A Blight of Mages

by Karen Miller

  Greve snorted. “That old goat. Runs his precious Council of Mages with an iron fist, does he? Morgan won’t tell me much of that, either. Far too nice to gossip, my son.”

  “Brice is a stickler for the protocols, it’s true,” she said, cautious. “But he’s fair-minded with it, Greve. I know you and he have had your differences, but he is a good man.”

  Greve opened his mouth to answer, but began coughing instead. As he pressed a kerchief to his mouth, muffling the tearing sounds of distress, she looked around for some water. Greve shook his hand toward the furthest of the sitting room’s three windows. A filled pitcher and a glass sat there, on the sill. Hurrying, she fetched him a drink and helped him swallow.

  “You should have that beside you, Greve,” she scolded, when he’d sipped his fill. “What use is it to you all the way over there?”

  He rolled his oozing, scabbed head against the back of the chair. “Blame my pother for that,” he croaked. “Says I need a reason to get up and use my legs.”

  “Pothers,” she said, scornful. “They might mean well, but I’ve no time for them, myself.”

  Chuckling, he patted her hand. “It’s a shame our stars weren’t better aligned, Venette. I doubt I’d have minded being married to you.”

  What could she say to that? “Ah, Greve, you flatter me. And if it weren’t for my dear Orwin…”

  “Venette.” Sobering, Greve wrapped his fingers around hers. His skin felt like sunburned paper. “This girl Morgan’s looking at. Maris Garrick. Family ranking aside, she’s good enough for him, is she?”

  “I’d not have pushed them together if I didn’t think so.”

  “She’ll not hurt him?”

  “If you’re asking whether her interest is genuine, then yes, Greve. I believe it is.” She hesitated, then added, “But can you say the same of his? I’d not have Maris bruised.”

  “As to that, I couldn’t give you a firm answer,” Greve said, his gaze shifting. “He’s not spoken of her to me. Thinks I’m too old and sickly to know that in the past three weeks he’s twice escorted her to a dance and taken her on a horseback jaunt to Knucklebone Hill.”

  How aggravating. And how typically close-mouthed of Morgan. “I think it’s a good match, Greve. And we both agree it’s time Morgan moved on from the past… don’t we?”

  Greve pressed the kerchief back to his lips. His fingers were trembling, and a raw wheeze rattled in his chest. “I was a fool to indulge him,” he muttered. “Should’ve pushed him to the purpose years before this. But that other girl, dying—” He looked up, his eyes frightened. “I thought I’d lose him over it, y’know. I thought he’d break his heart and follow after her.”

  “I know,” she said, gently. “But you needn’t worry now.”

  “Needn’t I?” Again, Greve looked to the ceiling. “You talk to him, Venette. Make him leave this incanting nonsense alone. He’s got to be married, to the Garrick girl or some other chit. Can’t say I much care who he weds, provided his pick is suitable. He’s patented once and on the Council. He’s got no business—” He caught himself, lips pinching shut. “He won’t listen to me. You talk to him, Venette.”

  Azafris, she thought, wincing, and patted Greve’s unsteady hand. “I will. Please, you mustn’t fret. It’s not good for you.”

  He wasn’t listening. “Morgan’s all right, on the Council? Holding his own, is he?”

  “Very much so,” she said. “In fact, I’ve come to give him a task Brice wants him to undertake. Very delicate, very sensitive, and he’d not have anyone but Morgan looking into it.”

  Which wasn’t a lie. She wasn’t lying to a man more than three-quarters dead.

  Greve’s grey face lit up. “Chosen specific by Brice Varen, is he? Well, well. There’s a thing.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And I’m sorry to cut our visit short, Greve, but I really must speak to Morgan about the problem. There is some urgency to bear in mind. So if you’ll excuse me…”

  “Yes, you go, girl. I’ll not have that goat Varen blaming Morgan for my dallying. Only—Venette—”

  She looked down at his shrivelled claw of a hand, its twisted fingers clutching. “Greve?”

  “Get my son out of that attic,” he whispered. “He won’t listen to me.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she promised. “But you ought to know, my lord, he doesn’t always listen to me either.”

  “Doesn’t listen to anyone! Headstrong. Reckless. Always has been.”

  “I used to think you encouraged him.”

  “I had to,” Greve said, defensive. “His mother was soft.”

  Morgan’s mother had been the sweetest soul. Her husband’s iron will had broken her spirit. “Don’t fret, my lord. I’ll not let any harm come to him.”

  “Fond of him, aren’t you?”

  “Very fond. And proud, as you should be.”

  Greve grunted. “I am.”

  “Does Morgan know it?”

  Another grunt. “I know it. That’s enough.”

  Staring down at him, she thought of everything she should say to that. Only why bother? Morgan wasn’t the only Danfey who sometimes refused to listen.

  “I’ll visit you again soon, Greve,” she said, and kissed his scabbed cheek. “You rest, and get well.”

  His scornful amusement followed her out of the chamber. Standing in the corridor, shaking, fingers pressing back the tears, it was some time before she could trust herself to speak. Rumm, ever-attentive, waited, holding his tongue.

  “Take me to Morgan,” she said at last, her voice rough.

  Rumm bowed. “Of course, your ladyship. Please, follow me.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sweating like some brute Feenish farm hand, stripped to bare chest and azafris-singed trousers, Morgan roamed his smoky attic and sucked on his burned hand.

  “Do your worst!” he snarled at the incant-cradle on his main workbench, where the charred remains of failed magic pungently smoked. “I will have this incant!”

  And to think he’d assumed that with the sigils confirmed, his troubles were over. But no, far from it, thanks to the intransigence of Hartigan’s original transmutation matrix.

  Cursing, he returned to his bench. Surely he’d not been misled by Rubin Cylte. The man had been a genius in the deconstruction of incants. What was it he’d written about the spliced reversal of energies?

  “For pity’s sake, I read it not an hour ago,” he muttered, roughly flipping the book’s fragile pages in search of the relevant passage. “And I understood it. I’m not a dolt.”

  The thought of failure was a sharpened spur dug deep in his pride. He was a Danfey, born to succeed. And if he did not…

  Then Dorana will pay the price.

  Which meant it was imperative that this incant did not defeat him.

  Still searching Cylte’s book, he felt a warning thrum through the warded attic door a breath before Rumm’s diffident voice sounded on its other side.

  “Sir? Councillor Danfey?”

  His father’s health was too precarious for him to ignore the master servant. Feeling vicious, Morgan disengaged the ward and flung the door open.

  “This had better be important, Rumm, or I’ll—”

  The rest of his intended threat he swallowed, unspoken. Rumm wasn’t alone. Behind him stood Venette, violet eyes glittering, her finely drawn jaw clenched tight.

  Trouble.

  Rumm bowed. “Forgive me, sir, but Lady Martain claims to be here on Council business.”

  Claims. That was a nice touch. It placed the blame for this unwelcome interruption square on Venette’s silk-clad shoulders.

  “Fine, Rumm. You can go.”

  “Sir,” Rumm murmured, and left Venette to her fate.

  Her chin was up, combative. “You’d best ask me in, Morgan. This isn’t a conversation you’ll want to have in the corridor.”

  “Fine,” he said again, stepping back. “But don’t think to make yourself comfortable. I’m busy.”
r />   She swept past him. “Never fear. We’re in no danger of comfort.”

  Impossible woman, treating the Danfey mansion as though it were her town house. Talking to him like he was no better than Rumm. He slammed the attic door and reignited his privacy ward.

  “Council business?”

  The thudding of her heels on the floorboards sounded loud and full of temper. Her turquoise Ranoushi silk tunic swirled around her as she paced. “That’s right.”

  He hitched his hip onto the end of his workbench. “You mean Sallis wasn’t wasting everyone’s time? Behold me amazed.”

  “Sallis?” She turned on him. “Sallis, you arrogant fool, knows someone has been diddling the rules of purchase for azafris. And do not sit there smirking at me, Morgan, when I can smell the stinking stuff in the air!”

  He felt the words like a hard punch, under his ribs. “How would Sallis know about recent sales of azafris?”

  “Oh, how does Sallis know anything? He’s a skinny little spider with a far-flung web! He knows people who know people who know peddlers who know thieves. No scrap of gossip is too small for Sallis Arkley to notice. For pity’s sake, Morgan, what do you need with so much of the stuff? What do you need with even a pinch of it?”

  Did she truly expect him to tell her? A mage’s privy workings were precisely that. Privy. To ask, no—demand—that he divulge the details of his work to her was the grossest of insults. Not even his father had crossed that line.

  “Don’t think you’ll intimidate me with that haughty Danfey stare,” Venette said, scornful. “I’ve been stared down by stronger mages than you.”

  He slapped a hand to his heart. “Lady Martain, you wound me!”

  Still pacing, she glowered. “Morgan, this is serious. Brice was talking of coercion to force Sallis’s tattletale to tattle all!”

  Another punch, as hard as the first. “And did he prevail?”

  Fetching up at the attic window, she turned. “No. At least not yet. Morgan—”

  “You’ve nothing to fear, Venette,” he said, unhitching himself from the bench. “I’m done working with azafris for now. And what I have left will serve my purpose for some time.”

  “Which would be what? What are you doing with it?”

  He let his eyes and voice chill. “Mind your manners.”

  “If I could trust you weren’t dancing a jig with danger, Morgan, I would!” she retorted. “But how can I trust that when Greve begs me to drag you by the scruff of your neck out of this attic?”

  Now that does cross the line.

  “You’ve no business bothering my father. He’s unwell. I won’t have him upset.”

  “Then stop gambling your life on azafris!”

  Needing a moment to regain control of his temper, he pulled his tunic back on. Pushing its buttons through their holes, he saw his fingers were trembling… and felt his belly roil.

  Pestilent, pestilent Sallis Arkley. What I wouldn’t give to snap my fingers and ruin him.

  “Morgan…” Venette’s scolding tone was softened to a wheedling. “I know you think you need to prove yourself. You don’t. Not like this. Not with azafris. My dear, you’re no longer an ordinary mage. You’re a councillor. You have obligations.”

  He gave her a swift and brittle smile. “Really? I had no idea.”

  “Oh, it pleases you to be flippant,” she said. “Well, if you won’t think of yourself, Morgan, then at least think of Maris!”

  “Maris Garrick has nothing to do with this.”

  “She has everything to do with it!” Venette took a step toward him, jewelled fingers tightening to fists. “She has feelings for you, Morgan. And she believes they are reciprocated. If this goes badly she will be hurt.”

  “So I’m answerable to you for her feelings, am I?”

  “You must be answerable to someone!”

  “Maris’s parents, surely. Was she suddenly orphaned today, Venette, that you feel the need to play at being her mother?”

  “Oh, Morgan…” Lips tight, Venette turned away. “I think you must have breathed in too much of that cursed azafris. I have never known you so contrary.”

  “And I have never known you so determined to meddle in things that are not your concern!”

  She raised a finger at him. “Maris is my concern. If you pursue her to an understanding and then tumble yourself into strife with your magework, you’ll tumble her with you! Have you even bothered to think of that, Morgan? To think of her? Or does your selfish ambition blind you entirely?”

  How galling, to realise that shrewish Venette was right. “I’ve no intention of tumbling anywhere,” he said curtly. “Nor am I in the habit of harming the innocent. Whatever I do, Venette, Maris Garrick will not suffer for it. You have my word.”

  “Which I’ll hold you to. Believe me. But Morgan, what about you? My dear—”

  “Your dear Morgan can take care of himself. There’s no need to fret. I am not a child.”

  “There’s every need,” Venette retorted. “I can’t do nothing as you wantonly chart a course toward self-destruction. Whatever magework you’re pursuing here, Morgan, please, you must stop. Sallis and Shari would love nothing more than to tear you down. Don’t tell me you want to help them!”

  For all the difference in their ages, she was his closest friend. But even so he could not trust her with the truth, any more than he could confide in his father. She’d give no credence to his misgivings for Dorana’s future. Not when he had no proof. And, being Venette, for his own good she might easily try to thwart him.

  “Of course I don’t want to help them,” he said. “But neither will I live in fear of what they, or any other mage, might say or do.”

  Venette sighed. “I’m wasting my breath, aren’t I? You have no intention of heeding me.”

  There were tears in her eyes, and on her cheeks. She was weeping for him. No-one else he knew would do that. No-one living, at least.

  “You mustn’t think me ungrateful,” he said, his insulted anger doused. “Your friendship means a great deal, Venette. Your advice and guidance too. I might not always do what you wish but I promise you, I listen.”

  The look she gave him then was equal parts affection and doubt. “And drive me to distraction. Don’t forget that. Morgan, I would ask you something… and I need an honest answer.”

  He felt his muscles tense. “All right.”

  “Do you court Maris for yourself, or to please your father?”

  He hesitated, then shrugged. “Both.”

  “I thought so,” she murmured. “And I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve displeased you.”

  “By being honest? Never.” She summoned a smile. “But Morgan, I’d counsel you to give your own feelings the greater weight. To be brutally frank, my dear, you’re the one who’ll have to live with Maris. That is, if you wed her. Your father…”

  A different punch to the heart, this time. But there was no use dissembling, not with Venette. “My father won’t. Yes. I know.”

  She knew better than to soothe him with platitudes. “Sallis didn’t call the meeting only because of azafris,” she said, her eyes dark with pained sympathy. “There’s trouble brewing at the College. Brice wants you to look into it.”

  And that surprised him. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Which is another reason why all this—” Venette waved her hand at his laden workbenches. “—is so hazardous to your political health. Handle the College’s problem deftly, my dear, and you’ll go a long way to earning Brice’s genuine approval. Not to mention put Sallis in your debt.”

  “I like the sound of that. Best you give me the details.”

  When she’d finished explaining the crisis and his task, he shook his head.

  “Arkley is a fool. He should’ve told Jordane to take his concerns direct to the proctor, or to Hahren if he thought the proctor of no use.”

  Venette rolled her eyes. “Yes, well, you know that, and I know that, but Nevin Jordane has made it his life�
�s work to use people.”

  “Hahren has no inkling of this?”

  “Apparently not. You’ll involve him?”

  “If it’s warranted.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll do what’s best,” Venette said. “Just don’t be tempted to put your thumb in Sallis’s eye, just because you can. The welfare of the College must come first.”

  “Agreed,” he said, nodding. “Which is why I shall look into the matter as soon as I’ve met with our man of business. It won’t do me any harm to treat the problem with more urgency than our esteemed Lord Varen suggests.”

  Venette laughed. “How devious of you, my dear. Sallis won’t know whether to smile or spit.” Crossing to him, she laid a hand on his arm. “I’ll be about my own affairs, now. Don’t rail too much at Rumm after I’m gone. He really had no choice but to let me up here, you know.”

  “I know,” he said, and kissed her cheek. “Besides, it would take a man made of sterner stuff than Rumm to resist the formidable Lady Martain.”

  “Ha!” she said, stepping back. “Which makes you made of what, I wonder? Solid granite?” Then she stilled, her gaze fallen upon the open book beside him on the bench. “Rubin Cylte?” Her voice was a shocked gasp. She looked at him, her violet eyes dismayed. “Oh, my dear. My dear. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Not replying, he unwarded the door and watched her walk out of his attic, her head high, her shoulders slumping.

  “Believe me, Venette,” he said into the silence. “So do I.”

  Though Pother Ranmer severely disapproved, Lord Danfey insisted upon leaving his privy apartments to attend the monthly meeting with the family’s man of business.

  “I’m not crypted yet, Morgan!” he snapped, wheezing as he fastened the buttons on his shirt. He was perched on the edge of his bed, his legs not steady enough to hold him upright while his fingers fumbled a task any child would find simple. “And I’ll know the standing of this family’s monies and interests before I am.”

  Waiting ready with his father’s blue velvet long coat, Morgan stifled a sigh. “Yes, my lord. But I could just as easily bring the accounts to you after I’ve gone through them with Nydd and then—”