The Midnight Bargain

by C. L. Polk

  Beatrice winced as a patch of sod flew after the ball she sent arcing through the air.

  Ysbeta nodded. “Susan taught me one, but not the other. I think I know why.”

  “So you would bring grimoires to her, and you would need her to decode them?”

  “Precisely. But now I have you. You can teach me higher magic than charms and small spells. I will call a greater spirit and go through the ordeal. Once I’m safe, you may have the grimoire you wanted as payment.”

  “It will take too long to teach you summoning,” Beatrice said. “You have to start at the beginning and work your way through each difficulty. You have to learn to hold vision, breath, intent, and gesture all at the same time, and it’s a feat of such focus to do all four at once. I started learning the higher magics when I was still a child. I’m eighteen now.”

  “That’s the principle of harmonic evocation,” Ysbeta said. “How do you synthesize the wave-patterns of each discrete line of casting? How does it interact with the lesser principle of combination?”

  Beatrice stared at Ysbeta. “I don’t have the least idea what any of that means.”

  “How do you summon without knowing it?” Ysbeta asked, agog. “I’ve listened to Ianthe chant out the mnemonics to himself for years. He had to be able to recite them word for word before they let him take the Ordeal of the Rose.”

  “You just . . . you practice,” Beatrice said. “You master all the forms one at a time. Then you practice each pair in combination. Then triads. Then all four at once. You don’t need to memorize the principle of harmonic . . . whatever it was you said.”

  “Harmonic evocation,” Ysbeta repeated. “I know a hundred different charms. More. I understand magic better than you think. I certainly know more of the theory.”

  Maybe she did, but it still put Beatrice’s chin up. “Theory isn’t practice.”

  “So I see, from your own example. You spent those years hunting grimoires. You can see any of the books in my collection, so long as you teach me what’s in them. And then you may have the book about Jy. Not before. Now, tell me how a conjuring works.”

  They were far from the house, but Beatrice glanced around for gardeners.

  “We’re alone,” Ysbeta said. “It’s safe.”

  “All right. I’ll begin at the beginning. I won’t risk a gap in your understanding.”

  “I understand. How do we begin?”

  Ysbeta’s eyes sparkled with excitement, and Beatrice found herself smiling back. “You begin by casting a circle,” Beatrice said. “The circle marks the piece of the world you are moving from the mortal world into the aetherial world, where the spirits dwell . . .”

  “. . . That’s almost correct,” Beatrice said, and hammered her first shot on the last course on the grounds. “The circle is a protection, but you must breach that protection if you decide to accept the bargain you made with a spirit. And if you summon too powerful a spirit, they can break your circle as if it’s made from cobwebs.”

  Ysbeta crouched, considering her best strategy for a winning shot. “So I can’t start with a greater spirit right away.”

  “I’m afraid not. First minor, lesser, then greater. This is why conjuration is so dangerous.”

  Ysbeta stepped up to the mark, set her ball down in the proper place, and swung. The ball launched into the air, landing well ahead of Beatrice’s, but deep in a hazards trap. “Drat.”

  “You’re still ahead.”

  “We’re close to the old sanctum,” Ysbeta said. “You could show me how to summon a spirit.”

  “We don’t have any names of the spirits.”

  “Surely you know the name of one,” Ysbeta said. “You’ve done this before.”

  “Only once.”

  “Did you forget its name?”

  Beatrice scanned the carefully trimmed hedges, looking for a reason to demur. “No, but—”

  Ysbeta stared at something over Beatrice’s shoulder. “Damn. We have a visitor incoming.”

  They stopped play to watch as Ianthe ambled toward them, smiling. He was in Keradi cotton, the cloth vented by embroidered eyelets sewn all over the jacket, weskit, and breeches. In defiance of the subdued colors favored by Chaslanders, he was brilliant in azure, with a soft green weskit and white, shining lace. “I’m glad I caught you.”

  “I’m not. Beatrice is about to trounce me in hazards. How fares the Pelican?”

  “He awaits your consultation with the cargomaster before he sails again,” Ianthe said. “I managed that part of my business, at least.”

  Ysbeta looked him over and put her fists on her hips. “Something happened. Is it to do with my ship?”

  “Not a bit of it. There’s a commotion in Meryton. It’s an unpleasant business. I have to take the news to Bendleton Cathedral. We need a brace of lawyers,” Ianthe said. “I shouldn’t like to speak of it. I apologize, Miss Clayborn, but I hoped for the pleasure of driving you home.”

  “Take her anyway,” Ysbeta said. “You need a sympathetic ear.”

  “Then I’d be burdening Miss Clayborn, and the news I take to the chapterhouse is terrible.”

  He wasn’t telling her. That meant something personal, something that could frighten her. “I think we would rather know. What happened in Meryton?”

  Ianthe sighed. “Very well. A three-year-old set her minder on fire.”

  “That’s terrible! Was it an accident?”

  “Oh, Skyborn. You mean the child did it with magic,” Ysbeta said. “She’s spiritborn.”

  Beatrice touched her bare throat, unable to breathe. “No. Oh no, that’s too awful.”

  Spiritborn children were the reason for warding collars. Unprotected, a sorceress with child was too great a temptation for a spirit, whose eternity as a disembodied, yet thinking being was dull and lifeless compared to the tether of a mortal body in the material world. And the child’s body growing in the womb, with all its fingers, its toes, but no soul yet in residence was the perfect home for such a spirit. They would slip inside that growing body, ready to be born and have the whole world in their hands.

  Spiritborn babies were difficult pregnancies. They kicked and fussed, exhausting the mother. Their births were dangerous, often going footling in labor. They were colicky babies, but quick to crawl, walk, and speak—

  And when they were thwarted, objects would fly off the walls. Burning logs would spill out of a hearth. Doors would slam, fly open, slam again. Accidents happened, hurting, sometimes killing the people who angered them. A spiritborn child had all the sorcerous might of the spirit, and none of the morality needed to dissuade them from their destructive rages. And some poor woman in Meryton had fallen pregnant without a warding collar to protect her.

  Tears prickled at Beatrice’s eyelids. She’d never get to have a child if she succeeded in her pursuit. That was the price of the magic she wanted—never to have a baby of her own, for fear of birthing a monster.

  “Could it have been an accident? With a lamp, or a candle?”

  “There was a witness. The mother is terrified. And Meryton doesn’t have a chapterhouse.”

  “So they have asked the Bendleton chapterhouse for help. Is the child in custody?”

  “I saw her myself,” Ianthe confirmed. “I’ve never beheld such a creature, and I hope to never see one again. How could her mother have been so careless?”

  “Hold on,” Beatrice said. “How old is she? The mother, I mean.”

  “I don’t know,” Ianthe said. “Nineteen? Twenty?”

  “Oh! She was a child,” Ysbeta said.

  “Sixteen is old enough to marry in Chasland, if your parents consent.”

  Ysbeta turned to stare at Beatrice. “Are you defending him?”

  “I’m saying that they may not have known the danger, if her gift was weak,” Beatrice said. “What about the father?”

  “Denies it was him. They weren’t married—” Ianthe looked away. “I shouldn’t be telling you all of this. It’s not a fit subject for
ladies.”

  “So it could happen to us, but we shouldn’t know about it?” Beatrice said, and Ysbeta nodded her agreement.

  “It would never happen to you. You are ladies.”

  “That may not be as much protection as you think,” Ysbeta said. “And it shouldn’t have happened to that girl. Poor family?”

  Ianthe nodded. “She named a prominent business owner as the father. Not a chapterhouse magician, and he doesn’t have the talent. He has lawyers, and she does not.”

  “So he’ll escape the pyre,” Beatrice said. “It’s awful.”

  “I shouldn’t have upset you,” Ianthe said. “I’m sorry. We should change the subject.”

  Ysbeta hefted her hazards mallet. “You were intending to tell me about my ship.”

  Beatrice picked up the thread dropped by the horrible news. “Yes. I was going to ask earlier. You own a ship?”

  Ysbeta scowled at Ianthe. “Only one. But he’s mine by right, and I’m the captain of record.”

  “Ysbeta received the Pelican for her fifteenth birthday, for her maiden property. She owns Lavan House, here, as well as a tea garden and a seaside home in Jy.”

  “Like a—” Beatrice fumbled for the word. “How do you say dowry in Llanandari?”

  Ysbeta frowned at the word.

  “Bridal gift,” Ianthe said. “We don’t have dowries.”

  Ysbeta looked like she was ready to burst into thunder. “The property is mine.”

  “Until you marry a Chaslander,” Beatrice said.

  “I’m a Llanandari citizen. I have rights that cannot be eliminated by marriage.”

  “But you can’t legally decide what to do with your property if you marry in Chasland,” Beatrice said. “Not until your husband dies, and then you’re holding it in trust for your son, who will then be able to decide to do whatever he likes with it when he turns eighteen.”

  “And if I don’t have a son?”

  “Then the administering of the property goes to the closest male relative, who will hold your possessions in trust.”

  Ysbeta wore an angry expression. “That’s vile.”

  “I’m sorry, Ysy,” Ianthe said. “Miss Clayborn is telling the truth.”

  “I will not have my property stripped from me. I won’t. Beatrice, how can you accept something like that?”

  “I’m only one woman,” Beatrice said. “I hate it, but I can’t fight it alone.”

  Ysbeta put her hands on her hips, her expression sour. “Do you honestly believe you’re the only woman to object?”

  “No,” Beatrice said. “But if we had the power to change it, wouldn’t it already be done?”

  Ysbeta shook her head. “I can’t do it. I won’t be abandoned in this backward country with nothing to my name. I have to tell Mother.”

  Ianthe stirred, regarding the house thoughtfully. “Mother probably already has some legal agreement she’s going to push for, but I don’t know how it would hold up in Chasland. I’ve been against the match from the start. Maybe if we both talk to her, she’ll decide it’s not worth it.”

  Ysbeta gave Ianthe a skeptical glare. “Do you think you can give Mother your big-eyed look and she’ll abandon her plans to marry me to an uncultured lout in a cravat?”

  “Bard’s not that bad.”

  “All the same. I don’t want to marry him. I don’t want to live here.”

  “We’ll argue for the happiness of her daughter,” Ianthe said. “That does matter for something.”

  “It ought to,” Ysbeta grumbled.

  “I’m sorry I have to leave you,” Ianthe said, “but I have to get to the chapterhouse.”

  “And you’ll take Beatrice back with you?” Ysbeta asked. “It would be simpler. You can talk about something else.”

  A gleeful little thrill raced under Beatrice’s skin. “We’ve nearly finished our game. Shouldn’t we finish it?”

  “I’ve seen enough,” Ysbeta said. “We will partner for the charity hazards tournament. No one will beat us. Come again tomorrow and we’ll practice.”

  “I’ll see you home swiftly,” Ianthe said. “I’m sure the curricle is ready.”

  Ianthe’s curricle was enameled turquoise, the back of the carriage covered by a painting of sailing ships going about their business. Leggy, gleaming chestnuts stood hitched to the tall two-wheeled vehicle, standing still for the grooms who brushed them until their coats gleamed. They were fresh from the stable, so the horses that brought Ianthe back to Lavan House were resting somewhere. How many horses did they own?

  “Do you like it?” Ianthe asked, in her tongue.

  Beatrice switched back to Chasand with gratitude. “It’s a fine curricle. The nicest I’ve ever seen. And they’re gorgeous horses.”

  “And fast.” Ianthe helped her up to the tall seat. “All set?”

  She smoothed out her skirts and nodded. “Yes.”

  Ianthe leapt up to the driver’s seat and set the horses to cantering. The well-sprung curricle only jiggled a little as they dashed up the long drive to the Meryton Highway.

  “I’m sorry I have to rush,” Ianthe said. “The situation in Meryton is deeply unpleasant.”

  Beatrice didn’t want to think about it, but she shivered. It was horrible. That poor girl, who never had a chance—“How had it come to this?”

  “You were right. They didn’t know she was a sorceress,” Ianthe said. “Not until fires tended to start around her child. They explained their own home as lost to a dirty chimney and hoped the child could be taught.”

  “It’s so sad,” Beatrice said. “But I understand why they tried to hide it.”

  Ianthe shook his head and let the horses slow to a trot. “If you do, explain it to me.”

  “Have you spent much time around babies?”

  “Not really.”

  She hadn’t really expected he had, even if Llanandari men were reputed to be indulgent husbands and fathers. “Even when they’re not yours, you know they have to be protected. It’s a baby. They rely on you for everything—food, cleanliness, comfort—and you love them. You can’t help it. How old is the child? Three?”

  “Almost four,” Ianthe said. “They kept that spiritborn hidden longer than most.”

  “But by the time the child is two, the family is hopelessly in love.”

  “Love? But spiritborn are monsters.”

  “But they begin as babies,” Beatrice said. “Helpless, adorable, innocent babies. The family’s had time to bond with that baby, and if it seems to be uncanny, that’s just their child being precocious.”

  Ianthe sped past a wagon plodding along the highway. “Because you can’t tell until they’re old enough to walk and start to talk.”

  “Exactly. And the family isn’t stupid. They know what’s happening. They know what must be done, but they’re deliberately not facing the truth because that spiritborn is their baby. And if they’re careful enough, loving enough, they can stop the inevitable.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “It’s horrible.”

  Ianthe eased the reins and called a canter. Bendleton grew closer, the spires of the chapterhouse visible from higher ground. Traffic thickened, and he drove around slower-moving carts and wagons, his expression pensive.

  “This doesn’t happen in Llanandras,” Ianthe said. “All non-mageborn children are tested for potential while they’re in school—”

  “Chasland doesn’t have compulsory child education.”

  “I could rant about that particular backward practice for an hour, and still have wind to start in on another,” Ianthe muttered. “And so weak sorceresses wind up in this terrible situation.”

  “It’s rare. Sorceresses are terribly valuable.”

  Ianthe didn’t react to the bitter twist in her voice. “But because no one tested this poor girl, I’m going to the cathedral to fetch a lawyer. And then I’m going to gallop back to Meryton, so we can examine the child and the mother, and then—”

  Beatrice looked down at
her hands, folded over her stomach. “And then they have to die.”

  “Chaslander law blames the mother for consorting with forces she’s incapable of controlling. By tomorrow they’ll be burnt alive. It’s monstrous. It’s a terrible fate for a sorceress.”

  “They’re all terrible fates,” Beatrice muttered.

  “I’m sorry?” Ianthe asked. “What do you mean?”

  She twisted to face him. “The talent for sorcery in women is a curse, when it ought to be a blessing.”

  She should have deflected with an innocuous comment, said that it was nothing. She should have lied to him the way she lied to everyone. It was too late. She had spoken the truth, and he would withdraw his interest. That’s what she should want. She couldn’t marry. But she trembled, anticipating his disapproval, and wished she could take it all back.

  “But sorcery is marvelous,” Ianthe said. “How can it be a curse?”

  “I misspoke. My apologies.”

  “I don’t think you did.” Ianthe slowed the horses to a walk and turned to study her. “You’ve already been eye-opening on the matter of spiritborn. Please tell me why you consider sorcery a curse.”

  Beatrice searched for words. She needed exactly the right ones, so she could make her point without offense. “It’s not sorcery itself that is the problem.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s being a woman with sorcery,” Beatrice said. “Imagine that you were considered too weak-minded and incapable of learning the higher magics, but even that didn’t matter, because your worth as a sorceress lies in your womb.”

  “But that’s not how we do it in Llanandras,” Ianthe said. “Chaslanders and the rest of you northerners just lock women inside a collar for the duration and ignore the ways one can plan for a pregnancy. Llanandari women only wear the warding collar when they’re actually pregnant.”

  They didn’t wear them constantly? Ysbeta’s casual use of the fan charm made more sense. “That’s much more sophisticated,” Beatrice said.

  “I’ve tried explaining to Chaslanders, but they won’t hear of it. Honestly, I think it’s barbaric.”

  Ianthe was correct—Chasland, with its tall, sturdy timber and its deep veins of precious metal and gems, was long on wealth and short on social progress, but Ianthe’s words felt a touch too smug. “Do Llanandari women join the chapterhouse?”