Icestorm

by Theresa Dahlheim

  It was Ferogin. Somehow Tabitha knew it a moment before his shadow fell across the partially open door. Ferogin, not Borjhul. The prickling itch eased, and she was able to catch her breath. Why did her power irritate her skin so much? She was probably the only one who hated the feeling of her own magic. It was so wrong.

  Ferogin walked into the room, and she looked up at him with an expression that, she hoped, conveyed both politeness and hostility. He stopped at the table and grinned, but said nothing. He was wearing plain magi grey, as usual, and his dark hair was wet, slicked back as if just washed. Unlike Tabitha and Graegor, Ferogin did not have the talent for pulling water out of wet objects or condensing it from the air. It made her feel better to remember that no matter how smart he was, his magic was limited.

  She blinked at him and waited for him to speak, and when he did not, she returned to her list of arteries. Ferogin leaned his elbows against the back of the chair where Clementa had been sitting. Eventually, he said, “Tabitha.”

  It still frustrated her that she could not manage the same nuanced venom when she spoke his name as when he spoke hers. “Ferogin.”

  “Could we speak mind-to-mind?”

  Somehow she managed to continue to write without flinch or pause. Ferogin could not possibly be serious. They had no telepathic connection, and she had no intention of ever consenting to one. “No,” she said, not looking up.

  “You don’t mind being overheard?”

  Why would she mind being overheard? Was he here about something actually important or sensitive? Some business that Pascin should be discussing with Natayl? “They say that Koren can overhear telepathy.” Isabelle had told her that particular rumor, at which she had scoffed.

  “They are wrong,” Ferogin said.

  She knew they were, but she asked, “Are you certain?”

  Ferogin took something from his pocket and placed it on the table. Tabitha finished the word she was writing, carefully set her pen in her inkwell, and only then turned her attention to the object. It was a shiny, unmarked metal disc that would just fit in her palm. “What is that?”

  “It’s a sorcerer’s charm for your father’s impotence.”

  Tabitha looked up at Ferogin in speechless shock. He knew. He knew. How? Were the Adelard nobles repeating the rumors spread by the Thendal court? Or had Ferogin’s minions been spying on her library research?

  Ferogin raised his thick eyebrows. “I’ll explain. But would you rather run the insignificant risk that Koren will overhear our telepathy, or the not insignificant risk that someone nearby will overhear us speaking aloud?”

  Koren had been sitting right there at the kitchen table when Josselin had hinted at the nature of Tabitha’s father’s problem. When it came to the two Khenroxan sorceresses, Tabitha knew that it was pointless to worry about what they might have guessed. But she would pretend to worry anyway. “Both risks are significant,” she said, and gave the door to the room a telekinetic push to close it. “We will speak softly,” she added, demonstrating.

  Ferogin rolled his eyes. “As you wish.” His voice was quieter, but not by much.

  God, I hate him. She glared at his obnoxious face with cold loathing for a long moment. When he grinned at her mockingly, she looked down at the charm and picked it up.

  It was heavy, but then, it was larger than an ordinary charm and more than twice as thick. It did not prickle against her skin like thaumat’argent usually did, but there was definitely something magical about it that she could not quite touch. “I have never heard of a sorcerer’s charm,” she said.

  “Natayl might not think you’re ready. Ask Graegor. I’m sure Contare has taught him.”

  Always, he had to insult her. Always. “I am asking you.” She put the disc back on the table. “If you don’t intend to answer, you can leave right now.”

  “Answer what, exactly? You didn’t actually ask me anything.”

  So childish. “How is a sorcerer’s charm different from a regular charm?”

  “As different as the wind is from a tornado.”

  “Did you just use a metaphor?” She was honestly surprised, after the fuss he had made in the labyrinth about it.

  “I simplify my explanations for the benefit of simple people. You should thank me.”

  I should slap you. “Why is it bigger?”

  “The thaumat’argent is enveloped in zinc. Zinc allows the charm to hold its potency until it’s used.”

  “And for what are such charms used?”

  “You should be able to guess.” He paused, but not long enough for her to actually make a guess. “We set charms like this for people who have trouble with normal physical functions. If you see Pascin with one around his neck, it’s because he’s setting it with a spell for respiratory problems, like asthma. He’s so good at it he can do it without actively thinking about it.”

  Tabitha had witnessed asthma attacks before. In fact, she witnessed them at the hospitals nearly every time she and Maga Rollana visited. “Pascin makes charms to cure asthma?” If that was true, why were the patients not using them? Some patients had been refusing charms lately, but Tabitha could not believe anyone would refuse relief from that. The sounds those people made as they struggled to breathe were horrible.

  “Not cure it, but ease its symptoms. He taught me how.” Ferogin picked up the charm and held it against his chest. “I put it here—right against my skin, of course—and then I need to replicate the problem. I imitate asthma symptoms by deliberately constricting the airways in my lungs.” He paused, but if he was waiting for questions or praise from her, she was glad to disappoint him. She would, however, ask Graegor how difficult this feat actually was.

  “Then I fill and empty my lungs,” he continued, “and gradually expand my airways again.” He took two exaggerated breaths, despite Tabitha’s nod of understanding before he even started the first one. “It can take a while for the spell to set, but once it’s done, I seal the charm in zinc.” He pointed at one edge of the disc, where the metal edge was irregular. “You see? The zinc envelope is purpose-forged with a narrow cavity, which is open along here. I slide the charm inside, hold it tight, and melt the edges of the zinc together to close it.”

  Could he ever resist showing off? “And when you give it to the person with asthma, he can breathe?”

  “First, he needs to get it out the zinc envelope. But I’m sure you know that zinc is much more brittle than thaumat’argent. A couple of good whacks with a steel hammer does the job.”

  As it happened, she did know that, and she resented his sarcastic implication that she did not. “I assume the patient then places the charm on his chest.”

  “And when he breathes, the asthma eases. If he wears it around his neck all the time, the effects can last for weeks, or even months.”

  “I see.” The asthma eases. That was straightforward. But this charm was supposed to help with her father’s problem.

  She knew Ferogin was waiting for her to ask how he had set it. It most certainly did not involve simply breathing. She suddenly wanted to scrub her hands with lye, utterly nauseated at the thought that she had just been touching that charm.

  But she kept still. Squirming would reveal her embarrassment. After the labyrinth, she had vowed that Ferogin would never embarrass her again.

  “Because I know you’re wondering,” he said with a leering grin, “I’ll tell you right away that you couldn’t possibly have set this charm yourself.”

  She told herself not to wince or flinch or anything. She did not even have to say anything, because Ferogin would tell her everything he intended to tell her, whether she prompted him or not.

  “You’re female, you see,” he said condescendingly. “The tool that’s not working correctly for your father is a tool that you don’t have.”

  Tool. That was a euphemism she had not heard before. She gave a single nod to indicate her understanding so that he would not feel compelled to explain that part any further.

  “Sinc
e my tool is working correctly, I had to try to replicate the problem in order to set the charm. There’s a maga at the Academy who’s been trying to get my attention for months, but she’s ugly.”

  Tabitha pursed her lips to express her disapproval. She wondered who the maga was.

  “Let’s just say,” Ferogin drawled, “both she and I got what we wanted out of it.” He set the charm on the table and pushed it toward her.

  Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting.

  “It doesn’t have my jils on it, if that’s what you’re worried about.” At the choking sound she tried to suppress, he said reprovingly, “Here, now, don’t throw up on it.”

  “You are repulsive.”

  “She didn’t think so.”

  “Then she is pathetic.”

  “You got that right.”

  Tabitha leaned back in her seat, partly to remove herself from the metal disc and partly to give Ferogin a level look. “Why should I trust you?” she asked bluntly.

  He sat down in Clementa’s chair and imitated Tabitha’s pose. “You can verify my spellcasting abilities with Pascin.”

  Braggart. “I mean that this charm might be set to kill my father.”

  “Why would I want to kill him?”

  “Why would you want to help him?”

  “An excellent question. You’re learning.”

  She absolutely loathed how much he talked down to her. “Do you suppose you could answer my excellent question?”

  Ferogin’s expression changed a little, and when he spoke, it was without his usual derision. “My homeland is not a peaceful place right now.”

  Tabitha was not fooled. Sentiment of any kind was not Ferogin’s style. “No,” she agreed.

  “The shovel-men are preaching sedition. They have destabilized entire duchies.”

  They have overtaken entire duchies, she corrected him silently. But what did that have to do with her father? Did Ferogin know that she planned to meet with the shovel-men? But how? Had his magi been spying not only on her, but on Isabelle and Clementa too? Though ice was pricking the back of her neck, she managed to speak without anxiety. “Sedition,” she repeated, nodding. “And why do you suppose that is?”

  “I know exactly why it is,” Ferogin said. “The nobility and the Theocracy have been abusing the lower classes for too long.”

  Now it sounded like he was just talking about the shovel-men in general, and she decided that he probably did not know about her meeting. “Abusing? How?”

  “Heavy taxes. Conscription. Trials without evidence or justice. You’ve never experienced it, but I have.”

  “Oh, you have?” she asked, her voice full of sympathy. “Please, tell me all about it.”

  He did not rise to the bait. “Wendlin has a simple message that’s extremely appealing to people who’ve been shat on for centuries.”

  Tabitha ignored the profanity. “And what would you say Wendlin’s message is? His followers in Thendalia don’t seem to be able to express it clearly.”

  Ferogin shrugged. “The Theocracy should not let nobles buy God’s favor.”

  “Do you agree?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It matters because of that charm. If you hate the nobility, why would you help my father?”

  “I’m not as simple as Wendlin’s message.”

  Tabitha allowed herself an exasperated sigh, as if dealing with a child. “So Adelard is not a peaceful place right now,” she repeated his words back to him in a prompting tone.

  “I promise things will make sense to you soon,” Ferogin said consolingly, the mockery back in his eyes. “I very much want you to understand.”

  “Go on.” Whatever Ferogin’s game was, he surely did not want her to fully understand it.

  “You see, the chaos in Adelard makes it easier for the rogue magi to operate there. We arrested some last autumn, and a few more after your little adventure in the fox-den, but Pascin thinks there are still several dozen who have eluded us.”

  Why was he talking about the rogue magi now? What did they have to do with her father? There had been more arrests of rogue magi over the winter, both in Adelard and in Telgardia, and even though no rogues had turned up in Thendalia, she had overheard Natayl arguing with someone at the Hall about it, out loud. “Do you believe that the heretics and the rogues are helping each other?” Natayl did not seem to think so.

  “‘Help’ implies agreement and orderliness.” Ferogin paused, as if waiting for her to answer, and then interrupted when she opened her mouth. “So, no.”

  “So, what?” Tabitha glanced meaningfully at the charm on the table. “My father can do very little about the chaos in your kingdom, and he can do nothing about the rogue magi there.”

  “He can help keep them out of Thendalia.”

  “Is that the service you hope to buy with this charm?”

  “Not a service, exactly. Think of it as mutual gratitude. That’s what the entire noble class is built on, right?”

  She was not sure what he meant by that. “I assure you that my father is already completely committed to any and all measures to find and punish rogue magi within his borders.”

  “Spoken as if you were reading from a royal decree. You must have heard more of those growing up than bedtime tales.”

  Tabitha gave him a long stare. He returned it with that smirk he wore so often. For a long moment, neither spoke, but Tabitha knew she would win. She could remain utterly still for hours, but Ferogin loved the sound of his own voice too much.

  She was right. Eventually Ferogin broke the silence. “Your father’s heir is, I believe, a distant cousin by the name of Othot Felcannen.”

  Tabitha had a minor revelation. She knew she had met someone like Ferogin before. It was Othot. He reminded her of Othot. “That is correct. Is it relevant?”

  “It is. Like many unprincipled cretins consumed by their own avarice, Othot seeks to profit from the chaos in Adelard.” Her smile made him pause, but when she did not tell him why she found his description of Othot funny, he went on. “He’s buying caravans so that he can hold onto the goods and sell them for huge profits. But he has little income of his own, so he’s taking out loans.”

  Her father had noted this in one of his recent letters to her. “Fairly large loans, I’ve heard.”

  “Othot believes he will eventually inherit Betaul wealth, so he has overextended his credit.”

  “Then his creditors should be prepared to wait a very long time to be repaid.” Whether or not her father ever had a son, he would not die anytime soon. She would make sure of it.

  “I know some of those creditors. They told me that they don’t want Othot to inherit anything.”

  That made no sense. “They don’t want Othot to pay his debts?”

  “They specifically want him to default.”

  “Why don’t they want their money back?”

  “It’s complicated. I’m sure the details would bore you.”

  “Coming from you, they no doubt would.”

  Ferogin tapped his fist against his chest, over his heart. “I am so, so hurt.”

  Tabitha ignored that. “Othot will not default,” she informed him. “According to several people I know, he has become friends with Queen Perisca. She has already lent him money and will do so again.”

  Ferogin smiled. “My friends don’t think so.”

  This all had to be leading somewhere. She tried to connect two or three of the pieces. “You want to help these friends of yours because they are trying to end the civil war, and if the civil war ends, the rogues will be easier to find.”

  “They’re not trying to end the civil war. Only the king can do that, and he won’t surrender. I want to help my friends because they’re my friends.”

  Then why had he mentioned the civil war earlier? He was lying about something, maybe about everything. “I don’t see you as someone who helps a friend without asking anything in return.” She tilted her head. “Then again, I don’t see you as som
eone with friends.”

  “Oh, I’m full of surprises.”

  “Yes, it surprises me that you have not made your king your friend, if he is the only one who can end your civil war.”

  Ferogin scowled. Tabitha smiled. It seemed she had hit the eye of the target with that one. “Oh, you tried? And failed? The brilliant, mighty sorcerer of Adelard failed?”

  “Sorcerers fail all the time, at the most important things,” he snapped. “You have, I have, we all have. Because our magic fails. It fails us.”

  “You expect your spells to always work?”

  “I’m not talking about clocks and ceiling fans,” he snorted. “All our ‘wonders’ here don’t mean much to the rest of the world. I want to use magic for something real.”

  “Such as?”

  “Changing minds.”

  “Changing minds?” What was he talking about now?

  “Everything could be accomplished if we could just change people’s minds. What if sorcerers could do that? What if we could stop people from being so stupid and destructive? Get into their brains and persuade them to behave themselves? That would be real magic. Persuade the nobles that they don’t need to fight all the time to preserve their honor. Persuade the priests that they don’t need all those tithes for their fancy basilicas. Persuade the heretics that they don’t need to burn and pillage to get what they want.”

  He kept talking for a while, but Tabitha had stopped listening. She sat very still, her face giving nothing away, but the icy needles were prickling her skin again. Persuade the heretics. This was the second time that Ferogin had seemed to hint that he knew about her meeting with the shovel-men. Even if Clementa and Isabelle were evading the eyes of his cronies at the Academy, which she was certain they were, there were other ways he could be getting information.

  From the messenger service. Did they have a secret agreement with him? Were they giving him copies of all the letters that passed between her and the heretics?

  Ferogin was now looking at her expectantly. She affected a prim expression. “I don’t think Lord Pascin would not approve of such talk from you.” Certainly Natayl would not. Oh God. If Ferogin did know, Natayl could find out. She could not let Natayl find out.