A Blight of Mages

by Karen Miller

  Orwin interlaced his fingers with hers. “You did, my dear.”

  “And as for baiting Sallis like that. How could he be so foolish? How could he not see that the rejecting of his incants was a trap? Now Sallis is insufferable. He and Shari have convinced themselves that Morgan is all but dismissed. And I fear they’re right. Brice won’t hear of recalling him, certainly not before Greve—”

  She couldn’t finish the thought. Greve was far from her favourite person, but even so…

  “And that’s why you should take the first step, my dear,” said Orwin, squeezing her hand. “We both know Morgan is his stubborn father’s son. Go to him. You’ll not regret it. But the longer you let this silence drag on, the harder it will be to mend the breach. And if you leave it ’til it can’t be mended, well. That you’ll regret.”

  “I’ll see,” she said, not wanting to admit he was right. “Perhaps I’ll try talking to Brice again, first. It won’t be called meddling if Lord Varen has a quiet word with him.”

  Orwin disentangled their fingers, sighing. “You’ll do what you think is best, I’m sure.”

  In other words, he thought she was wrong but had no desire for an argument.

  Venette pushed her chair back and stood. “I have that meeting to attend. I must get ready, I don’t want to be late.” A glance through the solar window showed her blue sky and distant, lacy clouds. “It’s going to be a lovely day. I think I’ll walk to the Hall.”

  But she’d not gone more than a few steps from the town house’s front gates when her name was called. Seeing who stood in the shadow of the large djelba shading the quiet street, she felt her eyes widen.

  “Mage Ranowen?”

  Dressed in a drab grey linen tunic, her head covered by a grey cotton shawl, the unranked College tutor glanced around them as though she were afraid of being seen.

  “Lady Martain. Good morning. Have you a moment to talk?”

  “Not really, no. I’m due at the Hall. You should make an appointment to see me there. Really, this is hardly—”

  “I’m sorry,” said Mage Ranowen, stepping closer. “I don’t think it’s wise for us to discuss this in… a formal setting. Not when you and I don’t ordinarily cross paths.”

  Perplexed, she stared at the inconvenient young woman. “Mage Ranowen, I am a busy woman. State your business plainly or be on your way.”

  Bellamie Ranowen pressed two fingers to her temple, as though she were in pain. “I’m afraid there is something wrong in Dorana.”

  “Wrong?” Out of patience entirely, Venette lifted her hand. “I think perhaps you’re unwell, Mage Ranowen. Seek a pother and do not—”

  “Please! Lady Martain, you must hear me out!”

  “Oh. Must I, indeed?”

  “Yes,” the woman insisted. “For all our sakes, yes.”

  So much for a leisurely, pleasurable stroll to the Hall. “Then I will listen to you as I walk to the plaza. And if that is too formal a setting for you, Mage Ranowen, then I suggest you unburden yourself to a tree.”

  “I am sorry,” Bellamie Ranowen murmured, as they made their way side by side along the otherwise empty residential avenue. “Believe me, Lady Martain, I’d not have accosted you like this if I didn’t believe it was needful.”

  “I’ll be the judge of what’s needful. Well?”

  Bellamie Ranowen offered her a diffident smile. “Yes. An explanation. Only first, might I ask when it was you last performed any complicated magework?”

  To her surprise, Venette had to think before she answered. When was the last time? Goodness. It had been days. Perhaps a week before the Garricks’ house party. And since then, of course, with so much upset over Morgan, well, she’d not been in the mood for anything more difficult than glimfire.

  “A little time,” she said, cautious. “Why?”

  “It means there’s no hope you’ve felt it too,” said Mage Ranowen, almost speaking to herself. “Of course, that might not matter, since I seem to be the only tutor in the College who—”

  “Felt what? I swear, Mage Ranowen, if you don’t stop talking in riddles I won’t—”

  And then Bellamie Ranowen so far forgot herself as to take hold of a councillor’s arm and tug her to a halt. Plain face drawn with tension, her eyes wide with distress, she seemed not to realise she’d just committed assault.

  “Lady Martain, I feel magic the way others hear music. So if I say to you I can hear a discordant note in the choir… do you understand what I mean?”

  Venette stared. Did Bellamie Ranowen intend to be insulting, or was she simply so distracted she’d not thought before speaking?

  This once, I shall give her the benefit of the doubt.

  Gently, she extricated her arm from the young woman’s grasp. “Are you suggesting there is a flaw in the fabric of Dorana’s magic?”

  Fear and relief flooded into Bellamie Ranowen’s eyes. “Yes. Lady Martain, that is exactly what I’m saying.”

  “I see.” Venette glanced around still-empty Asvoden Way. No wonder the College’s only unranked mage had wanted this to be a privy conversation. “And you are the only mage in Dorana who can feel it?”

  As though startled by the question, Mage Ranowen frowned. “I have no idea. As far as I can tell I’m the only mage in the College who’s noticed, but as to—oh.” She almost laughed. “I see. You think I’m imagining things.”

  “I think it’s possible. I certainly think it’s more likely than you being the only mage capable of sensing such a catastrophic event.”

  “I never said I was!” Mage Ranowen said, close to snapping. “And I think the only reason I’ve felt it is because I’ve been conducting some highly complex syllabic reconfigurations. That’s why I asked if you’d done any difficult magework of late. Whatever this discordant note is, whatever it means, it’s so faint I think it can only be sensed when a mage is deeply, deeply focused. And even then, perhaps not by many.”

  “If it’s so faint, indeed, so serendipitous, then how do you know you’re not imagining it?”

  Bellamie Ranowen leaned close. “Because I know!”

  Justice save her, what an intense young woman. Perhaps the strain of teaching at the College was finally starting to show.

  “Very well, Mage Ranowen,” Venette said, subtly easing aside. “You have a concern and you’ve rightly brought it to a councillor’s attention. You may return to the College, confident that your assertion will be investigated.”

  Bellamie Ranowen looked at her, silent. And then she smiled, not diffidently at all. “Confident. Yes. Of course.” She stepped back. “Thank you for your time, Lady Martain. I am sorry to have disturbed you. I hope I’ve not made you late.”

  Astonished, Venette watched the grey-clad mage retreat a short distance down the avenue, then slip into Nolin Lane.

  “Extraordinary!” she murmured. “Quite extraordinary.”

  But as she made her hurried way toward the plaza, and the Hall, she thought she might… just might… do a little complicated magework of her own that evening. On the principle that generally it was better to be safe than sorry.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Barl stole every moment she could to work on Lord Danfey’s funeral clock.

  Morgan was too preoccupied to notice her theft. His father grew weaker every day, and every day demanded more of his time. He gave it, willingly, even though it meant less chance to magework. Even though it meant he left his father’s chambers almost speechless with fear and grief.

  Helpless to help him, Barl poured all her empathy into the clock. And then struggled to hide her exhaustion from him during their snatched time in the attic. She was hiding it now, as they took advantage of Lord Danfey’s slumber to think of something other than illness and death.

  After some tweaking and fiddling, the fabric incant she’d dreamed up had at last come out to her satisfaction. Wrapping herself in the silky, slithery golden material she’d created, she danced around the attic.

  “I think eve
ry woman in Dorana would like to see herself dressed in this,” she said, smoothing her cheek against its cool elegance. “I can make it work just as well with gold and ruby, or with silver and sapphire, silver and amethyst, bronze and citrine… Morgan, I believe the possibilities are endless!”

  Leaning on the wall beside the attic window, arms folded, Morgan stirred himself out of melancholy and smiled. The sideways-slanting light threw his face into sharp relief, merciless in its revelation of weariness and sorrow.

  “I believe you’re right. And I believe the outrageous cost of the base materials will be more than covered by the trading returns.”

  Outrageous cost. Penitent, she stopped dancing. “I was so caught up in creating this I forgot what you’d be spending on the gold and silk and topaz. Morgan—”

  “You owe me nothing, Barl,” he said, still smiling. “We can’t act on this yet, but as soon as the Council deems you sufficiently punished we’ll submit the incant for Guild ratification. And once it’s ratified I’ll talk with our man of business about its trading prospects. Within a year I’ll wager you’ll find rich women from Trindek to Vharne adorned in your glittering creations… not to mention every ranked mage in all fourteen districts.”

  Struck silent, she stared at him.

  Just like that? He snaps his fingers and my dream of being the best-known artisan mage in Dorana comes true?

  Morgan raised an eyebrow. “You don’t believe me?”

  “No, I do,” she said, dazed. “Only… nothing in my life has ever been so simple. I’m not used to wanting and having standing close enough to hold hands.”

  “There’s no great mystery to it, Barl. The Danfeys have been involved in trading within and beyond Dorana for generations.”

  And this was when, of a sudden, Morgan transmuted into a stranger. The things he took for granted. The easiness of his life. It wasn’t his fault. Doubtless birds never noticed the air as they flew.

  But for those of us who are earthbound and gasping, the air is all we can think of.

  Smile faded, he was frowning now. “If you mislike the notion, we don’t have to—”

  “Mislike it? No!” she said quickly. “Thank you. Thank you. But you may yet come to regret your generosity. Glossy material is but the start of things, you see. My head is stuffed full of ideas for artisan work!”

  “As mine is full of…”

  “Transmutations,” she said, when he didn’t finish. “I know. And we should work on that now, Councillor. You’ve indulged me long enough with my frivolous fabrics. We should have at least an hour before—” She faltered, seeing his imperfectly concealed pain. “Or perhaps a little longer, if his lordship rests more comfortably this afternoon.”

  She rarely asked how his father was faring. Left it to him to tell her what he could, when he could. He was pressured enough. He didn’t need her to push him.

  “Yes,” he said, straightening. “That would be helpful.”

  Laying her beautiful golden fabric aside, Barl watched as he assembled the tools he needed for his next experiment with the reworked Hartigan incant. His groundbreaking magework had suffered for lack of attention, and that was grieving him too. Why these transmutations were so important to him she still didn’t know. Sometimes she thought her curiosity must choke her, but when the urge rose again to ask him what they were for, why they mattered, she gritted her teeth. He would tell her when he was ready. To push for more than he could give her would be to lose him. Of that she had no doubt.

  Like it or not, I am being forced to learn patience.

  And wouldn’t Remmie roll his eyes, if he knew.

  Muttering under his breath, Morgan picked up his sealed glass jar of powdered orifim and shook it. There was very little of the blue-grey catalyst left.

  “But you can get more, can’t you?” she said, picking up their conversation out of thin air, as often happened since they’d begun working so closely together. “Or use a different element.”

  He slammed the jar on the workbench. “If I could use something other than orifim I would be using it, wouldn’t I?”

  She’d grown indifferent to his snappishness. “I don’t know. My magework has never required the use of orifim.” Or azafris, or susquinel, or any other of the potent elements he kept here. “Can you not get more?”

  “Not without difficulty. But I shall have to risk it,” he added, more to himself than to her. “Sallis Arkley be cursed.” A finger-snap beckoned her. “I need these four catalysts combined in the precise order I’ve placed the jars. One measure apiece. Be exact.”

  “Where are you going?” she said, as he headed for the workroom door.

  “To fetch something. I won’t be long.”

  Turning her attention to the four catalysts he wanted mixed, she hauled a heavy crucible close then one by one dropped into it an exact measure of each element. Orifim. Barfloy. Yellow wort. Haginth. Her eyes watered as she crushed each one to a finer powder. In the attic’s warm air, a soft sizzle of potency.

  The attic door opened, and Morgan returned carrying a large box and a fistful of ebony rook feathers. Something alive was scrabbling inside the box.

  Slowly, Barl lowered the pestle into the mortar. “Morgan?”

  He put box and feathers on the workbench, inspected the finely crushed catalysts, and only then turned to look at her. His expression was almost grim.

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Do I—what kind of question is that?”

  “An important one.”

  “Do I trust you? Well, Morgan, given that my life sits precarious in your hands, if I didn’t trust you I’d have to be a lackwit!”

  Scrabble scrabble scritch went the prisoner in the box.

  She pointed. “And what is that?”

  “An armoured beetle,” he said, frowning at the box. “From Trindek.”

  She stared at him. No. Surely not. “Are you saying you want to transmute it?”

  As self-contained as he’d ever been, Morgan folded his arms. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Morgan…” She rubbed her forehead. Perhaps lack of sleep has muddled his thinking. “Transmuting flowers is one thing. But a beetle is—”

  “So close to a plant there’s no discernible difference. You’d hardly call a beetle intelligent, or aware.”

  “That might well be true,” she said slowly, “but why do I suspect the Council wouldn’t see it that way?”

  “Since I have no intention of asking the Council to look, your suspicions don’t matter.”

  Like her, he never meant to be arrogant. Sometimes the words just came out that way. “Morgan, do you intend to transmute the beetle or don’t you?”

  “Yes and no,” he said, picking up a rook’s feather and threading it through his fingers. “I want to see if we can imbue these feathers with an aspect of the beetle’s armoured carapace.”

  As a rule she could follow his thinking with ease… but not this time. “Why?”

  “Because Trindeki armoured beetles are unique. Their chitin has been known to turn aside a Vharne swordsman’s blade.”

  She felt her temper flare. Sometimes he forgot he didn’t walk this tightrope alone. “Don’t be clever with me, Morgan.”

  “Because it’s important,” he said, and let the feather drop. “To me. To Dorana.”

  An answer that wasn’t an answer. “In other words, you want me to take this on faith?”

  “Take me on faith. Yes.”

  As he’d taken her. How unkind of him to use that weapon. “And you won’t tell me why it’s so important?”

  His sharp regard softened. “Not won’t, Barl. Can’t. Not yet.”

  Uneasy, she looked at the box. Listened to the scrabbling. “I know it’s just a beetle, Morgan, but still… it’s alive. In a way all those flowers we’ve changed will never be alive.”

  Morgan stepped close enough to touch her. Rested his fingertips on her shoulder, briefly. “You eat meat, don’t you?”

  “Yes, to l
ive! Are you saying—Morgan, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I need you to trust me.”

  No, you need me to kill that beetle. To break our most fundamental law, with only your word as surety.

  “I know you think you can keep the Council from interfering, but—” She shivered. “If you can’t, if they find out what we’ve done… Morgan, they’ll not spare us.”

  He smiled. “When the Council learns of it, Barl, when the time comes to tell them? Those haughty mages will fall on their knees in gratitude, and weep. Even Sallis Arkley.”

  She wanted to believe him. Needed to believe him. No, she did believe him. Why would he lie?

  It’s only a beetle. Hardly alive at all.

  “You promise this is to help Dorana?”

  “Yes.” A note of pain in his voice. His beautiful eyes steady on her face. “I swear it.”

  “Then we should get started, Councillor. Time’s ticking on.”

  He wanted to kiss her again, she could see it. But he was handfast with Maris Garrick… and an honourable man. To spare both of them, she turned away.

  “So, tell me how we begin.”

  These past days of their mageworking, flowing into weeks, they’d discovered that together they could achieve things no mage could achieve alone. They complemented each other. Light to dark, shade to sun. Between them there was an instinctive comprehension, understanding without words. She found it more powerful, more perfect even than working with Remmie.

  And though transmuting a living creature would be the hardest thing they’d ever attempted, she had no doubt that together they’d succeed.

  Speaking quickly, his thoughts running ahead, Morgan explained his intent. It was to invoke the reworked transmutation incant on both beetle and feather together, using a bridging sigil enhanced with the catalysts she’d prepared, to make certain they did not fly apart in the moment of transformation. And in the incant’s deliberate gap he intended to insert a sequence of syllables that would see the rook’s feather imbued with the armoured character of the beetle.

  “Wait,” Barl said, reading his scribbled notations. “That’s not right. Your harmonics are out of kilter.” Snatching the quill from his fingers, she scrawled over his neatly written syllables. “See? Four beats, then two, then five. Not four and three and three. That will keep the harmonic ripples gentle. And not taking from Berring’s Compulsion, either. That’s too bullish. What do a feather and a beetle have in common? Not enough that we can shout at them. This needs to be a whisper.”