A Dangerous Magic

by Donald Hounam

  “Thank God I missed that!” I know Marvo’s stopped dead because I’ve crashed into her. “Watch it!” She sniffs. “Room on the left—and let me do the talking.”

  She knocks.

  “Alice?” she calls. “It’s Magdalena Marvell.” She punches me. “Shut up, Frank.”

  “What did I say?”

  Another punch. She calls, “Do you remember me?”

  I pull off my jerkin while she knocks again. “Alice, are you there?”

  Still no answer. “Wait here, Frank.” The handle turns. She pushes the door open.

  As I step silently back into the shadows at the top of the stairs, I glimpse a pale-faced young woman with greasy, mouse-colored hair sitting on a bed in the small room. She looks up at Marvo.

  “Magdalena?”

  “Yeah. Are you all right?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m with the police now.”

  “You’re a jack?”

  “Can I sit down?” Marvo drops onto the side of the bed next to Alice. “You work at the Bishop’s Palace, yeah? Why aren’t you at work today?”

  “I didn’t feel well.”

  Marvo puts her hand to Alice’s forehead. “Do you want a doctor?”

  I hear the front door bang downstairs. I step across to peer down into the darkness and see movement on the stairs a couple of floors down. The banister creaks under my weight.

  “Who’s that?” says Alice.

  I can see them now: three men. I step into the room and close the door behind me. No window, just a skylight in the sloping ceiling, the glass spattered with bird shit.

  “Someone’s coming,” I say.

  “Who’s he?” Alice is on her feet, staring at me with pale gray eyes. She must be a lot younger than she looks because she doesn’t have the small red marks on each side of the bridge of her nose where a pair of spectacles would press in. Mind you, if she’s a domestic servant she doesn’t need to read anything . . . just so long as she doesn’t confuse butter with furniture polish.

  “Frank’s a friend.”

  “Are you a jack too?”

  “Nope,” I say. “A sorcerer.”

  I don’t know why I think it’s a good idea, but I lean forward and pull a white mouse out of her ear.

  OK, I’d better explain: this is partly just sleight of hand again, but the mouse isn’t something I keep up my sleeve, it’s a crude form of elemental—like the one I fed to the lion—and it’s only actually good for a few minutes. So it’s kind of magic . . . and kind of a bit of a cheat.

  Anyway, Alice twitches like she’s been struck by lightning, and I’m just thinking that maybe it wasn’t such a clever idea, when there’s the sound of heavy boots on the stairs outside.

  Marvo pulls her gun. Maybe that, rather than the mouse, is the last straw. Alice shoves me out of the way, yanks the door open, and dashes out of the room. She reaches the top of the stairs at the same time as the three men. I can’t see them clearly in the gloom of the landing, but they stand aside to let her pass. As her feet rattle on the steps, they close ranks and move forward.

  “Stop right there.” Marvo levels her pistol.

  As they step into the light I recognize one of them: it’s that bloke again—the one who tried to kill me. He’s taller than I realized, in his twenties, with curly fair hair like a Greek god and one of those open faces that make you want him as your friend.

  Obviously he doesn’t feel the same way about me. He’s got his Anti-Sorcery Brotherhood emblem around his arm, an amulet around his neck, and his knife in his fist.

  His pals are a long-haired bloke with a droopy mustache and a pickax handle; and this dark, overweight priest with a birthmark that looks like a tuft of hair growing in the middle of his forehead. He’s wearing a black cassock, dog collar and all, with a dozen crucifixes hung around his neck and both hands wrapped around a long pole with a heavy metal cross at the dangerous end.

  The Greek god is first into the room.

  “I’ll shoot!” says Marvo. But any fool can see she won’t.

  So it’s up to me and my secret weapon. I chuck the mouse at him.

  I’d love to pretend that this was all part of a clever plan, but actually it’s pure panic. I can’t think of anything better to do.

  The mouse lands on the Greek god’s shoulder and quacks, like a duck. His eyes nearly pop out of his head. “Get it off me!” he yells.

  The priest shoves the cross at the mouse. It quacks again and jumps onto the cross. As it scuttles down the shaft toward his hands, it’s the priest’s turn to panic. He’s waving the cross around, trying to shake the mouse loose.

  He gets the worst possible result. A split second before the cross hits the Greek god bang between the eyes, the mouse goes airborne again and crash-lands on Droopy.

  The Greek god is sitting on the floor, blinking and bleeding from a hole in his forehead. Droopy vanishes down the stairs, waving his arms and screaming, with the mouse clinging on for dear life.

  The priest takes a moment to assess the situation. Marvo’s hands are steady now as she turns the gun toward him.

  He smiles. “Come to God, my child. Destroy the evil one.”

  I think he means me.

  “The Lord is merciful—”

  “An’ you’re a birdbrain an’ you’re under arrest.”

  He’s still smiling. He mutters a couple of words under his breath. The room fills with black smoke and by the time I’ve got the skylight open and worked out how to breathe again, it’s just me and Marvo.

  Outside in the street there’s no sign of Alice; just the mouse, chasing around after its own tail on the front step. I scoop it up.

  “Damn it, Frank,” says Marvo. “How did you get to be such a prat?”

  “Hey, it was me who got us out of trouble.” When I open my hand, I can see my palm through the mouse. I blow. It quacks and vanishes, leaving a wet patch on my skin.

  “Ugh!” Marvo makes a face.

  I put my hand to her nose. Her eyes widen as she catches the smell of roses.

  “What’s with those guys, anyway?”

  “What it says on the tin. They’re a brotherhood and they don’t like sorcerers.”

  “So do they trail around after every sorcerer in town, or is it just you that gets up their nose?”

  “Must be my charm and charisma.”

  “Yeah, right. What about the priest?”

  “They’ve got a lot of support in the Church, but I’ve never seen a priest, you know, out in the front line.”

  “But he did magic . . .”

  “Baby stuff. Must’ve been a novice sorcerer before he was ordained—like the dead bloke in the palace.” I’m cold now, so I’m fighting my way back into my jerkin. “Quite a few of the ASB are dropouts from Saint Cyprian’s who want to get back at the Society for messing with their heads. Some of them can still do a bit of magic, but mostly they lurk around corners trying to look dangerous. They killed a sorcerer in London about two years ago.”

  “Can I join?”

  “Brotherhood: what does that tell you?”

  Marvo pulls out her scryer.

  “Don’t tell Caxton,” I say.

  “I have to tell her about Alice.”

  “You could just say she wasn’t there.”

  “Them idiots attacked a police officer in the execution of her duties.”

  “It was me they were after. Look, Caxton’s got enough against me already. I don’t want her thinking I’m a liability.”

  “Yeah, but you are.”

  “Then whatever.”

  So we’re back in the van and Marvo’s still thinking. Finally she raises her scryer. Touch. Blow . . .

  “No sign of Alice,” she says into the mirror. “Unless she’s at the palace, nobody knows where she could be.” She looks around at me. “Yes, he’s here.”

  I lean across. All I can see in the mirror is the reflection of Marvo’s face, but I know Caxton can see me. I grin and w
ave.

  Marvo pushes me away and listens. I can’t hear a thing, but finally she says, “So what’m I supposed to do now?” She nods. “OK. What time’s Ferdia doing the autopsy?” She catches my eye and whispers, “Ten.”

  “Am I invited?” I ask.

  But Marvo’s closing the scryer. “She says, piss off home and stay out of her way.” She frowns. “She really doesn’t like you, does she?”

  Chapter Seven

  The Boss

  It’s dark by the time we hit the outskirts of town. The driver’s mission is to get me back to the termite nest, preferably alive. He has a choice between the scenic route—through Summertown and over the Ferry Bridge—or the white-knuckle ride through the Hole.

  Either he feels he’s got something to prove or he’s been sniffing something stimulating, because five minutes later we’re in the heart of the Hole, banging through piles of rubble and the sawed-off stumps of street lamps. The van lurches dangerously as the wheels crash into a pothole. I grab Marvo’s arm to stop her from getting thrown off the seat. She pulls away, the van bounces over a pile of shattered masonry or something, and her elbow catches me right on the ear.

  “Hey!” I mutter.

  “Just stay out of the way!” She gives me a shove and my head hits the woodwork.

  We’re on smoother ground. Marvo shifts away along the seat and folds her arms, staring intently at the empty seat opposite.

  “This isn’t going to work,” I say. “Is it?”

  “What isn’t going to work?”

  “You and me.” I draw another pentagram on the window and gaze blankly past it, trying to pull up the image of the blonde girl at the palace. Kazia. I can see the haircut, but her face won’t come.

  “It’s not like we’re partners or anything,” Marvo says. “We’re just on the same case.”

  “I don’t need any help.”

  “I know, Frank. You don’t need anybody.”

  We’re passing a gang of kids, rooting in a pile of rubbish by the side of the street. One of them turns to stare back at me. He’s probably only eight or nine, but he’s got this thin, pinched face like an old man, with one cheek sunk in where he’s lost some teeth.

  The thought is racing across my mind that it’s only having the Gift that saved me from winding up like this kid, when he jumps up and comes chasing after us. As he catches up and scuttles alongside, he pulls off his cap and holds it out. I dig a few coins out of my pocket and I’ve just grabbed the strap to lower the window when the driver cracks his whip and the horses speed up.

  “Who the hell do you think you are anyway?” the kid screeches. He trips and goes sprawling.

  I turn to peer through the rear window. He’s grabbed a cobblestone and throws himself into the air to chuck it after us. I duck as it bangs off the woodwork.

  There’s a fire raging through the wooden shacks packed into the shell of one of the old colleges. People are screaming and throwing buckets of water around.

  I’m taking another crack at trying to remember what Kazia looked like when I notice Marvo looking at me funny.

  “She’s not really his niece,” she says. “The girl. She’s his daughter.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  She’s right, of course. There’s guys in the Church who’ve been going on for years about letting priests marry, but it hasn’t happened; meanwhile rather a lot of them seem to have orphaned nephews and nieces living with them. Draw your own conclusion.

  “Wouldn’t want you to make a mistake,” Marvo mutters. “That’s all.”

  We cross the Cherwell Bridge, out of the Hole, and the gaslights start working again. It’s Marvo’s turn to gaze out of the window, her right elbow on the sill, her cheek resting on her hand. Her face is round, but it comes to sharp points. From where I’m looking, the tip of her nose projects beyond her cheek like someone’s pinched it out of clay.

  Maybe it works for Ferdia. Not for me, though. My heart belongs to a dead bishop’s illegitimate daughter. If it’s the bishop that’s dead.

  Anyway, I’m still dreaming up ways to see Kazia again when Marvo says, “Are you an only child?”

  I nod. Why do I suddenly get the feeling that I’m being set up for something?

  “I had a kid brother. He died just over a year ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” I think that’s what I’m supposed to say.

  “He was run over by a Ghost.”

  “That’s impossible—”

  “Bastard didn’t even stop.”

  “Marvo, that can’t happen.”

  “It did, though. Sean died. There were witnesses an’ all—saw it drive right over him. But no investigation.”

  I’m not surprised there wasn’t. This makes no sense at all. A Ghost has a top speed of more than fifty miles an hour, but it’s driven by an elemental that’s incapable of harming a human being.

  “What do your parents think?” Unlike sorcerers, tatties aren’t actually whipped away from their families at a tender age.

  “My dad’s dead.” Then, before I can say I’m sorry again: “Cancer. From working in the paint shop at the Ghost factory.”

  OK, that I’m prepared to believe. They took us around the works out at Cowley when I was in my first year at Saint Cyprian’s, just to show us how Ghosts are made. I don’t remember any magic, just noise and thick fumes.

  “I just want to know what happened to Sean an’ I figured, coz you’re a sorcerer—”

  “Frank,” says a voice out of nowhere. Thanking my lucky stars, I drag my scryer out and open it to find myself looking into the pale eyes of a thin-faced, middle-aged man with tonsured gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard. My Master: Matthew Le Geyt.

  “Are you at home, Frank?”

  Home? Why would anyone call it that? “I’m on my way.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “No, I’m with Detective Constable Marvell.”

  I turn the scryer to point at Marvo. But she can’t see him, of course, and just waves it away.

  “How long will you be?” Matthew asks.

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll see you in half an hour.”

  The mirror mists over and a moment later I’m looking at my own reflection, wondering what’s going on. It’s not like Matthew never visits me, but there’s always more to it than just the pleasure of my company.

  I’m still wondering what I could’ve done wrong when the van jerks to a halt outside my luxury residence and Marvo asks, “Will you think about it?”

  “Think about what?”

  “Sean. You know, whose Ghost it was. Who got paid to stop the investigation. Whatever.”

  No way! None of this adds up. I assume Marvo did have a brother and he died; but that’s not how it happened.

  “Sure.”

  I climb down. I stand beside the van, waiting to see if anyone wants to take a run at me. All clear. I lean back to grab my case. The monastery door opens behind me.

  “Where’ve you been, anyway?” Brother Andrew’s got this wheedling voice, like wet fingers on a windowpane.

  “Visiting the Bishop of Oxford.”

  “That shit!”

  “That dead shit now,” says Marvo, from inside the van. “What did he ever do to you, anyway?”

  “He’s a schismatic.” I doubt if Andrew even knows what the word means. He chuckles, like loose teeth rattling in a skull.

  “That a reason to cut his head off?”

  Andrew’s eyes widen. “Murder’s wrong.” He’s read his Bible and actually remembered one of the important bits. “But it was a divine punishment.”

  “Tell Caxton. God dunnit.” I’m about to close the van door on Marvo when she says:

  “Look, I know I got you into a lot of trouble—reporting you for that stunt with the eye an’ all that. But it was your own fault.”

  “No problem.” Actually I’m due up in front of a Society board of discipline next week.

 
; She bangs on the roof and the driver flicks the reins. As the horses pull away, she leans out of the window and yells, “I like Marvo.”

  At least my door’s pleased to see me. Safely inside, I park my case on the bench and check my magic watch. I’ve got ten minutes at most.

  The first thing to do is to get rid of all the code on the blackboard. I turn on all my lamps and move them up close. I step back and just stand there, staring and scanning, while I count down from three hundred to zero. Then I rub it all out, praying that Matthew doesn’t stay so long that I forget it.

  I’m still dithering over how much of the cat I can salvage, when I hear a voice through the hole in the wall.

  “Frank.”

  I tell the door to open and the Boss steps in.

  He’s tall—well over six foot. When I was still his student, I used to think that if his beard was longer, that’s what God would look like. He takes off this expensive-looking gray coat and he’s wearing this even more expensive-looking suit underneath it. He’s about to drape the coat over the back of a chair when he hesitates, runs one finger along the wood, and peers distastefully at a smear of chalk dust. He sniffs the air suspiciously and looks around.

  “My God, this place is a mess!”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “So I see.” He doesn’t sound angry, just amused in a despairing sort of way. He’s at the bench, with the coat over his arm, staring down at the cat. Interesting detail: he’s middle-aged, like I said, but he doesn’t need glasses. “Sometimes,” he says, “I’m relieved that I don’t have to deal with this sort of business anymore.”

  Me, I’d rather get my hands dirty. I dread going post-peak.

  Matthew sighs. “I never understood how you could be so disorganized, Frank, yet such a brilliant sorcerer.” He’s staring at the blackboard now. “Did you just clean that?” He smiles. “Something you didn’t want me to see?”

  “Only because it’s rubbish.”

  “None of your work has ever been rubbish. Ill-advised, maybe, but never rubbish. Anyway, the reason I’m here . . . I was supposed to be having dinner with Henry Wallace this evening.” He crosses himself: his piety always comes as a bit of a surprise to me. “I can’t be bothered requesting a formal briefing from the police and since I knew you had been called in . . .”