A Dangerous Magic

by Donald Hounam

  “It’s cold!” she says, wrapping her arms around herself before I can offer to do it for her.

  “Where are you from?” She’s not English. There’s a precision about the way she speaks, as if she has to think about what she says. But it’s a bit weird: like running your fingers across velvet when you’re not sure which way the nap goes.

  “Lithuania.”

  “Where in Lithuania?”

  “Kernave. You have heard of it?”

  It rings a bell, but who cares? Here and now, Frank. Here and now . . .

  We follow Andrew under more head-crunchingly low arches to a side chapel caged behind elaborate wrought iron railings. Inside, I can just make out an altar with two candlesticks, a simple brass cross, and a curious object like the helmet and shoulders of a suit of medieval armor.

  Andrew takes a heavy key from a nail in the wall. “They should burn all this.” One day, I realize, he’ll run amok. He hands me the lantern and stoops to unlock the gate. “Superstitious rubbish!”

  “What about the miracles?” There are always miracles—like the one I did with Marvo’s tarot card.

  “Huh!” He pushes the gate open.

  I stand aside to let Kazia pass. The floor is thick with dust, the walls stained by damp. I hold up the lantern.

  After they found Oswald’s head, back in 1553, the party went on for weeks, and by the time everybody had got over their hangovers, Doughnut City was on its way to being one of the most popular shrines in Christendom. People came flooding in from all over, to kiss the head—gross or what?—and be cured of all sorts of diseases that you really don’t want to know about. The Church had to find some way of protecting the head from the wear and tear—and building the brand, of course—so they stuck it inside this reliquary.

  “Wow!”

  OK, I’ve seen it before, but I’d forgotten how fabulous it is. I catch Kazia’s eye and I’m relieved to see that she’s staring intently at it too.

  The real miracle here is that the reliquary has never been stolen. It stands on a white altar cloth. It’s made of pure gold, encrusted with jewels that gleam in the lamplight, and has been sculpted to resemble Oswald: the head and shoulders of a man, slightly over life-size, wearing a monk’s cowl. On the wall above hangs a painting of him looking remarkably relaxed about the sword sweeping toward his neck.

  Kazia looks around nervously at the sound of somebody knocking something over, out in the crypt. I’m too fascinated to pay any attention. This thing is beautiful.

  And inside . . . well, probably not so beautiful: what’s left of the thing I came here to see, the head of Saint Oswald. Holy matter, the most precious and magical substance there is. A sorcerer can have a lot of fun with a relic. Thank God the Society’s here to protect the world.

  “He’s still in there,” Andrew giggles. “He’s lost a few teeth.”

  He’s still rattling on when I hear Marvo’s voice say, “Frank.” I hand the lantern to Andrew and pull out my scryer.

  “What d’you want?”

  In the mirror, she’s got her coat on and I can see sunlight splattered across the mortuary building behind her. “Ferdia’s finished.”

  “Did I miss anything?”

  “I thought you’d help me look for Alice. Hey, it’s your fault she’s missing.”

  “Well I’m busy.”

  “Doing what? Where are you?”

  “Guess.”

  I turn the scryer toward the reliquary. Andrew and Kazia can’t hear Marvo’s end of the conversation and he’s complaining that he’s been roped in to carry the reliquary up to the altar at the Mass tonight. He sounds pretty narked off. Kazia looks pretty bored.

  “That’s the cathedral crypt, right?” says Marvo. “Saint Oswald—”

  “Yeah, just wondered how he was getting on.” I turn the scryer back so that I can see her in the mirror. “Happy now?”

  But it’s like she’s been turned to stone. Her mouth is open and she’s got this weird, lost expression plastered across her face. Her eyes close. She’s as white as a sheet.

  “Marvo?”

  She looks like she’s going to fall over.

  “Hello?”

  Still nothing. Andrew is looking at me, dead puzzled. I blow on the mirror so it mists up for a moment. When it clears, Marvo’s eyes have opened, round and blank like the moon, and she’s staring out at me like she’s never seen me before.

  “Marvo!”

  She twitches like a rag doll that’s been shaken. “It’s in the reliquary . . .”

  “What?”

  “Wallace’s head. It’s inside the reliquary.”

  Insight.

  That’s what all the play-acting’s about. Tatties—the good ones, anyway—they don’t just have great eyesight, they get this . . . I dunno, some people say it’s magical, or a trance or something. But it looks to me like they’ve got all this information coming at them and they’re concentrating so hard on making sense of it that everything else sort of shuts down.

  Whatever you like. All I know is, it’s spookier than a lot of Presences I’ve met.

  And for once in my life I’m actually speechless, because I realize she’s right: it isn’t Oswald’s skull in the reliquary, is it? I mean, I don’t know about you, but it’s suddenly, blindingly obvious to me that Marvo’s bang on the nail and what’s inside is . . .

  Ta-da! The missing head.

  “It’s like Akinbiyi said back in the library yesterday.” Marvo’s voice is shaking. “Someone’s trying to tell us something. Don’t you get it, Frank? This isn’t just a murder, it’s a message.”

  “OK, leave it to me.”

  I hear Marvo say, “I’m on my way,” as I snap the scryer shut.

  “Sorry about that.” I step up to the reliquary. At the side, where a tiny catch opens the faceplate, there are clear trails through the film of dust covering the gold surface. I pull a pair of silk gloves out of my case—hopefully there’s contiguity between the reliquary and whoever opened it and I don’t want to mess that up. I reach for the catch.

  “You can’t!” Andrew slaps my hand away. “It’s a sacred relic, even if it shouldn’t be.”

  I’m about to explain that I think it’s a missing bishop rather than a sacred relic. But I glance up at Kazia. She’s watching me keenly, and I remember the expression of sheer horror on her face when she pulled the sheet off the body on the trolley. I want to impress her, not send her screaming up the walls.

  “Sorry.” I step back and take my gloves off.

  Another bang from outside. Kazia clutches the wrought ironwork and peers out into the darkness of the crypt.

  “You can come to the Mass tonight if you want to see it,” Andrew says. “I’ve got to help carry it up to the high altar. It’ll be opened then for the ignorant to venerate.”

  Of course. That’s when the message is supposed to get delivered.

  He turns to Kazia. “You’ll be there, won’t you?”

  But she’s vanished. I dart to the chapel entrance and see her silhouette disappearing up the steps to the nave.

  “Sorry. Gotta go.” I grab my case. “Thank you.” It’s not Andrew’s fault his parents tried to secure their places in heaven by handing him over to the termites.

  By the time I get upstairs, there’s no sign of Kazia except a streak of light across the floor of the south transept, narrowing to nothing as the door to the cloister closes.

  I hear footsteps and turn, expecting to see Andrew coming up from the crypt. But it isn’t him, it’s the stocky bloke who was watching me earlier—the unfortunately named Amber Trickle spotted down by the river. If he can see anything, it’s another miracle because he’s still wearing his sunglasses. Maybe he’s a tourist, blinded by the splendor of the architecture. On the other hand, maybe he’s the Anti-Sorcery Brotherhood with something unpleasant on his mind. I decide to wait for Marvo outside, and make a dash for the west door.

  Chapter Ten

  Alchemy

  S
o I get to skulk on the bridge, looking out for trouble. After five minutes there’s no sign of Sunglasses and I relax a bit and watch a gang of uniformed jacks poking around the reeds in waders. Through the trees, I can see the famous gate to the palace gardens, with a shiny new elemental on patrol in a dark suit and blue shirt.

  Before I can get too bored with it all, there’s a yell behind me and Marvo’s hanging out of a van. She looks wrecked: pale as a ghost, dark rings under her eyes, the works.

  Insight. You don’t get something for nothing.

  Back inside the cathedral, still no Sunglasses, but things are really heating up for the Mass tonight. People are swarming all over the place, fiddling with the scryers, brushing between the pews, throwing hymn books around, jamming new candles into holders, hanging banners.

  Down in the crypt, the workmen are too busy clearing up to pay us any attention. But when we get to the back, there’s this mob of clergy packed into the side chapel watching an old woman in a ragged gray coat as she polishes up the reliquary.

  “Why didn’t you open it?” Marvo hisses.

  My pal Andrew’s lurking at the back of the chapel with his arms folded and a disapproving look on his gob.

  Marvo plows on: “It was coz the girl was there, right?”

  “What girl?” Hey, it’s worth a try.

  “The girl from the palace.” Marvo pulls out her scryer. “Don’t mess me about, Frank—I saw her.”

  I could make up a story, but what’s the point? “I didn’t want to gross her out, OK? I mean, if you’re right—”

  “I am right.”

  “Then that’s her uncle’s head inside the reliquary.”

  “I told you, Wallace was her dad—”

  “Was Wallace Lithuanian? Coz she is.”

  “So you had a good chat.”

  “The point is, she knows the guy and I’d be surprised if he’s looking his best. I didn’t want to upset her.”

  “Didn’t want to hurt your chances, more like.” Marvo looks around. “Anyway, she’s gone now—”

  “Wait.” I grab her arm and I’m amazed again how scrawny it is. “The guy in the corner, next to Andrew.”

  Marvo’s eyes widen. He’s only got one crucifix hanging around his neck and he’s lost the cross on the pole, but it’s unmistakably the fat priest with the birthmark from Alice Constant’s lodgings.

  “I’ll scry Caxton,” Marvo says, and tries to wrench her arm away.

  “No.” And before anyone sees us, I drag Marvo back across the crypt toward the steps.

  It’s a struggle, but I manage to get Marvo out of the cathedral and into the van, where I tell the driver to take us to my place. According to my magic watch, it’s just after five. I’ve drawn my pentagrams in the dirt on the windows on each side of the van, but even if they succeed in keeping evil forces at bay, they can’t shut Marvo up.

  “Frank, we gotta call Caxton. Get back in, open that thing up.”

  “No, leave it alone. Let it play out.”

  Marvo stares at me. “What’s the point of that?”

  “For a start, if you’re wrong we don’t get into trouble for prying open a saint on his big day.”

  “But I’m not wrong.”

  “Then it’s what you said: a message. Listen, Marvo—”

  “Marvell’s fine. You can call me Magdalena, for all I care.”

  I can see she’s dead set on feeling pissed off and the more I try to explain, the more she’s going to hang on to the wrong end of the stick like her life depends on it.

  “Fine,” I say. “So listen, Magdalena. They’ll open the reliquary at the Mass tonight. So we can be there, and we can see how people react and maybe that’ll give us some idea what this is all about.”

  “Maybe the girl will be there.”

  “Look, the reason I went to the cathedral was because I wanted to see the reliquary. You know, get a fix on all this crap about Saint Oswald.” OK, I can’t put my hand on my heart and say it never occurred to me that Kazia would be around, but still . . .

  “Honest.”

  So we both sit there sulking and staring out of the windows until we’re halfway up the hill to the termite nest and Marvell starts up again.

  Apparently Caxton’s a pain. As if we didn’t know that. But somehow Marvo gets on to how unfair everything is, just because we’re kids and we can do stuff that grown-ups can’t do . . . like actually see objects smaller than a building.

  I’m about to point out that she gets a pretty easy ride off Caxton compared with me; but she’s already switched to how it wasn’t her fault that her and me got off to a bad start, because nobody explained things to her and this is typical of how they treat tatties and nekkers. So I take a couple of minutes to explain that a nekker is a necromancer; and that raising the dead to predict the future is a toastable offense, so I’d prefer it if she stuck to “sorcerer”—or “freak,” if she must.

  She goes all quiet then and we both sit there staring out of opposite sides of the van until she says, “But it’s still not fair. I got Caxton on my back, goin’ on at me to get an insight and solve the case for her. And then when I do get one, you tell me to keep my mouth shut.”

  “I’m sorry.” I can’t believe I said that. “Look, the fat priest—we know he’s ASB. And there was this other bloke—”

  “What other bloke?”

  I tell her about Sunglasses following me around by the river and into the cathedral, and how the woman from the almshouse said she’d seen him outside the palace the night Wallace was murdered.

  “So you think he’s ASB too, yeah? An’ it was them that done Wallace.”

  “Well, we still don’t know that it was Wallace.”

  “Oh, come on, Frank!”

  “OK, obviously the ASB didn’t like his book. I thought it was pretty damn boring myself. But this whole circus . . . it’s all too complicated for them. I mean, they shout and scream and come at sorcerers with knives—”

  “Can’t say I blame them.”

  So we don’t say anything for a bit, and we’re just coming up to the termite nest when she cracks and says, “What is contiguity, anyway?”

  “Didn’t they teach you it?”

  “Just that it’s a force. Like gravity, only magic.”

  I’ll take that as a no. Still, at least we’re talking again, so pay attention at the back . . .

  “Sympathetic magic. First law: the Law of Similarity. A sorcerer can produce an effect by imitating it. That’s how most curses work. You make a wax doll to look like somebody; then when you stick pins in the doll, the victim feels the pain.”

  “That don’t work though.”

  “Done right, you can kill somebody.”

  “Have you?”

  I do my enigmatic smile and put my fists together, knuckles touching.

  “Second law: the Law of Contiguity. When any object comes into contact with another, they establish a physical affinity—they remember each other.”

  I move my fists apart. “When they’re separated, the contiguity weakens over time but never completely disappears. If you pick up a pebble on a beach, that creates a contiguity. You can throw it out to sea, but the affinity between you and that pebble persists.”

  “What’s the difference between contiguity an’ affinity?”

  “No difference. Contiguity’s the technical term. I use ‘affinity’ sometimes to avoid tiresome repetition. So that pebble you threw away, right? I could identify it eventually, by picking up every pebble in reach and testing it.”

  “That’d take forever!”

  “More usefully, if someone gives me a pebble I can tell if you’ve ever handled it.”

  She nods and says, “Coz Ferdia did the contiguity test with hairs from the body and from the hairbrush they found in Bishop Wallace’s bedroom. He said it was absolute.”

  “But he’s post-peak. And the brush could’ve been planted.”

  “That’s what I said. But Akinbiyi identified it.”


  “And he’s clergy so he must be telling the truth.”

  The termites, right: they don’t like me any more than I like them, but at least they’re used to me. The evidence is in the kitchen: two plates of cold ham. I hand Marvo the one from the icebox. The cook’s pet dog hasn’t got to the one on the floor yet, so I grab it for myself.

  “You sure it’s not poisoned?” she says, sniffing suspiciously.

  “Here.” I swap with her. “They wouldn’t hurt the dog.”

  It’s getting dark as we hike across the vegetable garden to my studio. It’s beginning to look like maybe we’re friends again, when she starts up. “And why’d you have to be such a prat with Alice?”

  “How was I to know she was scared of mice?”

  “She wasn’t.” Marvo frowns. “Not when I knew her, anyway. She had a pet rat at training college—I told you she had the Tats . . .”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Do you know how I was spotted? As a tatty, I mean.”

  “No. But I’ll bet you’re going to tell me.”

  “I was twelve, yeah? I was in town with my mum and I saw this old guy doing that trick with the three shells.”

  I know the scam. He’s got three walnut shells, or whatever, on a flat surface. He puts a dried pea under one of them and shuffles them around, dead fast.

  “It was obvious,” says Marvo. “Sleight of hand, like your trick with the card. He slipped the pea out before he moved the shells, then after this prat bet ten quid on where it was, he stuck it under a different one. So I’m about to call the jacks but this guy grabs my arm and shoves a badge in Mum’s face and says he’s from your lot . . .”

  Yeah, that’s another job you can do when you’re post-peak: hang around doing stunts on street corners to winkle out tatties.

  “So they drag me in for these tests—games with playing cards and stuff like that—and that’s where I bumped into Alice.” Her voice has gone a bit funny. “Coz I sort of remembered her from primary school.”