03 The Mislaid Magician

by Patricia C. Wrede

  We left Stockton yesterday morning. Both James and I were anticipating a quick and easy journey to London, as the weather was fine and the roads good. We chose to travel by conventional methods, rather than take the railway, as we did not wish to draw any more attention to our sheepdog (and traveling by railway is a novelty that attracts attention all on its own; attempting to bring a sheepdog along would undoubtedly be a nine days' wonder in the village).

  All went well for the first half of the journey, until the road turned away from the river, out of County Durham and into Yorkshire. Shortly thereafter, the sheepdog became restless. (I should mention that, as we chose not to travel on the Sabbath, I had spent much of Sunday attempting to devise a workable means of communication with Herr Magus Schellen. My efforts were of no avail; the transformation spell that affects him is quite thorough. Which is to say that, most unfortunately, Herr Magus Schellen is not a man in the shape of a sheepdog, who would perhaps be able to convey some useful information; no, he is simply a more-intelligent-than-usual sheepdog. So we had no way of discovering what the difficulty might be.)

  As we continued on, the sheepdog went from restless to whimpering, and then subsided into a lethargy. By the time we reached the inn at Leeds, he was lying motionless on the floor of the carriage and I was growing quite worried. James was at first inclined to put the dog's behavior down to carriage-sickness (or the canine equivalent), but he, too, was concerned when Herr Schellen had to be lifted down and then lay panting on the ground.

  Our situation attracted the attention of a number of stableboys and various idlers, who made a great many unhelpful comments and suggestions about what to do with our dog. James responded more and more stiffly (a sure sign of irritation), while I was torn between trying to attend to the Herr Magus, wishing to avoid attracting more attention, and a strong desire to lay into the onlookers with my parasol.

  And then I heard a voice that cut through the crowd easily without being raised to any vulgar pitch: "Does all this uproar have some point of which I am not aware?"

  The onlookers melted away like snow in sunlight. Only an erect figure in a modish burgundy walking dress and matching bonnet remained. "Aunt Elizabeth!" I said in mingled surprise, gratitude, and trepidation. "Whatever are you doing in Leeds?"

  "We came to find you and James," Aunt Elizabeth replied, from which I inferred that Mr. Wrexton had accompanied her. "I had not expected—" She glanced at the sheepdog, and her eyes narrowed. "I had not expected to find you in such an interesting position," she said, which I do not think was what she had meant to say to begin with. "You had better bring... everyone inside, where we can discuss matters without creating any more scenes."

  As it was useless to protest that creating a scene had been the last thing we had intended, we followed her in. Or rather, I followed her in; James stayed with the sheepdog, attempting to persuade him to walk. When that failed, he was forced to bribe the lone stableboy who had remained within earshot to assist him in carrying the Herr Magus inside.

  I will spare you an account of the discussion with the innkeeper; suffice it to say, he was initially much put out by the presence of so plebeian an animal as a sheepdog, and James had to turn all top-lofty on him—and even then, I am not sure we would have prevailed had not Aunt Elizabeth taken a hand.

  Eventually, the five of us—Aunt Elizabeth, Mr. Wrexton, James, the sheepdog, and I—were served tea in a private parlor, while Walker and James's valet saw to the trunks. I was more than usually happy with the bustle of servants setting up tea things, for I was uncertain what tack to take when the discussion began. It is so awkward when one is involved in a secret matter and has no notion how much other people know, or whether they ought to be told more or not. Despite my worries, I was glad indeed to see Mr. Wrexton's cheerful face.

  Fortunately, I did not need to mind my tongue for long. As soon as the door closed behind the last of the servants, James turned to Mr. Wrexton and asked, "What brings you to Leeds?" (just as if he had not heard Aunt Elizabeth say, only a few minutes before, that they had come in search of us).

  "This business of Wellington's," Mr. Wrexton replied. He frowned at the sheepdog. "Though I suspect my news will wait. What have you stumbled onto?"

  James looked at me. I began an account of finding the sheepdog, but Aunt Elizabeth stopped me before I had gone three sentences. "From the beginning, Cecelia, please," she said firmly. "Official reports are useful, but too often they sacrifice relevant details for brevity."

  She was very careful not to look at James as she said this, but since his are the only official reports there have been of this matter, it was quite clear what she meant. She added, "I need not fear that your narrative will suffer from a lack of description."

  (Dearly as I love Aunt Elizabeth, and much as I appreciate her sterling qualities, I confess that I cannot like the way she has of making me feel as if I am once more a scrubby ten-year-old with torn stockings and muddy petticoats.)

  So I did as she asked. I began at the beginning—with Lord Wellington's summons to James—and recounted the entire business in order. Aunt Elizabeth and Mr. Wrexton listened with great attention, and when I finished, they looked at each other.

  "I believe this is more your area, my dear," Mr. Wrexton said, gesturing at the sheepdog.

  Aunt Elizabeth rose and went over to the dog. She felt very gently behind its ears and at the back of its neck, then frowned. Then she made a chopping motion with her left hand and said, "Aperio."

  The sheepdog howled. Aunt Elizabeth closed her hand into a fist and the sound stopped abruptly as the sheepdog collapsed once more.

  "Aunt Elizabeth, what—"

  "Hush, Cecelia. In a moment." She rose, dusted her skirts, and hastily reseated herself. Giving me a warning look, she began to speak in a voice rather louder than normal, and much more in Aunt Charlotte's style than her own. "Now, about the shameful way in which you and Georgina have been neglecting the London Season—"

  The door of the parlor burst open. The innkeeper stood there, sputtering apologies; behind him, the scowl on his wife's face made clear who was responsible for their abrupt appearance. I blessed Aunt Elizabeth's quick wits; for of course if she had not started in on the Season in that nonsensical way, the innkeeper and his wife might well have heard something they ought not.

  Aunt Elizabeth fixed our hosts with an imperious glare. "Gracious me," she said in a forbidding tone. "What is the reason for this intrusion?"

  "Begging your pardon, ma'am, but you'll have to be keeping that dog quiet," the innkeeper said. His wife punctuated his remarks with emphatic nods.

  "Has there been some disturbance?" Mr. Wrexton asked with great politeness.

  The innkeeper looked quite taken aback, but his wife was made of sterner stuff. "That dog was howling, but a minute gone," she said. "And we can't be having it. Begging your pardon," she added grudgingly after a pointed glance from her husband.

  Aunt Elizabeth put down her teacup and sniffed. I am sure you remember that sniff, Kate; we surely heard it often enough after our childhood adventures. "Nonsense!" she said. "Does that dog look capable of such an effort as howling?"

  Everyone looked at the sheepdog. The dog blinked but did not raise his head from the carpet. He gave every appearance of being incapable of lifting so much as an ear. Throwing back his head to howl was plainly beyond him.

  The innkeeper seemed willing to accept this evidence, and repeated his apologies. His wife was more reluctant to retreat, but it was clear even to her that she was no match for Aunt Elizabeth. When they had gone at last (and when we were quite certain that the wife was not listening at the door), I looked at Aunt Elizabeth and said, "Aunt Elizabeth, I never thought to hear such a string of bouncers from you, of all people."

  "It has long since become clear to me that I failed, in your upbringing, to impress upon you properly how unattractive it is for a lady of quality to use slang terms adopted from her brother," Aunt Elizabeth observed. "And I must point o
ut to you that no word of falsehood passed either Michael's lips or my own."

  "A masterly job of misdirection," James said. "But what, if anything, did you learn about our involuntary guest?" He nodded at the sheepdog.

  "Cecelia is quite right; this is a case of transformation," Aunt Elizabeth replied. "I cannot, of course, determine who he is, or was, prior to becoming a sheepdog, but I think it likely that she is also correct in assuming him to be your missing engineer. Unfortunately, I fear he will not be easy to disenchant. The spell is linked to a power source somewhere northeast of here."

  "Ah. That will explain the animal's lethargy," Mr. Wrexton said. "The spell is drawing on the dog's energy to maintain the link over too long a distance."

  "Good heavens!" I said, appalled. "You mean that he's like this just because we brought him this far south? However are we to get him to the Royal College?"

  "I don't believe you will, dear," Aunt Elizabeth said. "Not without disenchanting him first."

  "We can alleviate the problem, but only very temporarily," Mr. Wrexton said. "Not long enough to get him to London, I'm afraid."

  The sheepdog whined. James and I looked at each other. "I don't think Wellington is going to be pleased about this," James said after a moment.

  "That's another thing," Mr. Wrexton said, and his tone drew James's and my attention at once. He cleared his throat and went on, "There's a bit of a bother at the prime minister's office."

  "Michael, dear," Aunt Elizabeth said in a tone of mild reproof.

  "Yes, all right," Mr. Wrexton said. "I've been dancing around the facts for so long that it's become a habit," he said apologetically to James and me. "To give you the matter without any bark on it, information has been leaking out of the prime minister's office, and we don't know yet who is responsible or why."

  "Wellington's staff?" James said in tones of horror.

  "Doubtful," Mr. Wrexton told him. "The problem seems to date back to some months before Wellington took office. That's not much help, though; there are dozens, if not hundreds, of clerks and functionaries who could be behind it. And the fellow's been careful, to get away with it this long. We won't be able to narrow the field until we find out what he's after."

  "What he's after?" I said. "Can't you guess from the sort of information that has been leaking?"

  "That's the problem," Mr. Wrexton said. "The things we've traced have been very... miscellaneous. Everything from the progress of trade discussions to the prime minister's opinions of quite minor bills in Parliament. Some of the gossip about that last argument between His Majesty and the Duke of Cumberland was traced to the office. Nothing important, but Wellington was furious. And now this latest incident—"

  Apparently, James sent off an express packet to Mr. Wrexton last week, after the incident at Haliwar, asking him to check at the Royal College for information about the tower, ley lines, and all the rest of the things that have been puzzling us. As the request was part of our investigation, he sent it through Lord Wellington's office. Lord Wellington sent it on at once, of course, but the next morning there were signs that someone had tried to enter his office. (Lord Wellington naturally takes magical precautions to prevent this; James says it is a habit he acquired long ago, during his India campaigns.) Since his secretary's desk, which did not have any protective enchantments, was also rifled, and since the message packets appeared to have received considerable attention from the rifler, Lord Wellington and his aides concluded that someone wanted rather badly to find out what had been in James's urgent letter.

  And so Mr. Wrexton and Aunt Elizabeth made some hasty preparations and set out on the North Road, to act as a combination of reinforcements and messengers. I believe that Lord Wellington also had some hope that, because Aunt Elizabeth and I are related to Georgy and because there have been some garbled rumors flying about London regarding Georgy and Daniel (everything from murder to runaway matches with the groom and governess, Aunt Elizabeth says), it would seem natural for Aunt Elizabeth to come north to assist me in confronting Daniel, or some such. (I do not think that this is at all likely to fool whoever is rifling desks in the government offices, but it may do for an explanation to Society.)

  Which brings me to the last of Mr. Wrexton's news. James had, as I mentioned, asked for information about ley lines and Haliwar Tower. As Mr. Wrexton is no antiquary, nor any sort of expert on ancient magic or history, he went straight to the archives at the Royal College of Wizards. And what he found there is quite dreadful.

  "You have to understand," he said, "that the archivists at the Royal College are fanatics in regard to completeness. They write everything down. There's even a thorough description of those experiments of Sir Hilary Bedrick's, because even though they were illegal, unethical, and got him kicked out of the College to boot, he performed some of them while he was a member."

  James made a disapproving noise. I did not say anything, but I shared his sentiments. Sir Hilary's "experiments" in stealing other wizards' magic and driving people mad do not seem to me to be the sort of thing that the Royal College ought to preserve, and I do not believe that I feel this way only because I was one of the people he intended to drain and drive mad.

  Mr. Wrexton nodded as if we had both spoken. "Just so," he said. "But this time, it's very much to our advantage. You see, there was quite a lot of experimentation on ley lines right after they were discovered in 1641. It wasn't limited to the Royal College, either; I found a variety of accounts sent in by an assortment of magicians. One of them, Lord Charlton White, was proposed for membership in the College on the strength of his spell for measuring the intensity of different ley lines."

  Aunt Elizabeth sniffed again. James looked from her to Mr. Wrexton. "What was wrong with White's spell?"

  "Nothing," Mr. Wrexton said. "It's still used. The problem is with what came after. He and another fellow, a magician named Steven Morris, came up with the theory that some ley lines had been artificially constructed."

  "Artificial? You mean, some of them were made by wizards?" I was stunned. Just tapping a ley line is dangerous enough; controlling one long enough to move it or create a new one... well, if ley lines are like rivers of magic, then creating a new one would be like digging a canal, except that the canal would be for a strong acid that threatened to eat you and your tools at any moment.

  "Exactly," Mr. Wrexton said. "If they were artificial, they'd have to be prehistoric, of course, or we'd have records of how the lines were constructed. Morris and White spent five years roaming around mapping assorted ley lines in an attempt to prove their theories. After about four years, their project was interrupted by the Civil Wars."

  "It would be a bit difficult to wander about casting detecting spells with Cromwell's army marching back and forth," James said dryly.

  "That's what everyone's thought for years," Mr. Wrexton said. "Especially since Lord White was killed during one of the early clashes. After the Restoration, of course, King Charles II sent Lynne and a corps of wizards to do the mapping job properly. So no one paid much attention to those early maps."

  "Except you," I said. "What did you discover?"

  Mr. Wrexton sighed. "The Royal College was as divided by the Civil Wars as the rest of England," he said. "There were Royalists and Parliamentarians among wizards, the same as everywhere else. And Morris and White—"

  "Were on opposite sides?" I guessed.

  Mr. Wrexton nodded. "Lord White was a Royalist; that's why he lost his head when Cromwell caught him. Morris was, it seems, secretly one of Cromwell's advisors from the very beginning."

  "And their political persuasions have something to do with ley lines and Haliwar Tower?" James said.

  "Possibly," Mr. Wrexton replied. "I found a summary of their work and theories by accident, apparently misfiled among a series of maps showing the incidence of sheep-cursing along the Tyne in 1653. The archivist was most upset."

  "Good Lord!" James said. "What were you looking for in there?"

  "But what
did they say?" I demanded at the same time.

  "Lord White was quite sincere in his desire simply to prove the existence of a prehistoric network of man-made ley lines. Morris, however, seems to have wanted not merely to find them, but to control them."

  "He was going to use all that magic to help Oliver Cromwell!" I said.

  "In a way," Mr. Wrexton replied. "It's clear from Morris's notes that he believed the artificial leys weren't simply set out at random or for the convenience of a particular wizard or group of wizards. He thought they formed a pattern, a spell, that bound the whole country. And still does."

  James's eyes narrowed. "Bound it to what?"

  "Bound it together," Mr. Wrexton replied. "Think about it. Over the centuries, England has been invaded by Romans, by Danes, by Saxons, by French—and all of them have either left again or settled down and become English."

  "That's the spell's doing?" I said.

  "Morris and White believed it was," Mr. Wrexton said. "And when the fighting started, Morris thought that the spell would keep Oliver Cromwell from winning unless something was done about it."

  "Hmph," Aunt Elizabeth said. She had been listening with evident interest; plainly, Mr. Wrexton had not previously informed her of his discoveries. "You needn't mince words, Michael. They were a pair of lunatics. They left out anything that didn't fit their notions, and added in lines that weren't there. Unless you think that several new ley lines simply appeared out of nowhere after they made their maps."

  "I regret having to contradict you, my dear," Mr. Wrexton said. "But they were not lunatics. Or at least, if they were lunatics, they were partially correct lunatics. Lord White left extremely clear notes along with the maps. I didn't have time to verify all of it, but I managed enough. Artificial or not, there is a spell powered by a network of ley lines that does exactly what Morris thought. And I cannot see how such a thing could have arisen by some natural accident."