by Emma Newman
Rupert’s best chance was that Ekstrand’s unravelling sanity would make him incapable of striking an effective blow against him. There had been many sorcerous wars in the past but all were before his lifetime and he had no idea if Ekstrand had ever formally battled with any of the other Sorcerers when they were alive.
“Firing from outside my house in Bath would be a truly idiotic thing to do,” Ekstrand said. “Really, Gordon, I do wonder why you’re here sometimes. No. I’ve used mundane maps to calculate the exact distance between my garden and the Bodleian Library quadrangle. I’m going to open a Way and fire it through.”
Max stopped doubting whether Ekstrand was capable enough. It might only be on a couple of days of the week at most, but on those days he was still brilliant.
“This cannonball—” Ekstrand hefted one up from beside the cannon “—is inscribed with warding formulae.” He held it out to Gordon. “If you can’t interpret any of the variables your apprenticeship is over.”
The young man pored over it for a few seconds. “This is true genius, Mr Ekstrand.”
“Are you stalling?”
“No, sir. There are several strings of formulae. I can see one that would change the composition of the cannonball when it hits stone, changing it to something like…clay—to stick! And here, that’s to make it blend into its surroundings so it’s hard to find. When embedded into a building it would activate wards for the entire Nether structure against nitrogen, oxygen and several trace elements. In other words, air. This one…” He bit his lip. “I think it would force carbon dioxide into the structure—something he can’t have warded against because it’s a natural by-product of breathing. And this here…a ward against silver for the entire structure. Now that’s devilish. And this clause renders the external and internal doors incapable of being opened and the windows from being opened or broken, so it would seal the building completely. The Sorcerer of Mercia would suffocate to death.”
“Will suffocate to death,” Ekstrand said. “Grammar should never be overlooked.”
11
Rupert pointed a slender black chunk of something like Bakelite at the central screen and an image of the Oxford High Street appeared with the back of Freddy’s head at the centre of the shot.
“You have to understand I can’t let one of the Fae-touched just wander around the city without being watched.”
She nodded. “I do. Especially when it’s Freddy. The person who followed him took pictures without him noticing?”
“More than that.” He pressed something on the Bakelite and the image started to move. The sound of cars and sirens blared out of nowhere, making her jump. “Surround sound,” he said. “The bass makes the chairs shake. Listen to this.”
“So,” Freddy was saying to a girl walking beside him with a backpack on. “Are you one of the maids at the university?”
“I’m reading English Literature at Trinity College,” she replied and gave him a sideways glance. “I came top of the year in my prelims.”
“Really? What does your pater think about that?”
“My father? He’s very proud of me.”
Freddy grunted. “Bloody waste if you ask me. You’re pretty enough to marry off easily. Why fill your head with books when all you need to do is have babies?”
The image paused and Rupert looked at Margritte. “He’s just warming up.”
Margritte didn’t know what to say. Freddy had the same opinions as most of the men in Society; it seemed a little unfair to single him out.
Another button was pressed and the images sped up without sound. “Kay was a bloody angel—I would have punched him,” Rupert said. “Look at this.”
The image froze on a shot of Freddy’s hand on the girl’s derriere. The images moved in slow motion and Margritte watched the girl step away swiftly. Freddy seemed to laugh and said something to her—addressing her bosom rather than her face.
“Kay was pretty damn eloquent when she came and reported on him,” Rupert said. “Did you know he was like this?”
“He’s never been so brazen at any of my dinner parties or soirées,” Margritte said. “I suppose he felt free of the strict social rules of the Nether.” As Rupert’s frown deepened she added, “That’s no excuse, of course. He can be rather…trying.”
“Then why the buggeration did you invite him to check out Oxford?”
“Because he’s rich,” she replied, spreading her hands. “One of the wealthiest in Londinium, now the Rosas are gone. I thought a college would be expensive to run and his deep pockets would be an asset.”
“Maggie.” Rupert shook his head. “I’m a Sorcerer. Money really isn’t a problem. I wonder if you were thinking about how much of a dent in the Londinium tithe his defection would make.”
Margritte put on her most charming smile. “I would be lying to you if I said it hadn’t crossed my mind.”
“Well, the others who come had better be more civilised than him or else this isn’t going to work at all. I don’t want any of your kind treating the women here like that. Mundanus has moved on and if they can’t handle that, they don’t have a place here.”
She noted the flush in his cheeks, the way he waved the Bakelite stick around. He really meant it. “You aren’t what I expected at all,” she said.
He frowned at her. “I don’t know how women like you survive there.”
“What do you mean by ‘women like me’?”
“With a brain. With some fire in your belly.”
“Not all men are like Freddy.” The ache returned to her breast.
“I met Bartholomew,” Rupert said, putting the Bakelite into a pocket at the side of his chair. “He seemed like a decent guy.”
“When did you meet him?”
“Oh…years ago. Before you were married. He grew up here. You knew that though. I knew his father better, of course. He was a brilliant man. Shame about Queen Anne…that really fucked him up.”
“That was the Irises,” Margritte said. “They cursed her. Bartholomew’s father couldn’t cope with the fact that he couldn’t do anything to break it.” She shifted onto her side, ignoring the tiny voice at the back of her mind complaining about the indecency of it all. “Tell me what Bartholomew was like when he was young.”
Rupert tucked his hands behind his head. “He was quiet but not shy. Earnest. Bloody clever.” He sighed. “Shame the Fae had their hooks in him, otherwise he would have made a brilliant apprentice.”
“He didn’t want to leave Oxenford,” she said. “But the Patroon insisted he establish himself in Londinium.”
“I’m sorry you lost him.”
“Thank you. And I’m sorry about Freddy. He would have heard about the letters I sent to my other friends and I couldn’t let him feel left out. He drove us mad but he was a loyal friend. Still is.”
“Like those dogs, you know, the really big ones that slobber everywhere and stink the house out. You want to get rid of them but it’s hard when they’re so fucking happy to see you when you come home.”
As she watched him speak, Margritte tried to unpick the knot of the man sitting next to her. He was hundreds of years old and yet acted like a mundane with the most appalling manners. Why do that? Did he want to shock her? Did he want her to form a bad opinion of him? Men rarely did, they were all so needy, so vulnerable in their own way.
“Did you have a dog?”
“Me?” He laughed. “I hate dogs. And the people who love them.”
She planned to leave but somehow the conversation held her. He told her about the city, about the research being done at the university, about the students. She wanted to ask him about sorcery but held back. They hardly knew each other and it was something he’d never tell anyone, let alone someone from Society. He remembered a bottle of wine he’d put away and it was a fine vintage. They shared memories of what they’d been doing the year it was bottled and for a few hours she forgot the Irises and the plan to destroy William. Rupert told her about quantum physics and she
told him about the art he was displaying and yet knew little about.
When the headache started she assumed it was the wine. The conversation had lulled and they were both flopped back in the chairs, staring at the ceiling. She felt warm and sleepy and tried to find the energy to announce she should leave.
Rupert was rubbing his eyes. “It’s getting stuffy in here, I’m going to open a window.”
“Alex will be wondering where I am,” she said, drowsy and heavy-headed. “I won’t tell him I’ve been with you.”
“Why not? There are people in this city who’d cut off their baby finger to have an evening with me.”
“Who?”
He shrugged as he went down the floating stairs. “People.”
She listened to him swear as he fumbled with one of the latches. When the expletives increased in frequency she pulled herself out of the chair with effort and looked down on the floor below. “Something wrong?”
He abandoned the window and went to the next one along. “I don’t open them very often.”
“Would you be very offended if I told you this mezzanine doesn’t work?”
“What do you mean? It works perfectly.”
“I mean aesthetically. It cuts the space in two.”
“But I like that. Oh, for fuck’s sake, what is going on with these bloody things?”
“But it breaks the flow of the—” She stopped when she saw the irritation on his face shift to worry. “What’s wrong?”
He went to the next window and then crossed the room and tried three on the other side. “They’re jammed.” He glanced up at her. “Come down.”
She took the stairs slowly, feeling sluggish and uncertain of her footing. The wine had been stronger than she thought; she’d only allowed herself one glass. Rupert went to the door and tried the handle. His concern lit a flicker of worry in her chest. “Are we locked in?”
“Seems that way.”
“But it’s your house. Can’t you unlock the door?”
“Nope. Something is very fucking wrong here. The air isn’t right…” He turned in a circle a couple of times, hands on top of his head. “Fuck this for a game of soldiers.”
Margritte wrapped her arms about herself, regretting having stayed so long. Rupert patted the pockets in his trousers and she noticed the sheen on his forehead and upper lip. He pulled something round and silver out of one of the pockets and after a moment of fiddling, flicked a yo-yo out from his hand.
“Fuck.”
“What are you doing?” She went to him, her legs leaden. “This isn’t the time to play with toys! Open the door, I want to leave!”
“So do I,” he yelled. “And this isn’t a toy.” He flicked it out again and then wiped the sweat from his face. “Shit. I can’t open a Way. Something’s locked this place down, I don’t think anything’s getting in or out.”
“Including the air?”
He nodded and then his eyes shifted to the right. “Are your earrings silver?”
“Yes, but what does—”
“Give one of them to me.”
“This is most—”
“Just do it!”
His shout echoed around the room. She struggled to unhook the earring with shaking fingers but finally dropped it into his outstretched hand. He gave it a brief inspection then threw it on the stone tiles.
“Rupert! That’s—”
“Oh, holy fucksticks,” he said and knelt on the floor. He picked up the earring and threw it again, cheek pressed to the tiles as he did so. “It’s not even touching the tiles. Someone’s warded the building against silver. Only a Sorcerer would know to do that. I’m being attacked.”
“By another Sorcerer?” Margritte struggled not to shriek. “Are you sure?”
He pulled her down next to him. “Watch,” he ordered and she stared at the earring as it was thrown again. There was no tinkle of metal against stone and when she moved to only inches away she could see it hovering half an inch above the stone.
“It’s floating,” she whispered.
“It’s a fucking disaster,” he said and then hurried to the door leading to one of the partitioned-off areas. “Locked too,” he muttered. “Makes sense.” He came back to her and dropped onto his backside. “I never should’ve locked Benson away. I tidied up because you were coming and I didn’t want you to see him.”
“Who’s Benson?” she asked as she retrieved her earring and put it back where it should be.
He didn’t answer. He was staring at the floor, head in his hand, elbows on his knees. She sat next to him, waiting for him to come up with a suggestion, but he said nothing for what felt like hours.
“I don’t feel right. We shouldn’t be feeling anything like this so soon, there’s enough air in here to keep us alive for at least twenty-four hours, if not longer. The place is warded against all the—” He hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Fuckshitbollocksandwank. It’s carbon dioxide. The place isn’t warded against a natural by-product of breathing and whoever did this knows that. It must be being pumped in somewhere.” He stood and looked at the ceiling. “All right,” he finally said. “I don’t have anything here that can help. It’s all locked away because I’m a twat and I didn’t want you to see any of my sorcerous stuff.”
“Can’t you just do some sorcery to make some fresh air?”
He snorted. “It’s not like that.”
“Oh!” She searched for her reticule in the folds of black satin. “I have a key that—”
“Fae charms won’t work in here. It’s warded to fuck against all their shit.”
“Oh, Rupert, must you swear so much in an emergency?”
He half-smiled. “There’s no better time. I’ve been royally shafted here, but there’s a chance we can get out. I have some emergency mechanisms in place, but we’ll have to wait.”
“What’s the use of emergency mechanisms if they don’t work in an emergency? What in the Worlds are you waiting for?”
“To die.”
He appeared to be serious. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’ll only kick in if I get into real difficulties. If I lose consciousness and my breathing is too shallow it’ll start then.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Then this is the last time we’ll be drinking wine of an evening.”
“What kind of Sorcerer suffocates in his own house?” Her voice was getting higher but she didn’t care. “I thought you were supposed to be all-powerful.”
“I am, in the right circumstances. I don’t know how much longer we’ve got before the air quality gets too bad so we need to do a couple of things now, and then wait, all right?”
He shuffled back until he reached the wall. “Come over here,” he said as he undid his belt.
She stayed still. “Chancellor, I have no idea what you have in mind but there is nothing I want to participate in whilst you are not wearing your trousers.”
“Come over here, Maggie, for fuck’s sake. I’m just taking my belt off.”
Her ears were buzzing and she just wanted to lie down and go to sleep but he kept calling her and there seemed very little else to do. “If I die in here I’ll never forgive you.”
“You’re not going to die like this,” he said as he straightened his legs out. “But I want to make sure that you’re saved too, not just me.” He patted his lap. “Come and sit here.”
“Right, that’s it.” She started to get up but he caught hold of her arm.
“Maggie, I’m not making a totally shit pass at you. We’re probably going to die. I’m feeling about as randy as a mathematics professor. Now do as I ask, please.”
She wondered what Bartholomew would make of it all. How in the Worlds had she got herself into such an absurd situation? “If I think for a moment you’re planning to take advantage of me I’ll go and die in one of the more comfortable chairs upstairs. Alone.”
He held his hands up as she sat on his lap. She didn’t know where to look and shook with e
mbarrassment. She remembered a parlour game they’d played the season before in which they had to sit in laps and imitate animals but they were all tipsy and besides, it was only a game. This, however…what was this?
“I’ll be taken out of here if the mechanism works,” Rupert said. His breath smelt of Cabernet Sauvignon. “I don’t want you to be left behind. That’s all.” He gathered up the front of his top as if about to take it off. Margritte considered slapping him but then he stretched the opening and brought it down over her head so they were both effectively wearing it.
“What do you think you’re doing?” It was definitely a shriek.
“Move your arms up a bit,” he said, pulling the belt around his back. “I’m going to see if this’ll fit round both of us.”
He manoeuvred her waist until she was pressed right against him and managed to pull it in enough to reach the first hole. He wrapped his arms around her and let out a long sigh. “I’m really sorry about this. For what it’s worth, I just want to promise I didn’t plan this in any way. I didn’t even think you’d stay for a drink.”
“If this thing does work, I want you to promise me you’ll never tell a soul about this.”
“I promise. And you can relax. Lean your head back if you need to.”
“I do not.”
She sat with her back as straight as a poker, trying to keep as much of her body away from his even though it was proving impossible. His breath tickled the back of her neck and she felt hot and sleepy and slightly sick. It was like her corset had been laced too tightly and, no matter how deeply she tried to breathe in, it never felt enough.
“If I’m going to die, though,” he said after a while, “having a beautiful woman sitting on my lap whilst I suffocate is a great way to go.”
“I think you’re insane,” she mumbled back. She felt his chest rising up and down, up and down and then she realised she was leaning against him, her head on his shoulder. “Rupert,” she whispered after a while. “Are you frightened?”
He didn’t reply and she tried to twist around to look at him properly but didn’t have the room. Her chest was hurting and her lips were tingling and she had the sudden thought that if their bodies were found like this it would be the scandal of the decade.
