A Blight of Mages

by Karen Miller

  Hahren stared. “Spurious?”

  “Voln…” Enjoying himself, Morgan drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “I am more likely to suggest a censure against Lord Nevin Jordane than I am to approve Bellamie Ranowen’s dismissal from the College.”

  Nonplussed, Hahren fidgeted behind his desk, pushing bits of paper around while he ordered his thoughts.

  “I’m not sure I find your conclusion satisfactory,” he said at last, eyebrows pulled low over his unpleasantly deep-set eyes. “I think you should return to the College and—”

  Not so wise after all. Morgan stood, a single, swift movement explosive with power. “Did I hear you aright, Lord Hahren? Did you just contradict me?”

  “Councillor Danfey—” Swallowing, with difficulty, Hahren collected his wits. “No. Of course not. I’m sorry if I gave that impression. It’s just—”

  “Believe me, Hahren, I know perfectly what it’s just,” he said, unleashing his temper. “It’s just you bowing and scraping with no thought beyond ingratiating yourself with Nevin Jordane.”

  Hahren’s mouth open and closed. He swallowed again, convulsive. “But don’t you see? To call the complaint spurious is to question Lord Jordane’s veracity. And he is a mage of impeccable lineage and social standing while she—”

  “Is a College tutor. Which you know full well renders her social ranking irrelevant.” Letting the reminder sink in, Morgan sat again, slowly. “Lack of rank is not her crime. Have you any idea what is?”

  Voln Hahren shook his head. “None.”

  “Then I’ll enlighten you. Bellamie Ranowen is guilty of placing integrity above ingratiation, which is more than I can say for every other College tutor who has had the dubious pleasure of Tinette Jordane’s company in class.”

  “Councillor?” Hahren’s cheeks paled. “I’m afraid I don’t follow your meaning.”

  Oh, I think you do. “Lord Hahren, the Jordane girl’s magework is rudimentary at best. Certainly it’s not of the quality we expect in a highly ranked First Family’s offspring.”

  Hahren indulged in more fish-like gaping. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying Jordane’s daughter is a throwback! A cripple!” You bleating fool. “I’m saying there has been a deliberate—let’s call it embellishment—of her scholarly achievements.” Because calling this what it is, outright fraud, would likely provoke you to spasms. “And it’s only come to light because Bellamie Ranowen, unlike her colleagues, is refusing to compromise her standards.”

  Hahren looked close to vomiting. “Councillor, you can’t intend saying as much to Lord Jordane!”

  “Why can’t I?”

  “Because—because—” Hahren spluttered, close to incoherent. “He is one of the College’s most generous benefactors!”

  “I know,” Morgan said, sneering. “And the reason why is now apparent. Coin-clinking Nevin Jordane thinks to purchase his daughter’s passage through the College. This complaint he’s lodged against Bellamie Ranowen is a base calumny designed to deflect attention from his profitless child. If it becomes common knowledge the useless girl’s a throwback, no Family will sanction marriage with her. The Jordane name will be sullied for generations to come.”

  “You have no proof of this,” Hahren muttered, trembling fingers smoothing his lank hair. “And to make such a bold accusation outside this chamber—”

  He smiled. “I see no need for the Jordanes to be publicly humiliated, provided there is no interference with my handling of the matter.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that Proctor Lowyn is on notice… and so are you. There’ll be no further gilding of Tinette Jordane’s wilted lily. Bellamie Ranowen is but one of the girl’s tutors. The rest will be privily advised that they can rank her according to her true skills with no eyebrow being raised or else face a summons to the Council, where they will be asked many inconvenient questions.”

  “I see,” said Hahren, faintly. A patina of sweat gleamed on his brow. “And you think Lord Jordane will curtsy to this, do you?”

  Morgan frowned at Hahren, loathing the man. Where was his outrage on behalf of the College? Where was his disgust over Nevin Jordane’s dynastic selfishness? By comparison, Bellamie Ranowen’s lack of ranking was harmless. That Jordane would foist his abomination of a child upon the unsuspecting young men of Dorana, corrupt good mages to his cause, undermine the College’s revered reputation… did all of that mean nothing to Voln Hahren?

  The man’s not fit for his position. When the Jordane dust has settled, I’ll see him removed.

  “I think Lord Jordane is clever enough to cut his losses,” he said mildly. No point in revealing to Hahren his true feelings. “While he still can.”

  A vein was throbbing in Hahren’s right temple. The patina of sweat was a trickle now, sliding down his colourless cheeks like tears. Indeed, the despicable craven did look close to weeping.

  “Councillor Danfey, I fear you cannot conceive of what you’re asking.”

  “You mean I cannot conceive of what doing your duty will cost you. Hahren, do you imagine that I care?”

  “No, Councillor Danfey,” Hahren muttered, as sweat stained his fine silk tunic. “I see plainly that you don’t.”

  “Good,” Morgan said, and rapped his knuckles once to Hahren’s cluttered desk. “Then we understand each other. See this sordid matter settled. I’ll look for your report to the Council when next it formally meets.”

  Hahren groped inside his tunic for a kerchief and dragged it over his face. “And what of Lord Arkley?”

  Ah. So Hahren knew of that connection, did he? “You can leave Lord Arkley to me. Be assured you’ll not be hindered in the execution of your duties.”

  Leaving Hahren to gape after him, Morgan withdrew from the chamber. As he closed its door behind him, thoughts bending toward Maris Garrick, he glanced casually around the antechamber—and felt his heart stop, his blood seize. He forgot how to breathe.

  A young mage, fine-boned and slender, untidily dressed in shabby blue linen. Her golden hair was braided like a crown. She sat on the edge of a bench pushed against the small room’s far wall, hands pressed between her knees, gaze fixed to the tiled floor. He’d never seen her before, and yet he was certain he knew her. Lost in her own thoughts, she didn’t look up, or even realise she was no longer alone.

  Mouth dry, palms sweating, he feasted his eyes upon her. This girl, this stranger, made the air dance against his tingling skin. Who was she? Why did she strike him like lightning from a clear sky? He didn’t know. All he knew was that she stirred him. Deeply stirred him. In a way no woman had since—since—

  Profoundly unsettled, he withdrew before she noticed him. He was expected at The Opal. Maris would be waiting, and it wouldn’t be wise to make her feel neglected.

  The girl’s face haunted him every step of the way.

  Sick with nerves, with a dread she resented more than she could say, Barl sat in the Hall of Knowledge, outside Lord Voln Hahren’s privy chamber, and waited for him to honour her with his presence.

  He’d known for nearly five hours that she was there, because one of the Hall’s disapproving mages had told him. And then she’d told her to “Sit there. Lord Hahren will see you when he has a moment free.”

  So she’d sat. And now she waited. And while she waited, tried not to think about her last conversation with Remmie. But that was proving impossible. Over and over and over it sounded, trudging the confines of her skull like a Brantish mill-house donkey hitched to a grindstone.

  “What?” he’d said blankly, after she’d told him her plan. “Barl, have you lost your mind?”

  She’d stared back at him, just as angry.

  “Remmie, I know it’s outrageous, but I have to at least try. If I don’t, then Arndel’s won. And I won’t let him have this victory. My whole future hangs in the balance. If he has his way I’ll be taken on as a milkmaid before ever I’m allowed near magework again.”

  But Remmie hadn’
t wanted to hear her. “Don’t talk nonsense. Of course you’ll find other magework.”

  “It’s not nonsense!” she’d shouted at him. “You weren’t there, Remmie. You didn’t see Arndel’s face, or hear the gloating satisfaction in his voice.”

  “Yes, all right, he was angry. But that was two days ago, Barl.”

  “Two days, two weeks, two months, it won’t matter!”

  “You don’t know that,” he’d said, so stubborn. “For all you know, Arndel’s repented of his hasty action and now he’s waiting for you to come back.”

  She’d laughed, incredulous. “Arndel? Really? Now who’s lost his mind? Remmie—”

  But he’d trampled all over her. Gentle Remmie, throwing words at her like stones. “I’m telling you, Barl, if you go to Elvado, try to force a meeting with this Lord Hahren, with the Council, try to—to bully them into admitting you to the College? You’ll regret it. When are you going to face the facts? Mages like us don’t make the rules. You’ve only got one choice. You’ll have to wait a few days more so you can be certain Arndel has calmed down, and then go to see him. Plead your case. Or go to Lady Grie and ask her to plead it for you. She values you. Surely she’ll help.”

  She’d never been so close to despising her brother. “I won’t trust my future to any hands but my own. And if you honestly think I would, Remmie, then you don’t know me at all.”

  That was when he walked away from her. She hadn’t gone after him. And that morning, when she left the cottage, she didn’t say goodbye.

  Stirring out of bleak memory, aware once more of her surroundings, she breathed out a shuddering sigh. The intricately woven artisan carpet beneath her feet blurred as her stinging eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away, a swift fluttering of lashes. They came back. She blinked again. Something warm and wet trickled down her cheek. She smeared it to nothingness with her fingertips, then sank her teeth into her bottom lip.

  I’m not weeping. I’m not.

  She couldn’t. If she didn’t face Lord Hahren fiercely her cause would be lost before she’d struck the first blow.

  Footsteps, approaching. Hurriedly straightening, pressing her back to the wall, she clasped her hands loosely in her lap and rearranged her expression into a mask of serene indifference.

  A moment, then the mage who’d abandoned her in this antechamber marched back through the open, arched doorway, crossed to Hahren’s closed chamber door and knocked. Another moment, then she opened it. She must’ve been invited to enter. Without glancing over, the mage went inside. The door thudded softly closed behind her.

  Slumping again, Barl rubbed at her temples. A vicious headache was brewing, she could feel the promise of its teeth and talons pounding through her blood. How long would Hahren make her wait, then? Another hour? Another two? The whole night?

  Fine. If I have to, I’ll wait the whole night. I’ll wait longer, as long as he likes. He won’t drive me away. I’m not leaving Elvado until I get what I came for.

  Time dragged its heels, and she dawdled along with it. The pounding in her blood, in her head, grew steadily worse. And then Hahren’s chamber door opened and the summoned mage came out. This time she looked over.

  “You can go in.”

  Standing, Barl smoothed the front of her sadly wrinkled tunic. The mage looked her up and down, disapproving, shook her head, then departed.

  “Close the door,” Hahren snapped, glaring at a letter on the desk before him. “And don’t sit.”

  Barl closed the door, heart sickly thudding, then positioned herself directly in front of the imposing desk. Head up, shoulders back, hands tightly held behind her back. No blinking. No weeping. No losing her temper. Wooing this man to her cause was vital.

  “Lord Hahren—”

  “Did I give you leave to speak?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Then hold your tongue.”

  He’d spoken without lifting his gaze, but she stared at the polished timber floor anyway so he wouldn’t see the resentment in her eyes.

  At last the arrogant wurzle looked up. “So. You are Barl Lindin.”

  “I am, Lord Hahren. My lord, I’m here to—”

  “Do you know what this is?” he said, tapping fingers to the letter he’d been reading. “Do you know what it says?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “How can I, my lord?”

  “Do not think to be clever with me, Mage Lindin,” he growled. “I am in no mood for that.”

  Lord Hahren was handsome, in a hatchet-faced fashion. But his hair looked faintly tarnished and his thin lips were bracketed with deep lines of aggravation. His storm-grey eyes were sunk a shade too deep, his thin nose thrusting sharply between them. Nothing about him suggested sympathy or softness. He looked the kind of man who’d gladly kick an opponent already brought to his knees.

  So I’d best not kneel before him, had I?

  “This,” Hahren said, brandishing the letter before her, “is an almost incoherent rant from Artisan Master Arndel, regarding your recent disgrace and dismissal. And this—” Dropping that letter, he rummaged for a different one and brandished it instead. “—is a copy of the rant he sent to the Artisan’s Guild. And now here you are, doubtless wishing to add your voice to this tedious chorus. But why I am being dragged into your petty dispute is beyond my understanding.”

  So, it wasn’t enough to dismiss her. Arndel had run bleating to the most powerful mage he knew, hoping to hurt her further. She felt hatred for him flash through her, so swift and white-hot it stole her breath.

  “There is no dispute, my lord. Master Arndel and I have no business together. I’m here to speak to you of my acceptance into the College.”

  Eyes wide, Hahren sat back in his ornately-tapestried chair. “I think you must be addled, Mage Lindin. That question has already been asked and answered. Now get out. I have no more time for you.”

  Get out? Head pounding beyond bearing, her vision misted red, all thought of temperate good sense vanished, Barl leapt toward Hahren and with one wild sweep of her arm sent his paperwork flying, ink pot and ink flying, glimlamp flying.

  “Then you can make time, my lord!” she shouted. “I might be unranked, but my talent is prodigious and you will recognise that! Or history will record you as the greatest fool ever born!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  My dear sir, you are most elsewhere this evening,” said Maris Garrick, as she dipped her soup spoon into her bowl. “Should you be troubled, perhaps you might wish to discuss the problem?” Her artfully tinted lips curved. “I thought I’d proven myself a comfortable listener.”

  With an effort he found difficult to conceal, which was almost as disturbing as the girl in Hahren’s antechamber, Morgan wrenched his thoughts to the here-and-now. Maris was looking magnificent, wrapped in sheer, shimmering peach-pink silk lavishly embroidered with gold thread and crystal beading. The dress was a shade too low-cut, her breasts swelling invitingly, provocatively, above its scalloped, crystal-edged neckline.

  She baits her trap with care, this Garrick daughter. Were I a callow youth I might well tumble into it without a second thought.

  But he wasn’t callow. He never had been. And since Venette’s dinner party he’d had his suspicions confirmed. Maris Garrick might be young, but she wasn’t entirely an innocent. His shifting gaze touched on the woman sitting alone at the table beside them. Maris’s companion, her silent shadow. Though Lord and Lady Garrick were anxious to see their daughter well wed, they weren’t entirely reckless.

  Or perhaps they know she cares less for propriety than a proper young mage should.

  “Morgan?”

  Maris was staring at him, a light frown creasing her fair brow. She had the palest, most translucent skin. It was beautiful. She was beautiful.

  But not as beautiful as the girl waiting for Hahren.

  Another wrenching effort, and the girl’s face was banished. He dredged up an apologetic smile.

  “Forgive me. There is certai
n Council business weighing on my mind. You’ll understand if I cannot say any more than that.”

  “Of course,” Maris replied, and took more soup. “I understand perfectly.”

  But did she? Was that a shadow of displeasure darkening her lustrous eyes? He thought it was. So what, then, was Maris Garrick thinking? That she should be privy to his discreet Council business? That marriage to Morgan Danfey would see the Garrick family gain some roundabout, backhanded Council influence? Even power?

  If so, my dear, you are sorely mistaken.

  Busy this evening, as usual, The Opal’s warm air glowed with the rustic novelty of Brantish beeswax candles. Their sweet scent mingled with the aromas of fine food. In the gallery above the dining area musicians serenaded the guests with soft, elegant music. A haven of luxurious gentility, The Opal, where supremely gifted food mages slaved to provide sumptuous repasts for wealthy and discriminating palates.

  Appetite quite fled, Morgan stared at his opening course of tender rabbit loin stuffed with prune and wrapped in salt bacon. No matter his efforts, the girl in Hahren’s antechamber would not be dismissed.

  Though she hid it well, she was distressed. What brings her to Elvado? She was dressed in linen. That makes her either unranked, or so lowly placed she might as well be. But there’s power in her, as belongs in the best First Family blood. That’s why my skin danced. Power calling to power.

  Justice be damned, who was she?

  “Dear sir, I have something to ask you,” said Maris, setting aside her spoon. Intruding again. “If I may?”

  In emptying her bowl she’d splashed soup on the immaculate white tablecloth. Was the woman a boor? How could he invite her to dine at the Danfey mansion if she was incapable of keeping her soup safe in its spoon?

  “Of course,” he said, smothering irritation with pleasantry. “There is no need to ask my permission.”

  Maris laughed. The sound grated. “As you know, though we are well established in Elvado, the Garrick estate still flourishes in the verdant beauty of Dorana’s Fifth district. My parents look to host a house party there next week, and would be honoured to receive you as a guest.”