by Barbara Howe
How badly had I misjudged Jean? I had discovered about him…
What exactly had I discovered? That the Water Guild had spread a vicious rumour? Given the rancorous history between the two guilds, was that surprising? Why should I believe it?
I wouldn’t believe it. I knew him better than they did.
He certainly knew me. Only a few days earlier I had acknowledged that if he had to force me to do something, he would order me not to.
As he had warned me away from Lord Edmund’s life.
I raised my head, pulse quickening. By uncovering the secret on my own, with my locks in place, I was not part of the conspiracy. If he had answered my questions, the magic of the conspiracy would have trapped me, as it had trapped him.
I lit the desk lamp, and with a sense more of satisfaction than surprise, discovered the textbook on conspiracy magic lying in front of me. “Bless you, Jean,” I whispered. “Sleep well. I love you.”
I wiped my eyes, and opened Engines of Lies to the bookmarked page.
Cold Water
Dawn comes early in July. The darkness began to lift as I read at Jean’s desk. The Fortress, a featureless grey wall in the growing light, dominated the view.
How tight was this conspiracy’s hold on the Fire Guild? What would it take to break it, burn it, or cut through it?
I carried the book to the window and flipped to the spell I had read months earlier but had no use for then—a spell for making a conspiracy visible to the mind’s eye: gossamer strands between members, gears, pulleys, and other couplings linking the strands, spinnerets extruding new lies. I cast the spell, and dropped the book.
The book hit my foot, but I didn’t even swear. I leaned on the windowsill and rubbed my toe, unable to tear my eyes from the hideous tangle of wires and pulleys encasing the Fortress. No gossamer strands, these. Each connection was a cable thicker than Beorn’s biceps.
I had delusions I could flick my fingers at that horror and it would disappear? I picked up the book and backed away from the window, trembling.
If the fifty-seventh Fire Warlock created that monstrosity, maybe the worst of it was here. I clutched at that mustard-seed of hope and walked through the fire to the bank of the Thames. I cast the spell again, and recoiled. The cables lay as thick here as on the Fortress. Strands of wire, thin in some spots, thick in others, spread out over London as far as I could see.
A park on a hill overlooking Gastòn provided a third vantage point. Again, cords entangled the whole city. I sank onto the dewy grass and wept.
My knowledge that the Water Office was broken had been intellectual, not emotional. Now I understood, with both heart and gut, why the Frost Maiden was willing to forfeit her own life to fix this cancer eating at Frankland from the inside. I could not abide this horror either. I had to act.
Despite the rising heat of a July morning, I shook from cold. If a conspiracy of this magnitude recognised me as a threat, and moved to silence me, I would stand no chance. Alone, I could do nothing, and had no one to ask for help. The older, wiser, and more powerful witches and wizards—Jean, Beorn, the Frost Maiden, even Mother Celeste—had known about this conspiracy for decades. They had not unravelled it. Had the men even tried?
With no conscious volition, I called up the fire, and stepped onto the causeway a hundred yards from the Crystal Palace. The glittering towers held no terror for me today.
The guards recovered in time to salute, and let me pass through unchallenged. Aside from the staff in the kitchen preparing breakfast, few were awake. I stood in the entrance to the Great Hall, waiting. The delay did not upset me, as I did not know what I would say, or even why I was there, except that I must see the Frost Maiden. I seized that thought and held on to it.
A groggy teenage water witch staggered into sight. I stepped in her way. “Excuse me…”
She shrieked and flattened against the wall.
I said, “I’m sorry. I must see Sorceress Lorraine as soon as it’s convenient for her. Could you please…”
She jerked her head back and forth, sidled along the wall into a passageway, and bolted. An older, less volatile witch led me to the Frost Maiden’s study, glancing over her shoulder every few feet.
A mirror in the corridor stunned me; I slouched and shuffled, my eyes were bloodshot with bags under them, and my face was blotchy from crying. I looked truculent and forty years old. No wonder the first witch had shrieked.
The Frost Maiden, alert and well rested, glided into the study a few minutes later, clad in a silk wrapper. With her blonde hair in braids over her shoulders, she looked seventeen.
She took in my appearance and started towards me with an expression of alarm. “My dear Locksmith, whatever is the matter? How may I help?”
She stopped an arm’s length away, staring at the book I held. Expressions I could not read flashed across her face before settling into her usual cool detachment. A glance down showed Engines of Lies clutched to my chest with the title outward.
She took my arm and guided me towards a chair. “I see. No wonder you are distressed.”
She understood. I collapsed into the chair she offered. I would not have to say anything that might alert the conspiracy magic to my outsider status. And I had made a decision. I had not known I had done so until that moment.
The Frost Maiden watched me in silence, her gaze giving nothing away. From her demeanour I could have been making a simple social call.
“Your Wisdom,” I said, “How soon can the four guilds be ready to rebuild the Water Office?”
“Not less than six weeks. The end of August, or early September. Even then the Air and Earth Guilds will struggle, but we can live with, and repair later, mistakes in the spells they provide.”
Six weeks. Not long enough. No, too long.
“Let’s get it over with,” I said. “Tell them I will release the lock on the first of September, whether they’re ready or not.”
Her expression altered, and she seemed as ancient as the sea. No excitement, no dread showed. Only acceptance, endurance, and relief. “I thought that must be why you came to see me. I am glad. Thank you.”
I would have risen, but she stopped me with a touch on my arm. “A month and a half is an uncomfortable period, both too short and too long when one dreads an event at the end. You cannot spend all your time focused on releasing the lock, or you will go mad. When you are not at the Fire Warlock’s beck and call, have you another task to occupy yourself?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll—” I stopped, aghast at what I had nearly said. I hadn’t admitted to myself until that moment my intention to dissolve the conspiracy. The room spun as I fought panic over how close I had come to disaster. It was madness to think such a thing—releasing the lock was dangerous enough, and I knew more about lightning than I did about conspiracies. It would be irresponsible to promise to unlock the Water Office, and then throw away my life on a wild goose chase.
I met her eyes, and gasped. The expressions that had flitted across her face earlier were back, and I read them with ease. Hope. Satisfaction. The room steadied as she held my gaze for a long moment. I would have traded my right hand for her advice, but the conspiracy ensnared her. I didn’t dare ask. She wouldn’t dare offer.
She said, “The Fire Guild has great power at its disposal, but your efforts tend to be abrupt and brief. Volcanic, one might say. Every warlock has a deep wellspring of anger, but it is not healthy for even the Fire Warlock to draw on that reservoir day after day, for weeks on end.”
“Er, yes, ma’am.”
“Undertakings requiring prolonged concentration and stamina tend to be the province of the Water and Earth Guilds.”
During the war, Jean had held a besieging army at bay for months. Was she suggesting he didn’t have stamina? Or that I didn’t? I clenched my jaw. I would not lose my temper. Not before I understood what
she meant.
“Frankland’s greatest witches and wizards have been those, like Jean, whose temperaments span more than one guild. He is a torch, one cannot deny that, but there have been times when he seems made of the Earth Guild’s marble. There is even a hint of ice in his soul.”
Stung, I opened my mouth to protest. Closed it again, and steamed. I had glimpsed that ice, and been repelled.
“The coming month will be a hard one for you. You have extended the reach of your warlock’s powers, but it is not enough. You need the Water Guild’s talents of absorbing and soothing, or your outrage will destroy you before you can turn it on its proper target.”
“Oh, right. You’re suggesting I go down to the market in Quays and buy a water witch’s talent? Assuming one was willing to sell.”
“It cannot be bought and sold, or stolen. It must come from within, and be given freely. You, like Jean, have the ballast of cold reason and logic in your soul. If you did not, I could not offer you this gift.” She held out her hands to me, water shimmering in her cupped palms. “The gift of cold water.”
I stared at her hands, stunned. Was she trying to turn me into a water witch? Impossible. Would I end up in deep water? I might drown.
Nonsense. She was offering me power of a different sort than fire magic, and I would be a fool to turn it down. Dazed, I watched my own hands rise to clasp hers.
Even a warlock can die of thirst. I drank cool, sweet water—welcome relief after a trek through a scorching dessert. It soothed my hot face, my burning eyes. I did not understand it, but water flowed inside me, under my control, and I was in no danger of drowning.
When I had drunk my fill, I let go, clear-headed and refreshed. “Thank you.”
She smiled. “It is a rare gift, not often given outside the Water Guild.”
A gift with strings attached, no doubt, but one I would cherish. The sick dread that had plagued me for months had vanished. I was as serene as a mountain lake on a windless day.
I said, “I will do my best to be worthy of it.”
“Your sleep will be less troubled, and you will be more patient. I do not know in what other ways the gift will help you; that is for you to discover, as it can only enhance what is already within you. The outer manifestations will fade as you fathom its depths.”
Outer manifestations? I shrugged. The prospect didn’t trouble me enough to inquire.
Intruder
The baked goods I started on my return from the Crystal Palace were almost done when the summons to an emergency meeting of the Fire Guild Council arrived just before noon. A middle-aged woman the footman announced as Mrs Schist arrived a few minutes later. A glance showed a drab mundane—not wide-eyed with terror, as most mundanes are on meeting a warlock, but nevertheless afraid. I had seen her before, but I couldn’t remember where or when. I went on putting the final touches on the icing.
“Can it wait? I have a council meeting to go to.”
She mumbled something. I said, “Speak up or step closer. I can’t hear you.”
She crept half a foot closer. “Yes, ma’am. I know about the council meeting. That’s why Peter sent me. He told me to say he’s sorry.”
“What?” I dropped the spatula in the icing bowl and looked up. Marks on her shoulders and chest peeked out from the edges of her summer dress, but otherwise she was as ordinary a woman as I had ever seen. As if she worked at being anonymous.
She flushed. “Don’t you remember? The Fire Warlock said he had to apologise before he could come back.”
“He, who? Mrs Schist, what are you talking about?”
Her flush deepened. “My husband, Warlock Flint, flamed you…”
Aha. I had seen her before, many times, during the siege, but had never connected this mouse with Flint. I took a harder look at the marks on her shoulders. She had suffered serious burns, more than once. She tugged at her dress to hide the scars; more crisscrossed the backs of her hands.
So that was why Jean despised Flint. If I had not been under the water magic’s calming influence, my blood would have boiled. Contempt must have shown in my face because the woman backed away, stammering.
I picked up the tray and walked towards the fireplace. “I’m not angry with you. I understand why he sent you rather than coming himself. Even he knows better than to lie to a warlock.”
René was recounting the tournament in Thule to Master Sven when I walked into the meeting room with my tray of cinnamon rolls. Both spun around and backed away from me.
Master Sven said, “What the hell?”
“Lucinda, is that you?” René asked, in a voice pitched unusually high.
I set the tray down on the conference table. “Well, of course. Who else would I be?”
Jean’s arrival forestalled an answer. He strode out of the fireplace and stopped dead. “Who are you,” he rasped, “and why are you here?”
The hubbub of other warlocks arriving and reacting in a similar vein drowned out my protests. Flint and Jean, side by side, scowled at me. Flint shouted, “She doesn’t belong here.” Jean snapped, “Agreed.” Both men did double takes, and recoiled. Jean blanched.
Ice gripped my heart. Typical fire wizard behaviour—reacting to an upset with anger. They were as obnoxious and overbearing as the Water Guild claimed.
Shocked, I backed out of the circle, and hit something solid. A pair of massive hands landed on my shoulders. “Shut up,” Beorn bellowed over my head. “The Fire Office isn’t fooled, even if you halfwits are. She’s still a warlock. Lucinda, put your lock on.”
“Yes, sir.” I snapped the lock hiding my talents into place, and the noise died. Furious expressions gave way to relief and bewilderment.
Beorn said, “She’s still our Lucinda, even if she does look like a water witch.”
I twisted my neck to gawk at him. “I what?”
“Or, to be precise,” Sven said, “our minds’ eyes see a sorceress.”
“A sorceress. Me?”
“Yeah, you,” Beorn said. “Your warlock’s fire looks like sunlight glinting off icicles instead of a flame.” He shoved me into a chair at the table and sat beside me, one hand still on my shoulder. “Now let’s have some of those goodies she brought. They’ll prove she’s still a fire witch.”
I pushed the tray at Jean. “They’re for Jean. You can have whatever he leaves.”
He looked at it blankly for a moment. “Oh, I see. A peace offering? Thank you.” He pulled apart one of the cinnamon rolls, and slid the tray down the table. “There are enough for everyone.”
The colour was coming back into his face, but his expression was troubled. “I offer my apology, my dear, and an explanation. As Fire Warlock, I became so accustomed to seeing everything and everyone through my mind’s eye it now dominates the physical one. Your physical form pleases me, but another witch could assume your appearance. Your magical signature identifies you, but it is so distorted I did not recognise you. A water sorceress’s appearance in this Fire Guild bastion shocked me. I apologise for hurting you.”
Except for Flint, the others around the table echoed his apology. The ice around my heart began to melt. Fire wizards do know how to apologise gracefully. They ought to, they have to do it often enough.
“She’s showing her true colours,” Flint growled. “I knew she didn’t belong here.”
Jean’s glare would have intimidated anyone with any sense, but Flint began muttering a monotonous litany of insults. “Stinking fishwife. Empty boat for a brain.”
I protested, “But you said a person’s signature never changed.”
“It does not change, no,” Jean said, “but under a few extraordinary circumstances it may be temporarily distorted. This is one.”
“But what is this?” A mouthful of roll muffled René’s question. He ignored Sven’s elbow. “What did she do?”
�
�It wasn’t me,” I said. “Sorceress Lorraine…gave me something.”
“The gift of cold water,” Jean said. “She has done you a singular honour.”
“But what does it mean?” René asked. “And why?”
I drew in a deep breath. Several answers came to mind, none of them satisfactory.
Beorn’s grip on my shoulder tightened. “That’s why I called this meeting today. We got some God-awful bad news yesterday, so Lucinda and Lorraine put their heads together this morning. Come September first, whether anybody else likes it or not, we’re going to take apart and rebuild the Water Office.”
Flint and Sunbeam bounced to their feet, shouting. I looked to Jean for his reaction. He knew what it meant for me. He stared out the window, his expression unreadable.
At least I wasn’t the centre of attention any longer. No one seemed to notice, or care, when I slipped away from the table and took a seat in a corner where I could survey the whole room.
I closed my eyes and once more worked the spell to see the extent of the conspiracy. I botched it twice because I knew I wouldn’t enjoy the results. The third attempt worked, and the result was as bad as I had feared. Lies as solid as chain mail encased Beorn and Jean, almost blocking out the light of Jean’s magical beacon and Beorn’s bonfire. Flint was also shrouded, but to my astonishment Sunbeam was untouched.
That exasperating womaniser, who, as rumour had it, cheated on his long-suffering wife at every opportunity, didn’t know about this?
Why should he? There were always women eager to throw themselves at a powerful man, even a married one. He had never needed to go hunting. There was no coercion in his good-natured soul. He had tried to flirt with me, before learning I was a warlock, and gave no indication of minding when I didn’t respond.
But if I told him, he wouldn’t care. I couldn’t ask him for help; he wouldn’t take the conspiracy seriously.
René, too, was free. He would help, but he had no more experience with conspiracies than I did.