Study in Slaughter (Schooled in Magic)

by Christopher Nuttall

  Emily nodded. The students who took Martial Magic were allowed to sign weapons in and out of the armory, but they’d been warned that taking a weapon without leaving a paper trail would have dire consequences. Jade used to insist that they carry swords when they left Whitehall for their hikes in the mountains; Emily hadn’t taken anything out since she’d come back to Whitehall. She just hadn’t had the time.

  “I did a forensic spell on the blade,” Sergeant Miles added, “but found nothing. The person who used it, I suspect, ordered it new and wore gloves whenever he touched it. This was a premeditated murder.”

  “Which renders the whole issue of Lady Emily’s involvement even more suspect,” Master Tor said. “Did she deliberately plan to be sent to the Warden so that...”

  “Enough,” Sergeant Miles snapped. Raw anger—and power—cascaded through the room. “I have had the pleasure of training Lady Emily over the past year. She would know better than to rely on a half-baked scheme that requires everyone to act their part to perfection. The odds suggest that her involvement was nothing more than a coincidence.”

  He let go of Emily’s shoulder and leaned forward. “I don’t know why you seem so determined to blame her, but simple logic rules her out as a suspect,” he added. “Unless you find more proof, I insist that you stop throwing around wild accusations...”

  “Lady Emily has shown a capacity for being grossly irresponsible,” Master Tor insisted, angrily. “I...”

  The Grandmaster held up a hand. “There isn’t enough evidence to blame her and a great deal of evidence that suggests she is innocent,” he said, flatly. A sharp look from him quelled Master Tor before he could resume the argument. “I am satisfied that she is an innocent in this matter. And, in this school, my word is law.”

  “Unless the White Council sees fit to remove you,” one of the strangers said. “Last year, there was a necromantic attack that somehow broke through your wards. Now, the Warden has been destroyed. Both incidents took place after Lady Emily, who seems to specialize in causing chaos and disruption, entered your school.”

  Emily found herself caught between two different waves of emotion. Relief that the Grandmaster believed her, that he knew she hadn’t killed the Warden—and a paralyzing fear that the stranger might be right. She had been to blame for Shadye entering the school, even though she hadn’t intended to harm anyone. Was she somehow responsible for the Warden’s death too? But she honestly couldn’t see how.

  “That is the decision of the council,” the Grandmaster said. “I would suggest, however, that using this as the charge will raise a great many uncomfortable issues in the process.”

  He looked directly at Emily for a long moment, then towards the door.

  “Sergeant Miles, please wait outside to escort Emily to Lady Barb,” he said. “I will speak with her—alone.”

  Master Tor gave her a dirty look as he left the room, followed by the others. Emily watched them go, then looked back at the Grandmaster. His wiry frame suddenly looked very tired and old. She had no idea just how old he actually was, but if Void was well over a hundred years old...why couldn’t the Grandmaster be just as old?

  “I owe you an apology,” the Grandmaster said, after he had cast a privacy ward into the air, ensuring that no one could spy on them. “It is far too easy to forget the truth of your origins—or what you might never have been told, simply because everyone assumes that someone else told you. And you had good reason to think that constructing pocket dimensions was safe.”

  Emily stared at him, then nodded in understanding. She’d done it, after all, when she’d defeated Shadye. In hindsight, her willingness to create additional pocket dimensions might have stemmed from her already having done it. And her trunk—and countless others—had entered Whitehall without problems. She had never realized that actually constructing pocket dimensions inside Whitehall’s interior could be dangerous.

  She looked at the Grandmaster, wondering just how much he knew about how Shadye had been defeated, then looked away. It had been a very long day.

  “If I thought that you had known the dangers and proceeded anyway, I would not have hesitated to expel you,” the Grandmaster added. “Master Tor, who is unaware of your origins, had good reason to be furious—and to be angry at me, for insisting that you be allowed to remain in the school. I cannot really blame him for being outraged.”

  Emily swallowed, but said nothing. Somehow, the Grandmaster’s gentle rebuke felt worse than Master Tor’s shouting. Part of her just wanted to curl up and die, part of her wanted to run—but there was nowhere to go. Besides, she’d been told that she was never to be alone in her bedroom. Did that mean that she had to ask the Gorgon or Lin to stay with her? Or would her friends count as an escort?

  She cringed, inwardly. She was going to have to explain it all to her friends.

  “Master Tor saw a student die through one of his fellows pushing the limits,” the Grandmaster added, softly. “He took it badly, even blamed himself for not seeing the problem and dealing with it before it turned lethal. It wasn’t his fault, but it still torments him. Your experiment, if you had really pushed it, could have damaged the entire school.”

  Emily nodded, fighting back tears. A caning would have been better than this gentle, but firm lecture.

  “And it does seem odd that the Warden died today, just after detecting your experiments,” the Grandmaster mused. “Was it really a coincidence or is something more sinister afoot?”

  He looked up at Emily, his hidden eyes seeming to peer through the blindfold. “I cannot—I will not—countermand his punishment for you,” he said. “However, I will insist that you spend some of it in detention with Lady Barb. She knows your origin and will be happy to talk to you about other pieces of knowledge you might have missed—and yet been expected to know.”

  “Thank you,” Emily said, very quietly.

  “I’d ask you not to talk about what happened,” the Grandmaster said, “but the rumors will be all over the school by now. Try not to make them any worse.”

  Emily scowled, remembering how the rumors about her—and other students—grew in the telling. Mostly, they vanished just as quickly, but a few stuck. How many students believed that she was secretly a necromancer?

  She looked up at him. “Grandmaster,” she said, “what if there is a necromancer in the school?”

  “If there is,” the Grandmaster said, “he’s a very stupid one. Using a silver knife and picking on the Warden...?”

  Emily felt her scowl deepen. One thing that had been hammered into her head time and time again was that stupid magicians rarely lived very long—but she’d just learned that ignorance could be twice as lethal.

  “Sergeant Miles will take you to Lady Barb,” the Grandmaster said. “I’ll speak to the visitors myself, but if any of them try to speak to you insist that I have to be present. They do not have the legal right to interrogate students in Whitehall without my permission, which will not be forthcoming.”

  Emily stood, feeling her legs wobbling under her, and made her way to the door. Sergeant Miles took one look at her and held out a hand, helping her down the corridor towards Lady Barb’s classroom. The interior of Whitehall felt oddly silent, as if the entire building were completely deserted. All she could hear were her own footsteps—and the pounding of her own heart.

  “Emily,” Lady Barb said, as Sergeant Miles opened the door. “What happened?”

  Emily felt her last reserves begin to crack, then shatter. Lady Barb caught her as she staggered, then held Emily in her arms as she started to cry.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE NEXT THING SHE REMEMBERED WAS Lady Barb passing her a glass of water and motioning for her to drink. It tasted slightly odd; she realized, too late, that Lady Barb had added a hint of calming potion. But it worked; slowly, her sobs died away and she found that she could breathe normally. She hadn’t dared to break down and cry since her mother had found more comfort in a bottle than in her daughter’s arms.
Lady Barb held her, rocking her body slightly. Slowly, Emily started to feel the tension drain out of her mind.

  “Relax,” Lady Barb said, firmly. “You’ve had a terrible day, but it’s over now.”

  Emily shivered, feeling oddly comforted in Lady Barb’s arms. She hadn’t had a real mother, not since the woman who had given birth to her had remarried when Emily was five...did she still want a mother? Or was she just looking for comfort wherever she could find it? Her thoughts were so twisted up and confused that she honestly wasn’t sure.

  Lady Barb patted her back. “I shall have cross words with Master Tor,” she promised, darkly. “Baroness or not, you’re still very young and he pushed you too far.”

  But that will make it worse, part of Emily’s mind objected. Every time someone had remonstrated with her stepfather, he’d just grown worse and worse. Was Master Tor the same kind of person? It was hard to see his face without seeing her stepfather’s face overlying it.

  She fought down the urge to start crying again. “Why...why does he hate me?”

  Lady Barb pursed her lips in a manner that promised trouble for Master Tor. “It’s...it’s political,” she said, finally. “And it isn’t really something you could help.”

  Emily stared at her. “Did I unseat his patron in Zangaria?”

  “If only it were that simple,” Lady Barb said. “I think he had decided to dislike you even before you were ennobled.”

  She laughed, humorlessly. “King Randor should have made sure that you had a proper set of lessons on how our world actually works,” she added. “He’s marked you out as a target without telling you why.”

  Emily looked at her. “Why?”

  “It’s political,” Lady Barb repeated. “How much do you actually know about the White Council?”

  She went on before Emily could speak. “On the face of it, the White Council exists to coordinate the Allied Lands in battling the necromancers,” she explained. “But it’s more than just a simple council of kingdoms. There are independent city-states, magical dynasties and trading networks that also have vast influence. And then there are the independent sorcerers like your guardian. It’s all a terribly confusing mess.”

  Emily nodded, remembering how the great trading families of Europe had exercised an influence out of all proportion to their size. And someone like Void, vastly powerful, would also have considerable influence, if he saw fit to use it.

  “There are three...call them factions within the White Council,” Lady Barb continued. “The first faction wants to maintain the status quo, while the other two wish to rebuild the empire and reunite the Allied Lands completely.” She snorted. “The only real difference is who they want to put on top. One faction wishes to support a king as High King, blurring all the monarchies together, while the other wishes a looser structure, led and guarded by the Mediators. Master Tor is a strong proponent of the third.”

  Emily remembered his lectures on the rule of law and nodded. “He thinks that the Allied Lands should have a federal structure?”

  “The concept isn’t fully developed,” Lady Barb explained. “That faction is largely made up of independent magicians and traders. I suspect that it will fracture if it ever managed to get into power and start bending the rest of the Allied Lands to its will.”

  “While the other faction just wants to stay with aristocracy,” Emily deduced. “Why...?”

  “Just after the empire fell, there were several attempts to reunite the world by force,” Lady Barb explained. “None of those attempts succeeded, but many aristocrats still hold dreams of total power. I would not expect King Randor to hesitate if he was offered the position of High King—or emperor. But every other monarch would oppose him on principle.”

  “Because they want to be High King,” Emily said. “But what does that have to do with me?”

  Lady Barb snorted, rudely. “You came into this world and changed it,” she said. “Not just beating a necromancer, but by introducing all kinds of minor improvements that have started to spread out of control. And then King Randor offers you a position that, just incidentally, binds you to him. Just what do you think Master Tor’s faction thinks of you now?”

  Emily felt her blood run cold. “They think I’m going to help him conquer the world?”

  “Yes,” Lady Barb said, simply.

  She smiled at Emily’s shocked disbelief. “You are the greatest force for change this world has seen since the first necromancers,” she said, dryly. “Or didn’t you realize that? If King Randor has you in his corner, or at least has people thinking that you’re his powerful ally, he can boost his own status within the Allied Lands. Tell me...what didn’t happen during the holidays?”

  Emily hesitated, then saw it. “Alassa didn’t get married,” she said. “But that wasn’t my fault...”

  Lady Barb shrugged. “Alassa is your friend and your future liege,” she said. “How much do you think that has improved her status when it comes to marriage?”

  She shook her head. “I suspect that Master Tor considered you a potential ally for his faction before you became Baroness Cockatrice,” she added. “Instead, you’ve threatened to upset the balance of power in favor of monarchy.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” Emily protested. “But...”

  “That doesn’t always matter,” Lady Barb reminded her. “And now he had another demonstration of what he thinks is your gross irresponsibility.”

  “I didn’t kill the Warden,” she said. “I...”

  She stopped as a thought struck her. “Why did they keep saying that someone had destroyed the Warden?”

  Lady Barb chuckled, lightly. “What made you think that the Warden was human?”

  She nodded towards the table where Paddy lay. “The clue is in the name,” she said. “Warden; linked to the wards. The Warden was the embodiment of the monitoring functions built into the wards that supervise you and your fellow students. Like Paddy, he was a homunculus, if rather older and more capable than any other.”

  “Because he drew power from the wards,” Emily guessed.

  “Yes,” Lady Barb agreed. “Think about what the Warden does—did. He was created to be an impartial judge and punisher. Or didn’t it occur to you to question that either?”

  Emily shook her head. “But Paddy...you stabbed him a dozen or more times,” she said. “How could the Warden be killed so easily?”

  “That is indeed the question,” Lady Barb said. “Stabbing him should not have killed him; breaking his neck should have taken mere moments to fix. A necromancer might have been able to slash through the protections and vaporize him, but we could hardly have failed to notice the sudden surge of power. No, we are left with a mystery. What can kill someone like him?”

  She shook her head. “A disturbing mystery,” she added. “Someone in the school capable of such a feat...and remaining completely unknown.”

  Emily shuddered. “And tried to frame me,” she said. The potion must have been stronger than she’d realized, she decided, for she found it easier to think about it now. “Or was that sheer luck?”

  “Could be,” Lady Barb agreed.

  “Right,” Emily said. “Can the Warden be repaired?”

  “I don’t know,” Lady Barb said. “Professor Lombardi will be looking at him, but I have a feeling that the magical core that powered him will have been shattered beyond repair. It should have been impossible, inside Whitehall. Trying to use him as a source of power for necromancy...either it would have failed or the entire school would have been wiped out in a giant explosion. Necromancers are rarely that stupid.”

  Emily nodded. “Could you plug Paddy into the wards?”

  “Perhaps,” Lady Barb said, “but I doubt it. Paddy was designed to be a simulation human, not a semi-autonomous entity in his own right. I’ll mention the possibility to Professor Lombardi, just in case.”

  She looked at Emily, her eyes suddenly sharp. “Tell me,” she said. “What exactly were you thinking when you started meddl
ing with pocket dimensions?”

  Emily hesitated. “The Sorcerer’s Rule...”

  “I’d advise you not to cite that too often,” Lady Barb said, dryly. “Or have you forgotten what happens to magicians who insist on pushing the limits a little too far?”

  “Professor Thande told us,” Emily admitted. “They get sent off to isolated places and told to do their experiments there.”

  “Master Tor won’t be the only staff member demanding your expulsion if you keep doing experiments and refusing to talk about them,” Lady Barb warned. “What were you doing?”

  When Emily hesitated, she held up her right hand. “I, Lady Barb, swear upon my magic that I will not deliberately share anything Lady Emily discloses to me in confidence without her permission,” she said, tartly. “You do recognize the oath, don’t you?”

  Emily nodded, mutely. If Lady Barb deliberately broke it, she might die—or lose her magic.

  “And now that is done,” Lady Barb added, once she had cast a series of privacy wards into the air, “perhaps you could tell me just what you had in mind?”

  “You told me that I needed more power to teleport,” Emily said, after a long moment. Perhaps it would be a good idea to talk about the idea first, before she experimented again, somewhere outside Whitehall. “I started thinking about how I could store magic. You can anchor shaped magic in wards, but raw magic seemed to drift away into the background mana. It rarely stays still.”

  “Or controlled,” Lady Barb said. “Which is why so many of your peers are discovered when they start to perform random acts of magic. The magic seeps out of them.”

  Emily nodded. She hadn’t performed any random magic, but she’d been on Earth where magic didn’t exist—or was so low that it was barely noticeable. Imaiqah, on the other hand, had nearly scared the life out of her brother when she’d come into her magic. If she hadn’t gone to Whitehall, she might have accidentally done much worse.