The Demon and the Fox

by Tim Susman

  “I, er.” Kip shook his head. “He did say it was to be only me.”

  “But what does that matter? He can’t possibly have an entire meal’s worth of private conversation. No, no, I shall come along. It promises to be a terribly boring evening otherwise.”

  “I thought,” Kip said quickly, with no idea how he was going to finish the sentence, knowing only that he had to keep Master Cott here. “I thought you could use the time this evening to…to…”

  Cott tilted his head. “To?”

  “I would like to…” Think, think, what would be obvious that Cott wouldn’t have in his own office? “To look through some of the lists of powerful demons here.”

  “Here?” Cott blinked. “Surely you don’t believe a British sorcerer attacked our own college.”

  “No, of course not. But Master Odden believed that if we knew the names and powers of some of the most powerful demons we know, that that might serve as a clue to the demon that was actually called.” Cott didn’t look convinced. “And there’s sure to be some demons the Spanish also know about, aren’t there?”

  “Perhaps…” Cott rubbed his cheek. “But then you should come with me.”

  Kip gestured down at his tunic and at the fur on his arms. “I don’t know that the keepers of the names will have much trust in a colonial and a Calatian. And Master Albright was very insistent that I attend dinner alone.”

  Cott’s brow lowered and his expression took on such distaste that Kip worried for a moment that Cott would engulf the workshop in flames. But all the sorcerer did was mutter, “Of course, of course, he would say that. Stuck up old twat.” He looked up, trying to force a smile onto his face. “I suppose you should run along then, and have a pleasant dinner.”

  “Thank you.” Kip reached for the window, and in the time it took him to unlatch and open it, Cott had retreated to his office and closed the door.

  He realized upon exiting the tower on a draft of cold air that he had no idea which tower was Lord Winter’s. So he dropped to the ground and walked over cold, frozen dirt around the base of each tower until at the third, the newest of the five towers, he found Master Albright waiting for him, a raven on his shoulder.

  “It’s fifteen minutes past sunset,” the old sorcerer growled. “Were you accustomed to making your superiors wait thus at George’s?”

  It took Kip a moment to recognize that Albright was talking about the New Cambridge college. But he was already making the proper response: “No, sir. I did not know which tower was Lord Winter’s, and I can’t see very far.”

  “I thought your eyes were supposed to be better than ours.”

  Kip shook his head. “At night I can see by less light, but beyond a hundred yards I lose a great amount of detail.”

  “Oh well, you should be fitted for glasses.” Albright barked a laugh. “Come along, come along. Henry, you may return to my office.” The raven took flight as the sorcerer strode toward the village and the pub.

  But Albright did not lead Kip to the Clock and Pull, nor anywhere in Greenwich proper. He left the gaslit town and turned down a lane of houses, each with faint lamplight flickering from it. “There,” he said, stopping at one house and pointing to the gate that let onto it from the road. “Can you read that?”

  “The Darby,” Kip read, though the thick aroma of lamb and vegetable stew making his mouth water told him more surely that this was their destination.

  “Better than I can do in this light. Yes, this is the place, come on.” Albright strode up the walk to the door and rapped. After five or six seconds he rapped again. “Is everyone in the world determined to keep me waiting?” he snapped.

  As he lifted his fist a third time, the door opened to reveal a short woman in a blue skirt and a white cotton shirt stained down one side. “All right, all right, the world keeps turning even though you’re knocking,” she said, staring up at him.

  “Bridget, I’ve brought another for dinner.”

  “So you have.” Her gaze flicked to Kip, though her face didn’t move. “Does he eat lamb? I’ve got roasted chicken from last night, but it’s cold.”

  “I’ve no idea.” Albright swept into the room, and Kip followed, making sure to swing his tail clear before he closed the door.

  “I do eat lamb,” he said. “It smells delicious.”

  Bridget beamed and spun on her heels. “At least he’s more manners than most of your guests, and more than you, which is inevitable. Come in, young fox, and take whatever seat His Nibs doesn’t want.”

  The front room of the small cottage held a round table with three chairs around it, one of which Albright had already pulled out to sit down in. To Kip’s left, a cold stove in the parlor squatted between one threadbare sofa and another wooden chair as plain and unadorned as the three around the table. A narrow cabinet held bone-white china with light blue patterns dancing around the edges, and none of that china set had been laid on the table. Instead, two pewter mugs and matching bowls and spoons rested around a bright oil lamp. A doorway behind the table let onto another room from which the smell of lamb and smoke drifted on warm currents to Kip’s nose.

  He took the seat closest to the other mug and bowl—the mug proved to be filled with ale already—and Bridget hurried past him into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a large tureen. She set it down between them and ladled stew thick with chunks of lamb and potato into Kip’s bowl first. Albright muttered something under his breath, and she shot him a look before turning to fill his bowl as well.

  The stew contained peas and spices, and was delicious. Albright had his spoon in the bowl almost before she’d finished filling it, and through his first mouthful said, “Where’s the bread?”

  “It’s coming, it’s coming.” She dropped the ladle back into the tureen and swept back into the kitchen, returning a moment later with large chunks of thick black bread that she dropped next to each bowl. The sour smell tickled Kip’s nose; he tore off a piece and chewed it. Indeed, it was so thick and sour that if he’d not heard it labeled, he might not have thought to call it bread.

  Albright didn’t make conversation but gulped down his food as though he’d been starved for days, alternating between spoonfuls and sopping up the stew with the bread. Kip followed suit, glad of the time to enjoy the meal. Bridget did not reappear, though he could hear her humming in the kitchen, and he felt here the collegial atmosphere he’d been envious of in the dining hall. Here he was included, at ease in a way he’d never really felt with Cott.

  When his bowl had been cleaned, Albright helped himself to another serving, maintaining his silence throughout. Kip limited himself to one bowl, though he didn’t eat as fast as the sorcerer, so by the time he’d finished, he only had to wait a few minutes in blissful contentment for Albright to finish as well.

  “Now,” the sorcerer said, pushing the bowl away from him. He stopped before the next word and held up a hand, then let out a belch that made Kip’s nose wrinkle. “Now,” he repeated, “tell me how a Calatian comes to sorcery.”

  Kip was growing practiced at his story and recounted it more smoothly for not having to feed himself during the telling. Albright nodded, asking no questions even where the other sorcerers had. “Most unusual,” he said. “How fortunate for the Empire that your father has the courage to follow his instincts.”

  “For the Empire?”

  “Yes. Another fire sorcerer will be a great service in the next war with Spain.”

  “The next…?”

  “There will be another.” Albright exhaled. “In five years or ten or twenty. The Spanish are too ambitious to share the world amicably.”

  “Do you think Spain destroyed the College? Philip’s, I mean, and George’s?”

  The sorcerer eyed him. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t think it was Spain.” Kip spoke confidently, pleased that his opinion was being considered. “They would have followed that attack with another.”

  “Unless they were confounded by the su
rvival of the White Tower.”

  Kip inclined his head. “Still, we were weak then—the weakest we would be. Every day since then we grow stronger.” Albright nodded to him to go on. “I suspect it might have been the revolutionaries, working in concert with someone inside the Tower itself.”

  “Inside the Tower? So it would be one of the surviving Masters?”

  “Most likely.”

  Albright showed little surprise, his expression remaining calm. “Do you have an idea which it might have been?”

  “No,” Kip said honestly.

  “It might not have been someone else?”

  “No, I was told—“ At the last minute, he remembered that he should protect Peter. Even as much as it was a relief to trust Albright as someone outside the sphere of suspicion, Peter depended on him and Kip could not break that trust. “Shown, rather,” and he recounted what Forrest had shown him.

  “Indeed. That is most interesting.” Albright stroked his beard. “The sharing of memories is not a trivial spiritual spell.”

  “You won’t tell any of the masters there?” Kip asked.

  Foolish to ask so late, but Master Albright nodded gravely. “Of course not. If corruption is at work in the College, we must work in secret to ferret it out.”

  “We’ve been trying to do that. I’m trying to discover the name of the demon that caused the destruction. Then we might see who knew the name.”

  “Excellent point.” Albright steepled his fingers. “Have you examined the ledger of demon names here?”

  “Not yet. I asked Master Cott to examine them. He’s getting some names tonight for us to look through, names and descriptions.”

  The sorcerer nodded. “We have spies among the Spanish sorcerers and intelligence from the French, from the Napoleonic war. Those demon names may be kept separately. What do you know of it?”

  Kip shook his head. “Not very much. It’s powerful and it turns people to glass somehow.”

  “Glass?” Albright raised his eyebrows.

  So Kip told him about the glass beads. “Come by the workshop,” he said. “Master Cott and I will show you one. He thought you might have some interest.”

  “I wouldn’t be useful at all. I don’t know fire even as well as you do.” Albright smiled. “Not that I haven’t wished for that betimes.”

  “What is your specialization, sir?” Kip asked.

  “Translocation. It is useful enough.”

  “My friend is doing that too. Have you developed any new techniques?”

  “I am currently studying a way to generate a door of sorts that would allow anyone to move between two places.”

  “That would remain for the duration of the spell?” Kip’s eyes widened. “That’s like a Great Feat.”

  “But one that would end, and which others could also cast.” Albright smiled. “I may dub it a ‘Lesser Feat.’”

  He laughed, and Kip laughed with him. “I’m a long way from learning even basic translocation,” the fox said. “But I hope to one day, of course.”

  “You may, if you apply yourself.” Albright folded his hands across his stomach. “Cott never did. It still rankles him sometimes.”

  “Really?”

  The sorcerer shook his mane of hair. “Indeed. And on that subject, thank you for following my request. I am sure it was difficult. But if Cott were here, we would not be able to speak as openly and frankly as we have been.”

  “No, that makes sense.” Kip sighed. “Is he…all right?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Albright’s expression remained placid, his tone merely curious. Kip tilted his head. “I don’t know. Nobody talks to him. When we went to the dining hall, everyone was talking behind his back. And he doesn’t want me to go down to the Isle of Dogs.”

  “Hm.” Albright raised a finger. “On that matter I believe I can provide some clarity. All of our calyxes come from the Isle. I do know that Cott was particularly pleased that you had come from a sorcerer’s college and most likely fears that you will get caught up,” he waved a meaty hand in the air, “in the grimy life of the Calatians on the Isle.”

  Grimy? Kip let that pass and shook his head. “What about the rest of it?”

  Albright settled both hands across his stomach. “Yes, well. Is Cott odd because he’s a fire sorcerer? Or did being a fire sorcerer make him odd? One thing you will come to understand is that the power in you will have a strong effect on other people.”

  “Really?” Kip flicked his ears out to the sides of his head. “Sorcerers fear fire more than spiritual magic? Alchemical magic?”

  “Heh.” Albright smiled. “Sorcerers are people. We understand the hidden workings of magic. But fire is chaos, bright and loud, uncontrollable. Fire sorcery is rare enough that sorcerers have trouble understanding it. An alchemical sorcerer may start a fire by transmuting a rock to phosphorus, for example, which ignites on contact with air, but he cannot control the fire in the way you can.”

  Kip considered that. He wondered whether Malcolm or Emily would start to fear him if he did much more work with fire. Coppy, he was sure, would always trust him. “Is that why you didn’t want Master Cott to join us?”

  “Because of the fire?” Master Albright shook his head. “Hah, no. Despite what he lets on, he can control it well enough. No, no, I wanted to take your measure myself, get to know you better, and it’s hard to do that when, well…Cott likes to make himself part of every conversation.”

  “I’ve noticed.” Kip shook his head. “Honestly, this is the most relaxed I’ve felt since I’ve been here. I appreciate that you’ve taken the trouble.”

  “It’s common courtesy,” the bearded sorcerer said.

  “Nobody else has bothered.”

  “You’ve been here all of three days.” Master Albright tapped the table and lowered his voice. “Though I daresay you’ll not get a better meal. And if you tell Bridget I said that, I’ll drop you into the Thames.”

  Kip leaned forward and smiled. “I wouldn’t,” he said conspiratorially.

  “Now,” Master Albright said. “It is near time we made our way back to the College. But I would like you to feel free to call upon me should you need another break from the relentless friendship of Master Cott.”

  “Thank you,” Kip said.

  Master Albright called for Bridget and got up, leaving the plates and tankards and gesturing Kip to the door. “Thank you for another very satisfactory meal,” he said.

  “Oh, you with your flattery,” Bridget said, but Kip noted her cheeks were pink.

  On their way back to the College, Master Albright did ask Kip about life in the Colonies, but only very general ones, nothing about his experience as a Calatian or how a Calatian could have learned magic. It was a refreshing change from the interrogation of the dinner of two nights ago.

  Master Albright let him into his tower, which he called the War Tower, and bid him good night without making any arrangements for a future meeting. Kip realized upon entering the ground floor that he only knew Cott’s workshop was on one of the upper floors, three down from the roof. But he found the stairs easily enough and walked up them, passing two startled apprentices on the lower floors (where he could smell the dormitory quite strongly) and one sleepy sorcerer on the upper floors. He committed to memory the floors of the tower, finding the level where he and Cott had eaten easily enough, but he had to go up to the roof and then down three floors to be certain of which level was Cott’s. From there it was easy enough to find the workshop: he walked slowly down the hall until he smelled charcoal and Master Cott’s scent, and made sure by the nameplate on the door.

  When he opened the door to the narrow hallway, Cott looked up from his desk. “Oh, there you are,” he said. “I hope dinner was pleasant.”

  “It was…” Kip replied automatically and then stopped. Cott’s tone belied his words, and he felt the need to reassure his London master. He cleared his throat. “Rather dull, actually. I often wished I were back here l
ooking up demon names with you.”

  “Yes, well. I suppose the food was good at least. Albright does insist on having good food.”

  “It was, er.” Cott still wasn’t quite mollified. “A bit too rich, to be honest. I feel my stomach a touch unsettled.”

  “Hm. Indeed.” That finally brought a small smile to the master’s face. He turned to his desk and picked up a slender leather-bound volume. “This will have to go back tomorrow morning, but copy out any names you feel might be relevant.”

  “Tomorrow morning?” Kip walked forward to get the book.

  “It’s not meant to leave the archives at all, but,” Cott handed the book to him and then waved his arms about. “Nobody wishes to anger the great and terrible Fire Sorcerer. Especially in a library full of paper.”

  He smiled, but Kip heard for the first time the loneliness in that statement. Perhaps it was merely the residue of being left out of Kip’s dinner with Albright, but there was a sense of isolation that called to the same feeling within Kip. “I hope I haven’t angered you, sir,” he said. “I think you’re the only person sympathetic to me here in London.”

  “Oh, surely that cannot be true.” Cott relaxed.

  “I’m a Calatian and a Colonial studying to be a Fire Sorcerer,” Kip said. “Who else has anything in common with me?”

  “Well, one needn’t have common ground to have respect for one another, to understand what one is going through. There are a few here…” Cott’s brow lowered and he stared at the wall for a moment before turning back to his desk. He opened a drawer, then reached in and pulled out some blank paper. “That’s of no importance. Here’s paper for copying. I’m going to retire.”

  Kip accepted the paper and stood back as Master Cott walked briskly past him. The door closed, leaving the fox standing in half-darkness and silence.