by Karen Miller
“In truth we are speaking of a mage who by rights should not have been appointed tutor at the College,” Sallis replied, his voice clipped with distaste. A vein pulsed at his temple. “I’m sure you’ll recall I had my doubts at the time.”
“And you aired them, Sallis,” said Brice. “Comprehensively. I certainly recall that.”
Shari’s lips thinned. “Sallis was right. Bellamie Ranowen’s appointment was a mistake. The woman comes from some nothing and nobody family in the Seventh district. Her appointment flies in the face of all tradition and undermines the exclusivity of the College. Furthermore, her ideas are contradictory. They challenge years of accepted wisdom. And now she is threatening the daughter of a highly ranked First Family. The entire situation is unacceptable!”
“Ranowen has launched some kind of vendetta against Nevin’s daughter,” said Sallis. “If she’s not stopped she’ll single-handedly destroy the girl’s future.”
Brice’s stilled fingers drummed again once, slowly. “Vendetta? That is a very serious accusation.”
“And I make it very seriously,” Sallis replied, brows pulled low. “Nevin’s daughter is failing Ranowen’s class. A vendetta is the only explanation.”
“It’s my understanding,” Brice said at length, “that, contradictory or not, unranked or not, Mage Ranowen has proven herself a gifted tutor. In the field of transmutation I’ve heard her expertise is unrivalled.”
Sallis shook his head. “That’s hardly the point.”
“Given that she’s the girl’s tutor, I feel it is a little to the point,” said Brice. “Has Lord Jordane taken his concerns to the College proctor? Has he spoken to Mage Ranowen himself about his daughter’s progress, or lack of it?”
“Or did he simply run to his good friend, the councillor?” Venette asked. “Assuming that with his influence, this inconvenient, unranked tutor would be dismissed out of hand?”
Sallis shifted to stare at her. “Perhaps I imagined it, Venette, but I seem to recall you were also vocal in your opposition to Bellamie Ranowen’s appointment.” His expression twisted. “Or is the problem that Nevin Jordane is my friend?”
Caught hypocrite, she willed herself to hold Sallis’s taunting gaze. “Your friendships aren’t the point, Sallis. And yes, I expressed reservations at Bellamie Ranowen’s appointment. I don’t make any apology for that. But as Brice rightly points out, it seems she has proven her worth. To every rule it appears there is an exception.”
“Seems. Appears.” Sallis sneered. “For myself, I prefer evidence to supposition.”
“Except you don’t have any evidence,” she retorted. “You have the wild accusations of a biased father. And you’d destroy a woman’s career on no more than that? Shame on you, Sallis. Be they ranked or unranked, Dorana’s mages deserve a fair hearing.”
“Agreed,” said Brice, before Sallis could gather himself for an angry reply. “And it is this Council’s responsibility to see that justice is done.”
“Then have the College proctor investigate,” she said. “This Council cannot be seen o’erstepping its mark, Brice. You know how fiercely Hahren defends the College’s independence. It occurs to me that had we not so vigorously objected to Bellamie Ranowen’s appointment she might never have been taken on as a tutor in the first place.”
“So this is our fault?” Shari laughed, disbelieving. “Venette, you never cease to astound me.”
“Enough!” Brice snapped. “What’s done is done. I suggest we concern ourselves with what must be done next. Sallis, am I right in thinking you’ve already assured Lord Jordane of our support?”
Sallis had the grace to look abashed. “Well, yes. As it happens. Nevin was most distressed and—”
Brice lowered his hand. “Which means a proctorial investigation is out of the question. Your presumption is noted, Lord Arkley. As for Jordane’s claim, I shall instruct Morgan to investigate.”
“Morgan?” Sallis shifted again, displeased. “Brice, I don’t think—”
“I do,” Brice said flatly. “He wasn’t part of this Council when Mage Ranowen was appointed. As far as I’m aware he does not socialise with the Jordanes. And since he’s absent this morning, he’s not privy to the circumstances of the complaint. That renders him impartial. You said there were two matters you wished to discuss, Sallis?”
Venette was hard put not to laugh out loud at the look on Sallis’s face. Biting the inside of her cheek, she shifted her gaze to the still-weeping sky and wondered what Morgan would make of being given such a task.
It will do him good, I think. He needs to believe he’s valued. He needs to trust that Brice sees him as—well, not an equal, but not as an afterthought either.
Dear Morgan. So proud and so prickly. Not a comfortable combination.
“I did,” said Sallis at last, his temper recovered. “As you all know, I keep my ear close to the ground when it comes to certain… foreign purveyors of catalytic supplies. Not all of our neighbours are diligent when it comes to observing the relevant restrictions. Word’s reached me from a reliable source that someone of late has purchased a good deal of azafris.”
Brice sat a little straighter, his own ill-temper forgotten. “And when you say a good deal?”
“More than the law permits. It’s a clear violation.”
“This purchaser’s name? You have it?”
Sallis shook his head. “Alas.”
“Perhaps now, Brice, you’ll revisit the question of keeping a tighter rein on such items,” said Shari. “Freedom is all very well, but when unscrupulous mages seek to circumvent the law, freedom must be held forfeit—for everyone’s sake.”
“The penalties for illegal catalytic import are already severe, Shari.”
“And what good is that, I ask you, when we lack reliable means of identifying rule breakers?” she retorted. “I say we must establish a register so that every transaction of dangerous substances, not just azafris, but liggsinth and Cordett’s fire and Nantari spine-seeds and the like, is on record. Clearly, Brice, we can no longer trust that the mages of Dorana will do the right thing unprompted.”
“Nor can we expect those foreigners who sell such items to cut a hole in their own purses by informing on their customers,” Sallis added. “They’d not stay in business long if that were their practice. And since Dorana’s laws stop at its borders and the banning of such substances failed once, and will surely fail again, Shari’s suggestion is the only answer.”
Brice’s sigh was close to a growl. “Shari’s suggestion, like outright banning, will cause more trouble than it prevents. Sallis, I do not dismiss the gravity of this news. Far from it. But nor do I think that—”
Frozen where she sat, barely listening to Brice and Sallis brangle, Venette smoothed her face to a safe blankness. She could feel her heart thudding hard against her ribs. Azafris. That cursed stuff. A pity its efficacy was ever discovered. A greater pity that when its meagre source played out in Dorana, some clever Trindeki trader found it elsewhere and failed to keep his mouth shut.
Briefly closing her eyes, she saw again the look on Morgan’s face as he asked her, so casually, about working with the terrible stuff. She’d known then, in her bones, that though he denied it he was about to do something rash. And now every instinct she possessed told her he had.
You fool, my dear. You silly boy. How often do you expect me to save you from yourself?
“Do you have an opinion, Venette?”
With a wrenching effort she forced herself to look properly interested, before Sallis or Shari noticed she felt ill enough to weep.
“I always have an opinion, Brice,” she said, pretending lightness. “In this case, I agree with you. An overreaction to one incident will do more harm than good. But should we uncover further transgressions, I think we must seriously consider adopting Shari’s suggestion.” She nodded at the woman. “It’s not that you’re wrong. But I don’t believe we’re quite there yet.”
Brice was frowning at his steeple
d fingers, lips pursed as he thought through the disturbing news. “Regardless of how we proceed in the long term, it is the short term with which we must concern ourselves now. We need a name, Sallis.”
“And if I had a name I’d provide it,” Sallis replied, shrugging. “But these matters are kept clandestine. Names are not bruited about. I consider it fortunate that even this much information found its way to me.”
“Sallis…” Brice looked up, his stare forbidding. “There are ways to encourage volubility.”
“And if I thought they’d be useful, Brice, I’d have used them. But you must trust my judgement in this.”
“Must I?”
“Yes, if you’ve not taken leave of your senses.”
And clearly, Brice did not care for that reply. “Lord Arkley, is it possible you’ve forgotten what happened the last time azafris found its way to the wrong mage?”
Venette shuddered. If Sallis had, she certainly had not. Even with the strongest banishing incants, the stench of charred flesh had sullied Elvado for near a week.
Shari touched a diffident hand to Sallis’s arm. “I know you guard your sources most jealously, but given the dangers here, perhaps—”
He shook her off. “No. I worked too long and too hard to cultivate this connection. I won’t put it at risk when I’ve been told all there is of use. Credit me with some acumen. I don’t burn bridges before I’m sure I’ll not need them again. There’s still some hope of more information to come.”
With another sigh, Brice accepted defeat. “Very well, Sallis. Pursue this matter as far as you can, would you, with all possible alacrity. If some ambitious, unprepared young mage is in possession of azafris in a copious quantity, we could be facing a crisis. The Council’s authority might well be at risk.”
“I appreciate that,” said Sallis, just as grim. “Never fear, I’ll do my best to uncover the whole truth as quickly and discreetly as I can.”
“And is that all the bad news you have for us today?” Brice said, heavily sardonic. “For I’m not certain my spirits can withstand another blow.”
“I’m done,” said Sallis. “But having said that, I must say again that with regards to the Jordane matter—”
Venette leaned forward a little, engaging Brice’s attention. “I’ll tell Morgan what’s happened, and that he’s to look into it. I’d already intended to visit the Danfey estate today and see how Greve goes on. Shall I carry him your best wishes, Brice?”
“Yes,” said Brice, after the briefest hesitation. “I would know the truth of his condition. Morgan puts a good face on it, I’d not expect anything less, but I suspect his father’s health is more precarious than he’s shared with us.”
So did she. And with Maris Garrick’s interest in Morgan now well and truly caught, the thought of him wantonly dabbling with azafris was enough to drive her into hysterics. She had to dissuade him, and quickly.
“Then I won’t dally,” she said, and stood. “How soon do you want Morgan to visit the College?”
“Today!” Sallis snapped. “It must be today. Nevin waits on tenterhooks for the matter to be resolved. This calumnious cloud over his daughter’s future must be dispersed with all haste.”
Seemingly placid, Brice smiled. “Tomorrow will be soon enough, Venette. Or even the next day. This Council does not leap to any mage’s finger-snap.”
“Brice—”
Not placid at all now, Brice silenced Sallis with a look. “I warn you, Lord Arkley, do not further presume upon my forbearance. It was improper of Nevin Jordane to approach you, and ill-advised for you to promise anything on this Council’s behalf. Be satisfied I’ve agreed to investigate the matter. And should your friend mislike the way it’s being handled, by all means refer him to me.”
Leaving Brice and Sallis to their fuming, and Shari to murmur anxiously impartial support, Venette departed the Council chamber. Someone called her name as she hurried toward the Hall’s imposing entrance, but she didn’t stop. Whoever it was would have to wait. Outside, paused by the fountain, she tipped her face to the cool rain and let it wash the heated flush from her cheeks.
Morgan, I swear, I’m going to kill you.
Trembling, but not from a chill, she recited a travel incant and let it carry her out of Elvado.
“Lady Martain.” One flickering glance at the foyer ceiling, then the Danfeys’ master servant executed a punctilious bow. “Forgive me, my lady. Were we expecting you?”
“No,” she said shortly. Oh, what was the wretched man’s name? Something to do with whiskey, wasn’t it? Ah, yes. “Nevertheless, Rumm, I must ask you to disturb Councillor Danfey on my behalf. Council business, you understand. Although, before I deal with that, I would like a moment with his lordship. Lord Varen has asked me to convey his respects.”
Another ceilingwards glance. “Of course,” said Rumm, exquisitely polite. “That is most kind of his lordship. However, Lord Danfey has yet to rise this morning. Might I prevail upon you to take some refreshment in the parlour while I make certain he is able to receive you?”
Nearly midday and Greve was still abed? So, things were gone downhill as far as that, were they? Worse and worse. Morgan, you should have told me. “That would be lovely, Rumm,” she said, smiling through her temper. “Thank you.”
By the time the servant returned with the news that Lord Danfey would be only too pleased to entertain a visit from her ladyship, she’d accounted for two cups of tea and three small cakes.
“I take it Morgan is at home?” she said, following Rumm up the stairs to the mansion’s third floor.
The servant nodded. “Indeed, my lady. He is working, at present, with the Danfey estate manager expected within the hour.”
In other words, she should keep her unexpected visit short and sweet. “Don’t fret, Rumm. What I’ve come to say won’t take long at all.”
“Very good, my lady,” Rumm replied, with just the right amount of deferential approval. The man was a marvel.
I wonder if I can entice him to the town house? I’ve never met a servant who wasn’t keen to improve his situation, and Jarman’s not as young as he was.
And it wasn’t as though Morgan and his dying father led any kind of exciting life…
Reaching an imposing set of closed double doors, bound in polished brass and beautifully carved, Rumm halted and turned. “Am I correct in surmising her ladyship has not enjoyed Lord Danfey’s company for some little time?”
He was taking it upon himself to prepare her? Oh. Morgan, my dear. I am so very sorry. “Yes, Rumm, you’re quite correct.”
Looking discomfited, his washy blue eyes eloquent, the servant closed his fingers on the brass doorknob. “In that case, Lady Martain,” he said, his voice hushed, “I would ask you to… school yourself. It pains me to say that his lordship is very much changed.”
He opened the doors and preceded her, saying in a clear and carrying voice: “Lady Venette Martain to see you, my lord.”
The privy apartment’s outer chamber was a charmingly decorated sitting room. Glancing around, Venette noted the pleasing touches of fresh flowers, a wide bowl of sweet scented herbs, the windows cracked a scarce finger-width to admit a breath of fresh air. In the generously proportioned fireplace a cheerful fire leapt and crackled. Morgan’s father sat propped in a shabbily imposing wingback chair, his feet on a padded rest, wrapped in a dark blue quilted satin dressing gown, his lap and legs draped in an expensive Feenish blanket.
He looked like a living corpse.
School yourself, the servant had told her… but the warning hadn’t been nearly stern enough.
Greve Danfey took one look at her face and barked his amusement. “Justice be thanked you’re not forced to look at me every day, eh, Venette?”
“Greve,” she said faintly, and drifted to a halt.
She’d used him as an excuse to come here, so she could accost Morgan and bully sense into his stubborn head before he brought himself undone. And once here of course she’d had to
see Morgan’s ailing father, because Brice would enquire after him and know if she prevaricated. And now that she’d seen him—
“Greve,” she said again. “I am so very sorry. I had no idea.”
“Which is precisely as I planned it,” he replied, and feebly snapped his painfully twisted fingers. “That’ll do, Rumm. There must be a maid somewhere for you to harangue.”
Rumm bowed. “Always, my lord.”
“Morgan’s shut up in his attic, I take it?” Greve added, as the servant retreated to the apartment door.
“Yes, my lord.”
He grunted. “My son,” he said sourly, watching the door close. “Hardly lay eyes on him from dawn to dusk, these days. Got some twittish notion about a new incant. Won’t leave it alone.”
The warm room whirled around her. I was right, she thought, anguished, and would have sworn she could smell azafris. “I see.”
“Every time I turn around, Rumm’s telling me he’s locked himself away under the roof,” Greve added, and jerked a thumb toward the ceiling. “I tell him he’ll get to greatness walking, that he don’t need to run, but what do I know, eh? I’ve only got three score years of maging experience. Won’t listen to me. My own son. Don’t suppose you can talk sense to him, can you, girl?”
Girl. So impolite. So typically Greve. “I can try,” she said, stepping closer. It was a battle to keep the horrified pity from her face. “This mysterious incant he’s working on. Have you any idea what it’s for?”
His clouded eyes, nastily crusted and sunken, gleamed at her. “If I’ve an inkling, I’ll not share it. Best he tells you himself, if he wants to. He’ll not thank me for interfering. How’s that husband of yours?”
Fear had its claws sunk deep in her chest. And there were tears for the sick old man before her, burning and crowding and blurring her vision. A mercy. She didn’t begin to know how Morgan could bear looking at this travesty day after day.
“Orwin?” She had to clear her throat. “Orwin is well. He sends you his kindest wishes, as does Brice Varen. I’m instructed particularly to convey them.”