by Emma Newman
Max didn’t need to look out of the window to see the tower, seeing it through the gargoyle's gaze. It looked like a turret of a castle but was unattached to any other building or curtain wall. It was close enough to walk to without risking getting lost in the mists.
“This house must have been where the apprentices lived and had their lessons, and where Dante met with the Chapter Master,” he theorised. “That tower might be his private residence.”
“Do you think the other apprentices are dead?” The gargoyle was peeping over the sill more cautiously.
“Probably.”
“Are we going to risk going to the tower?”
“Yes,” Max replied. There was a direction they could approach from without being overlooked from one of the tower windows.
“But won’t it be warded to hell and locked and really dangerous?”
“Probably.”
The gargoyle padded down the stairs. “If I could, I’d be shitting pebbles.”
“Let’s go now, it won’t get any less risky.”
They broke out of the locked house and made their way to the tower, taking care to keep out of the line of sight of any of the arrow-slit windows on the top floor. It was four storeys high and the top floor’s narrow windows glowed with a pale light. It had a larger diameter than the average castle tower and Max wondered where its anchor was.
“I’ll try the door,” the gargoyle volunteered as they reached it. “You know, in case it’s designed to burn people who aren’t evil.”
“I’m not certain that would be one of the criteria written into the formulae,” Max said but let the gargoyle do as it had offered.
The door opened inwards. “Well, blow me down,” the gargoyle said. “It’s not even locked.”
“All the people who knew it’s here are probably dead,” Max said. “After you.”
The gargoyle went inside, paused to see if it collapsed into dust or spontaneously combusted, and, when neither happened, beckoned Max onwards. Max pulled out his penlight torch and switched it on. There was a staircase curving upwards and one that went down.
“Wait here,” the gargoyle whispered. It took the torch and went downstairs.
Max saw an image of a small kitchen, untidy and recently used. The gargoyle sniffed at a small puddle of milk on the table. It was fresh. No one else was there. Dante’s murderer was satisfied with fending for himself, it seemed.
Once the gargoyle was back with him, Max hooked his walking stick over his arm and climbed the stone steps until he reached a wooden door into the room on the next floor. It too was unlocked and there was a lantern hanging from a hook just inside the door. After a brief sweep over the room with the torch to check it really was empty, Max took a moment to light the candle inside.
The room contained a couple of armchairs, a single bookcase crafted to fit the curve of the wall, and a fireplace. There was a table, again curved, upon which were piled all manner of artefacts. Max recognised Peepers and Sniffers from his own Chapter, presumably looted from the cloister. They looked the same as the ones in his pockets and—something he hadn’t appreciated before—distinct in design from others on the table. They had the same function, but side by side it was clear that each Sorcerer had his own design.
There were several items the likes of which he’d never seen before, things he assumed weren’t tools used by Arbiters but personal artefacts made by and for the Sorcerers themselves. Max took care not to touch them; that lesson had been burned in deep by his training. One Opener had several interlocking circles embedded in the doorknob and upon inspection Max found they could be moved to spell out the principle cities of the Heptarchy: Bath, London, Oxford, York, Norwich, Colchester, Winchester and Canterbury. He’d only ever used an Opener that was keyed for a specific location, or could open a Way into the Nether version of the anchor property he was already at; not one that could open Ways to multiple locations. Useful. He wondered which Sorcerer it had belonged to.
“We shouldn’t get distracted,” the gargoyle said.
It climbed the next section of the stone staircase a few steps ahead of him, paused to listen at the next door and then looked through a keyhole. The room beyond was empty, so it opened the door and they crept inside.
The first thing Max noticed was the lack of any more steps. He looked at the ceiling, searching for a trapdoor and signs of a ladder, but there were neither, only thick wooden boards. Even though the floor above appeared to be lit and presumably occupied, there were no sounds of anyone’s footsteps, not even a creak. There was a lantern but he didn’t want to light it when they were so close to the room above.
“Shine the torch down again,” the gargoyle whispered and Max did so.
The circle of light picked out a wardrobe, a washstand, a mirror and a bed. On top of the bed’s rumpled sheets were several items of clothing.
Women’s clothing.
Max saw a bra, petticoat, skirt and blouse. He swept the room for any sign of male clothing but there was none. The gargoyle went silently to the wardrobe and opened it slowly, lest its door creak. Only women’s clothing hung inside.
“I don’t understand,” he said as the gargoyle closed the wardrobe again. “How could a woman be behind this?”
It was one of the fundamental rules of the sorcerous arts: never teach a woman the secrets of sorcery. He recalled people at the Cloister speculating about the reasons why, and the confusion caused by the fact Ekstrand had a female librarian. The distrust, the refusal to contemplate a woman being a Sorcerer—or an Arbiter for that matter—was universally accepted in his world and yet they were some of the best researchers he’d worked with.
“Perhaps Dante fell in love,” the gargoyle suggested. “With the wrong kind of woman.”
Max tried to reconcile what he knew. The perpetrator was a master of sorcery and Fae magic and female. Was she Fae-touched? It would explain how she knew of Lady Rose and how she would have the means to contact her and make the deal Thorn had told him about. Had one of them managed to infiltrate Dante’s household? It would explain the corruption—but then surely they would have engineered the protection of only their own family from the Arbiters in London, not many families over the years. Why favour the Irises now?
“There’s something over here.” The gargoyle was on the far side of the room and Max sought it out with the torchlight. It was standing beside a painting, one of a man and a woman sitting close together, looking at each other lovingly. Max recognised the man from the body he saw after the Moot: Dante. The woman had the same colour hair and too similar a mouth for her to be anything but his sister. They appeared to be very close in age.
The frame had something embedded in the centre below the painting and Max went closer to inspect it. A small dome of glass enclosed two locks of hair twisted around each other. He went to the bed and scoured the pillows until he found a long strand the same dark blond as the subjects of the painting. He didn’t need to hold the strand next to the locks to see they were the same.
“Dante’s sister,” he said, and then gave the torch to the gargoyle to hold whilst he put the strand in an evidence bag pulled from his pocket and then tucked both away.
“She murdered her own brother?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps he died of natural causes.”
“And she preserved his body for later use?” The gargoyle shook its head. “No way.”
Max gave the room another sweep with the torchlight but still couldn’t find any way out other than the staircase they’d climbed up.
“So…” The gargoyle came to his side. “Now we know who’s been causing all the trouble, we can report back to Ekstrand, right?”
“Wrong,” Max replied, examining the ceiling again. “We know who but we don’t know why.”
“That’s obvious: to be the last Sorcerer.”
“But why?”
“To be the most powerful.”
“But what for?”
“Umm…isn’t that enough?”
> Max looked at the gargoyle, giving up on finding a secret ceiling hatch. “People want power for a reason. What does she want to do with it? What’s the point of being the only Sorcerer unless you want to do something that the other Sorcerers would prevent?”
“Isn’t being a female Sorcerer exactly that? If they found out about her, they’d kill her. There you go: perfect motive. Now let’s get out of here.”
“Not until I know what’s going on up there.”
The gargoyle’s eyes followed Max’s finger upwards. “Bollocks.”
“There has to be a way to get to that floor. Have a look around.”
As the gargoyle sniffed, Max looked at the painting again, examining the details of their clothing and the room in the background. It looked like it had been painted a long time ago, but he couldn’t put a date to it, not being an expert on such things.
“Look, even if we do find a way up there,” the gargoyle whispered in his ear, “look at the size of this place. No way we can walk in without being seen or heard.”
“I’d rather peep than walk in,” Max said. “I just need something to use the Peeper on.”
“I reckon it’s that.” The gargoyle jabbed a claw at the painting and Max nodded.
Carefully he swung the frame to one side and then the other. The wall was intact behind it. He ran his fingers around its edge, feeling for a button or depression of some kind that could trigger something. He found nothing and took a step back, shaking his head.
The gargoyle went close up to it, sniffing it like a dog would a table of food, and then pressed the dome containing the locks of hair.
The painting, and the entire section of wall it hung upon, shimmered and, before Max realised what was happening, he and the gargoyle were looking through a Way into another circular room. Dante’s sister was standing in front of a huge pane of glass, thankfully with her back to them.
She didn’t react, absorbed in painting something onto the glass which seemed to be scrolling sideways by arcane means. She didn’t have to move as she painted on symbols and strings of formulae; they just appeared to float away to her left, as if the glass itself was a moving portal onto another surface. She was wearing a loose white dress and was barefoot, her dark blond hair so long it reached the floor.
The scent of flowers tickled Max’s nose. It was such an intense mixture he couldn’t single out one in particular.
Either side of her, two large lenses were held in ornate brass stands and seemed to be focusing light reflecting from the pane of glass to such an intensity that Max could see the light passing through them, creating the pale glow they’d seen from outside the tower. Each of the focused beams was striking the back of what looked like some sort of scrying glass, also held in their own frames a few feet above the ground. Each scrying glass then had a modern digital camera on a tripod pointed at it, and, judging from the small viewscreen on each one, they were filming what was being displayed on the scrying glasses.
At first Max thought the scrying glasses were simply displaying a copy of what she was painting onto the glass, but then he realised the background was different in each one.
The mirror on the left showed the outside of Ekstrand’s anchor property in Bath, while the one on the right showed the exterior of the Bodleian Library in Oxford, the Sorcerer of Mercia’s anchor property. In both images, the formulae were appearing on the walls of the buildings, a couple of feet above the ground, just for a second or so before fading from sight.
Another movement in the one displaying the Bodleian quadrangle made him focus on it. A man in a black coat and black bowler hat had noticed something happening to the wall. An Arbiter. He pulled out a mobile phone, pressed a button and then dropped dead, in the way Max imagined his colleagues had when the Chapter was attacked and the soul jars destroyed.
It was all Max had a chance to take in before the gargoyle yanked him away. The Way closed again but the gargoyle didn’t let go of Max’s arm, pulling him to the steps and not letting go until they were in the room below.
Max leaned against the wall, waiting for the residual panic to pass that had leached through from the contact with the gargoyle. The gargoyle was still caught up in it, grasping the sides of its head and pacing up and down silently, thanks to the formulae in its bracers.
“She’s going to kill them!”
“I know.” Max got his Opener out of his pocket and then went to the table to find the other one he’d spotted before.
“Oh, shit, this is terrible! She killed that Arbiter—the whole Chapter’s probably gone down! She’s turning their hearts into stone, isn’t she?”
“The spell was moving where she painted from left to right, which suggests it’s either a very long thing to write or it needs to surround the entire building,” Max said, his fingers hovering for a second above the strange Opener as he battled with his training to overcome the urge to leave it where it lay. “Ekstrand and Mercia may still be alive if the spell requires completion of the formulae.”
“So you want us to go back up there and…what? Rugby tackle her?”
“No, she’ll be protected.” Max knew they wouldn’t have a hope; he could still remember his mentor’s response when he’d asked what could be done if a Sorcerer needed to be stopped. “You find another Sorcerer and tell him the problem,” he’d said. “You think Sorcerers would let us exist if we could be a threat?”
Dante’s sister knew both Fae and sorcerous magic and she’d be able to destroy the soul chain with little effort if the gargoyle went for her, meaning the end for both of them. If he went in alone there were a hundred ways she could kill him if he managed to get close to her. Even if he managed to secure a gun in time, she’d no doubt be warded against projectiles and similar forms of attack.
“I’ll use my Opener to get back to Mr Ekstrand’s house and get everyone out before the formulae are completed. This Opener looks like it can get into Oxford.” Max picked it up and showed it to the gargoyle. “The Bodleian Library quadrangle is in the centre of the city, it’s likely to open a way near there. You go and find the Oxford Arbiter’s body. He’ll have a means to go back to his Cloister—use it to get to the Sorcerer of Mercia—”
“No.” The gargoyle snatched Max’s Opener from his hand. “No way you’re going to Ekstrand, flesh-boy, your heart will be turned to stone. Only I can go through.”
“But there’s only one of you. There’s not enough time. One of them will die.”
The gargoyle nodded. “I know. So which one are we going to save?”
25
Margritte stood outside the large black box, twisting the key Rupert had given her. It looked bizarre beneath the beautiful vaulted ceiling of the Divinity Schools. There was no door, neither were there windows. He’d said it wouldn’t run out of air inside, that he’d thought of that. As long as they fed and watered him, he’d said, William Iris would last as long as they wanted.
As long as they wanted. She shivered, finding such power over a man’s life unpalatable. Across the city three families had been taken from their homes and put into custody, just because they were Irises. They had children. They were probably terrified.
She’d made it all happen. At the beginning it had all made sense, but now it felt like some terrible accident unfolding around her.
“Do you want me to go in there with you, Maggie?” Rupert called from the doorway to Convocation House. “I already sent an Arbiter in there, he can’t hurt you.”
“No,” she said. “I just need a minute.”
He lingered, watching her hesitation, and it made her feel more flustered. It was too late now. She couldn’t tell him to send William back home and carry on as if nothing had happened. She pressed the key against the black glass and it sank in, a keyhole forming around it. She opened the door that appeared moments later, keeping the key in the palm of her hand in case she needed to get out again quickly. If she turned it to the right once she was inside it would let her back into the larger room she was i
n now. If she turned it to the left, it would open a Way to her room at Lincoln. She had the feeling he was trying to be thoughtful, in his own strange way. She just hoped he hadn’t made another to take him directly to her room whenever he wanted.
The light that spilled in from the new doorway was the only light in the box. It was the size of a very small room and the air smelt stale and laced with sweat.
William was sitting on a chair next to a small table. His lip and right eye were swollen and it looked like his hands were tied behind his back. There was an empty chair across from him.
“Light,” she said and, as Rupert had promised, the ceiling shone, bathing the interior in a blue-white glow. She let the door close behind her and, as expected, its outline disappeared until there was a smooth surface once more.
William stared at her as she approached the empty chair. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t stand for you,” he said. “I’m unable to.”
She suppressed the urge to apologise or show any of her doubts. He would exploit any weakness. “It’s within your power to improve your circumstances,” she said as she sat opposite him.
“What have you done, Margritte? How did you persuade a Sorcerer to do this?”
“I simply told him the truth.”
“Whose truth?”
“He knows you’re in league with the Sorcerer of Wessex, he knows about Lord Iris’ plan and your part in it. Of course he got involved.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about but I do know what the ramifications of this will be, and none of them bodes well for you.”
“You’re the one in the worse position here, William. Your threats lose their power when you’re just a boy in a box.”
“My family will—”
“I don’t want to talk about your family, I want to talk about what you need to do to get out. I’m sure you’re keen for that to happen.”
“I want to know one thing first. Did Cathy know what you planned to do?”
