Marvo’s nodding, but Ferdia ignores her. “That’s a sign how intense the contiguity was,” he says.
“That’s a sign that you’d presupposed the result. That wasn’t a valid test. You just got what you expected to find.”
“What’s wrong with you, Sampson?” says Caxton. “Why can’t you admit you messed up?”
“Because I didn’t.” I hope I sound confident, but what I’m actually thinking is: I can’t have got it wrong, can I?
Marvo must realize I’m about to get up and walk out. Her hand is on my arm.
“No,” she whispers.
But I’ve lost this battle; now it’s just a question of what sort of exit I make. I can go gracefully. I can crawl out with my tail between my legs. I can slam out in a shower of sparks and a cloud of green smoke.
No contest really. I’ve got my case. The door’s open. I’m in the corridor . . .
Caxton’s voice: “I’m not finished with you yet.”
I’m trembling like a leaf. “Well, I’m finished with you.” With an effort I bring my voice down an octave. Can’t keep it steady though. “Solve your own stupid murder.”
So far, not so bad. I’m almost at the stairs and I’m thinking I’ve made it. I can stop pushing my luck and get out of here, and we can all calm down.
But then I have to go and be an arsehole. “Fat cow!” I mutter.
Caxton’s paw’s on my shoulder. My head slams into the wall. I think she kicks my legs out from under me.
You want to know what this is all about? OK, I wind her up, but what it’s really about is the fact that she’s gone Blurry and even with lenses so thick you could use them as paperweights, she’s helpless without Marvo to make out anything less than a mile away. It’s about the fact that if it really comes down to it, she’s the one who’s dispensable.
But mainly it’s about what I told Marvo: Caxton’s scared of sorcery. And of me.
She’s got me on the floor, where she wants me; but she isn’t quite sure what to do with me. She’s afraid to hurt me, so she decides to take it out on my case.
She stoops and grabs it and fumbles with the catch, but she can’t get it open. That makes her even angrier, because she knows she’s starting to look like a fool. She bangs it on the floor.
My case really doesn’t like anybody touching it, except me. The catches click. It opens wide. I don’t know what it shows Caxton, but her eyes light up and she makes a grab for something inside, and the lid slams shut on her hand.
“Get it off me!”
“Say you’re sorry.”
“Come on, Frank.” Ferdia wants to help Caxton—bloody arse-licker!—but he can’t get near because she’s hopping around trying to shake her hand free.
“Not me—the case. Tell it you’re sorry. There’s a spell on it—an elemental. It won’t let go till it thinks you’re sorry.”
I can see Marvo struggling to keep a straight face. Caxton falls back against the wall, locks the case between her feet, and tries to pull her hand free, but the case is having none of it. Obviously she’s damaging stuff inside, but it’s worth it.
“Stop fighting it,” I tell her.
And fair play to her, she does. Nobody moves. Ferdia and Marvo are just standing there with their mouths open. Mr. Memory watches with his usual bland smile.
The case relaxes. We all take a deep breath.
“Now will you get it off?” Caxton’s red in the face, sweat pouring down her forehead.
“I can’t.” I’m lying, obviously. I could talk the case out of it if I wanted, but Caxton can’t be sure of that. “It’s between you and the case. Say you’re sorry.”
“Damn it, I’m sorry.”
“Politely.”
“I’m sorry.”
To my relief, the case lets go. Caxton stumbles away. There’s blood on her wrist and she’s as pale as a ghost. Ferdia picks up her glasses from the floor. She snatches them from him and digs for her handkerchief.
The case closes. “Good boy.” I pick it up. “I’ll invoice the department for any damage.”
And I sweep out, leaving Caxton to crawl back and polish her goggles.
Chapter Thirteen
Dee’s Last Incantation
Marvo’s chasing after me. “That was stupid, Frank!”
“I don’t make mistakes.” I stop to wait for her. “Not with magic.”
“So what are you saying? Is Wallace’s body still rattlin’ around out there somewhere? There’d have to be a loose head, too—”
“Maybe he had a twin brother.”
“He was an only child.”
“I’m just pointing out, there’s other possibilities besides me being wrong. Maybe it’s a double. Maybe he’d had a head transplant.”
“Is that possible?”
“Christ, no. Maybe he was a man so tortured by self-loathing—”
“All right, I get the picture.”
“No you don’t. Damn! Why did I do that stupid test in the first place?”
“Yeah, Frank, why did you? If you’d done what Caxton told you—”
“Arsehole!” I mean me. I ought to shut up, but I can’t let go of it. “Have you got any idea what it’s like having to deal with idiots like Caxton?”
“How d’you think I feel? At least you’ve got the Society to look after you.”
“On my back, you mean. Thanks to you.”
“It was your own bloody fault. An’ if you’d just stop being such a prat—”
“I could lose my license.”
“What does that mean?”
“That I’m not allowed to do magic.”
“Well, so what? Is it the end of the world? I mean, at least you can still see!”
Fair point. I take a couple of deep slow breaths. My heart stops racing. “How are your eyes?” I ask.
“Good. I had my checkup the other week and they’re fine.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
“It’s not funny, Frank. I don’t just lose the ability to do stupid stuff with twigs—I go stone blind!”
“But that’s years.”
“Ten years. Max.”
“And it’s not like they don’t pay you well, so you can afford a guide.” Even while I’m saying it, I know that’s a crap thing to say. I mumble, “I’m sorry.”
“Never even thought about it, have you? It’s all poor little Frank, going post-peak.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Fix it.”
I just stand there blinking like an idiot. I know what she’s asking, but I just don’t know what to say.
“Come on, you’re the boy genius. Can you help me?”
Actually I can, but I’m not allowed to. I can’t even tell Marvo that it could be done.
“I’m sorry.”
“You keep saying that.”
I manage not to say it again. “OK,” I mutter at last. “I’ll try not to get up Caxton’s nose.”
“Well, that makes me feel a whole lot better.” Marvo sighs. “Look, forget it.” She takes my wrist and turns it so that she can see my watch. “You must be starving.”
We’re out the back of the building, in the courtyard where all the bodies come in and out. And yes, my gut’s screaming at me for food.
I don’t know what to say about Marvo. What we’ve got here is a world where kids do all the seeing. It wasn’t always like that. I mean, it stands to reason, things must’ve been different once upon a time, otherwise the world wouldn’t be so impossible for grown-ups to deal with when they go Blurry: we’d have organized things so they could get by, even half blind. Instead we’ve got this situation where people need to read and do stuff . . . and most of them can’t.
Who dreamed up this stupid mess?
There are several versions knocking about. One story says it goes right back to ancient Greece when some idiot let a whole bunch of demons loose. The ASB doesn’t buy that; they insist everyone could see perfectly fine up until about 1550
. . . not long after the Society of Sorcerers was founded. They say it was a conspiracy: a way for the Society to get control of everything.
I don’t know.
There’s another thing, though. Like I say, there’s nothing I can do to help Marvo, but ever since those two columns of smoke merged into each other inside Ferdia’s circle I’ve realized there’s something I can do to settle this business about the contiguity once and for all. It’s not a good idea. In fact it’s dead stupid, and even thinking about it brings me out in a cold sweat.
“Frank, you OK?”
What I ought to do, of course, is apologize to Caxton and say I made a mistake—a bit of arse-licking and everybody’s friends again. But it’d still be hanging over me: the fear that it’s happened once and it can happen again.
I mean, we all know Ferdia’s post-peak. But what about me?
Either I can work magic, or I can’t. And this plan that I’ve dreamed up, it’ll sort out who’s right—me or him. Or it could just get me killed . . . which is kind of a neat way out.
Marvo’s still staring at me. “So do you want to get something to eat?”
I shake my head. This bright idea, if I decide to go through with it . . . and if I had any sense I wouldn’t go through with it . . . well, one way to guarantee that I’ll wind up splattered across the floor in tiny charred pieces is to have anything to eat in the next twenty-four hours.
I’m standing there, feeling very cold inside and wondering if there’s any way I can explain to Marvo without sounding rude or giving the game away . . . when I see a let-out. He’s about my height and looks dead smart in a peaked cap, black belted jacket, and jodhpurs with shiny boots. He’s Matthew’s driver.
“The Superior General would like to know if he can offer you a lift.”
“What about—”
“I have no further instructions.”
I turn to Marvo. “I’m sorry.” I point toward the silver Ghost parked across the courtyard.
“Frank . . .”
I realize she can’t look at a Ghost without thinking about her brother and I feel bad, but I say, “Matthew’s my Master. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Whatever.” She glances at the driver and whispers, “How come he don’t need specs, your boss?”
“The Superior General is waiting,” says the driver.
As I follow him, I turn back to Marvo and waggle my fingers. Her eyes widen.
“Magic?”
I nod.
“Frank, if they fixed his eyes—”
I jump into the Ghost before I have to say no again.
Listen, the rich have got it made. There’s four white calfskin armchairs in the back of the Ghost. As I put my case on the floor and lean back, there’s a faint perfume—musky, like soft hands around my thoughts—and gentle music playing . . .
“I won’t pretend I was just passing,” says Matthew, with a smile. “I was worried about you.”
“Why?”
“The disciplinary hearing . . .”
“Oh, that.”
“Friday afternoon at three. And it’s not a joke, Frank. Most of the board want your license suspended or revoked entirely.”
“That’s not going to happen, though.”
“Ignacio Gresh wants the death penalty.”
Crunch. My thoughts go flying around. I see flames and smoke and a screaming face, the skin blistering and peeling.
I see a man in a black suit, silhouetted against the fire. I see Ignacio Gresh.
He’s the Society’s Grand Inquisitor. Yes, we have our own Inquisition: thirteen former sorcerers, each with a bigger chip on his shoulder than the next. Anyway, there’s nothing grand about him; he’s a complete knob and he’s never liked me.
I shake my head violently. Gresh and the fire vanish. I’m still safe in Matthew’s Ghost. His hand is on my arm.
“Are you all right?”
“Will you be there?” I manage to whisper.
“Of course I will.” He takes his hand away. “But it wouldn’t hurt your case if this investigation was successfully concluded.”
The ride around the scenic route, over Ferry Bridge, is utterly smooth. Not a tremor of vibration. I know Matthew is watching me closely.
“I’m sorry, Frank. I just need you to understand how serious this is.”
I manage to nod. Death? Can’t happen.
Finally he says, “So can you explain the discrepancy between your result and Ferdia’s?”
“Who told you?”
He just smiles.
“Ferdia’s post-peak,” I say. “He expected a certain result. He got it.”
He sits in silence for a while. Finally: “There’s no question about the head. And it’s the only body you’ve got . . .”
“The wounds on the body,” I say. “The knife he was stabbed with . . . narrow blade, triangular cross-section, probably about four or five inches long. Then he could have been beheaded with a sword.”
“I’m not quite with you, Frank.”
“I’ve got a knife that could’ve done the job. And a sword . . .”
He smiles. “Are you confessing?”
The driver has always known that we were going to the termite nest. The Ghost doesn’t exactly stop. There’s no sense of braking. It simply ceases to move.
Do you have any idea what a Ghost costs? More than Caxton could earn in a lifetime, that’s how much. The coachwork, the fittings—it’s all the best money can buy. But that’s just a drop in the ocean compared with the price of the driver.
He’s an elemental. An elemental with the Knowledge of every road in the country. An elemental who can create a contiguity between the Ghost and wherever the owner wants to go, and can get there without driving over small boys. An elemental who takes a lot of skilled, highly-paid work to build and maintain. Charlie missed a trick there.
I know what you’re thinking: a Ghost is magically powered anyway, so why bother with a separate driver? Why not build the ability to navigate into the structure of the vehicle? Well, it could be done, in theory at least. But someone has to open the doors.
“Thank you,” I say to the driver as I step out. He doesn’t care, but I do.
A solitary protester pushes himself off the wall and holds up a placard: “Go to hell!”
Matthew is beside me. “I’ll walk you in.”
I’d rather he didn’t. Dee’s last incantation is up on my blackboard, itching to get me into trouble.
“It’s still a mess,” I say.
But he takes my arm and walks straight at the protester, who jumps aside.
The monastery door opens. It’s my favorite termite, Brother Thomas.
“Where’ve you been?” he grumbles. “You were supposed to—”
Matthew may be thirty years post-peak, but it’s like he just walks through him. The door closes.
Sometimes, when all the termites have stopped howling in the chapel and retired to their lairs, this place really is the oasis of tranquillity it’s supposed to be. The sun has almost disappeared behind the roof and its last light is shining across the cloister, casting a tiny, perfect rainbow through the fountain. A goldfinch speeds past in a flutter of yellow and red.
There’s only one blot on the landscape: Brother Thomas, glowering suspiciously at us as he finishes locking the main door. Finally he gives up and scuttles back into the lodge.
Matthew smiles. “You’re saying it could have been a sorcerer who killed Henry.”
“I’m just speculating about the weapons.”
“Have you mentioned this to DCI Caxton?”
“No.”
“I appreciate you talking to me first.” He gestures me to lead the way.
“But she must be aware there’s a problem with the security elemental in the palace grounds,” I say.
“Does she still think they brought the body in through the gate by the river?”
“There’s not a drop of blood anywhere in the palace or the cathedral.”
; “Did anybody talk to the elemental’s operator?”
“Nothing. They had to put it down. But Caxton knows Wallace was at Saint Cyprian’s . . .”
Matthew nods. “If there were a sorcerer implicated in the crime, the Society wouldn’t protect him. But maybe you should be . . . economical with any ideas you pass on to the police, at least until it becomes necessary.”
We’re in the passage leading to the garden. Matthew chuckles: “Henry struggled with sorcery. He could achieve the basic magical effects, but he didn’t really believe in them—he seemed to regard them as some form of self-hypnosis or mass hysteria. In the end it was demonology that did it for him. It was rather amusing, actually. The Master Thaumaturge performed a demonstration ritual to call up . . . oh, some minor demon or other . . .”
There are three Institutes of Sorcery in western Europe: Saint Cyprian’s outside Doughnut City, Saint Martin’s at Würzburg in Germany, and Saint Eugenio’s at Salamanca in Spain. Most novices start at the age of seven. I was six when I went to Saint Cyprian’s. The course lasts seven years, if you’re lucky. There’s a lot to learn.
At the end of your first year you attend your first demonstration summoning. It’s impressive. Look, I’ll come clean for once: it’s scary—literally as scary as hell.
“Henry simply denied having seen anything. The supervisor accused him of falling asleep, but Henry described the ritual in exact detail, right up to the point of manifestation. Except that he insisted that nothing had manifested. Of course there was a huge row. Henry didn’t say much, but he managed to imply that the ritual had simply induced a mass hallucination to which only he was immune. Several of the novices bought it. One tried to commit suicide. Obviously Henry was kicked out. There was some talk of hauling him in front of the Inquisition. This is all in confidence, by the way.”
I nod. “Yes.”
“I lost touch with him for several years. I worked for the intelligence services, as you know. Then a couple of years after I came here as Superior General of the Society, he was appointed Bishop . . .”
We’re in my corridor. My door barks. Matthew smiles. “May I try?”
There’s nothing I can do to stop him. And if I’m honest I have to admit that I’m curious to see what happens. He stops dead, a couple of feet from the door. He closes his eyes. After a couple of seconds there’s a disturbance across the surface of the door. For a split second the wood liquefies to form the head of a wolf . . .
A Dangerous Magic Page 13