by Gwen Perkins
“Oh, aye, sure enough,” Taggart answered, standing up. His bones cracked as he moved. “I’ve done this kind of work before.” What kind of work he meant, Taggart didn’t say, nor did Quentin want to ask. “I’ll have one for you soon enough, my lord. Would tomorrow do?” The greedy glint in Taggart’s eye revealed that he thought the wait between collections very long indeed.
Quentin nodded. He didn’t dare risk waiting longer. If I had enough time to think about this, he told himself. It’d be too easy to run from it. We can’t hesitate any longer. It’s time to take the next step.
Already, he’d seen the signs of summer, and with summer, came the Plagues.
“Tomorrow,” he told Taggart and wished it wasn’t true.
“Tomorrow,” the old man said, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter 19
Once Asahel had begun the story, it unwound swiftly. The explanation of how he and Quentin had broken the laws of magic quickly spun out of his grasp. Had he wanted to stop speaking, he might not have been able—it was a burden that he’d carried too long. Now, with Quentin’s rejection of his fears, the weight of their secret was simply too much to bear on his own.
Felix remained quiet, his face turned to the fog. It made it easier for Asahel to continue, and he did, letting it all escape until, finally, he ran out of breath. Even then, Felix said nothing until Asahel turned to him with pleading eyes.
“You did say it could get us killed.” The look in Felix’s eyes wasn’t distressed, however, but thoughtful. Asahel blinked as the other man smiled, not expecting that.
“That’s… all?”
“No, of course not,” Felix said. “I’m thinking about it. One doesn’t hear that kind of story every day.” Asahel felt his face redden as Felix frowned at him. There was something in the tone of voice that implied that Asahel had been conjuring tales and not truth, yet the gaze that was being leveled upon him was dark. Felix leaned forward and whispered into his ear, so close that Asahel could feel the warmth of his breath, “You’re the one at risk here—they might forgive Quentin for his wife’s sake. But you—they’ll have your head.”
He inhaled sharply as he added with a hiss, “Did the two of you discuss that part of it? What happens if you get caught? For all you know, I could have written that letter.”
“Quentin thought you did,” Asahel admitted, whispering back.
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Fascinating.” For once, Felix seemed out of words. He threw up his hands, gesturing at the heavens. His left hand fell back down, resting on the hilt of his sword. “I didn’t write it. I have no reason to blackmail either of you, and I’ve had no idea of what you were doing.” He shrugged. “Not to mention, I prefer asking Quentin uncomfortable questions to his face.”
Felix ran his fingers through his hair, then said, “Let’s walk. I can’t think clearly with you staring at me.” Asahel flushed again but followed, Felix’s long legs setting a course that was difficult for him to keep up with.
He didn’t know what he’d expected of the other man, but it wasn’t this. Felix led him away from Lantern Street and towards the city gates, remaining silent as they passed the border of the outer district. The two men crossed the narrow path that led away from Pallo and towards the Thana. There was little in this part of the island but trees and bracken. Does he mean for me to take him to the graveyard? Asahel wondered.
Felix stopped halfway there, pausing to walk off the path into a small clearing. Asahel followed him, noticing how dark the hollows of Felix’s eyes seemed in the dim light. Trees surrounded them, the thick canopy of leaves letting little sunlight in. Although the fog was still heavy outside, it failed to intrude in the clearing. Asahel sat down on a fallen log, feeling the wood give way slightly under his weight.
“It was stupid,” Felix said, his words so hard they felt like a slap. “To have talked about this in the city. At all. Do you realize that, Soames?” All Asahel could do was numbly shake his head. The words coming from Felix’s mouth weren’t laconic as he’d expected but rather, as furious as a raging river. “You’re insane if you think the Council doesn’t know. The Geographer—”
It startled Asahel when Felix abruptly cut the torrent of speech off, shutting his mouth so quickly that it was apparent he himself had said more than he dared.
“The Geographer what?” He asked, his hand pressing down on the bark so hard it scratched his callused skin.
“The Geographer sees everything,” Felix said and this time, his voice was weak.
“How?”
“I don’t know.” It was said with a brutal twist of his lip.
“You do,” Asahel answered quietly. “You must. You said yourself your father was his steward once.”
“I never knew my father,” Felix paced, his movements short and sharp as he walked past the log. “But yes, I was lying. I know. We all do, anyone who’s paid enough attention at court.” He sighed. “It’s his maps. He can use them to watch people. Maybe hear them—I’m really not certain about that. It’s no myth, Soames. I’ve seen him do it.”
Asahel hesitated, then asked, “Does he know then? About us?”
“I don’t know, and that is the truth.” His hand reached down, tightening around his sword hilt. The thumb caressed its wrapping as he spoke, clearly nervous. “I didn’t know. I thought the two of you were up to something but… not that. To be honest, I never thought Quentin had the substance to actually commit Heresy, much less be the instigator of it.” Felix frowned. “The Geographer was watching Quentin and Catharine. I don’t know why.”
“She knows something’s wrong. Could she have said?” Asahel wondered out loud. The other man shook his head, looking doubtful.
“I just… don’t think she would.”
Asahel rose, looking at Felix as he did so. The shade of a nearby tree obscured his expression but his posture, bent over and gripping his sword still, made it apparent that he was nervous. His toe was tapping into the grass as his head lifted again, staring back at the city behind them. Asahel opened his mouth to say something of comfort, but Felix beat him to words, speaking a second time before the younger man could say anything at all.
“If you’re not planning to tell the Council about what you’ve done, and Quent, you need to go to him and convince him to stop.” The hand clenching the sword hilt had become a fist. “You’re lucky that you haven’t been caught, but that can’t last forever, Soames. I understand why you won’t give him up to save yourself, but…” Felix shook his head. “Why are you doing this?”
“It’s not right.”
“Giving Quentin to the authorities? I’d beg to differ but—”
“No.” Asahel said. “Having a gift like this and never once using it for the benefit of others. We’ve the power to heal, Felix. And perhaps Quent’s not gone about it the right way but… there was never a reason to stop us from using magic to help.”
Felix opened his mouth to protest and for a moment, Asahel feared that he would say something unbearable. An argument about the right of the poor to proper medicine or a discussion of overpopulation—those were the things that he expected Felix to discuss. But he closed his mouth for a moment, looking thoughtful before he said, “The first time I ever noticed you, you were saying that the earth revolves around the sun.”
Asahel nodded, surprised that the other man yet remembered.
“You ended up being right.” He cleared his throat, unbuckling the sword from his side. He offered it to Asahel. “Go then. You’ll need this. If not now, then someday soon, I’m afraid.”
“I can’t-”
“Take it? You will. Learn to use it? You’ll have to. But if the world is willing, not now.” Felix smiled though the warmth didn’t touch his eyes. “Go, Asahel. We don’t know how much time you’ve got left.”
PART 3
Chapter 20
“Anything you want,” Meg said as she slid the dress off her shoulder, her tangled b
rown hair covering bare skin. The draft in the cottage whistled through the wall, prickling her flesh. Quentin felt an unwelcome shiver as he watched her move. There was no shame in her as she walked across the bare dirt floor, clad only in her chemise and petticoat. Unbidden, his mouth wrenched downward, frowning as she reached the table at the room’s center.
“What’s it?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “Not cold enough for you?” Meg lifted her foot and rested it on the chair. Her skirt slipped to her knees, revealing a thin, dirty calf.
“This isn’t what I wanted,” Quentin said, forcing himself to look at her face. “Didn’t your father tell you that?”
“Men buy my body often enough.” Her foot returned to the floor, skirt falling back down to her ankles. “Do you wonder he don’t want the details?”
“I didn’t think he’d send you. I assumed it would’ve been someone else. I wouldn’t have asked him to send his own daughter.” It was too dangerous, experimenting on someone so close to Taggart. Quentin had allowed himself to imagine a whole tawdry underground in which such requests were commonplace, and subjects of the type he needed easily had. He realized now there was no such thing.
“What? Not pretty enough for you?” Her lip dropped in a sneer. Meg pulled herself up on the table before he could say anything. She lay down, flattening her back out against the wood, her hair falling over the side of the table. “I can lie near as still as you like.” She believed him capable of almost anything. That was clear from the way her mouth twisted. The woman looked as if she was about to be sick.
“No.” Quentin hesitated. I might as well explain. A grave robber and a whore. She’s not going to be believed by anyone even if she does try to tell it. “I’m trying to learn how to heal men through magic. I wanted to use you to… practice.”
“I’m not a man,” she said and smiled. Her grin was missing teeth.
“I don’t mean literally.”
“What do you want to fix?” The woman rolled over on her elbows, looking up at him as she propped herself up. “Got to be something wrong first.”
Quentin sat down, his hands gripping the edge of the chair. “There’s nothing wrong with you? No skin blemish, nor pox, nor minor hurt? I find that hard to believe.” She held her hands up in front of her face, the fingers of her right hand touching a scab on the palm of her left. “That. It’s small but it’s something. I’d try to heal that.”
Meg’s eyes met his. “What do you want to do that for?”
“There’s so many people who don’t have the opportunity,” he said, the words falling smoothly from his tongue. “Physicians are for the wealthy—we could change that.”
“I don’t believe you,” Meg said bluntly. “You don’t look at us like we’re people.”
She sat up, her thin legs banging against the leg of the table. Her fingernail picked at the scab on her palm, pricking it until it cracked, blood glistening on the edge of her finger. “I’ll do it. Aye, but not for your sake.”
He remained silent, not knowing if speaking would scare her away. Then he rose, walking over to the table. Meg was small enough that they were almost of a height with her sitting and he standing. She smelled of rot herself as he drew closer, and he noticed that her gums were black with it. The scab on her palm had a red halo around it as he took her hand in his. It would not kill her, Quentin thought, but it would make her sicker. Like the poor he passed on the streets near the warehouse, Meg was washed-out young, her skin as faded as the dye of her skirts.
“I don’t know how it will affect you.” That much, he felt, needed to be said.
“You really think it can work.” Her words were not question, but doubt.
“Yes, I do.” And he wasn’t lying. They had been so close with the dead. He could feel it in the way that the magic changed as it traveled through him to the bodies that lay on the table. It had longed to change, to control, and Quentin had responded to it without thinking, allowing it to use him as its instrument. It was Asahel who had seemed afraid, as Asahel always had.
He touched the inside of her wrist to feel the beat of her heart. It throbbed against his fingertips, too quick to easily count.
“You paid Taggart for it. You ought to get your money’s worth,” Meg answered, her words harder than her eyes. He could see hope in them and he wondered what dreams she was placing on his shoulders.
She had the chance to turn back, he told himself as he reached out to take her other hand. He could feel her wrist trembling against his, a contrast to the harsh line of her jaw. The things that Asahel had said to him came flooding back full force as his body began to pull the magic from the ground. Meg’s eyes opened wide and he could see how long her lashes were as she blinked twice. She had a freckle on the point of her nose, her chin was slightly cleft, and it was those small details that made him understand what she had meant when she’d told him he didn’t see her.
He fought against the magic then, feeling it begin to race up from the ground. It coursed through his veins, its hunger to escape into the air sending every hair on him upright, and Quentin could feel her hands twisting in his even as she remained steady.
I can’t do this, he thought, but the energy burned through him, too furious to do anything but release. He tightened his grip on her hands so fiercely that he heard her whimper as the first spark of magic passed between them. The smell of burning skin wafted into the air, but Meg did not move.
The door slammed open, the force of it so hard that it rocked it on its hinges.
“Let her go.” Asahel stormed forward, shoving himself at Quentin. He had only enough time to note the sword swinging at the other man’s side before magic lept wild into the air, crackling brilliant. The woman fell to her knees, then pulled herself together, crawling under the table as Asahel reached for Quentin.
The magicians’ hands met and Quentin felt pressure against his skin as Asahel gripped his fingers. Then—He’s trying to crush my hands, he realized as the magic began to ebb. He could feel Asahel pulling it back into his own body and yanked himself away, panting hard as the waves of heat spiked, then rapidly fell. The other man was sweating, his black hair plastered to his forehead as the magic seared his skin. Quentin let Asahel drop to the floorboards, taking a step back. He reached for the chair, gripping it as his only weapon.
“I believed in you,” Asahel gasped, choking on the energy still caught within him. “You made a promise.” His dark eyes were those of a wounded child, hurt deeply and without the understanding to express it.
“I couldn’t keep it.” Quentin said. “Meg, show him your hands.”
It was blind faith that made him ask it of the woman. He noticed that she was still trembling, her fists clenched around the table leg. They uncurled, one finger at a time, before she held her left palm up.
It was unblemished.
Meg and Quentin both stared at it in wonder. Asahel turned his head away, taking a deep, searching breath as he stood. Quentin’s arm reached out, wanting to grab the other man and shake him. Can’t you see? He thought to himself. Asahel, we’ve finally done it and you can’t understand it. We’ve found the end—we were right after all. But there was nothing in his friend’s face but contempt.
“What have you done?” Asahel whispered.
“I healed her,” Quentin replied, their eyes meeting.
“You almost killed her.”
“I could have stopped.”
“You didn’t.” The sound of Meg’s hiss interrupted Asahel’s words. He stepped forward and said, only loud enough for Quentin to hear. “You can’t control magic. Aye, you can’t even control yourself.”
“I’m not stopping now. Can’t you see? We’re so blasted close.” Quentin’s words were desperate now, his face pleading with Asahel not to stop. He noticed that the other man’s hand had fallen to the hilt of the sword, a gesture that was familiar, although he couldn’t understand why. “We have to keep going.”
“No.” Asahel shook his head. “It stops here,
Quentin. Can’t you understand? I can’t trust you, and this isn’t a thing that you can play about with. We should never have gone about it.” His gaze lingered on Meg for a moment, then he offered the woman his hand. She took it, looking over into Asahel’s brown eyes. “Did he heal you?”
“What are you asking?” Quentin snapped. “Of course I did. Who else would’ve been there?”
“What I want to know…” Asahel faltered, then caught himself and steadied his voice. “Is whether there was really a hurt at all.”
Quentin stared at him, unable to believe what he’d just heard. Whatever was between them, however badly he made mistakes, Asahel always returned to stand at his side. He’d made his bargain with Taggart knowing that. There was nothing that seemed to push the other man away forever, and that was one of the few constants in Quentin’s life. Yet, here he was, looking at Quentin with angry dark eyes and accusing him of being a liar.
“I…” He didn’t know what to say, but he knew that no pretty words would cross the divide.
“He’s a liar, is what he is.” Meg’s voice interrupted him, coarse and ugly as the hand in Asahel’s. Quentin stared at her to see a spark of shining triumph in her eyes. “I wasn’t hurt, not a bit.”
“She was—she had a scab,” he blurted out.
She bared her front teeth as she smiled, the rotted teeth on the bottom giving her mouth the appearance of a pit. Quentin couldn’t help the grimace that came as he saw it. When Asahel looked back at him, he realized that it was that expression that had doomed him.
“Asahel,” Quentin whispered.
“No. No, I’ll not…” The man dropped Meg’s hand, backing out of the room. “No more promises, Quentin.” Meg was quick on Asahel’s heels, too quick for Quentin to do more than grab crudely at her skirts, longing to catch her and force her to tell the truth. The fabric ripped in his hands, leaving behind only a thin piece of it as the door slammed again, this time closed.