It was a good thing that no one was watching them now, for they would have been certain the two of them were insane. Garrick handed Peter a small basket; Peter sat down right on the grass, and Garrick took a knife and cut a circle in the turf around him, then went four times around the circle again, each time laying down a line of colored string, blue, red, green, and yellow. He tied each line of string with a neat, tight knot before going on to the next. Meanwhile, Peter took a shallow bowl and a stoppered bottle from the basket, and poured pure water into the bowl from the bottle.
What no one but another Elemental magician would have recognized, of course, was that Garrick had just created a shielded space, a magic circle, with Peter in the center of it. Each of those strings represented a great deal of spellcasting on the part of Masters in the White Lodge; each string, when knotted, created an Elemental shield. Red for Fire, yellow for Earth, blue for Air, and green for Water. Most Elemental magicians without such kit with them had to rely on their own personal shields, which left them vulnerable to three other Elements. If there was a necromancer about, he wouldn’t detect Peter’s snooping now.
Peter was conducting his searches outside of the well-appointed Work Room in Branwell Hall because the Hall was too well-protected and the things for which he was looking were too subtle. And this sort of magic had limits—distance limits. Peter could effectively search an area not much more than five miles in diameter. A stronger mage, or several working together, could have ranged farther; someone like Garrick could have gone no more than a mile.
He sat with his legs crossed like a mediating fakir and stared down at his bowl, holding his hand directly over the middle. That hand held another, smaller bottle of the same prepared water, and he dripped a single drop of it into the bowl, in time with his own pulse.
The drop struck the surface, and a circular ripple spread out from it. It was these ripples that he watched. The Old Lion was right about one thing; although an Earth mage would have been better for this, since an Earth mage would more easily detect the kind of wrongness in the Earth that a necromancer produced, but a Water mage was a good second choice. Water went everywhere, and if there was some contamination by necromancy, Water would pick it up and show it.
The drawbacks were twofold. First, that Water purified, so it lost the traces of contamination that Earth would hold. Second, that Water moved; Earth didn’t. Contamination could get picked up and moved for miles.
Nevertheless, this was a good way to start.
Like rocks just below the surface of a lake, this necromantic contamination would make interruptions in the ripple. That was what he was watching for. He’d need to do this for at least a quarter of an hour, because the traces of shadow-magic left by a necromancer might not show up every time a ripple passed over the surface of the water. And because he needed to see whether it stayed put or was moving. If the latter, he’d have to figure out the source.
When the fifteen minutes were up, Peter sighed, and lowered his hand. He put down the bottle, and shook his hand vigorously to loosen it up.
“Nothing, m’lord?” Garrick asked politely.
“Not a blessed thing,” Peter replied. “No more than there has been all morning. I am more than ever convinced this was all a plot on the part of Alderscroft to keep me out of Europe. And to think! I could be sharing coffee and biscotti on the veranda of my hotel room at Monte Carlo at this very moment with the most ravishing soprano ever to rattle the rafters of La Scala.”
Garrick coughed politely. “I venture to say that our stay in this salubrious climate is doing your health a world of good, m’lord.”
“That soprano can do more for my health than a hundred moors,” Peter said wistfully, and sighed again. “Ah, well, can’t be helped. Unwind me, old thing, and let’s be off. The sooner I can burn this disgusting imitation of a painting, the better I’ll feel.”
Garrick took the car around to the carriage house, which still contained vehicles meant to be drawn by horses as well as a couple of motor-cars, and Peter was bowed into the house by one of the footmen. He met Charles just inside the door, coming in from another direction. “Still nothing, Peter?” asked Charles, who wore his tweeds with the air of a man who rarely wore anything else.
“Not a blamed thing. I tell you, Charles, I am beginning to think this was all made up by Alderscroft to satisfy his puritanical nature,” Peter replied crossly, as they crossed the Great Hall—echoingly empty—and passed two card rooms and the billiard room. “He thinks I’m nothing but a ne’er-do-well playboy. He envies me my divas and dancers, I swear it.”
“Poppycock.” Charles grinned, as they passed the music room and the library, then sobered. “Actually, I’ve just gotten a brace of letters from a couple of friends in the know, as it were. I haven’t totally rusticated; what happens across the water has repercussions on prices here. The rumblings from across the water are getting worse. I think he wants you within easy reach in case things explode.”
“Hmm. And much as I hate to admit it, if that is his motive, he has a point.” Peter grimaced. “I’m fittest of the lot to go anywhere at a moment’s notice. Money’s not a problem, which means transportation’s not a problem. I can fit in almost anywhere, and where I can’t, my contacts can. I’m good at improvising. And I’m probably the best choice for sending off posthaste into deadly danger.”
Charles raised an eyebrow, which looked rather comical on his long, horsey face. “That’s coming a bit strong, isn’t it? Boasting a bit?”
Peter aimed a cuff at his ear. “Don’t be the village idiot, Charles. I’m the second son. The spare. If something fatal happened to me, I wouldn’t be missed. The family could toddle along very nicely without me. The worst that could happen would be that Mater immediately find my brother a suitable mate and fling him into a church and then into the poor gel’s bed posthaste.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, old man,” Charles retorted, looking a bit flustered and uneasy. “You do have friends that would miss you, you know! I know what’s wrong with you; you’ve been out breathing healthy air and seeing sunlight for a change, and your body doesn’t know what to do with either of those things. Come along and have a spot of luncheon, that’ll put you right.”
For a moment, Peter reacted with irritation. Isn’t that just like an Earth mage! All healthy and hearty and “have a spot of food, that’ll put you right!” But then he had to laugh at himself, because it was just like an Earth mage, and it was good advice. He’d been tramping about the moors all morning, when he was used to town hours. Good lord, at this hour, he’d still be perusing the morning mail and papers. He’d been exerting himself magically too, setting up his scrying bowl three times; that was using his own energies three times, when he wasn’t used to Working any sort of magic more than once a day at most. And like most Masters, he disciplined himself to ignore the needs of his body when he was Working, but that didn’t mean those needs went away.
“Hang it, Charles, you wretched man—” he began.
“Why am I right?” Charles laughed. “You aren’t the first Master we’ve had stay with us, and except for the Earth Masters, you’re all alike. Even when you aren’t out Working all morning, you’re keeping country hours, hunting or fishing or tramping about, and you aren’t used to it. Come along, let’s get some grub into you. I’m not too proud to admit I’m famished. I’ve been out all morning myself, making some polite inquiries among the cottages. I’ve drunk a lake of weak tea, but I haven’t had a bite since brekkie.”
Charles led the way to the dining room. Luncheon things, like breakfast, had already been laid out on the buffet. Peter approved. If this was how things always were here, it would be very convenient for him.
“We’re informal except when we’re actually entertaining,” Charles said, as he took a plate and helped himself to cold roast, bread, and pickle.
“And I don’t count as entertaining?” Peter chuckled.
“Of course not. You’re Working. You can�
��t interrupt a Work just because it happens to be lunch time.” Charles moved on to cold asparagus, which Peter eyed greedily. City asparagus left something to be desired. “This way, provided you have the sense God gave a goose and actually feed yourself when you’re burning up energy, grub is ready for you when you’re ready for it. And try those bread rolls, Cook’s particularly proud of her bread.”
They sat down together at the long dining table; only one end of it had been set up with snowy linens laid over the shining expanse of wood. Charles dug in immediately, and Peter paused only to butter one of the rolls. “Garrick always says that anyone with patience can bake bread, but it takes a genius to—my word!”
He had just bitten into the roll he had buttered, and the sheer perfection of it took his breath away. Hearty, buttery, slightly sweet, a hint of salt, an aroma that filled his head. He’d eaten it in three bites before he even realized it.
“You see?” Charles said. “When I was a nipper, there were times I lived on them. Earth magic, of course. Cook’s a kitchen-witch. The closer a thing is to its own basic self, the more magic ends up in it. We’ve got her a helper to do the sauces and French stuff when we entertain—it’s not that what she does when she tries her hand at it is bad, but it doesn’t compare to her plain cooking, and it frustrates her. She doesn’t like following recipes, she doesn’t like doing the fancy, and we don’t see any reason why she should.”
Peter put his second roll down. “When you said that everyone here had at least a bit of magic—”
“I was not exaggerating, no.” A lock of Charles’ straw-colored hair fell over one mild blue eye, and absently he brushed it away. “The Kerridges have been in these parts forever, long before we bought Branwell Hall.” He waggled his eyebrows roguishly at Peter. “You do know what they say about Earth mages and women—or men, if the mage is a woman—right?”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Really, Charles . . .”
“All those old pagan fertility doings . . .”
“Charles!” Peter was laughing now. “I’d pay a fiver to see you dancin’ about, painted blue.”
“Still, it can’t be denied, this spot is absolutely teeming with those with magic in their blood, and if informal family history is to be believed, a good many of my ancestors were strongly in favor of sowing their wild oats in as many fields as possible.” Charles chuckled and grinned. “Now, I will admit that once we got our hands on the Hall, we went out of our way to hire those who had at least a touch of magic in them. As Mother and Father said, it makes things ever so much easier when you don’t have to try to hide what you’re doing from the servants. And even more so when the servants are actively helping you. Speaking of which, do you want to borrow anyone for your doings? They wouldn’t at all mind. When I say ‘borrow,’ of course, I don’t mean I’d just lend them out like a dressing gown, you’d have to ask for volunteers. But I can tell you that you would get more of them than you asked for.”
Peter considered that for a moment. “Let me say, I’ll definitely ask for help if I need it, and thank you, but they aren’t used to the way I work, nor am I used to them.”
“That’s fair.” Charles applied himself to his food, and so did Peter, finding it to be a most satisfactory meal. But it was not the sort of luncheon that Peter was used to having.
Peter’s mother had very firm ideas about what servants should and should not do—mostly, servants should not inconvenience their masters in any way. But it seemed that Charles’ servants had no compunction about coming to him with things to be settled even in the middle of lunch, and he was not in the least perturbed that they did so.
Since that was basically how Peter treated Garrick, this didn’t perturb him, either—though he had to admit that Garrick ruled his own small bachelor establishment with a firm hand, and no other servant was allowed to disturb his lordship unless his lordship asked to be disturbed.
On the other hand, Garrick was a mage, and the other servants weren’t. Here, if a servant didn’t have a touch of magic, he or she still knew all about it. It occurred to Peter that this was probably the root of the unique relationship the Kerridge family had with those who served them.
It also became apparent rather quickly that the Kerridges were very forward-thinking in how they treated their tenants, their servants, and their neighbors above and beyond giving them the respect of fellow magicians. To their tenants, they were senior partners, rather as if the estate was a huge business firm; if things were bad, adjustments were made. If things were good, everyone got a share. To their servants, they were employers to be sure, but also the elders of a great family, who took the well-being of everyone in the household seriously. To their neighbors, they were never overbearing, holding alliances of interest rather than acting as competitors.
Well, except perhaps in the livestock shows . . . Peter reflected, hiding a grin, as one of the livestock managers had a brisk conversation with Charles about the quality of the cattle one of the neighbors was likely to send to the next show. Clearly a great deal of pride was riding on the outcome.
Very many of the people in Peter’s set—those who weren’t Elemental mages for the most part but, sadly, even some that were and should have known better—still treated those on and in their estates in a decidedly feudal manner, and not in the traditional sense. Servants should be invisible and have no lives of their own, tenants should do as they were told and pay their rents regardless of what conditions were like, and neighbors—well, it depended on whether there was an outstanding feud or not. But certainly if the neighbors were not of one’s own social class, then they were regarded as inconvenient and beneath one’s notice. Peter’s mother was a lot like that, and although his brother had gotten most of it schooled out of him, he still treated servants as if they were nonentities. He called all the maids by the same name, “Sally.” And most of the manservants by “You, there.”
It’s the Earth-magic, of course; you can’t have that flowing in your veins and not be acutely aware of the comfort of those around you, he thought, watching as Charles’ father and the steward came in, discussing the accounts. Unless you turned to the dark and you’re thriving on misery, you’re pretty much forced to do something about making sure everyone does well.
The place was not bursting with abundance, but it was thriving, and clearly no one here suffered at all.
Peter had noticed that there seemed to be more servants here than normal; that would be because they were not worked half to death the way they were in some establishments he had visited for weekend parties and hunts. They were treated like human beings too, and not like furniture or automatons.
This . . . this was a fine thing, actually. Servants wanted to do things for you. They hurried to answer a bell, instead of loitering on the way.
Granted, everything here was just a little worn; not shabby, but not bang up-to-the-minute either. He thought he knew the reason. Why waste money on show when you could put it back into what made people comfortable and happy?
Well, there was one danger here, and it was that this was all very seductive. It tempted one to relax, and right now relaxing was not something he should do. He had a job in front of him, one that required concentration.
“How is the Work coming, Lord Peter?” Michael Kerridge asked, looking up at last from the accounts, which he and his steward had spread between them.
“’Tisn’t,” he replied with a grimace. “And that’s the plain fact.”
“Be patient, you’ve only been at it a day, and there is a great deal of moor,” advised Elizabeth, coming in at that moment. Peter noted she was wearing exactly the same gown she’d worn at breakfast, and he approved. It was fashionable—it was clear she was not the sort of lady who was perfectly happy to muck about in a pair of old boots and a skirt with a draggled hem. Not that Peter had any objection to that, either—there were a good many female Earth Masters who were cut of exactly that sort of cloth, and very good they were to have at your side. But Elizabeth was, again,
very like Peter’s grandmother: practical, but a lady.
Elizabeth’s gown was well-made, it was suited to the country, and it was fairly clear that Elizabeth did not see the need to change her clothing five and six times a day.
Unlike his mother . . .
And very like his grandmother.
“I feel very inclined to pray with Saint Francis, ‘Dear Lord, give me patience and give it to me now,’ ” he replied with a wry smile.
“Did Saint Francis really say that?” Elizabeth asked, looking skeptical.
“Well, if he didn’t, he should have,” Peter replied firmly. “At any rate, you will be pleased to know that the immediate environs of Branwell are utterly free of any hint of Darkness.”
“I would have been very surprised if they were not.” Michael turned to the steward, and at that moment, Peter was struck with the notion that perhaps Charles was right, and a long-ago Kerridge bestowing his favors was responsible for the number of mages here. Because there was a distinct resemblance between Michael and the steward—and now, Peter realized, between Michael and virtually every servant he’d seen. They were all what he thought of as “horsey Saxons:” tall, lanky, blond, very nearly homely when their faces were in repose, but their animated expressions made them handsome. The noses were the same, and the chins. It was remarkable to see; he reckoned now that he had noticed, he’d be aware of it constantly.
“Hudson, have you heard anything from the tenants that might have a bearing?” Michael was asking.
Peter had expected an outright denial, but instead, Hudson looked slightly uncertain. “Not anything about anyone on estate lands,” he said slowly. “And really, not anything about anyone specific. But a couple of the lads have ventured, when I put it to them, that they’ve been feeling a bit uneasy for some months now, and the unease seems to be to the west of us. The trouble is, they can’t put their finger on it, if you take my meaning, so they’re not anxious to name names or make accusations.” The steward drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. “How to put this . . . ’tis like there’s a bad smell, but no one in the village can tell where it’s coming from. So no one wants to start a quarrel about drains.”
Unnatural Issue Page 11