A College of Magics

by Caroline Stevermer

  Jane and Reed studied the map, and Tyrian turned to watch Brinker cross the great hall toward Faris. The housemaid took the scabbard the cataloguer handed her, duster at the ready.

  And the cataloguer raised the sword, a two-handed sword nearly as tall as he was.

  Faris saw the blade start to swing, had just time to think, why, that’s Uncle Ludovic’s sword—and then—Copenhagen —as the blade swung down toward her.

  Someone shoved her. Tyrian? She fell forward. Her eyes were on the bright steel, and she knew she was in its path. She put out her hands to break her fall. Before she touched the floor, a shot deafened her. Tyrian? She hit the floor, rolled, and glimpsed Tyrian, just bringing out his pistol.

  Ears singing, Faris looked up. Across the great hall, Brinker was putting away a pistol. Between them, the stoop-shouldered man sprawled on the floor. Part of his forehead was gone. Faris glimpsed that much, then the scarlet that had spattered everywhere. The two-handed sword was on the floor nearby, still vibrating with its fall. It had probably made a noise hitting the stone flags, but her ears were too stunned to hear it. She stared at the sword, afraid to look at anything else. The polished steel blade was the only clean thing she could see.

  Faris’s hearing came back while she was still on the floor, braced on her hands and knees. It was faint at first, and she would have been glad to do without it. The housemaid was screaming. Jane and Reed, who had made sure that Faris was unhurt, were trying to calm her.

  “Are you quite well, my dear?” Brinker asked her. He picked up the two-handed sword, inspected it carefully, and slid it back into its scabbard. His voice was as calm as if he were inquiring about the weather.

  Slowly Faris looked up into his face. He looked intently back. Faris thought, If you hired Copenhagen, you’re safe from him now. Aloud, she said, “I’m all right.” She started to push herself up, saw the fine spatter of red on her hands and stopped, staring.

  “Is it your custom to carry a gun in your own house?” Tyrian asked. Faris hardly recognized his cold voice.

  “It is since my dear niece made it a custom of hers to shoot at me.” There was a little pause, just enough time for him to tilt his head, then Brinker added, “I see you carry a weapon, too. Curious. This was a peaceful house, until today.”

  “Until this man arrived,” Tyrian countered. “How long has he been here?”

  “Oh, a day or two. I needed someone to inventory the collection. He seemed qualified.” Brinker’s voice trailed off. “My dear, are you certain you’re all right?”

  Faris was certain she wasn’t. Her palms were clammy, colder than the floor beneath her knees. Her stomach was bucking. With chill resignation, she knew it was not a question of if she would be sick, but when. Soon, she thought. She cursed herself for every macaroon. Very soon. Almost at once.

  Tyrian was beside her then, his unshaven face filled with concern. She met his eyes, had an instant to marvel at the bags beneath them, like bruises, and realized that he was offering her a helmet.

  “Oh, thank you.” She took it from him and saw her own hands, blood-spattered and trembling. There, crouching at her uncle’s feet, while Tyrian held her head, Faris was ignominiously sick.

  Tyrian took her to Queen Matilda’s room, that was all Faris knew. She sat in the chair he had drawn up near Gavren’s roaring fire and shuddered. The serene part of her mind, the part that had helped her through the entire day, reminded her that she ought be busy soothing housemaids, seeing the dead man was properly dealt with, making sure that Jane was fed and lodged as befit her station.

  Instead, Faris huddled beside the fire, head in her hands, elbows on her knees. She was just aware of Tyrian in the room with her, moving with purpose and decision. Her empty stomach jerked. She put her head a little closer to her knees and mumbled, “Don’t leave me.”

  “No. Of course I won’t.” Tyrian’s voice was so changed from the cold one he had used to Brinker, it seemed impossible it could be the same man. He came to her, holding a basin of water, a linen towel over his arm. “Here. Let me wash your hands.”

  The water was warm. The linen was limp with age, as soft as his voice. “Gavren is on guard at the foot of the stair. Reed will relieve him. Your door will be watched every moment. If Copenhagen has left anyone here to harm you, we will stop them.”

  Faris let him dry her hands, but when he tried to fold the towel away, she held it so that he couldn’t. Tyrian bent close. “It’s all right.” His blue eyes were calm. His voice was gentle. He dabbed her forehead with the damp cloth. “No, hold still. There. That does it.”

  Faris touched her forehead with cold fingers. “Is there blood on my face too?” Her hands began to shake again.

  “No.” He put the cloth away. “You’re safe now.”

  Faris hated the way her voice quavered. “Are you sure?”

  Tyrian nodded. He looked exhausted. “You’re quite safe.”

  Faris wished she were tired of hearing those words, but she wasn’t. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that glimpse she’d had of the dead man, his forehead gone, and all the blood in its place. She still felt ill. Her throat hurt and her mouth tasted foul. She wanted to throw her arms around Tyrian and sob. No one was there to see her do it. There was nothing to stop her. Except Tyrian. And herself. “Sorry.” She laughed weakly and rubbed her forehead. “I’ll be better in a minute.”

  Tyrian was still watching her intently. “You’re safe now,” he repeated.

  Faris realized he was saying it as much to persuade himself as to convince her. “Yes. I am safe now. You’re here and I’m all right.”

  Tyrian frowned. “I made a mistake. If your uncle hadn’t had his gun, Copenhagen would have killed you.” He shivered, slightly, but he was so near Faris shivered herself without realizing it. “Forgive me.”

  “Of course,” Faris whispered, hardly knowing she spoke. “I saw him when I came in, and I didn’t give it another thought. I should have asked Gavren when he came—”

  “That was my responsibility.” Tyrian shivered again. Slowly, he drew away from her, as if he had just realized how close they had become. He shook himself a little and sat back on his heels. “I’m sorry. It must seem strange to you. I have not quite recovered from my brush with Menary, I think.”

  “Didn’t the Dean do something—” Faris let her words trail off. She didn’t feel up to diplomacy and she dreaded offending him.

  “Oh, yes. But you—” Tyrian caught himself and started again. “My recollection is not clear. I have the impression that I owe you my life. My manhood. Everything.” He paused. In the silence, only the fire spoke, a muted hiss and crackle. “I owe you—a great deal. When I saw what was happening—I had a desperate moment.” He broke off and laughed very softly. “How bad I am at this. Words don’t serve me.” He rose and began to fold the linen towel with obsessive care. “If you call, Gavren will hear you. When his watch is over, he will knock at your door, to let you know that Reed is on duty in his place. You must let one of us fetch you in the morning. Don’t come down to breakfast until we do.”

  Faris nodded. “I’m quite safe now.”

  Tyrian shivered again and crumpled the blood-stained towel. “You are. I promise.”

  Queen Matilda’s room was large. It had a single window, consisting of a narrow slit in the thick stone wall, which provided a view out across the treetops if one put one’s head into the slit and craned one’s neck. Even on the sunniest day, the room was dim. Early the following morning, when Jane arrived with a procession of dependable servants, it was dark, lit only by the embers dying on the hearth.

  Jane lifted her lamp and surveyed the barren expanse of the room. The curved stone walls of the keep were ornamented so sparsely that the glass in the window seemed luxurious. The only furnishings were a battered oak clothes chest, heavily carved with swags of wheat, acorns, and apples, and the bed, stacked mattresses in a frame of polished rosewood with curves as simple and neat as a sleigh.

&nb
sp; “As I suspected,” Jane said darkly.

  Faris pulled the coverlet up to her chin. “What do you mean?” She felt utterly defenseless. Yesterday’s discarded clothing lay in a heap on the floor nearby. She had nothing else to wear, since she had no idea what had become of her valise. The thought of putting on her blood-stained, dirty riding clothes again made her feel ill. “What are you doing?”

  Jane directed the servants as they brought in furniture, and more lamps, and what looked like a breakfast tray. “Reed didn’t say anything about a washstand, or a writing desk, or a proper light. You didn’t get any dinner, not too surprisingly. Your valise was sent to my room by mistake. I’ll be astonished if you’ve so much as combed your hair.”

  Faris cowered under her blankets while Jane ordered the servants about. By the time she had finished, the room no longer looked sparsely furnished. The fire had been poked into new life, and beside it was set a small, sturdy table bearing a breakfast tray. There was a writing table by the narrow window, and a matching chair with a white-work cushion. There were lamps, enough to read by. There was a washstand, with basin, soap, towels, and a ewer of steaming water. There were extra pillows for the bed. There was a dark dressing gown folded at the foot of the bed, and slippers on the floor beside a small rug. There was her valise. Faris began to feel she might get out of bed someday after all.

  Jane closed the door after the last servant, and turned to Faris. “It’s your uncle’s dressing gown. I hope you don’t mind. I nipped in and took it while Tyrian and Brinker were lecturing each other on security. The servants were all scuttling about trying to watch without being so obvious that they had to be shouted at. I would have asked Lady Brinker for permission, but she’s shut herself in her boudoir and won’t come out.” She touched the dark silk. “He doesn’t deny himself much, does he? There was one for every day of the week.” Jane tossed Faris a pillow. “Sit up so I can pin you beneath the breakfast tray. The tea is probably stone cold by now, but it will do you good.”

  Faris drank her lukewarm tea gratefully. She thought she managed to get the cup back on the saucer without rattling it noticeably, but Jane gave her a keen look and poured her another cup without waiting to be asked. When Faris had finished it, she cradled the empty cup, and said quietly, “Thank you for everything.”

  “I enjoyed it.” Jane’s gray eyes gleamed. “You’ve no notion how much. And it helped take my mind off the late Copenhagen. Consider it amends for making you finish my packing on the train.”

  “I suppose it really was Copenhagen?” asked Faris. “Not some innocent scholar who just wanted to show me the sword?”

  “What a ghastly thought. No, it was Copenhagen. Tyrian identified the body, by the shape of the ears, for some peculiar reason. He’s questioning the rest of the staff, to find out if any of them are Copenhagen’s minions. Even if they are, they won’t have much chance at you here. Reed tells me there’s a cistern for rainwater which Gavren has thoughtfully had filled. The garderobe works as well as it ever did, and there are reliable people guarding the stair in shifts. Still, the questioning gives Tyrian something to do. Other than glare at your uncle, I mean. He’ll fall over with fatigue in a few more hours. Reed and Gavren have a wager on it. Gavren says he won’t last until eleven, Reed says noon.”

  “They’ll fall over before he does, I expect.” Faris investigated the breakfast tray, found a covered dish, and lifted the lid. “What’s this?”

  “Eggs au beurre noir. Somehow I didn’t think you’d fancy pancakes.”

  After a first cautious taste, Faris was surprised to discover that she was hungry. “This is very good. What’s Uncle Brinker doing?”

  Jane said dryly, “Just what you’d expect, given that his wife has locked herself in her boudoir, and his servants are being questioned about their complicity in an attempted murder. He’s gone hunting.”

  Faris gaped. “What? Fox hunting? He can’t have done. There’s a hard frost and snow on the ground.”

  “Not fox hunting. Woodcock. He went off on foot hours ago, with just the gamekeeper and a small boy to carry his guns for him. Perhaps he merely wants to kill something in order to relieve his feelings.”

  “I’ll have to ask Gavren about it. Listen, if you get a free moment sometime later today, will you take a look at the carpet in the library for me? There’s something strange about it. I can’t put it into words. I had too much else to think about when we were there yesterday. I couldn’t examine it properly. It reminds me of something, that’s all.”

  Jane’s eyebrows lifted. “I’m glad you reminded me. Yes, I agree. There is something rather curious about that carpet. Not magic. At least, I don’t think so. But I’d like a closer look. I’ll go now.”

  Faris finished her eggs. “Shall I meet you there? I’m afraid it’s going to take me a while to clean up.” She lifted a lock of her tangled hair and inspected it without enthusiasm. “Perhaps I’ll have to cut it off instead of combing it.”

  Jane took the tray. “Take your time. I’ll ask Tyrian to send you an escort. Shall we agree on a secret knock? Or perhaps a password? How’s this? O my prophetic soul! My uncle!”

  Jane had put Faris’s traveling suit firmly in the grasp of Gavren’s daughter, a notable hand with stains. She brought it, still damp but perfectly wearable, just as Faris finished pinning up her hair. Faris put it on, grateful not to have to touch her riding clothes again.

  It was Tyrian who came to fetch her to the library. He did not use Jane’s password. He merely said her name. When Faris opened the door, she was shocked at the weariness in his face, a gray pallor that surprised her into exclaiming, “What’s happened?”

  Tyrian looked faintly amused. “Nothing. We’ve been making certain that nothing will happen. I think I can assure you that you will be safe walking in your own house. At least as far as the library.”

  Faris put her hand on his sleeve. “That will do for now.”

  Jane was still inspecting the carpet when Faris and Tyrian reached the library. At the door, Faris touched his sleeve again as he turned to leave her. “Get some rest,” she told him.

  Tyrian was impassive. “I think there are one or two things of greater importance to be seen to first.”

  Faris did not release him. “I disagree. You’re not much good to me half dead with exhaustion. Do you realize that Reed and Gavren have wagered on how much longer you can keep this up?”

  Something glinted behind the tired blue eyes. Although he did not smile, Tyrian’s amusement was plain to see. “I do realize it. Jane put a bet down on my behalf, and I intend to collect.”

  Faris shook her head and let him go. “Idiot. Don’t kill yourself with overwork. I can’t spare you.”

  For the first time since their arrival at Galazon Chase, Tyrian looked smug. “I know.”

  Jane had finished with her first examination of the carpet, and turned to the rest of the room. She was quick but methodical enough to make the inspection a lengthy one.

  “There’s something here,” she told Faris, “but it’s so faint I can’t be certain it’s the carpet. It could easily be something else.”

  As Faris watched Jane work, the household returned slowly to normal. At nine o‘clock, Brinker came in from shooting at small birds. At ten, Agnes emerged from her boudoir and troubled to send a message to the library. Luncheon would be served on the dot of one. At eleven o’clock, Gavren lost his bet and took himself off to bed, pausing on the way to look in and tell Faris that he had instructed a workman to repair the bullet hole in the floor the next day.

  Faris sat beside the fire and watched Jane in silence. Any tranquility the room might have held the day before eluded her now. Even the pattern of the carpet looked different than she remembered, far less like foliage and far more like geometry.

  Jane finished with the rest of the room and returned to the carpet. She lay face down in the center of it and ran her palms across the pile. After another moment or two, she sat up, rubbing her palms together
. “There’s nothing magical about this thing now, nothing that I can detect. At most, it has a kind of bouquet, as though it has been around magic, perhaps long ago.” She inspected the tips of her fingers, rubbing them with her thumbs. “I can’t test anything more here. Should I send a piece of it back to Greenlaw?”

  Faris grinned. “Will you explain it to dear Aunt Agnes?”

  “Certainly not. I know my limits.”

  “So we leave it alone—unless I can remember what it reminded me of.”

  The library door opened and Reed peered cautiously in. “The luggage has arrived, your grace. We’ve looked for assassins and infernal devices. There aren’t any. Would you like to inspect it yourself, or should we have it taken to your rooms?”

  Jane’s face was transfigured with relief. “Luggage! Is it all right?”

  “It seems to be. And it’s all there.”

  “It’s a miracle ’ said Jane.

  Faris and Jane accompanied Reed. The miracle was stacked at the foot of the stone staircase, amid traces of melting snow. Jane scrutinized the luggage and agreed with Reed and Tyrian that it seemed to be perfectly safe.

  “Have it taken up, then,” said Faris. “Don’t unpack too thoroughly.”

  Somewhere, a clock struck twelve. Reed looked at Tyrian despairingly. Tyrian regarded him with calm interest.

  Jane eyed Reed and lifted an eyebrow. To Faris, she said, “One is either packed or unpacked. There is no middle ground.” She held out her hand and Reed reluctantly surrendered a small stack of coins. Jane accepted the money and Reed took himself off, yawning convulsively.

  Faris said, “Well, there’s quite a lot of middle ground between Galazon and Aravis and we may be on it very soon.”