A Blight of Mages

by Karen Miller

  “A written note? That’s permissible?”

  “This once,” the councillor said. “But after today, Mage Lindin, you’d best accustom yourself to silence.”

  Another tremor ran through him. “For how long? Do you know?”

  “That’s a question for the Council to decide.”

  “And when will it be decided?”

  Councillor Danfey raised an eyebrow. “It’s your contention I should discuss privy Council matters with you?”

  Remmie felt a rush of heat, and dropped his gaze. “No, sir.”

  “Write your note, Mage Lindin. I’ve no more time to spare.”

  So he fetched ink, paper and quill and scrawled a handful of incoherent thoughts that he hoped would comfort his impossible sister. Since sealing it might be taken as an insult, he merely folded the paper and held it out.

  “Thank you, Councillor Danfey. It was good of you to come here, and put my mind at ease.”

  The councillor took the note and tucked it inside his sleek tunic. “Under the circumstances, I thought it was best. You’re not to discuss this business with anyone, Mage Lindin. It’s the Council’s wish that the entire unfortunate imbroglio be kept privy. You understand?”

  Only too well. “Of course. If anyone should ask after her, I’ll say she’s travelling the Ninth district for a time. That should satisfy the curious.”

  Councillor Danfey nodded, his smile thin. “Indeed it should. As for your sister’s future, you’ll hear from me when a final decision has been made. Until then, you can trust I’ll see she comes to no harm.”

  Hesitant, Remmie stared at the man. Morgan Danfey had wealth, power and high position. In Dorana he was untouchable. One word in the right ear and he could see a lowly schoolteacher dismissed without any hope of redress.

  And I’m to trust him with my sister’s life? I’m to believe he’ll continue standing for her, an unranked mage, against his fellow councillors? What if she annoys him? What if he grows tired of her being underfoot, or decides she’s simply too much trouble?

  And that seemed likely. He could only imagine the state Barl was in, how angry she must be. And when his sister was angry, she rarely schooled her temper. But then, what choice did he have here, save taking the man at his word?

  There’s nothing I can do for her. She’s made me a prisoner too.

  And sooner or later, he’d have to find a way to forgive her for that.

  “Sir,” he said, meeting Councillor Danfey’s steady, inscrutable gaze. “If anything changes, you will tell me?”

  “Of course.”

  Except there wasn’t any of course. Not in a situation like this.

  A sudden thought occurred. “Clothes! She’ll need clothes. If I throw some together for her, sir, will you take them with you?”

  “Yes, but be quick, Mage Lindin. I am a busy man.”

  And a kind one, in his haughty, arrogant way. Remmie bolted to the bedroom, ransacked Barl’s drawers and cupboard, shoved as much as he could fit into a canvas carryall, added one pair of shoes and one of boots, the book she’d been reading, and hauled everything back to the kitchen.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, handing his visitor the bag. “This is very good of you.”

  Left hand raised to trace the first sigil of his travel incant, Councillor Danfey hesitated. “One last question, Mage Lindin. Your sister. Should I be wary of an outraged suitor descending upon me to champion her cause?”

  “A suitor, sir?” Remmie said, startled. “No. Barl’s never had time for courting. Magic’s always come first.”

  Another indifferent nod. “I see.”

  And with no more questions, without a word of farewell, Councillor Danfey recited his travel incant, and vanished.

  With no heart for harmless carousing down at The Greased Pig, Remmie lost himself in making lesson plans for the upcoming school week. When it was time for supper he made leek and bean soup and forced it down, his appetite half-hearted. A sleepless night followed. The next day he taught class, short-tempered, and when that was done he went to see Master Arndel. The Artisan Master was already mixed up in Barl’s dilemma. Surely it couldn’t hurt to talk of it with him. Anyway, he had to take the chance.

  “Imprisoned?” Arndel sat back in his privy chamber chair, a gloating satisfaction lighting his eyes. “And how is that my concern, Mage Lindin? Your sister has nothing to do with me any more, and may justice be praised for that.”

  “She’s not just imprisoned,” Remmie said, fighting to hold onto his temper. He was beginning to see why Barl had loathed the man. “She’s bound. Master Arndel, you know what that means.”

  Arndel shrugged. “It means that at long last she’s been put in her place.”

  Resisting the urge to thump his fist to the man’s desk, Remmie instead gentled his tone. “Sir, there’s no need for you to tell me my sister can be aggravating. I grew up with her. But can’t you set aside any personal mislikings and remember her talent? Will you sit there and tell me you’re willing to see that ruined?” Out of spite, out of meanness? “You can’t.”

  It was Arndel who thumped the desk. “Mage Lindin, I’ll sit here and tell you that whatever happens to that troublemaker is no trouble of mine. Whatever misery she’s in, we both know she’s brought it on herself.”

  “You’re too modest,” Remmie snapped. “You did your part, in writing to the Council. In complaining of her to the Artisans” Guild. With your weight thrown against her, what chance did she have?”

  “You insolent pup!” Arndel leapt to his feet. “You’re as bad as she is. Arrogance is clearly a Lindin family trait. Your sister came within a hair’s-breadth of ruining my reputation, my artisanry. I’m glad the Council’s bound her. I hope she stays bound the rest of her days. Mages like your sister are a menace to Dorana. Now get out, before I put pen to paper and complain of you to the Council.”

  And Arndel would, too. He’d trump up some baseless accusation, claim he was threatened, claim the Lindins had a vendetta against him. And with Barl already in trouble, the Council would likely believe him.

  Sickened, Remmie shook his head. “It seems I owe Barl an apology. I told her she was wrong to judge you so harshly. I told her she should be grateful for the chances you gave her. She told me I was talking through my nose. And she was right. Arndel, you’re a disgrace.”

  Leaving the artisanry behind, he turned next to the only other mage who might be able to help him… and Barl.

  “Bound?” Lady Ancilla Grie pressed a slender white hand to her breast. “Mage Lindin, I had no idea.”

  Invited to sit in her splendid day room, uncomfortably aware of his plain linen and wool in this sumptuously silken place, Remmie struggled to keep all emotion in check.

  “The Council doesn’t want it widely known, my lady.”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t. Don’t worry, I’ll not speak of it.”

  He managed a smile. “I’d be most grateful. Lady Grie, I know my coming here must be counted impertinent. And I know you must be preoccupied with your infant son. But—”

  Beautiful, elegant Lady Grie sighed. “But you want me to help your sister. Mage Lindin, I wish I could. But there’s nothing I can do.”

  He had to tread carefully. “Lady Grie, I think I know what Artisan Master Arndel has told you of Barl. If I told you that he wasn’t being entirely truthful, or was misled, would you be greatly offended?”

  “No,” Lady Grie said. “But even if that’s the case, I still can’t help you. I have no say in how Master Arndel runs his artisanry. Could you prove your sister unfairly dismissed, it would make no difference. Arndel will never take her back… and I think you already know that. As for me interceding on Barl’s behalf with the Council, you overestimate my importance. Here in the Eleventh district, I am counted a mage of some influence. But in Elvado? I have none.” Her lips twisted in a wry smile. “Hard as it may be for you to believe, ranking has its limitations.”

  Swallowing hard, Remmie stared at the richly
carpeted floor. He’d placed every last hope for Barl in the persuasive powers of this woman… and here she was telling him he’d wasted his time.

  “I understand, my lady,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. Then he stood. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  Lady Grie shook her head. “Not at all. I only wish I could help. Your sister is a rare talent. I was looking forward to owning more of her marvellous clocks… and whatever else she dreamed up.”

  And was that all Barl meant to her? Did injustice mean nothing at all? “My lady.”

  “Remmie…” Lady Grie smoothed her silk skirts. “If it should chance I can speak up for her, I promise you I will. But discreetly, you understand. Since the Council wants this kept quiet.”

  “My lady,” he said again, and offered her a bow.

  Travelled home again, exhausted, Remmie sat in his dimly glimlit kitchen. He didn’t have the heart to cook. The cottage felt cold, and desolate, and empty.

  “I’m sorry, Barl,” he whispered. “I did my best. But if you’re going to escape this disaster, you’ll have to do it alone.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Barl broke three plates, waiting for Councillor Danfey to return. Incensed, Rumm banished her outside to the poultry run.

  “Keep yourself out of trouble scrubbing perches and putting fresh straw in the nesting boxes,” he said, close to snarling. “You’ll answer to Pagett. And if he has to come inside to tell me you’ve stepped on a hen and killed it, or smashed so much as one egg, Mage Lindin, a binding will be the least of your strife!”

  It was a relief to escape Rumm’s severe scrutiny, even if it meant the mess and stink of poultry. Pagett, she quickly learned, was the Danfey servant who oversaw the estate grounds and all the work of its outbuildings. He was brawny for a Doranen, one of those unfortunates, like Rumm, in whom the talent for magic barely sparked. She had no idea how much the man knew of her. Didn’t care. After she explained what Rumm wanted, he grunted then pointed her in the direction of pail, water and scrubbing brush.

  The poultry run with its large, attached coop was noisy, the birds free to scratch grass, raise dust and lay eggs, moult feathers, peck each other and drop runny shit wherever and whenever the fancy took them. Stupid creatures, with their constant cackling and beady eyes. Nesting boxes lined the coop’s four timber walls, with wooden perches set all over the place at every height imaginable. Trapped beneath its low, sloping roof she had to hunch until her chin was buried in her chest. By the time she’d scrubbed five perches clean of muck her whole body ached. Worse, her nose was clogged with acrid shit stink, and there was shit daubed over her shoes as high as her ankles. It stained her sleeves and spackled her face.

  If Arndel could see me now he’d laugh himself sick. So would Ibbitha, and that jigget Baret Ventin.

  But even though the poultry coop was demeaning, it was still better than slaving in the kitchen. It wasn’t just being hounded by Rumm. The kitchen reminded her of Remmie… and if she was going to survive this ordeal she had to forget him and what she’d left behind in Batava.

  After cleaning ten perches the water was too stinking and filthy to keep using, so she dropped the scrubbing brush and hauled the sloshing pail outside.

  And found she wasn’t alone.

  Councillor Danfey crossed the clipped grass, his long strides swallowing the distance between them. The pail slid from her nerveless grasp, tipping and splashing. Mouth sucked dry, heart thudding, she waited for him to reach her.

  With one of those faint, almost mocking smiles, he halted an arm’s length away and looked her up and down. “It’s a good thing your brother thought to pack you clean clothes, Mage Lindin. You’ve reduced what you’re wearing to little better than rags.”

  She wasn’t in the mood for teasing. “You saw Remmie? Is he—is he very angry with me?”

  “Angry?” The councillor shook his head. “No. He was most grieved.”

  And that was worse than anger. Oh, Remmie, I’m sorry. Scalded with her own grief, with a throat-closing shame, she blinked back tears.

  “What else did he say?”

  “He was swift to assure me you are no threat to Dorana.”

  Bitterness trampled common sense. “Not to Dorana, no. But I’m a threat to those mages who would deny others the rights they so heedlessly take for granted. Best you know that about me, before I spend my first night beneath your roof.”

  Councillor Danfey’s gaze shifted to the woodland beyond his estate’s cultivated heart. She found his expression difficult to decipher. There was resignation, and impatience, a grudging sympathy at war with… yes, contempt. For her? Or for those mages she railed against to no avail? She didn’t know, and didn’t dare ask.

  “Mage Lindin.” Jaw tight, he looked at her. “If ever you wish that binding to be lifted, do not say such things where Lord Arkley can hear you.”

  “Who?”

  “My Council colleague. The one who was keen to see blood spill for your crime.”

  Oh, yes. Him. It was good to know the name of a man who so passionately wanted her death.

  “He’s not the only one, is he? Who was the older woman seated beside him?”

  “Lady Frieden.” Councillor Danfey’s lips thinned with distaste. “And you’re correct. She is another mage around whom you’d be wise to guard your tongue. Lord Varen, too, though he’s not bloodthirsty. And in case you’re curious, the final member of the Council, in whose hands your life and liberty rest, is—”

  “Lady Martain,” she said. “I know. She came to see me early this morning.”

  And that had his gaze sharpening with suspicion. “Venette did?”

  Curse it. So much for holding her tongue on that.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Councillor Danfey’s brows were drawn close, the fingers of his right hand drumming his thigh. “What did she want?”

  “To remind me that I was lucky you were there last night.” She shrugged. “And she’s right, of course. I was.”

  “What else?”

  Should she tell him the rest, after all? That Venette Martain had warned her off as an interloper? Saw her as an obstacle in her plans for the councillor’s wedding?

  By all means, if I want to make yet another sworn enemy.

  Another shrug. “It was a general scolding, sir. Lady Martain took me to task for my wickedness.”

  For a moment she thought he didn’t believe her. Eyes chilly he stared at her, thoughts and suspicions seething. Then he nodded.

  “Lady Martain is strict. Your conduct has offended her.”

  “But not you, sir?”

  His eyes were winter cold now. “Oh, I am offended. Don’t mistake compassion for complicity in your crime.”

  “My crime?” She felt the word like a slap from a hard, open hand. “I thought—”

  “But you don’t think, Mage Lindin, do you? You act on impulse, born of rampant emotion. Which is one reason I’ve brought you here, so you can meditate upon your poor behaviour.”

  Her poor behaviour? But she was the injured party. Could he really not see that? And if he couldn’t, then why had he saved her?

  “Remarkable,” the councillor said, still staring. “You hold yourself blameless.”

  Barl felt her face scald with heat. “I hold myself provoked, sir.”

  “But not responsible in any way?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she muttered. “It’s true I’m bound here, your prisoner, because I lost my temper with Lord Hahren. But if there was equity amongst the mages of Dorana, if the First Families weren’t so greedy and selfish, then I never would have argued with him.”

  “I see,” the councillor said, musing. “So I’m greedy and selfish.”

  “No! At least—” He was right, curse it. She was stupidly impulsive. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “And yet you were. Again. Rude and ungrateful.” He stepped back. “Be about your assigned tasks, Mage Lindin. Rumm is not a man you wish to aggravate.�
�

  Rumm was a servant, not much better than herself. But so long as the councillor granted him the authority to order her about, she’d be foolish indeed to needlessly antagonise him.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, picking up the abandoned pail. With a curt nod he turned on his heel and walked away. She watched him, just for a moment, torn between resentment and a reluctant admiration of his lithe, easy gait. Then she snorted. “Don’t be a spoggin, Barl. Let an appealing arse distract you, and you’ll be a sight sorrier than you already are.”

  “She’s trouble, that girl,” said Lord Danfey. “You want my advice, you’ll get rid of her.”

  It was tempting, but Morgan knew better than to point out that his father’s advice was both unwanted and unnecessary. Instead, he pulled back the heavy curtains from the parlour’s main window.

  “The binding has unsettled her. But of course, if she upset you, my lord, I do apologise.”

  His father grunted. “The day some chit of an upstart young mage upsets me is the day you can measure me for a crypt. And what are you doing with those curtains? Trying to blind me?”

  “My lord, of course not. But—”

  “It’s too bright, I tell you,” his father snapped. “Close ’em again. If I want the curtains open I can open ’em myself!”

  Biting his tongue, Morgan eased the curtains part way across the windows. Ranmer had told him his father needed time in the sun. He’d also cautioned there would come a time when direct light would be painful, but that even so Lord Danfey must not sit in the dark with nothing but a little glimfire to leaven the shadows.

  “There, my lord,” he said, turning, feigning a lack of concern while his guts writhed. “Does that satisfy?”

  Irritable, his father plucked at the blanket laid over his legs and lap. “I’d be satisfied if the Council housed its miscreant somewhere else.”

  “I can see that Rumm keeps her downstairs, my lord. It will be as though she’s not here.”

  “But she is here!” His father slapped the arm of his chair. “And I want to know why. What maggot’s in your brain, Morgan, that you’d drag us into a nonsense the nearest judiciary should see to?”