Magience: second edition

by Cari Silverwood

  “I’ve taken photos of it, you know.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes, I have. When I arrived back in Carstelan I got them out and checked them again, with my best scope. There are blue markings all over the armor. Faint, but there.”

  Slowly she turned and stared at him. “What are you saying?”

  “It’s some sort of power, and I would imagine a power very much like yours.”

  It was too unexpected for her to understand immediately what it meant. Her power was the same as that used on the Burgla’le armor?

  “I’ve always suspected as much. Why should the trinketologists and the herbologists and needle masters be any different to what you or other mages do?”

  She locked eyes with him. “Does the Imperator know?”

  “Um. Why yes, he does. I’ve not told Hilas Frope. I don’t think he would believe it anyway. Of course it doesn’t totally disprove the concept of good and bad magience, but it is strong evidence. You would need to...”

  “The Imperator knows.” Her voice shook. “Then can he, will he, maybe change the laws on magi...if...we’re the same as the others?”

  “No. No. Never.”

  The cab began to move again. Hooves clopped slowly on stone.

  “Why not? How can you say that?” It was crazy. Mr. Jubb was an expert on what the Imperator would do? “You can’t know that!”

  “Not so loud. The driver won’t be deaf!”

  She leaned back against the seat, breathing out loudly through her nose in exasperation. It was hard not to glare.

  “Why? Why doesn’t this change things?”

  “Because the Imperator has believed that for, well, a long time, and even if he does want to change things he can’t. The people, the nobles...he would be ousted from the throne.”

  Ellinca shook her head. “The Imperator is the law! He can do anything.”

  “Oh? Listen to me. At least once a week the city palace has anti-Imperator slogans written on its outer wall. The torturers are forever busy removing the tongues of those heard spouting treason. Some blame him for the bludvoik plague, saying the war with the Grakks has brought this on us – though he’s lost four sons to the war himself. Some say his daughter is also dying, which is why he has her on show today. Without heirs the wolves around him will start to close in.

  “Rumors course through this city. If he tries to change a belief that is so ingrained, so widely held...” He shrugged. “Disaster. The restless nobles would have their knives out before the peasants could light their torches and sharpen their scythes.”

  “But, the Burgla’les...”

  “Have held the throne for two hundred years? Nothing is forever.”

  She had been wrong. He was an expert on what the Imperator would do. This was not the fumbling, somewhat foolish Mr. Jubb.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are you a spy?”

  He laughed. “A spy? No.”

  “But you spy on Frope! Don’t you? For the Imperator!”

  He laughed again, though the tone had changed. The carriage jerked, slowed to a gentle amble, then jerked again and stopped. “Wait here. Routine check.” Bending his neck to fit his long frame through, he slipped out the door, closing it firmly behind him.

  There was an indistinct murmur of voices. She could not see Mr. Jubb through the little window and judged he was somewhere at the back of the carriage. Before she could dredge up her courage and open the door a crack, he reappeared, snapped a word to the driver, flung open the door, jumped in, and slammed it shut again. His cheeks were red and his brow gleamed with sweat.

  “God bl – Excuse the language!” He clamped his mouth shut. The carriage was already moving fast. When it had swung violently ’round a corner or two and clattered along the streets for a few minutes, he relaxed a little, slumping back against the seat.

  He eyed her, his pupils large, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

  “What? Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

  “There are enforcers at his house, seeking to arrest him on a charge of aiding illegal mages. So close! I don’t always check. Someone has forced the Imperator to act. I could be next! We’re both in the Academy of Science. They’ll think I’m a sympathizer too! I must run. Get away.”

  “Oh. Mr. Jubb, where would he go?”

  “Who?”

  “Sir Blissman. Where would he have gone to? I must find him!”

  “I – I don’t know. He can’t use the route he sent the mages on. Too dangerous now.” He shook his head, clearly baffled. “I don’t know.”

  She wouldn’t give up. Not after coming so close.

  “Perhaps – ” He sat forward. “There’s a man he sometimes used when the usual route had problems. He could arrange things. Get people out of the country on ships.”

  “Who? What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know his real name, but Gouge is what he goes by.

  “Gouge?” She’d heard that name before, recently.

  “Yes. He’s a big man in the darker side of business in Carstelan. Unscrupulous. I’ve heard he would murder your grandmother if she got on his wrong side, but he’s still a businessman. Trustworthy if you pay him.”

  “With a name like Gouge?” It didn’t sound promising.

  Mr. Jubb raised his eyebrows. He took out a large handkerchief and blotted his forehead before drawing a coin purse from inside his coat and tipping out a few coins. “Here. Take this. Like I said – you’ll be safe if you pay him. Try the Hall first.”

  There was a handful of grints on her palm. She would be rich soon if this kept up, but did she want to go see this man? A criminal, or near as you could get. Mr. Jubb was looking at her. Waiting.

  “Well?”

  “All right. I’ll go.”

  He unlocked a small hatch and turned his head to give the new instructions to the driver. She bit into one of the coins. It gave under her teeth. Real gold then. Mogg would like it. It would be a pity to give it all to this man anyway.

  Chapter 22

  The Herbo-Junkie

  “Here we are. Good luck.” Mr. Jubb pushed open the door for her then shrank back into the depths of the carriage as if to escape the notice of anyone peering in.

  Ellinca paused on the step. “Thank you, Mr. Jubb.”

  “You’re welcome.” He smiled though a jaw muscle twitched. “This is the Grakk district. All the full-blood Grakks have been taken away but still – be very careful. Go straight to the Hall. There are all sorts of unsavory types here.” He seemed to regain some of his courage and leaned forward with something small in his hand. “May the gods be with you, girl.” He held out a chubby pistol to her. “It’s a trink dartzinger, takes anything thin and pointy if you’re stuck for ammunition. Sewing needles even – though they don’t go far.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of loading it with darts tipped with phosphorus and dormidol. Stings like mad then makes them sleepy. Always aimed to be long gone before they woke up.”

  Her hand sank as she took the weight. There were yellow daisies on the octagonal barrel and the butt, and a single fat bee was quietly buzzing along visiting each flower one-by-one. When she held it closer to observe she smelled a sweet perfume. “Mr. Jubb...this must be worth so much!”

  He shrugged. “I call her Dogrose. She’s pretty but full of thorns.” He gave a short chuckle. “You can give her back next time we meet.”

  She nodded. “I will.” He was a good man beneath his strange ways. She tucked the dartzinger into a coat pocket.

  As the carriage rolled away Ellinca saw that this was a gated entrance. A high stone wall stretched away to either side and soldiers were searching and questioning people as they passed through. One of the sentries barely glanced at her, too busy folding a piece of paper and tucking it into his pocket. He flipped a tiny coin to a beggar girl. It seemed as if descending from a carriage had stamped Ellinca as acceptable.

  The main roadway under her feet was cobblestone but the other roads were pa
ved in a mixture of crushed rock and mud. Globflies swarmed about a pile of refuse that slumped against the peeling paint of a tavern. People meandered along the footpaths and into darkened niches that presumably contained shops. Sailors threw dice, soldiers reeled arm-in-arm singing rude songs. There were men and women in clothes that marked them as rich and poor but mostly they looked to fall somewhere in between.

  Now and then a cloud of fog or steam would hiss out of a shop to drift about at waist-level. From the exotic and entrancing smells, these shops sold something more than ordinary food or drink, something less legal.

  Ellinca felt like lifting her feet and never putting them down again. A dog with a rat dangling from its mouth trotted up and dropped it at her feet. He panted at her expectantly.

  “Ah. Hello there. How nice. Good boy? You go off and eat it by yourself. I’m not...really...hungry.” To her relief and surprise he picked up the rat and walked away.

  “The Hall,” she muttered. “Where do I find the Hall?”

  “Greetings, milady!” The beggar girl from the gate appeared at her elbow with a smaller boy in tow. Her face was clean, though her tunic and hose were frayed and vaguely brownish pink. “I’m Sakena. I can find you the Hall. For a few coins.” She smiled widely. Her eyes were the brightest green, like marbles, her hair a tangled mass of black.

  She smiled back. “How about one coin?” Ellinca showed the tip of a grint.

  Sakena’s eyes grew large. “Now that’s even better! Jase, can you go home to your da? Right away. Tell him I’m workin’. All right?” The little one nodded and ran off with thumb tucked in his mouth. “He’ll be right. His home’s just back there. Follow me.”

  The way to the Hall led along the main road for six or seven minutes before they turned onto a pebble path that went up a long alley. Though the center of the path dipped where feet had trodden on it for many years, it was well tended – weeded, swept and dotted here and there with little pots of sweet herbs.

  “Here it is.” Sakena drew her forward across a wide courtyard into the broad shade of an A-shaped roof that was held up by round timber columns – but not before Ellinca had seen that it formed the entrance to an uneven four-story-high pyramid of stone.

  It was cool under there, serene. A breeze swept through where the roof didn’t quite reach the ground. Sandy-orange tiles soothed her feet and there were painted pots filled with ferns and flowering shrubs. Carved and stone-inlaid double doors faced them. All in all she was dumbstruck. The work that had gone into its construction here, in this run-down district that seemed to be the cesspool, the putrid arse end of Carstelan.

  “Outside it’s supposed to be like a mountain, you know?” Sakena raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to see the actual Hall of Ghosts?”

  That sent a chill through Ellinca’s bones. Obvious. She should have worked out what the Hall meant. She shook her head. “Not now. I’ve come to find a man called Gouge.” Again she showed the grint to Sakena, though something made her decide not to hand it over yet.

  “Yeah? There’s something about you...” Sakena searched her face as if looking for some answer to a puzzling question. “Gouge? Wait here.”

  She slipped away through the double doors into an inner corridor that Ellinca guessed must run around the inside edge of the pyramid. A family group came out and headed to the path.

  After a few minutes Sakena returned with a man in a blue flowing tunic and matching trousers. Half his head from front to back was shaved, half crew-cut. He bowed. A priest, perhaps? Politely, Ellinca returned the bow.

  “You wish to see Mr. Gouge?”

  “Ah. Yes. Are you a priest? I wasn’t... I thought...”

  “No. We have no priests. This is not a religion, merely a means by which people may show their respect for their ancestors. I am a caretaker, nothing more. You must tell me what business you have with him then I will see.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t any choice. “I need to find a Sir Blissman. I’ve been told Gouge might know.”

  He nodded. “This may take some...hours. You are welcome to stay while you wait.”

  “But – ”

  He turned and walked back through the doors.

  Well. She paid off Sakena then she waited – all the rest of that day, the night, and all of the next day. They provided her with food and she slept on a pallet in the foyer. She never did get to meet Gouge. It was early evening when the caretaker returned and told her to go out into the garden.

  Four paths led into the pyramid with four little sculpted gardens between each path. Lanterns hanging from poles bathed the area in a smoky yellow light. He was in the northernmost garden. It would be Sir Blissman. Who else would wait for her here?

  Through half-asleep eyes she stared at him. Sleep had been hard to come by the night before. Leaning against the bole of a nori palm was a scarecrow-thin man wearing faded gray hose, green heavy overcoat, scarf, gloves and vest – and it was a hot autumn night. The clothes were loose on him – borrowed, or he had recently lost a great deal of weight. His silvery hair stuck out all over in half-unraveled dreadlocks.

  The corked tops of vials protruded from his jacket pockets, his mouth was stained green and purple, and his eyes were plainly wrong. As he staggered closer she saw the pupils constrict and dilate as if they did a dance to some frantic tune. A loud clinking came from every part of him. No doubt that was the glass vials knocking against each other. She stepped back to let him past.

  She shuddered. He was a herbo, an addict.

  “Ellinca? Ellinca Harpsicore?” The voice shook. Nothing about this man was still.

  It had been so long since anyone had said her last name.

  “Yes.”

  “I am Sir Alexander Blissman. Excuse me.” He brought out a stained handkerchief and coughed into it. Dark blood spotted the cloth. He swigged down the contents of a vial. “I believe you wanted to talk to me. So if you’re not too overcome with horror... Please. I haven’t much time.” He coughed again then led her to a long stone seat stranded within a pool of yellow daisies that lapped at its legs.

  She halted. “You’re not...”

  “Dying? Not yet.” He studied her face then snapped out, “I’ve been poisoned by someone who doesn’t like me or what they think I do. Frope, or one of his like-minded friends. I’m ill but these things.” He vaguely indicated the vials. “They are keeping me alive. For now. I’m going on a long sea voyage tonight.”

  She sat at the opposite end of the bench.

  He shook his head and smiled kindly. “Never mind me. What would you ask me? Hmm. Whether you’re a mage?”

  “No.” It was easier to say out loud than she had thought it would be. “No. I know I’m one. I can heal people with my hands.” She looked at them, thinking back to Dost. “And more. Do things that aren’t quite healing.” Now that she had stated it she felt a confusing glow of pride that she could do these things.

  He nodded.

  “Sometimes they ache or tremble. My hands. For no reason. And there’s these spots.” She held up her right hand. “On the back of my hand. I guess...” She shrugged. “Someone wants me to help him, someone you know, and I need to be sure that I can do it without harming him further.”

  He fixed his gaze on her hand, his pupils still doing that weird dance.

  “Spots? Ah. They’re liver spots.” He took out another vial and drank from it. “As for the rest – if I had time and equipment I could test you, but I can’t. And I don’t know if you’ll harm anyone. But I can tell you this.” He pointed a finger toward her.

  “I know about Dost. Sent me a message, he did. Am I surprised a bludvoik can write? Yes. But then Dost was always unusual and crazy. He likes you.” He coughed. “Oh dear, the time, the time. I must go.”

  He rose clumsily to his feet. “There’s another concern. A servant of mine – who I long suspected was the Imperator’s man – he saw Dost’s letter. Subsequently there is an alert out and a reward for any who will turn you in. The Imper
ator wants to see you. Something about you interests him. I’m sorry but having a spy on my staff was a necessary inconvenience. The Imperator turned a blind eye to my activities in return.”

  She felt his hand rest on her head. “You should leave. Come with me. My ship sails at eleven tonight. The Rascar. Be at the docks if you want.”

  “Thank you for meeting me.” She watched him hobble away.

  Her last, best hope and he had only added to her troubles.

  Her attention wandered and she closed her eyes. She’d had nowhere near enough sleep last night. She found herself thinking back to all her times with Pascolli, happier times most of them. There were things she wondered about, like, what if she had kissed him properly? She’d never really thought of him that way at the time. Sadly, it was the past and one couldn’t go back.

  The air chilled. She raised her head, brushing away a tear. He was here. Pascolli’s ghost sat cross-legged before her. Translucent, as all ghosts were, and looking like a sketch by an artist who only had one color left – gray. She sat up.

  “How,” she whispered. “You can’t be here. You can’t. Ghosts can’t just follow people. Can they?”

  He placed his hand across his lips as if to say shhh. The outlines of his fingers were blurred, merging into one another.

  “Can you?”

  What did one say to a ghost? Ellinca wanted to tell him about how she had remembered him at the garden oasis in the warehouse, and how much she wished she had tried to heal him, and everything else. That she had liked him so much. She blushed. He smiled at her. Crazily, she hoped he didn’t know her thoughts.

  Ellinca held out her hand and felt him take it in his. It was like being enveloped in cold cotton wool. Something settled within her and she knew a peace that had not been there before – forgiveness, perhaps.

  Casually, as if he’d been there all the time, Gangar nosed between them and lay down with his big head resting, somehow, on Pascolli’s knee. A shimmery halo of orange surrounded him. Whenever Gangar was around, ghosts appeared.