The Revolution and the Fox

by Tim Susman

  “Never had a Calatian in the house before,” M. Dieuleveult said, but more as though Kip were an exotic traveler than an unwelcome guest. He extended a hand at the same time as his wife presented hers.

  Kip took Mme. Dieuleveult’s hand first, raising it to his lips briefly, and then grasped her husband’s warm, sweaty fingers. “His whiskers tickle,” Mme. Dieuleveult observed to no one in particular before turning to welcome Emily as well.

  “Which saint is that on your collar?” Kip asked as M. Dieuleveult released his paw.

  “Ah! Ah! This is Saint Christophe, who looks after travelers. Even when we make our way with the aid of sorcery, I always wear his likeness.” He rubbed his mustache and beamed at Kip. “He has not yet failed me. Are you interested in the saints?”

  “Very much so,” Kip said, “although I confess that between the study of sorcery and the fighting of a war I have had little time to study them.”

  “Oh ho, well, Monsieur le Renard, if you would like, I could tell you something about them.”

  “I would be most grateful.” Kip let the “Mister Fox” appellation pass. “I was told that you have an enviable collection of relics.”

  “Oh, that I do, that I do. Purely for the adoration of Christ, you understand, as his works are seen through the lives of the saints.”

  This disclaimer was delivered so earnestly that Kip felt compelled to reply, “Yes, I understand.”

  “You are Roman Catholic?”

  “Oh, no, we are of the Church of England.”

  M. Dieuleveult laughed. “Still? You can break free of the Crown, but not the Cross, eh?”

  “Well...” Kip gave him a brief overview of the discussions within the Church as he understood them, that the American branch of the Anglican Church was already separating from the British branch and had revised certain prayers (mostly the ones addressing the King as the head of the Church). “But for the moment we go to the same churches and pray to the same God.”

  “Very wise. God despises rapid change, or at least His servants do.” M. Dieuleveult continued to chuckle. “I suppose that if you are interested, you might see some of the relics. I’ll have to go with you for safety, you understand.”

  “I would insist, if only so that you could tell me their stories.” Kip was about to ask which saints’ relics were represented, but was forestalled by the return of Charles with two black-robed men behind him, both unfamiliar to Kip. They were introduced as Masters Muller and Mahieu of the Brussels Academy of Sorcery, and though Kip did not know them, they clearly knew who he was.

  Mme. Dieuleveult made polite conversation between all the parties, in the course of which she firmly dissuaded her husband from talking to Kip about his relics. Muller and Mahieu were alchemical and translocating sorcerers, respectively, and neither had any insight in how to find lost people who might be warded. Muller suggested Kip talk to military sorcerers, which was a good thought, although there weren’t many military sorcerers with whom Kip was on speaking terms at this point; the ones he knew had either allied with Master Colonel Jackson and wanted nothing to do with him or belonged to the British Army and still resented him.

  And then Charles returned with a man behind him whom Kip did know well, though his wild mane of silver hair and his beard had both been trimmed to almost military shortness.

  “This is Master Patris of the American College of Sorcery,” Mme. Dieuleveult said. “It’s so lovely to have two representatives of our youngest country here. I do wonder which one of them has a more spectacular show planned for us.”

  Kip and Emily stood stiffly as Patris was led over to them. He showed no greater interest in greeting them than they did him, but they all clasped hands (and paw) politely. “Is it only you here, then?” Emily asked.

  “Aye,” Patris growled.

  “I’m surprised not to see Master Colonel Jackson here,” Kip said.

  “The Headmaster’s time is taken up with many matters. He trusts me,” this was delivered through gritted teeth, “to represent the College to the best of my ability.”

  “Well, we simply can’t wait to see what you do.” Emily smiled sweetly. Patris moved on without responding.

  When he’d greeted everyone, Kip thought they would get on to the meal, but Mme. Dieuleveult kept making conversation, and presently he noticed that Charles had left the room again. So there was one more party.

  Kip wasn’t worried about outperforming Patris; the former headmaster was skilled in physical magic, which while very useful was not as glamorous as fire. And he was fairly sure Muller, the Belgian alchemical sorcerer, wasn’t a fire sorcerer or he would have heard about him before now. A good fire spell, a really showy one, was still their best shot.

  And then Charles returned, leading a flaxen-haired young man in a light blue suit down the stair, a tall black-robed man trailing behind him. Kip’s ears flattened and he almost said something before Charles said, “J’ai l’honneur de presenter M. Victor Adamson et Maître Gupta.”

  Victor stopped on the second stair from the bottom, surveying the room from that height before deigning to take the last two stairs down. The sorcerer behind him, whom Kip was sure had been the one on stage at the Exposition, waited a moment and then followed, but remained near the stairs while Victor joined the group.

  “Hallo,” he said smoothly to Master Patris, who barely touched his hand before jerking his own back. Victor moved on to the Belgian sorcerers, wishing them well in Flemish, Kip presumed, and then the familiar face came to him and Emily. Kip brought his ears up, knowing Victor had at least a little practice in reading his expressions.

  Victor’s smile widened. “Ah yes,” he said. “They did tell me I’d be competing against the Calatian sorcerer. I look forward to resuming our rivalry in a more friendly, controlled environment.”

  “Perhaps that might afford you the chance to beat us at least once.” Emily’s tone had sharpened, and Kip presumed that this was because Victor hadn’t mentioned her as a competitor, nor was he looking at her.

  He didn’t even spare her a glance in response, just extended his hand smoothly toward Kip. “I trust you enjoyed my little trick at the Exposition?”

  “Which do you mean? The illusion on stage, or the chaos you created to kidnap our students?” Kip restrained the fire in him and kept both arms at his sides.

  “Well.” When it was clear that Kip wasn’t going to take his hand, Victor retracted it and finally allowed his eyes to skip over to Emily. “I see you’re here keeping things in line. Mind you don’t go popping off to the French shipyards or anything like that.”

  “No worries,” Emily said. “Though it’d be a great help if you could tell us where you’ve taken our students.”

  “I’m sure I have no idea what you mean. Have you lost some students? That would certainly be careless. Perhaps a new headmaster would be in order.” He glanced over at Patris.

  But as casual as his answer had been, Kip had seen the slight hesitation in his eyes. “You think we should replace Emily with the man who lost over a hundred students and masters?” he asked.

  Victor inclined his head. “And without even leaving the country. All right, I’d best greet our delightful hosts. So looking forward to seeing what display you choose. Perhaps you’ll destroy another Great Feat,” he said.

  “Cast one and I will,” Kip called after him.

  Emily drew him to one side, away from Patris’s glare. “When I asked him,” she said tightly, “he flinched. I saw it. He knows where they are.”

  “I saw it too.” Kip bounced on his heels and then calmed himself. “This might be our chance to find them without even going to London. But we have to be careful. He’s always on his guard.”

  “Oh!” Her fists shook at her sides. “If only we had a spiritual sorcerer here.”

  “He’s no doubt got plans for that.” Kip inclined his head toward Gupta. “That’s the sorcerer who was on stage during his transformation. If Gupta can cast illusions, he’s a spirit
ual sorcerer.”

  Emily’s eyes widened. “He’s not looking into our minds, is he?”

  “Probably not from over there. Although we should watch out for that. Maybe you should go back and fetch Peter?”

  She scowled. “He’s so vulnerable when we do that. I don’t like it at all.”

  “It would only be for a few days.”

  “Not to mention we leave the school without one of its strongest protectors. But maybe for the competition. Can you tell Malcolm and Alice that Victor’s here, and how he reacted?”

  “When we’re back in our room.”

  She nodded. “And Kip, keep talking to M. Dieuleveult. He likes you, and any edge we can get, we need.”

  “I know.”

  Malcolm and Alice arrived safely in London but had nothing to report that night. Though neither of them had objected to the second inquiry, Kip and Emily had both realized that their constant requests for news were not helping, and that the others would definitely tell them when they’d found something. They vowed to throw all of their attention to this competition beginning the next day.

  So Emily went to breakfast with Mme. Dieuleveult and Kip met her husband at sunrise, with fog curling around the stones of the courtyard and, he saw as they left the castle, laying across the gentle roll of the hills. Kip drew his robe around himself. “We’re not riding?”

  “It’s not far.” M. Dieuleveult had traded his elaborate evening suit for an only slightly less complicated outfit that consisted of a mix of white linen and soft tan leather with a heavy cloak thrown on over it. He did not wear a wig this morning, but had put on a cap with a feather in it over his thinning brown hair. “And nowhere to attach the horses, you see.”

  “Of course.” Kip didn’t mind the chill in the air; it reminded him a little of New England, and after two years in East Georgia, he was glad of that. He had put shoes on out of deference to the clean rugs of the Dieuleveult estate, thankfully, so he followed the short man’s hurried steps across stone and dirt and through dewy grass.

  Around the side of the castle, M. Dieuleveult stopped and pointed to where a small stone church stood alone amid rough, ungrazed grass and patches of dirt. “This was where the peasants worshipped, back when this land was ruled by lords. Now we are all serving the King, and the farmers have made their worship at the church in town. They never come up here any more. If they wish a gaudy service, they travel into Notre Dame. And we have our own chapel in the house,” he waved to the great castle. “So nobody comes out here anymore, and it’s perfect.”

  They set on down the short dirt path. “Perfect for what?” Kip asked.

  M. Dieuleveult did not respond until they had reached the door. There he grasped his mustache in two fingers, staring quite intently at Kip. “You’re not a Roman Catholic, you said.”

  “No. Why?”

  “Oh, the Catholics, you know, they would…” He waved a hand, still with his eyes on Kip. “They might covet what’s in here.”

  “Aren’t we specifically told not to do that?” Kip asked.

  “Ha ha!” M. Dieuleveult laughed so loudly that a ground bird fluttered up from near the church. “Yes, of course, God has made his wishes quite clear, but men do not so often take heed, do they? All right, come in, Monsieur le Renard.”

  He removed his cap as they passed through the creaking wooden door into a small, cold stone room. If this was where the peasants had prayed once upon a time, Kip could well believe they had quit it at first opportunity. Crude wooden pews lined the floor, and very little in the way of decoration enhanced the somber grey stone. The plain windows let in very little light, and there was nowhere in the church for the light to gather; it lay flat on the floor.

  Behind the large stone altar, a stone crucifix hung high on the wall, so worn that Kip couldn’t make out the Christ’s facial features. He clasped his fingers together as the chill of the church seeped even through his fur, and the thought came to his mind, as always happened now when it was cold, you could make it warm in here very easily.

  He resisted the urge with the ease of years of practice. M. Dieuleveult did have precious objects in here, or at least acted as though he did, and whether or not the relics were real, Kip did not think that conjuring unexpected fire would be appropriate.

  “Now, par ici, this way.” M. Dieuleveult produced a large key from a trouser pocket and unlocked a small door at the back of the church.

  Kip followed him into a small sacristy, whose only furniture was a wardrobe with doors hanging open to reveal that it was empty. Dieuleveult stopped him. “Ah, I am so sorry, but please wait outside. I will bring them out to you.”

  “Of course.” Kip backed out, and the Frenchman shut the door after him.

  His ears caught scraping noises and then a grunt of exertion and a louder scraping, like a heavy stone being shifted. A pause, another loud scrape, and then silence. Outside, birds sang and clouds drifted across the newly-risen sun.

  If Kip went to listen at the door, he could hear more, but he did not feel that was prudent nor necessary. So he remained at the altar, arms resting on the cold stone, ignoring the whispers of fire in the back of his head until the Frenchman reappeared, holding an ornately carved wooden box reverently in his short arms.

  “Yes, yes, the perfect place,” he said, and gently set the box on the altar next to Kip, opening it to reveal a white cloth with smears of dirt. Carefully he drew back the top layers of the cloth and beamed down at the contents.

  Three bones lay on the cloth, recognizable as human: a narrow bone of the forearm, broken at one end; a large toe bone, and two joints of a finger. Kip studied them with what he hoped was appropriate reverence.

  “This,” Dieuleveult indicated the long, narrow bone, “is an arm bone from Ste. Colette, Colette de Corbie. She lived only four hundred years ago and looks after sick children and women with child.”

  He moved to the toe bone. “This is the toe of St. Théodard. He was an archbishop of Narbonne nearly a thousand years ago who dedicated his life to ministering to the poor. The Huguenots stole his relics but I obtained this bone from my grandfather, who had it from his grandfather, whose great-grandfather hunted down many of the Huguenots. They say that Théodard was ‘eyes to the blind and feet to the lame,’ so having his toe bone is quite apropos, would you not say?”

  “Very much so.” Kip would have agreed with anything, but he did think it was fitting. He wanted to know whether M. Dieuleveult prayed to St. Théodard to intercede on behalf of the poor people who lived on his land, but felt that the answer to that was fairly obvious. His eyes strayed to the third bone.

  “Ah, this one.” Unlike with the others, which he’d brushed gently, Dieuleveult kept his hand an inch above this bone. “This…is a finger from Ste. Geneviève. She’s the patron saint of Paris and she’s cured the city of diseases on many occasions. She lived thirteen hundred years ago.”

  Kip leaned forward to examine the bone, which alarmed Dieuleveult. “Don’t touch it!” he exclaimed. “The man who sold it to me remarked on how fragile it was.”

  “I’m just trying to get a closer look.” Details were hard to make out on the bones, but as Kip’s nose drew closer, he made out some scents.

  “Ah, yes.” Dieuleveult looked at the windows. “Sunrise is the best time to see it, because the church faces east and the sun comes in at these times, but with these clouds…still, you can make it out well enough, no?”

  “If you like…” Kip stepped back from the altar. “I can provide more light. I am a fire sorcerer, and I can promise you that the fire that I create will no more consume these relics than it will consume the stone it sits upon.”

  The Frenchman’s face tightened. “Fire? Oh, I hardly think there’s need for that, is there?”

  “There’s no need,” Kip said, “but it would provide more light, and I can assure you that your wonderful relics would be completely safe. Why would I want to destroy such precious objects? I wish only to admire them better.
Besides,” he added as the short noble thought over his words, “it is chilly in this church, and magical fires would be nicely warming.”

  Dieuleveult exhaled, and then moved the box to one end of the altar, keeping his hand on it. “There,” he said, pointing to the far end, “and if there’s any sign of it spreading, I shall gather these up and carry them to safety.”

  “Of course,” Kip said. “But you should trust in my power.”

  He gathered magic and immediately felt an odd sensation that reminded him of when he’d touched the wall of the White Tower and felt magic surge into him. It wasn’t as powerful as that, but there was something magical very nearby. He cast the fire spell and set it on the altar, and while Dieuleveult stared at it wonderingly, Kip looked again at the relics.

  The Ste. Geneviève bone he suspected to be fake; such a popular saint would have a great market for her relics, and the finger bone did not look quite as old as the other two to his admittedly untrained eye. But the others—one or both of them might be real, and could be the source of the magic he’d felt. Was a spirit trapped in one of those bones as Peter had been trapped in the Tower? Did that kind of spiritual magic exist a thousand years ago?

  “Your fire is quite good,” Dieuleveult admitted after a moment. “Come, you may see them much more clearly now.”

  Kip looked again at the bones, though he wasn’t sure what he was looking for exactly. Some sign of their power? Dieuleveult likely wouldn’t notice unless he himself was a sorcerer (an unlikely proposition), and Kip couldn’t see magic no matter how good the light. His nose caught no tingle of demon presence, either.

  Then he noticed Dieuleveult’s beatific expression, eyes closed and lips moving, hands steepled before the altar. Kip swiveled his ears around and heard a murmured prayer to Ste. Geneviève, very low and discreet but audible to him. His French was not good enough to decipher whispers, but M. Dieuleveult seemed to be praying to the saint to deliver them a “good company.”

  Or maybe he was thanking her for the good company of Kip? The fox didn’t think it wise to flatter himself, and he was fairly sure he’d heard the man say, “deliver to us.” In any case, Dieuleveult was most assuredly praying to the relics—facing them and not the crucifix above them—and although Kip hadn’t been raised Catholic, he had the distinct feeling that this was not appropriate.