by Kesia Lupo
A stunned silence fell over the room.
‘But first, I must end the storm cloud. The forest is impassable as it stands, and we cannot open the city gates until it is. I know how to destroy it. And I know that it’s caused these disturbances tonight. I just need a little more time.’
‘How much time?’ said the older man.
She searched the pale, determined faces turned towards her. Grim thoughts encircled her mind.
Finally, she spoke. ‘I need two days.’
A murmur rose up around the room. The scribe listened to the talk for a moment, then held his hand for silence. ‘I say yes, on three conditions. No curfew. Extra rations from the castle’s own stores. And if the storm cloud does not disappear by dawn the day after tomorrow, we shall march on the castle and break open the gates.’
The people were silent, grim-faced, and Constance knew without a doubt that they would carry through Redwold’s threat. Two days. Slowly, she nodded, and met the old man’s eyes. ‘Done.’
FIFTEEN
The Magician’s Workshop
Busy as the city had been at night, it was even busier during the day, which was bright and cold. The thoroughfare in front of the Holy Council was heaving with people, and market stalls, and carriages and riders, and wagons piled high with wares. Lena clutched Chatham’s card in her hand as she wove through the traffic towards the fountain, and then headed north into the royal district. She’d checked the city plans in the map room before she left, so she knew Chatham’s workshop would be somewhere among the grand houses before the park. She looked carefully at the street names painted in black and white on the sides of the corner buildings.
For the hundredth time since sneaking out of the temple, she thought about Emris and how he’d feel if he knew where she was going. She felt terrible about deceiving him. He was busy this afternoon, and Lena had told him she’d spend the time practising her spells. But she needed to do this, and she knew he wouldn’t understand. She had to know the truth – besides, it was just a quick visit. And what Emris didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
At last, Princess Boulevard opened up on the left, a wide tree-lined avenue full of tall new buildings with bay-windowed shopfronts and signs with fancy lettering hanging above the doors. The street was relatively busy. Smartly dressed women with cinched-in waists and huge fur scarves pushed prams with elaborate lace coverings. Scores of men dressed in various colours of livery hurried behind them, carrying piles of boxes.
Lena felt distinctly out of place in her grey huntsman’s robes, and attracted a few disapproving glares in a way she hadn’t in the temple district. She reached instinctively for her hood, but stopped herself. It felt a little bit like she was a cryptling again, walking in the upper town before nightfall – but this was different. She was strong now, probably stronger than anyone else on the street. And she had every right to be here, no matter how odd she appeared among the fine ladies of the royal district. Nobody stopped her as she approached the large bow-fronted shop that was her destination: Lord Chatham’s Emporium of Magical and Mechanical Delights.
Lena climbed the five shallow steps to the door. In the window, a plethora of shining mechanical animals labelled with gorgeous gold-ink signs promised everything from help with housework to evening entertainment, from music or comedy to occupying ‘children, pets and other nuisances’. Every animal was beautifully constructed of various metals – silver, gold or bronze – and often bejewelled. Some were woven with feathers or even fur as part of their design, others with silk or velvet. She particularly liked the petite golden cat with emerald eyes and a white feather puff on its tail, supposedly for the dusting of library shelves.
It was all rather grander than her little brass butterfly, she thought, suddenly nervous. She realised Lord Chatham might not be in his shop anyway and felt a little relieved at the thought. But she ought to try now she was here.
Gathering her courage, she pushed the door open and a discreet bell rang into the luxurious interior. Two women were sitting together at a glass display case, picking out something small and glittery. One of the women – young and pretty, with dark and elaborately styled hair – turned and raised an eyebrow at Lena.
‘Are you lost?’
Lena bristled. ‘No. I’m here to see Lord Chatham.’
The eyebrow raised itself higher. ‘Card?’
‘Umm …’ She patted her pockets.
‘If you haven’t got a card,’ she started to say, with a satisfied expression on her face, ‘I’m afraid …’
Lena dug the rather bedraggled card from the bottom of her pocket, blushing furiously as she handed it to the woman, who examined it briefly then glanced up at Lena’s birthmark with disapproving eyes. She tutted. ‘Very well, this appears to be legitimate. Name, please? I shall see if he’s available.’
‘Lena Grey,’ she replied brusquely.
‘Do excuse me, Lady Honoria,’ the shop assistant simpered at the older, plumper lady waiting at the display cabinet. ‘I shan’t be a moment. Why not try the dragonfly for size?’ And she disappeared through a large wooden door behind the highly polished counter.
Lena didn’t have to wait long. The assistant returned with a different manner. ‘Miss Grey,’ she said. ‘Lord Chatham will see you now for tea in the workshop. This way, please.’
Lord Chatham was sitting at a long wooden desk strewn with cogs and springs and other small pieces of shiny metal. He was peering at something in his hands through a silver tube clenched in the socket of one eye and making a small noise of frustration.
The workshop was compact but very tall, and every available wall was lined with shelves from top to bottom. On some of the high shelves there were large books stacked with neat precision … or perhaps they were ledgers, Lena realised, for each one was numbered. The shadows crowded around the shelves nearest the top of the high room. The shelves further down were full of labelled wooden boxes. The labels were embossed metal. She picked out a few: ‘Springs, size 7D’, ‘Joint, Silver, size 1F’, ‘Misc. Gold’. The single window in the room was a stained-glass arch depicting a series of scenes involving a man and bits of machinery, as well as a large gold crown, and it cast ghosts of red, green and yellow on the carpeted floor. She couldn’t see outside at all.
And no one can see in, a quiet part of her added.
The room was functional, but it also contained a small and very pretty fireplace surrounded by tiles decorated with cogs and wheels in gold, bronze and silver – It must’ve been specially designed, Lena thought, just like the stained-glass window. And in front of the fire were two leather armchairs and a small round table with a teapot and a very neat pile of books. Suspended over the fire was a kettle, already puffing steam through its spout. On the wide mantelpiece, she spied a set of six cups and saucers and a large strawberry cake.
‘Miss Lena Grey, what an honour. I shall be with you forthwith,’ Chatham said, still staring at the two tiny pieces of silver in his hand, which he appeared to be trying to slot together. ‘Please take a seat by the fire. I’m just finishing up this bee. The wings are extremely delicate.’
Lena sat in one of the chairs. It was more comfortable than it looked – perhaps too comfortable. She felt herself sinking into its cushions, even though she was determined to remain upright and businesslike. The kettle started to whistle.
‘Would you be a dear and get that? The tea things are all ready – just pour in the water,’ Chatham said.
She took down two cups and set them on the table, then poured the boiling water into the pot. The action instantly brought Vigo to mind, although the scent of the tea was entirely different. Vigo had favoured fennel, mint and nettle – sharp herbal smells that had always reminded Lena a little unpleasantly of embalming oils – and a rich, spicy aroma rose with the steam from this pot.
At last, while the tea was brewing, Chatham exclaimed, ‘Bravo! Now, let’s test it out …’ She heard him whisper a brief incantation, a flash of yellow light brightened
his desk – and then the golden bee was buzzing over his head. Chatham joined her beside the fire and the bee followed, landing elegantly on the lip of his teacup. Minuscule stripes of black fur banded the bee’s tiny body, and in between Lena could spy a strong yellow glow. Like the glow in the horse’s head, she thought.
‘I trust you are fully recovered from last night’s ordeal? That was quite a fall.’
Lena drew her attention away from the bee. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. Suddenly she felt like a silly little girl. She drew herself up and opened her mouth to demand answers, but Chatham spoke first.
‘I’m sure we should all be very grateful to you. It really was the perfect distraction – although your hunter didn’t seem too approving. Is that why you’re here? You’re fed up of taking his orders?’
‘No. I’m just curious. You said you had information for me.’
Chatham smiled as if he didn’t believe her. ‘Yes, well, I’m glad you finally decided to drop by. It certainly felt as if fate was trying to bring us together.’ He poured the tea – the bee flitting from the teacup to his shoulder. ‘So … if you don’t mind … might I have a proper look at your butterfly?’
Nervously, she drew it out from under her clothes – a little embarrassed at how it felt warm from her pocket. She hesitated for a moment, holding it in her hand. I have to do this if I want to know what it really is, she told herself. She took a deep breath and passed it to Lord Chatham.
He pulled his small magnifying eyeglass from his top pocket and started to inspect the thin cylindrical body. He hmmmed.
Lena sipped her tea, but it was far too sweet. Chatham must have added sugar to the pot. She set down the cup and waited. After a few long seconds of silence, she asked, ‘So … did you make it?’
‘But of course.’ He appeared to be surprised by the question, glancing up at her. ‘The question is, who did I make it for? And why is it no longer working? All my inventions are guaranteed for thirty years – longer than I’ve been operating this business. But we can find out. Here, I have marked it with a serial number – 027.’
Lord Chatham stood up, leaving the butterfly on the table, and walked to one of the walls, the bee buzzing gently over his head. He rolled a ladder along the shelves and climbed to the top, into the shadows, where he slid down a leatherbound tome.
‘I mark every creation with a number corresponding to one of my ledgers,’ he explained, climbing back down the ladder. ‘In here, I record the details of every commission. Rather dull but sometimes extraordinarily useful – especially when they are from this long ago.’
‘How long ago?’ Lena asked.
‘This ledger was my first, and I started the business around … hmm … twenty-two years ago. I was a mere boy – sixteen years old. Imagine! I set up shop in the commercial district, would you believe. It was difficult for a time … my line of work wasn’t respected in those days and the temples were absolutely determined to brand me a Rogue and absorb me into their ludicrous system. But I had a few allies among the nobility – my family, you see, is rather important – and had already developed my own way of controlling my powers. It was a system based on old wisdom, wisdom I’d drawn from texts written long before the gods.’ He sat down again, sipped his tea and opened the ledger on his lap.
‘Before the gods?’ Lena asked.
‘Oh, yes. The temples will tell you that the gods have always existed. But the temples themselves were only established two thousand years ago.’
Two thousand years sounded like a long time to Lena.
Chatham smiled, resting his perfectly manicured hands flat on the open ledger and leaning forward, eager to explain. ‘The history of Valorian, sweet girl, is far, far older than two thousand years. And how do you suppose mages lived before the gods became an accepted truth instead of one option among many? Speak to your huntsman and he would have you believe the whole world was consumed in Chaos. He would be wrong – if he were right, none of us would be alive today. The truth is that if you are trained properly, there is no need to allow a god to slip a leash on your power. In fact, there are ways to slip out of a leash too, if one were to desire it …’
As if prompted, Lena felt her own power leaping in her stomach, straining against its binding. She swallowed, tried to concentrate – even if that’s what she decided, now wasn’t the time. She was here for answers. ‘But Lord Aster …’
Chatham sat back in his seat. ‘He was weak. He let his control wear down over time. A better magician could never have succumbed to Chaos. A better magician would have used Chaos for his own purposes …’ He raised an eyebrow, as if he and Lena were sharing a private joke. ‘But that’s another story entirely. We were talking about your butterfly.’ He returned his attention to the ledger and started flicking through the pages. Eventually, he said, ‘Ah, here we are, 027,’ and rested his finger on an entry towards the end. ‘Butterfly 8. That means it was the eighth of this design. And it was a special commission for … oh my … Lady Patience Santini.’ He smiled slowly. Something important had dawned on him, Lena thought. ‘Yes … yes, of course. One of my first noble customers. I suspected this might be the case.’
‘What?’ she asked, confused.
‘Where did you find this butterfly, Lena? Are you from … ? You can’t be … Duke’s Forest?’ A kind of darkness gleamed in his eager gaze.
Lena nodded slowly, uncertain about exactly what she was revealing. Chatham’s eyes widened in something like delight. ‘Yes – the first time I saw you, the huntsman said he had found you on the way back – but I just assumed … Well, no one has emerged from Duke’s Forest in years …’ He was murmuring to himself, and Lena watched as the golden bee settled next to the butterfly on the table. It appeared to be examining its sibling curiously.
‘Yes … But I came here for you to tell me what’s going on,’ she reminded him.
He smiled, but no warmth reached his eyes. He sipped his sweet tea. ‘Silly me. Allow me to explain: Lady Patience Santini was the first wife of your Duke. Although originally from the Wishes to the far south, like most noble mages she trained with the temples as a young woman, while living at court. She visited me to buy the butterfly a few days before she left to be wed.’
Lena felt suddenly pale. She didn’t remember the first Duchess, but she knew she was interred in the crypts below the castle. So, effectively, Lena really had stolen grave goods. But then …
‘When I first found it … or … when it found me …’ – she gulped, her throat dry – ‘it was … flying.’
‘How interesting.’ Chatham ran his fingers through his smooth, pale hair and glanced down at the open page. ‘You see, the ledger reminds me that when Lady Santini bought the butterfly, she wanted it empty.’
Lena shook her head. ‘Empty?’
‘Generally, my magical mechanicals, those designed for ordinary people, are woven through with magic upon purchase – it’s something I do for them once they’re taken off display. Come, little bee.’ The bee flew to his palm, its yellow light glowing brightly as it lifted and lowered its wings. ‘See this glow? My own magic powers this little creature. But for some of my customers, I can leave it empty. Here.’ He touched a finger to the bee, and with a flicker of yellow the light went out and the wings froze in position. Dead, Lena thought, a sudden chill running through her, but she brushed the thought aside. Had it ever truly been alive? He set it beside the still form of the butterfly. ‘Now it can be filled with someone else’s magic … or perhaps with a spell, or several spells.’
She frowned, not understanding. ‘What would be the point in that?’
‘Well … say you were a mother and you wanted your child to be safe. You might cast a healing spell and put it in this bee, and magically instruct the bee to follow your child around. And then, when the child grazes her knee, the spell activates and the wound is healed. The bee can carry one or two small spells.’ He turned his attention to the butterfly. ‘This little creature is more complex, however, and can
easily carry two or three small spells – perhaps more, depending on the skill of the mage.’
‘Right …’ Lena’s mind jumped around wildly, returning to a point earlier in Chatham’s explanation. ‘So Patience Santini was a mage?’
He nodded. ‘Magic runs famously strong in the Santini bloodline – and I see she asked for the butterfly to be sent to her quarters in the temple of Regis. She trained there before her marriage was arranged. Although I doubt they told Patience’s new family in Duke’s Forest about her talents.’ He smiled briefly. ‘You Foresters are not known for your love of magic.’
Lena ignored the comment. ‘What spell did the butterfly have inside it?’
‘I don’t know. As I said, I made it empty. It would’ve been up to Lady Santini what she wished to fill it with.’ Chatham sliced the cake. ‘Now, how much do you want for it?’
Lena’s mind was occupied, and it took her a few moments to process what Chatham had said. When she did, she blinked in confusion. The fire flickered, and the shadows near the ceiling crowded down like eager observers. ‘Excuse me?’
‘How much do you want? A hundred gold pieces?’ He lifted a slice from the cake stand and lowered it carefully on to a plate. He tried to hand it to her, but she didn’t move.
Lena shook her head. ‘It’s not for sale,’ she said. The butterfly sat on the small table. They both looked at it. Chatham reached out to pick it up, but Lena was faster, cupping it protectively in her palm. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not interested.’
‘Now, now, Miss Grey. I think we’ve established that this little creature isn’t really yours anyway,’ he said, still holding the cake knife. ‘It’s out of pure generosity that I’m happy to compensate you for the loss.’