by Juliet Kemp
She felt her shoulders tense, and deliberately relaxed them. It was imperative that no one knew that until it happened. Her best chance was in surprise, so the Houses had no time to react.
Selene couldn’t know anything. She was fishing, or it was about something else. There was no point in worrying through what would happen if Selene knew and if she chose to reveal it to the rest of the Houses, unless and until that was really happening.
“Excuse me,” the footman stationed in the hall said. “I fear it is raining. Shall I have the chair brought round.”
Marcia sighed. “Yes, please do.”
When wearing a floor-length tunic with full House embroidery on it, if she arrived damp around the edges she would look exceptionally foolish.
Selene’s rooms, when Marcia was shown up to them by the owner of the guesthouse, were very pleasant. Well furnished; perhaps not quite as well as, say, her own drawing room, but very comfortably and all Mareker-make. The room’s most appealing feature was the huge window that looked out over the cliff and down the river; a view similar to that from House Fereno, albeit lower.
Selene was standing by the window, which put Marcia at a slight but immediate disadvantage. Selene would be able to see her well, despite the rainy overcast outside, but she couldn’t see Selene’s expression at all. She bowed, formally, as befit what she was wearing and the tone of Selene’s message, and Selene bowed slightly in return. Selene was pulling out all the stops to intimidate her. She was claiming the rights of the Teren Lord Lieutenant, rights which in theory elevated her above Marcia.
In theory. What would happen if Selene pushed too hard on those rights? Marcia didn’t know, and she wasn’t keen to find out.
Marcia moved slightly to the left, to encourage Selene to move round herself and lose a little of the advantage of the light.
“Lord Lieutenant,” she said. Keep it formal. “I was surprised to receive your message.”
“I am concerned,” Selene said, “with this declaration of the Guilds.” She hadn’t moved. Drat.
“Yes?” Marcia wasn’t about to offer information.
“Teren desires a closer relationship with Marek, with the Houses. But I understand the importance of the Guilds in Marek’s trading engagements with the rest of the world. The Guilds enhance Teren goods, after all, and that is beneficial for us.” She wasn’t wrong; many, though not all, of the raw materials that the Guilds used were from Teren. “We have been able to talk usefully before. I was hoping that we might be able to again now.”
Which was all very well; but why then had she been flinging her position around?
“I have tried to speak to the Guilds,” Marcia said, which was entirely true. “They are… intransigent. I hope to speak to them again.” She hesitated. Maybe it was worth at least testing the waters here. “I did however wonder whether discussing their demands further might be useful. Perhaps we could find a middle position that might satisfy both Houses and Guilds.”
Selene frowned. “The Houses run Marek,” she said. “I am surprised that you would even consider wishing it otherwise.”
“The relationship between the Houses and the Guilds is, as you rightly say, important,” Marcia said. “The foundation of our prosperity, even. As such…”
She nearly missed the very faint flicker of satisfaction in Selene’s eyes, at ‘foundation of our prosperity’.
“I understand that you were attempting to undermine exactly that prosperity, even before the Guilds began to throw their weight around,” Selene said. “How has that worked out for House Fereno?”
Marcia smiled sweetly at her. “House Fereno is, as ever, concerned with what is best for Marek. I stand by my position that if the Guilds are unhappy, Marek will suffer for it, and I regret if my fellow Heirs and Heads have seen that differently. I am as distressed as anyone else that the Guilds have acted so intemperately to resolve these problems.”
“My sympathies that your concerns have been taken so badly,” Selene said.
Marcia didn’t believe in her ‘sympathies’ for a single second.
“Intemperate is indeed the word. And intemperate behaviour, surely, should not be rewarded.” Selene’s tone did, at least, suggest that she didn’t know what Marcia would be proposing later in Council. “I urge the Houses to hold fast. Teren will support you, if you need, for example, a better deal on goods, while the Guilds are holding out. I feel certain that the power of the Houses is sufficient to win through this challenge.” She smiled, briefly. “The Guilds will, I am certain, blink first.”
“That is certainly the view of my mother, and of the other Heads,” Marcia said, her mind running fast. So that was Selene’s angle. Strengthening the bond between Teren and Marek; making the Houses dependent on Teren goods. They could carry on trading raw materials without the Guilds, and that would surely be good for Teren. But it wouldn’t be good for Marek. Was that the only thing Selene wanted? Or was it more than that; did she see the Houses weakening, and calling on Teren for aid. What sort of aid? If the Guilds and the Houses were in conflict…
A sudden chill ran through Marcia. If the Houses asked Teren aid in quelling the Guilds… surely that couldn’t be what Selene was playing for. It would destroy Marek. And it would put the Houses, and therefore Marek, in Teren’s grasp. Surely the Houses wouldn’t be that stupid. Would they?
“Of your mother, but not of yourself?” Selene prompted, and Marcia dragged herself back to the conversation at hand.
“It is my mother who holds the vote,” Marcia evaded. “I would simply prefer to see an end to this that doesn’t involve the Houses and the Guilds starving one another out.”
“Well, I wish you luck in convincing the Guilds to back down,” Selene said, then shifted her weight. “I called you here primarily for another reason, though, as it happens.”
Marcia blinked, startled by the sudden change of subject.
“I am grateful to you for introducing me to those Marek sorcerers,” Selene said. She sounded like she was holding the word ‘sorcerer’ with tongs. “Unfortunately, they are not co-operating. I have reason to believe that the Teren runaway has come here; but I have heard no word from, who were they? Reb, and Cato.”
“Maybe the sorcerer hasn’t come to them?” Marcia suggested.
“Surely they should know, if another sorcerer is wandering around the city? Otherwise what is the point of this Group? Our Academy would certainly know if the situation were reversed.”
Marcia hadn’t known there was such a thing in Ameten. She stashed the information away for future reference, and for Reb’s benefit.
“I must insist you find another sorcerer for me,” Selene continued. “I am aware that there are fewer than there were, but there must be someone more competent.”
Marcia’s eyebrows flicked upwards for a moment before she got them under control. Reb and Cato must have deliberately chosen to present the impression of being two of many, and she had no intention of treading on either of their toes.
“I’m sorry,” she said politely. “The Group is the only way in which I can reasonably put you in touch with sorcerers. It would be – most inappropriate, for me to do anything else.”
“And what if the Houses were to hear of your relationship with this Reb?” Selene said.
Marcia didn’t manage to control her jerk of shock. “My what?”
“You are spending a great deal of time with the sorcerer,” Selene said. “Overnight, even.” It was impossible to miss her insinuation; more so as it was true. “I understood that the Houses are not permitted to engage with sorcery.”
“You’ve been spying on me?”
Selene shrugged.
“The Houses will not tolerate such behaviour from Teren towards one of our own,” Marcia said, coldly furious. How dare Selene do this?
“A sorcerer brother, and a sorcerer lover,” Selene mused. “Are you certain that they won’t be grateful to me for exposing you?”
“The ban is on using sorcery
,” Marcia said, in tones as frigid and as assured as she could muster. “Not on knowing sorcerers. Say whatever you like, to whomever you like. I regret that I cannot assist you. Now, if you will excuse me.”
She bowed, barely and dismissively, and turned to leave the room.
“Do let me know if you change your mind,” Selene said, behind her.
k k
Jonas sat on the Guildhall roof and looked down on the late-morning Marek Square crowds below. Clouds raced across the sun, casting strange scudding shadows over the red roof-slates. A juggler was performing by the fountain; if Jonas wasn’t mistaken, there was a pickpocket moving through the watching crowd, either working with the juggler or merely taking advantage of the distraction she offered. Being up here in the daylight was perhaps a little risky; but in his experience nearly no-one ever looked up in this city.
He’d come up here to be certain that he’d be alone for a while. He’d woken up with the feeling that there was something that he was missing; something important. Eventually, he’d remembered the flicker he’d had, before, the one he’d ignored. The one that spoke of danger.
The thing was, seeing danger was all very well, but it hadn’t been particularly informative. Unspecified danger, to unspecified people. Which was part of why he’d ignored it. That and the fact that he didn’t want to have to deal with it.
He wasn’t feeling comfortable about that decision any more. And he kept thinking that there must have been something that he’d missed.
He needed specifics, so he could make a more informed decision. And that meant trying to see it again, deliberately.
The wind was picking up. Jonas shivered and wished he’d brought his jacket up with him. He’d been warm earlier, but he’d been on the move then. Then he rolled his eyes at himself. Wasn’t he supposed to be a sorcerer now? Cato had tried to teach him a warming charm the other day, telling him it was useful in winter for those who lived in the squats and were occasionally low on cash, and also useful if one wanted to be able to help out one’s neighbours once in a while. He’d looked almost furtive when he said that last. Cato was an odd bloke; he went to great pains over his careless, callous reputation, but Jonas had begun to suspect it was, if not exactly an act, an overstatement. Sure, Cato’s morals weren’t up to, say, those of his sister, and he cared not even slightly for a number of social mores that were important to many of his neighbours. But he was basically kind; and he had a deep and abiding care for Marek and its people. At least, for those who weren’t rich and who hadn’t annoyed him lately.
Jonas reached into his pocket and brought out the little bag with the remnants of the base for the warming charm; then hesitated. He hadn’t been able to do this when Cato showed it to him; and whilst Cato hadn’t exactly forbidden him from trying magic on his own, he had strongly suggested that it was best, for now, to practise with him on hand in case of emergencies. (Like, for example, every pigeon in the city arriving.) But the instructions for this were easy, and Jonas felt like he’d be more able to do it now. He’d brought a flicker on by himself. He’d told his mother he was a sorcerer (nearly). He wasn’t scared of the idea of magic any more. And maybe it would be easier doing this on his own, out from under Cato’s cool gaze. And if it wasn’t, well, no one had to know.
Plus, he was cold.
He took out a pinch of the mixture, and scattered it at five points around him, as Cato had shown him. He reached out for that feeling that was Beckett noticing his request. As he concentrated, there was a feeling like something bursting gently at the base of his skull, the pinches of the mixture shivered and scattered away in all directions, and warmth spread through his body.
It had worked. It had just… worked, exactly as he’d wanted it to. Maybe he really was, finally, getting the hang of this.
Now for the flicker. He’d managed to bring one on before. Feeling that warmth in his bones, he wondered suddenly if this time, instead of just trying to induce it, he could do something with Marek-magic to enhance it. Even if the flickers themselves weren’t Marek-magic.
He picked at a fingernail, hesitating. Really, if he was going to try that, he ought to go to Cato, to get his support. He had no idea what he was doing, after all. Doing a warmth spell in exactly the way he’d been shown was one thing; making something up all by himself was rather another.
But then, Cato didn’t know anything about his flickers or where they came from. He wouldn’t know how to go about this either.
He’d help, if Jonas asked. But that would mean explaining why he was keen to direct them, and that would mean explaining the danger-flicker to Cato. And he really wasn’t keen to do that unless and until he had more information.
So. He could give up, and wait to see if anything more happened on its own; or he could give it a try. What did he have to lose?
He looked round the roof, and considered his own position, perched on the ridge. Perhaps trying out a brand new piece of magic, in particular attempting to trigger a flicker, would be better done closer to the ground. Or at least somewhere slightly less precarious. A ridge-pole was safe enough in the ordinary way of things, but not if he lost his balance.
There was a flat piece of roof between two chimney-pots, in a place where two rooftops sloped downwards to meet it. That would do nicely, and would avoid him having to go all the way down to the ground, where there was far too high a risk that someone would see and interfere.
He squatted in the small space and considered his next steps. He was still warm from the previous spell. But he didn’t have any other spell-makings on him. He chewed at his lip, considering the problem. What, after all, was the purpose of the spell-makings, the powders and the crushed this and that? They focussed the mind, maybe; they called up a particular energy. But the energy that he wanted to call up was all in himself, wasn’t it? And what he wanted was, in effect, to ask Beckett’s help to sharpen his own vision. Beckett, who belonged to Marek; and here he was, on the roof of one of the symbols of Marek. Perhaps the roof of the Council Chamber would have been even better; there again, the Council didn’t hold with magic, did they? The Guilds probably did.
He pulled his pocketknife out and scraped at the edge of the chimney until he had a fair amount of soot; then pulled gently at his eyelashes until one came away, and added that to the little pile of soot in the palm of his left hand. Something for Marek, something to symbolise his own sight. Was there anything else he could add?
In the corner where the roofs came together, he spotted a feather. A crow feather. The crows circled over the city; they watched people and things. And the birds liked him, he was increasingly sure of that. He picked it up, and used it to swirl the soot and the eyelash gently around in his hand, watching them closely, watching the little barbs of the strands that made up the feather, watching the soot coat them and the eyelash stick to them, letting his awareness reach slowly outwards, seeking that feeling of being balanced between here and there, opening himself up to the awareness of Beckett…
There was a flash of light across his eyes, a confused welter of images, and then he cracked his head as he fell sideways, and everything went dark.
TWENTY-TWO
Marcia was early to Council. Not her normal approach, but she wanted to lay the motion before anyone else arrived. She was relieved to see that the only other person in the foyer was the Reader’s Clerk in her long grey robe, a dour woman with short-cropped hair who had held the job for as long as Marcia could remember. Marcia greeted the Clerk politely and handed over the sheet of paper with the motion on. The Clerk read it over without so much as twitching a facial muscle; stamped it; and pinned it up on the board next to her small desk.
Marcia hadn’t signed it. People usually did, but one didn’t have to; and she didn’t want to have to field attacks on it before she’d even stepped through into the Chamber. Presumably it would be assumed that it had been placed by the Guilds; what no one would know for certain would be whether or not the Guilds expected any House support.
Her palms were sweating. She wished she could go through now and sit down, but that would look peculiar. A fair fraction of the business of the Chamber happened out here, unofficially; one didn’t deliberately absent oneself from it.
It was another few minutes before other Heads began to trickle in; then the Guildwardens arrived in a solid phalanx. Daril came in just after them, not looking even slightly anxious, the rotten shit. He swanned through the foyer without even looking at her, going straight to talk to Haran-Head. From the gestures, it looked like Haran-Head was asking after Gavin. She was faintly curious as to why Daril was here instead of Gavin, but not curious enough to ask. She might not like the answer.
No one had gone to read the motions-board yet. She wished they would; even without the signature tying it immediately to her, she was tense waiting for the first reactions.
Athitol-Head came up to her, and she stopped trying not to glare at Daril – and trying not to worry that he was going to back down at the last moment – and transferred her attention to the other woman.
“Your mother is not here today?”
“Mother and I agreed that I would begin carrying our vote some of the time, this year,” Marcia said, which was a slight exaggeration.
“Well. That’s an interesting reaction to your recent behaviour.” Her tone was cutting.
Marcia kept a smile on her face. There really wasn’t anything she could say to that. To assure Athitol-Head that she and her mother were not at odds would just make her more likely to believe that they were, and were trying to cover it up.
Athitol-Head looked faintly thwarted not to have got a rise out of Marcia. “I see you’re not the only Heir carrying your vote today,” she said, nodding across the foyer. “Young Daril tells me that Gavin is not well today.” Unwell, was he? Huh. Athitol-Head sniffed. “I trust it will be a while longer before your generation takes over entirely.”