Back down in the summoning room, it’s just me and the echo. Mr. Memory has disappeared.
I take all the gear through to the alcove and drink three glasses of water. Then I sweep up the broken glass and mop up the pool of vomit. I wash all the chalk lines away.
While I clean and re-purify the instruments, I think about Albert Einstein, another of those sorcerers who just didn’t know when to stop. He was twenty-five, way past peak, when he made his last attempt to summon up Lucifer, in 1904. Judging by the mess they found afterward, he succeeded. But as well as a pile of ashes, he left behind his three laws of contiguity . . .
One: contiguity fades over time to the point of undetectability, but never absolutely disappears.
Two: it cannot be destroyed by magical means.
Three: it cannot be magically induced between two remote objects.
Anyway, I’m starving. And I still can’t figure it out: Cimerez was supposed to prove that I was right and that I could still hack it. The summoning was perfectly OK, and I was able to control him, even when Marvo nearly came unstuck. But the answer I got makes no sense whatsoever.
I kind of wish I had no head—or I could get a new one. This one hurts.
Upstairs again, I step out of the lift to find a couple of the dieners washing a new arrival. One of them glances at me, then turns and whispers something to his mate. Before I can get into a fight with them, I hear Caxton’s voice. I dig out my scryer. She wants to see me over at the jack shack.
Hell, that was fast.
I get over there, feeling increasingly ill, and find myself in a line outside Caxton’s office. Ferdia greets me with the air of a man who knows more than I do. Marvo’s there too.
“I thought you were going home.”
“I did,” she says. “I got a call.”
I reckon she’s lying, but before I can pin her down there’s a yell from Caxton’s office: “Are you just going to sit around out there all morning?”
We troop in. Mr. Memory is parked in the corner, looking surprisingly alert. And Caxton has found a new friend to play with: a sad-looking guy in a grubby raincoat, turning his hat nervously in his hands.
“Who are you?” Marvo says, sitting down in the chair next to him.
“Buzz off.”
Definitely Charlie’s work. This must be one end of a search elemental; his twin’s out there somewhere—
Marvo’s got there. “You’re looking for Alice Constant, right?”
“I said, buzz off!”
Marvo blinks. “You’re wasting your time.” Suddenly tears are rolling down her cheeks. She turns to Caxton. “She’s dead.”
“Someone tell me,” Caxton sighs. “What’s the difference between an insight and a wild guess?”
“I just know, that’s all.” Marvo wipes her sleeve across her face and turns to me. “Frank, d’you remember when we were at her place—”
I mouth, “Shut up!” Luckily, Caxton’s distracted, holding her glasses up to the window and blinking at them suspiciously.
Marvo hisses, “Yeah, but why did she run out of the room, into trouble? What was she so scared of?”
I kick her foot. While she’s still glaring at me, Caxton’s glasses go on and the notebook comes out.
“You’re the smart aleck, Frank.” I hate it when she calls me by my first name; it always means trouble. “Maybe you can explain something.” She finds her page and peers at it. “It seems you were at the mortuary this morning—”
And right on cue the door opens and Matthew walks in.
There’s a split second where I’m tempted to make a run for it, but the room is crawling with people and elementals. I drop my case on the floor and fall into a chair.
Matthew’s voice is weary. “So, Frank. What is it this time?”
Everyone is looking at me, except Marvo. She’s just staring at the floor.
Ten minutes later, she still hasn’t looked at me. I’ve told them all about Cimerez. Caxton has printed “SIMAREZ” in her notebook, and “HAS NO HEAD,” which she promptly crosses out.
“So you summoned a demon without authorization.” She turns to Matthew. “Is that right? He didn’t inform the Society.”
“I didn’t have time,” I mumble.
“And as if that wasn’t bad enough, you didn’t even get an intelligent answer.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” I say.
Caxton snorts. “You’re stupid and incompetent. You’ve turned this entire investigation into a farce.”
Normally I’d feel obliged to point out that all her investigations are a farce. But she’s still rolling. She nods in Ferdia’s direction. “I’ve got enough problems with him. The last thing I need is a second post-peaker on my team.” She turns to Matthew. “I’ll be putting in a formal request for a new sorcerer.”
I have to mumble to conceal the fact that my voice is shaking. “You can’t ignore the result of the summoning.”
“Even when it’s an unauthorized summoning and it doesn’t make sense?”
I turn to Matthew. “Magical logic trumps all other forms of logic. You taught me that.”
“I know I did, but . . .”
I can see how disappointed he is. The miracle is that he’s not even more narked off.
“Frank, you have to explore other avenues. You can’t simply say, ‘It’s magic!’ just because things don’t come out the way you want them to.” He smiles sadly. “And maybe you do have to consider the possibility . . . well, that some of us have the Gift taken away sooner than others.”
My heart goes cold.
Marvo is still fascinated by the floor. I owe her for sticking with me through that business with Cimerez, especially since it nearly got her fried. I thought we’d progressed to her not minding me, but I guess I’ve freaked her more than I realized. Enough for her to rat on me . . .
Well, someone informed on me to Caxton . . .
Here’s a question, maybe you can answer: what’s the point of being a sorcerer if you can’t undo stuff—make it like it never happened?
“Do you want me to do it again?” I ask.
“Are you out of your mind?” Caxton splutters. She turns to Matthew. “I assume the Society will deal with him.”
The Society has several ways of getting at a rogue sorcerer. They can beat you up; they can suspend or revoke your license . . .
Or they can set you on fire. But there’s no way that’s going to happen.
Look, I realize there’s something wrong with me. My mum always used to say, “Your trouble is, you’ve got no sense of responsibility.”
Magic does cause and effect. You make the right smells and say the right words and tontus-talontus!—the right stuff happens. In the circle, that works for me; but outside in the real world . . .
Hell, what’s so real about it anyway? Sometimes it just feels like a dream, like I’m stuck out in the middle of nowhere with this vast army of demons all headed in my direction.
I pick up my case. Matthew nods. “I’ll talk to you later, Frank.”
Marvell still hasn’t had the guts to look at me.
It’s quiet in the corridor. Just the sound of my own footsteps.
When I was a kid—before they realized I was Gifted and took me away from my parents—sometimes when my dad was sober he used to stick me on the back of his bike and take me up to the Downs. We’d climb a hill and follow this track until we came to a small wood. Among the trees there were these two lines of standing stones leading up to a sort of tunnel into the earth where my dad said a great sorcerer lived long, long ago. That was the first thing I remember hearing about magic.
Anyway, in the summer we’d go around the back of the wood and pick cowslips, for Dad to take home and make wine.
That’s why I’ve always done that stuff with the colored smoke. Yellow like the cowslips, blue like the sky . . . green like the grass, if the spell works.
My dad always told me I’d never amount to anything—never have any friends.
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So here’s a touching scene. I’m back in my studio. I’ve put all my gear away and there’s stuff I ought to be doing, like checking the code on the blackboard in case I misremembered any of it, or looking for another dead cat to dismantle . . .
Instead I’m sitting at my bench. I know I try to make out that stuff just bounces off me, but of course it doesn’t. It sticks into me, like the tip of the knife I’ve got pressed into my inner arm, making this indentation in my skin . . .
Self-harming: one of the useful skills they taught me at Saint Cyprian’s.
I overreact, OK? What Marvo said about me, that I don’t need anybody . . . that’s not exactly right. Truth is, I’m kind of scared of people.
Ever since I was six I’ve lived and breathed magic. I realize that if you’re not a sorcerer it looks like it’s all weird stuff flying in and out of nowhere; but if you’re in control you know what’s going to happen. You get the words out of the books. Maybe you tweak them a bit, but when you say them—if you say them right, with all the right smells and other stuff—you get pretty much what you expect.
You say to a Presence, “I command thee by order of the great God, Adonai, Tetragrammaton . . .” and all the rest. And it does what it’s supposed to. People—you say words to them, they hear something different.
Caxton, the Society . . . it’s “Do this, Frank,” “Do that, Frank,” but it’s never clear what they mean and when it doesn’t work out the way they want, then it’s all my fault.
There’s a bead of blood oozing out through my skin. I press harder—I like the pain; it feels more real than anything else that’s going on in my life. I twist the tip of the knife.
The thing about doing this is, it’s all mine: nobody else can mess about with it. While it lasts, all the crap rushes away, out of my body. I’m not thinking about anything or anybody. No worries. No pain inside, because it’s all there, on my skin where the tip of the knife is pushing harder and harder. It’s great to have it, that tiny spot that I’m staring at, where there’s this bead of blood and nothing else. A bead of blood that wells up, runs down my arm, and drips onto the bench top.
There’s a noise behind me.
I look around. It’s like the inside surface of my door has turned into a sheet of brown cloth and there’s a wolf trapped behind it, chewing and scratching at it, trying to get out. The creature’s teeth and claws scrabble desperately. It’s making these pathetic whimpering noises.
I put down the knife. After a minute the door is still.
There’s a trick to self-harming: know how to take care of yourself afterward. The knife is cleaner than a soul in heaven. A couple of passes and a few words, and it’s like the incision in my arm was never there.
It’s just an elemental, my door. OK, it’s a bit bonkers, but it’s right: there’s no point in poking holes in myself. It doesn’t even make me feel better, just like I’m a bit of a fraud because it’s so easy to fix the damage.
I can do depression, no bother. I can walk off the case—OK, Caxton’s pretty much ordered me off, but you know what I mean. In the end, though, either I’m still the best sorcerer in Doughnut City, or I’m nothing, in which case I need to do something far more drastic than just leave a few bloodstains on the benchtop.
Remember what I told Cimerez? “I compel thee.” He can’t lie: the rules say so. But he can twist things a little. What he said—that the body had no head—there has to be some way that’s true.
Is there a hole in Einstein’s Laws? Like I said, there were three of them originally. But ten years after his death, this clever bloke called William Morris knocked a hole in the third law—that contiguity cannot be magically induced between two remote objects—by inventing the Ghost. That left two laws.
Contiguity fades over time but never absolutely disappears.
It can’t be destroyed by magical means.
Hours later I’ve read through all my books on contiguity and I’m none the wiser.
I know I’m right: I’m just not sure what I’m right about. One thing’s for sure, smells and spells won’t get me out of this one, so it’s back to the simple question: on the night of the murder . . . who saw what?
Akinbiyi. Well, I doubt if he’ll talk to me and I don’t trust him anyway.
But Kazia . . . what can she tell me about what was going on in the palace?
Chapter Seventeen
First Date
By the time I’ve talked my way past the knock-kneed old geezer at the lodge, the sun is going down. So I’m standing on the steps of the Bishop’s Palace, trying not to shiver.
Obviously I’m wearing my leather jerkin; it’s the nearest thing I’ve got to a coat. And a new woolen hat because people stare at the top of my head if I don’t wear one. I’ve polished my boots and found a pair of gray trousers and a white shirt that’s been ironed within living memory. I’m cold, but smart.
Once a year, my mother remembers that I still exist and sends me a birthday present. As a mother, she seems to feel that she should express her love through an item of clothing. And since she has only a vague idea what size I am, that item of clothing is always a tie. I am the proud owner of eight ties. All blue. In an attempt to make the best possible impression this evening, I’m wearing the bluest.
I ring the bell. The front door opens. The red-haired housekeeper takes one look at me, whips out an amulet, and waves it in my face.
Ten seconds later we’re both amazed to see that I haven’t vanished in a puff of smoke.
I smile politely. “Can Kazimíera come out to play?”
The door slams in my face.
I guess we’ll have to do it the hard way, then. I chalk symbols on the walls on each side of the door. The pockets of my coat aren’t big enough for a brazier, so I pull out a paper cone, a couple of inches tall, and put it on the top step.
I make a shape with my fingers. “Melchidael, Baresches, Zazel, Firiel.” I light the blue touchpaper and jump back. The firework emits a fountain of sparks and a cloud of red smoke that smells of roses, cinnamon, and rosemary. Then it goes off with a bang.
There’s the sound of screaming from inside. I step up and touch the door. It swings back enthusiastically. I’m crap with people, but doors seem to like me.
The housekeeper’s in the middle of the entrance hall, dancing like a dervish, beating frantically at her clothes with her hands and screaming, “Get them off me! Get them off me!”
Her son tries to get her in a sort of bear hug, but she gives him a whack, bang on the nose. He staggers back, streaming blood. Akinbiyi charges in, but his legs turn to rubber and he has to grab the back of a chair.
Only one person is immune: Kazia is halfway down the stairs, staring at me. I beckon frantically.
There’s no magic to help me now. It’s up to her. Can she resist my natural charm? She’s just standing there, her knuckles white where she’s clutching the banister like she’s glued to it. I beckon again.
She runs down the steps, ducks around the housekeeper, and grabs a brown coat.
“Kazimíera!”
Damn! Akinbiyi’s got her by the arm. But she pulls free and darts past me, through the open door and down the stone steps to the pavement. Akinbiyi tries to stumble after her, but goes flat on his face. The door slams shut, nearly knocking me down the steps after her.
She’s already running off toward the lodge. As I catch up with her, out on the street, she stoops to tie her shoelaces. Her hair is cut incredibly short and I can see her scalp through it. I’m itching to find out how it feels and I’m dangerously close to running the palm of my hand over her head when she turns to look up at me . . .
The coat she grabbed, it’s a man’s; it’s swimming on her and falls in folds onto the cobblestones. I mean, it looks great on her, but when I pictured this, on the way over, for some reason I imagined a red wool coat like Marvo’s.
“I don’t want to talk about my uncle,” Kazia says, standing up and rolling back the sleeves of her coat.
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Amazingly, I’ve got enough money for the tickets and although I’ve never been to the cinema before, I manage to find my way inside without making a complete fool of myself.
It’s this barn of a place, lit by gas, with murals along the sides showing Montgolfiers sailing serenely across blue skies stained brown by leaking rainwater. We’ve got seats down the front, near the scryer, and while we wait for the show to start we can see ourselves reflected in the glass. An attractive couple, if you can ignore my woolly hat. I pull it off and stuff it in my pocket. My heart sinks as I catch Kazia staring at my clean-shaven head.
She looks away quickly. Now what do I say?
I remember a couple of weeks after they first tossed me in through the front door of the termite nest, all shiny and new, one of the old monks took me aside and put me straight about chatting up girls. Basically, he said, make it sound like you’re interested in them. There were two things I didn’t get: how he knew, and why you’d want to talk to girls if you weren’t interested in them in the first place. He confused me even more by telling me that they were snares of the devil and if I had anything to do with them I’d burn in hell for all eternity, next to Judas Iscariot and Attila the Hun.
Kazia watches me chalk a pentagram on the wooden back of the seat in front of me. The chat-up line I’d planned was, “OK, so tell me about your uncle.” Yeah, I know: not very romantic, but straightforward and to the point. If she doesn’t want to talk about him, I’m stuck.
I say, “So have you been to the cinema before?”
“Not much.”
“Did your uncle disapprove?” Clever, eh?
“I told you, I don’t want to talk about him.”
Not clever enough. And I’m still wondering what to try next when she says, “How long have you worked for the police?”
“The jacks? About a year.”
And now that it’s her asking me questions, it seems to go easier. Of course I have to be careful: I don’t want to tell her how I pissed everyone at Saint Cyprian’s off so much, they gave me a crap degree and lumbered me with the job at the mortuary.
Which doesn’t pay, by the way. Like I said, I’m basically the Society’s property on loan to the jacks.
A Dangerous Magic Page 16