tell you, I do not receive company most nights, so you may be confident in your approaches.”

  Kip nodded. “If I may ask, sir, why not?”

  “Oh.” Gugin exhaled and looked toward Scar. “Do people fear spiritual sorcerers because they worry over the privacy of their thoughts, and do I read that fear and isolate myself so that I needn’t feel it over and over? Or, having heard it once, do I find it lurking in every cautious thought? Does the constant exposure to the chaotic miasma that is the human mind take its toll over time so that I see the bad in sharp relief while the good fades away? Because, Penfold, here is the paradox of the human mind: the good in people outweighs the bad by a considerable amount. Yet it takes only a small amount of bad to create great harm for many. Have I the responsibility to prevent that bad whenever I see it, knowing that most of it is idle fantasy and will come to nothing? How can I judge someone’s intentions to action?”

  Kip struggled to digest the onslaught of words. “I—don’t know, sir.”

  Gugin heaved a sigh. “Should you ever come to learn the answer, I will teach you for the rest of your life in exchange for it.”

  13

  Christmas

  And so Kip’s life became studies with Master Cott during the day and studies with Master Gugin on alternate evenings. The barmaid at the Clock and Pull prepared bottles for him and he brought back the empty ones on his following visit.

  This caused a problem with Master Cott one day when he found an empty bottle in the workshop. “Penfold,” he said, brow lowering, “you know that alcohol is forbidden.”

  “It’s not for me, sir.” And Kip explained about M
aster Gugin’s drink. “You know that I had wanted to speak to him. He has been kind enough to help me with Master Jaeger’s spell. Just as you had recommended.” He caught himself; on their second session, Master Gugin had advised that Kip tell no-one of their work, because if any parties desired to place him under spiritual holds and knew he was learning to break them, they would become more cunning in their execution.

  But Cott showed no interest either way in Kip’s evening activity, and in fact seemed to have forgotten that he had recommended Master Gugin. “Ah. Quite good. Keep up that work. But no more bottles in the workshop.”

  Where was he supposed to store them, then? Kip settled on the roof of the Astronomy Tower as few people seemed to venture there, and indeed the bottles remained undisturbed. Perhaps in summer, the rooftops were more social places, but with the chill winds and rain more often than not, the residents of King’s College mostly hurried to the roof to depart from there, or hurried inside after arriving.

  Apart from Cott and Gugin and the occasional conversation with Master Albright, the only other person Kip spoke to regularly was Emily, through her letters. Those remained unsatisfying; they were both aware that the letters might be read by any of the sorcerers who handled them, so they didn’t talk about any of the things they wanted to. At least he was confident now that Master Argent would pass along messages to Emily, and she learned that she should not send him letters before her lunchtime, lest they appear while he was studying with Cott.

  As for his studies and his confidence in mastering fire, they progressed along quite well. Not so the mystery of the glass beads, at least until four days before Christmas.

  Kip had received a note from Master Odden instructing him to return to the College on December 24th and that he would be returning to King’s College after Twelfth Night, on January 6th. “Patris is quite pleased with your London instruction,” he wrote, “so it would be best for all that it continue indefinitely, if Master Cott is amenable.”