by Emma Newman
He meant Bartholomew. Freddy was no fool, as much as he liked to make people think he was. Will knew he was trying to back him into a corner and make him promise to do something, fearful of being seen as less capable of change than Bartholomew. For anyone else it would be madness, but Freddy didn’t know about the power he had over the Arbiters. It would be a risk but, if he could pull it off, it would silence any doubters.
“Change is a powerful thing and I agree that the problem has existed far too long,” he said. “I take my responsibilities as Duke very seriously and believe it’s an omission to declare the Nether roads outside of my protection. Without them there is no city to speak of. Let it be entered into the record that my first promise to you as Duke of Londinium is to make the roads between your homes and the White Tower safe to travel in the Nether. I will not have any person within my domain be afraid to travel. I can’t say how long it will take, nor can I say it will be without its setbacks and difficulties. But I will deal with the highwaymen and give the residents of this domain the security they deserve.”
There was a spontaneous burst of applause and he couldn’t resist a quick glance at Dame Iris to gauge her reaction. She too was clapping politely but her expression was inscrutable.
Freddy was easy to read. He made a couple of gruff comments which were inaudible above the applause and then downed the contents of his glass. His younger brother, standing behind him, moved aside with obvious contempt when Freddy launched himself back into the crowd to find more wine. He made eye contact with Will and bowed deeply. Interesting, Will thought. The younger Viola is someone to watch.
Max got off the train at Bath Spa, having delivered the package to Catherine. It contained several files on people she’d requested after their abortive attempt to get a London Arbiter to come and talk to her. He’d pulled them from the Agency without mentioning it to Ekstrand, something the gargoyle had talked him into.
He couldn’t request a messaging tube from Ekstrand without having to explain and he couldn’t use the Letterboxer Charm she’d suggested. He proposed a dead drop location that she could send a servant to, but she didn’t trust any of them enough. She even seemed nervous of them.
Max spent a couple of hours patrolling the city centre but saw nothing suspicious. There could be people disappearing into Exilium all over the kingdom of Wessex for all he knew. They were blind without the information network the Bath Chapter used to manage and there was no one on the street day in, day out like they needed. They were failing in their duty of care and it had to be the same all over Albion, apart from Mercia. It was only a matter of time before the Fae noticed.
He’d been trying to speak to Ekstrand for almost a week, sending messages via Petra and Axon but receiving nothing in reply. The gargoyle was constantly on edge and had begun to wear a groove in the floorboards of Max’s bedroom from the endless pacing. No progress was being made and Ekstrand was the problem.
Satisfied that nothing untoward was happening in the centre, Max headed back to Ekstrand’s house. The gargoyle was waiting for him in the lobby and ran up to him like a dog who’d been shut up in a house alone all day. “Ekstrand’s come out of his room!” it said. “He’s in the ballroom with the apprentices!”
The gargoyle bounded down the hallway ahead of him before running back and then on again as if it had too much energy. As he approached the ballroom Max could hear Ekstrand’s voice clearly through the door.
He knocked once and then entered, the gargoyle at his heels. The apprentices were gathered and looking down at something covered by a dark cloth in the middle of the room. Ekstrand was standing next to it dressed in a tweed suit with leather patches on the elbows.
“What sort of things could the Sorcerer of Mercia have neglected to ward his property against? Be creative now.”
Gordon, the most enthusiastic apprentice, bobbed up and down with his hand in the air. Ekstrand pointed at him.
“Small mammals, sir.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Guinea pigs…hamsters, that sort of thing.”
“No.” Ekstrand cut him off. “Bombarding the Sorcerer’s house with…otters is not creative, it’s absurd. He will have warded against projectiles, even living ones. Next!”
“Acid,” another suggested.
“Rubbish,” Ekstrand said. “Is that the best you can all come up with? Acid is first on my list of things to ward my property against, not just because my list is alphabetical. The first things that spring to any Sorcerer’s mind are destructive substances, so of course he’ll have protected against all of them, including fire, ice—and jellied eels, before anyone suggests that foul substance.”
“Sir,” Max called from the back. “I must speak with you.”
“Not now, Maximilian, I’m in the middle of an important lesson.”
“But sir, it’s about the Sorcerer of Mercia.”
All of the apprentices turned to look at him.
Ekstrand held up a hand. “You’re far behind me. I’ve been going through some old notes and I’ve already found out something desperately important about him. Well, two things actually. No, three. Three, yes. The first is his name: Rupert! I knew it was something that sounded like a currency, and I was right.”
“Will that be useful for fighting him, sir?” Gordon asked.
“That his name sounds like Rupee? No, of course not.”
“No, sir, knowing his name.”
“Oh. No, not at all, but it was bothering me. Now the second thing I found in my clearing out was a notebook in which I wrote two very important lists. One is a list of places I would like to visit one day. The other—more important for the war—is a list of places I never, ever want to visit. And do you know what’s at the top of the list?” When Max, the gargoyle and the apprentices shook their heads in unison he said, “Oxford.”
He beamed at them all. No one had anything to say for a moment until Gordon said, “Oh! Oxford is in the kingdom of Mercia!”
Ekstrand nodded. “I started that list a long time ago, I remember writing that city down after I had a rather difficult Moot at which we were all discussing the civil war. Rupert was defending his decision to let the royal Court convene in Convocation House and the Sorcerer of Northumbria was furious about it. They shouted for hours until Rupert said something along the lines of it being his property, in his domain, so he could do what he wanted there. I had completely forgotten until I saw that list. Convocation House is one of the rooms in the Bodleian Library quadrangle. I’d wager the library is his anchor property too. It’s certainly one of the largest in central Oxford, the only one that could contain his monstrous ego.”
“But surely he wouldn’t give away the location of his home, sir,” Max said. All Sorcerers were fiercely protective of their privacy, especially with each other.
“Ah, but he wasn’t thinking about such things at the time. He wasn’t being careful at all. Of course, there’s every possibility that he lives somewhere else now, given it was several hundred years ago, but it’s the best place to start.”
“What was the third thing?” the gargoyle asked. “You said you found three.”
“Did I? Oh. I can’t remember. It’ll come back to me. So you see, Maximilian, I know everything I need to know about that ne’er-do-well.”
“But sir, I don’t think he’s behind the attack on the Moot.”
Ekstrand blinked rapidly. “Preposterous. Rupert of Mercia is a villain from an order of pond scum so low it hasn’t even made it into any phyllotactic classification of plant life. He killed the others to take over Albion, as he’s always wanted.”
“But everything points to the Sorcerer of Essex.”
“Dante’s dead!”
“Exactly!” the gargoyle said. “He was already dead when the others were murdered. Petra told us that.”
“Thereby making it impossible for it to have been him,” Ekstrand replied. “So it must be Rupert. I didn’t kill them and they wouldn’t want to kill themsel
ves—at least not in such a sociable manner—so it has to be Rupert.”
“Fae magic can animate inanimate objects and make them behave in a way the caster of the Charm expects,” Max said. “Someone must have animated Dante’s dead body so the other Sorcerers would be tricked long enough to be killed, a way that the wards couldn’t protect against. The only people who could have access to his dead body are one of his apprentices or someone from the Essex Chapter—which we already know is corrupt.”
“But that doesn’t change the fact that Rupert didn’t go to the Moot!” Ekstrand said, his right index finger pointing up at the ceiling. “Why? Because he had to stay outside to cast the foul magic on the building.”
Max could hear the gargoyle’s stone teeth grinding with frustration. Ekstrand simply wasn’t applying logic to the evidence. “No, sir, I believe he may have stayed away for the exact same reason as you; he suspected foul play. His absence from that meeting isn’t enough to place him under suspicion.”
“Yes, it is.” Ekstrand folded his arms. “He’s been planning this for years, I know he has. It all started with killing my Chapter. Not anyone else’s—mine. Why? Because he’s always coveted Wessex and wanted to weaken me!”
“No, sir.” Max shook his head. “I think the Chapter was destroyed by someone from London—it only happened after I discovered the corruption there. That’s where our efforts should be focused. Not Mercia.”
“There’s only a tiny amount of effort left to spend on dealing with Rupert,” Ekstrand said. “Then once he’s gone I can turn my mind to other matters without fearing for my life.”
“But sir—”
“Enough.” Ekstrand held a hand up at him. “You’re defending him too much. Should I be concerned about corruption in the remnants of my own Chapter?”
The gargoyle gasped. “You crazy son of a bitch!” it yelled. “You’re supposed to be calm and clever and look at facts without emotional crap and look at you! You’re obsessed with this Rupert bloke when the rest of the country is going to shit because of something going down in London! London, not the sodding Midlands!”
For a few moments Ekstrand didn’t say anything, he just stood with wide eyes and lips pressed so tight together it looked like his mouth had disappeared. “You,” he said, so quietly the apprentices leaned forwards en masse to listen, “will not speak another word in my presence or I will destroy you and the shell left behind. Get out.”
The gargoyle looked at Max who pointed at the door. Ekstrand wasn’t going to listen and there was nothing he could do about it. He had the briefest flash of seeing the gargoyle leaping at him and some nebulous idea of a coup but it unravelled in the cold light of good sense. The gargoyle slinked out silently, its tail between its legs, chin so low it was almost scraping the floor.
“Now, let’s move on,” Ekstrand said as Max backed away until he was pressed against the wall by the door, watching silently. “We’ve wasted enough time so I’ll give you the answer. The one thing Rupert will not have protected himself against is protection itself and that is how I am going to kill him. I will protect him from the very things he needs to survive.”
10
“Maggie!” Rupert waved to her from the door at the far end of the Divinity Schools, one of the many parts of the Bodleian Library she’d never visited before. As she walked towards him she glanced up at the beautiful medieval ceiling, covered with carved stone bosses reflected from the anchor property.
He beckoned to her and then went ahead into Convocation House, a place she’d heard was much plainer in design but with just as much historical significance, especially for the mundanes. Whilst she knew there would be less grandeur, Margritte didn’t expect a mezzanine floor constructed out of glass and steel cable. It was one of the greatest crimes to interior design she’d ever witnessed. The new floor severed the remarkable interior of Convocation House in two, breaking all of the lines that the medieval architecture naturally drew to the eye. The bright electric—electric!—lighting was harsh to her eyes and made her squint. It was like stumbling into a sliver of Mundanus in the centre of Oxenford and she didn’t like it one bit. The main floor space below was divided into different areas, one containing large sofas and a fireplace that seemed to hang from the ceiling in a most unnerving manner. There was an area filled with strange machines, only one of which resembled anything she could understand: a bicycle without proper wheels. She wondered if all Sorcerers had such appalling taste.
“What do you think?” He threw his arms out open and wide.
“It’s certainly not what I expected.”
“I’ve got a generator out the back. I don’t know what you people have against electricity, it’s fantastic stuff. Come up and I’ll show you my den.”
Den? He made it sound like an animal’s nest. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, also made of glass, that seemed to float at the side of the room. She couldn’t see how they were attached to the wall and had no idea how they could be strong enough to take her weight. He laughed at the way she tested the bottom step.
“They’re safe—they’re cantilevered through the wall. I went to a gallery in Mundanus that had them and just had to have the same here. No sorcery, I promise. Not for the steps anyway.”
Margritte lifted the front of her black skirts and climbed the steps with care. Most of the wall facing her as she arrived on the upper floor was covered by three massive screens. The two on the outer edges were displaying pieces of art, some of which she recognised, fading from one to the next every few seconds. The screen in the centre was black. A huge desk filled one corner, covered with paper, and with something she thought might be a computer sitting on top of it. She remembered seeing one in a mundane catalogue a friend’s son had brought back from his Grand Tour. She and Bartholomew had looked through it late into the night, marvelling at how grotesque things had become in Mundanus. The computer on the desk bore only a slight resemblance; it was smaller and white and almost elegant in design.
Two reclining chairs made of black leather faced the screens and there were shelves of books filling the rest of the wall space. He watched her take it all in, a big grin plastered across his face. “You should see yourself.” He laughed. “Maggie in Wonderland.”
“Is this why you invited me over? To marvel at your mundane toys?”
He was wearing baggy jeans and a hooded top. Margritte was certain it was the same one he’d been wearing the first time they met. He gestured at one of the chairs. “So you wrote to your friends in Londinium then.”
“Yes.” She sat down and, before she could stop herself, slid down until the seat back moulded itself to her. Rupert pressed something at the side of the chair and she squeaked as it tipped back a few degrees and the lower front part rose into the air until she was almost lying down. It felt most improper. He jumped into the chair next to her.
“These are the best chairs you can get in Mundanus,” he said and opened a compartment in the arm of his chair that she hadn’t even noticed. He pulled out a can. “Beer?”
“I think not.”
“Oh. Don’t drink?”
“I drink wine, Rupert. Not ale.”
He laughed. “Sorry. I’ll remember that for next time.” He angled his chair back as far as hers. “One of your friends visited today. I had one of my favourite students from the university give him a tour of the town.”
The plan was working. “That’s excellent news. Who was it?”
“Freddy Persificola-Viola. There is no fucking way that twat is going anywhere near any of my colleges.”
Margritte sighed. “Did he offend you?”
“Not in person, I didn’t meet the guy. No one knows about me until they become part of the university, otherwise it’s a hard secret to keep. I made an exception for you.”
“Because I was causing you such a headache?”
“Because you’re exceptional.”
Was he trying to win her favour? Surely not whilst she was still in mourning. But
then he had the manners of a savage; he probably didn’t even know that it was unacceptable. She shouldn’t really have come to his residence alone. But she was a widow, not a debutante. “Did Freddy offend someone else?”
“Worse,” he replied. “I’ll show you.”
Ekstrand pulled away the cloth with a flourish, revealing a small cannon. “And this is how it will be done.”
Max was still pressed against the back wall, doing his best to not draw attention to himself. If he still had a Chapter Master he’d be seeking him out. He had no idea if there had ever been a situation in which a Sorcerer was deemed unfit to hold his post but it was irrelevant now. There was no superior to take his concerns to and no one to enforce an intervention even if it were possible.
“But sir,” Gordon was saying. “Whilst I have every confidence in your ability to make a cannon powerful enough to send a shot all the way to Oxford, how would it be possible to calculate the trajectory? Only some of the variables would be known and the risk to mundane lives would be high, too.”
Max considered going to warn Rupert but there were several problems, aside from the fact that he would have to truly betray the man he was sworn to serve. The first was that it would be very difficult to even reach the Bodleian. He’d heard from colleagues at the Chapter that the city of Oxford was one of the most tightly controlled in Albion. Nothing happened without the Arbiters there finding out and responding in minutes—they were rumoured to be the most successful Chapter in the Heptarchy. Secondly, even if it were possible to get to Rupert, how could he convince him of the threat? And there was always the possibility—even though it seemed incredibly remote—that Ekstrand was right.
