“You are our only Jemis this year, so we need not fret about distinguishing your name. Welcome to Morrowlea, young man: I hope it is everything you have hoped for and far more.”
Thus dismissed, I bumbled my way to the Registrar, who gave me my room key and first month’s list of courses—which were taken by all first-year students as a way to ensure they had equal grounding in the fundamentals, to meet each other, and to be introduced to subjects and disciplines perhaps unknown and yet potentially beloved—to the Sartor, who gave me my robes, and finally to my room, where I found Hal.
Hal, dressed already in his robes (grey for first-year students), looked grand, intimidatingly confident. New people never daunted him, nor any social situation, but all the little practical details of common life were strange and occasionally baffling to him. The boots, that first evening; but even before that, when we struck up a tentative alliance in order to find the refectory, he had treated the act of picking up a tray in order to carry his plate to the long tables as the peculiar custom of another culture.
In such little moments was friendship begun and nurtured: in conversations late into the night about the books we read; in early morning chores done so poorly at first; in our mild competition to improve so that Stable-master or Housekeeper or Cook ceased complaining about us useless first-years who didn’t know a spoon from a spatula.
I thought about those first months. They seemed duller but yet more concrete than the magic years that followed. Those were dreamlike, or like memories of a book I had read: clear-edged, vivid, brilliant, but with emotions somehow absent, leached-out, gone.
I knew I had felt emotions: remembered how my heart had beaten loudly whenever I saw Lark, how my breath came faster, how my body was flooded by desire and what I had taken for happiness.
But I smiled involuntarily thinking about Marcan and Hal and I getting in trouble for swimming in the fish pond after curfew, and all that remembered froth of excitement left me now cold.
I shied away from Lark; thought instead of later episodes with Hal and Marcan, Isoude and Violet, and all the rest of our friends in the year.
Smiled foolishly at the second-year discovery that the devout and very traditional Marcan—whom I’d pegged as a prosperous yeoman farmer’s son until his father’s outriders came to collect him—had never read anything by Fitzroy Angursell.
That had been a happy winter and spring, reading the poems, including all the many volumes of Aurora.
Perhaps I did not owe the wireweed all my happiness.
I WENT TO MR. INGLESIDES’ bakery for luncheon items and to tell him about the flat. Dominus Gleason’s man was there when I entered. The cinnamon buns he was purchasing seemed incongruous, but then what did I know of either him—whose name I did not even know—or Dominus Gleason, apart from the latter’s propensities to minor crimes?
“Good afternoon,” I said neutrally to the manservant.
He turned, expression blankly hostile, eyes flat. Surveyed me from head to toe; visibly dismissed me as a threat; said, in a voice so like a wheel over gravel I had immediately to wonder if he cultivated it on purpose, “Pipsqueak.”
I blinked.
He walked out with his cinnamon buns, contriving to loom all the way and still not hit his head on the doorjamb.
Last week I had been given the cut direct by Dame Talgarth in the bakery. That had not ended well for her—though I had not, in point of fact, intended to do anything against her. Perhaps there would be some similarly oblique way to return the favour to Dominus Gleason and his man.
It would have to be very oblique: the man was not the most dangerous person I had ever encountered (that honour went to the Tarvenol duellist with whom I had played Poacher at the Green Dragon last week, followed in short order first by Violet and then by Lark), but he was certainly in the top echelon. And no one I had heard tell had any idea what Dominus Gleason’s skill as a wizard was. He had been a Scholar-wizard at Fiella-by-the-Sea before the Fall, but that said little nowadays.
I paid for Temby pasties, more cinnamon buns, and coffee, and conveyed them all up to the new flat, where Hal had been most busy.
Over lunch he showed me his lists, of things he had found and things we needed.
“Much in the ‘salvageable’ category?”
“Oh, most of it. Do you know what the previous owner did with the space?”
“No, Mrs. Etaris has had the shop as long as I can remember.”
“I’m split—or perhaps they were. I think they might have been either a printer-stationer—”
“Quite reasonable.”
“—Or a cheesemonger.”
I snorted into my coffee. “I’m sorry?”
“Possibly even a cheesemaker, except why do that in the middle of town? There are all sorts of pots and things in here.”
“They might be the necessities for an illegal still, you know. There are enough of those in the Arguty Forest to float the town down the Rag.”
“And yet this is the dullest town in Northwest Oriole. I think there must be a conspiracy of sorts to keep it so.”
“Probably. The good gentry seem committed to the reputation.”
I winced inwardly at giving Hal this opportunity to return to the conversation about the matters swirling about me, and was glad to hear the town bell ring the hour so I could escape back down the stairs to work.
MR. DART ARRIVED AT closing-time to admire the flat and bear us off to the Ragnor Arms for supper. I had never eaten at the hotel and was unfavourably impressed by the food compared to Mrs. Buchance’s cooking or even my own. The wine was adequate and the conversation, since public, general, so I was overall pleased.
We talked about Stoneybridge and Morrowlea’s respective attitudes to their neighbours. I was aware, though disbelieving of the fact, that the conversations around us ebbed whenever I spoke. Accordingly I spoke less and less of substance as the meal wore on, until we were on the third remove and the Honourable Rag launched himself from where he had been dining with Mr. Woodhill and flung himself into our company in order, it seemed, to champion Tara on every count.
“It’s true we had no city amusements,” Hal agreed cheerfully, “but to be frank, Master Roald, what of it? If one goes to a great university, does one not do well to study at least a portion of the time?”
“They are many things to study,” replied the Honourable Rag, winking at me. He beckoned the waiter over with a casual snap of his fingers that inspired in me a sudden wash of fury.
“And of what did you make a study?” I asked sharply. “Was it only the chase?”
“Merkheld—or is it Merganser?—holds that the chase is the noblest field of study, for by it one learns courage, wisdom, faith, and all virtue—”
“Patience, too? Or no; that’s angling.”
Mr. Dart snorted and buried himself in his glass. The Honourable Rag took a sip of his wine. “But stay, Mr. Greenwing, surely you learned more at Morrowlea than mere bookishness? You are attracting adventures—”
“And you are attracting trouble, or else I’ve been sadly misinformed, Master Roald.”
“Oh, the art of the chase has taught me when a trail’s worth the following, Mr. Greenwing. I have high hopes for the Fair.”
“So do I,” interjected Hal at this point, while I tried to analyze precisely why I felt so miffed. “I think we can place, at least, with our cake, don’t you, Jemis?”
Mr. Dart laughed. “You have great expectations—or perhaps they’re low ones for the populace of Ragnor barony.”
“Oh, I leave all expectations to Mr. Greenwing, Mr. Dart, along with his patrimony of riddles, relatives, and honey-receptacles.”
And something deep in my mind clicked into place; but I did not figure out what it was until several days later.
Chapter
The First Magic Lesson
“WE’LL START WITH SOMETHING very basic,” Hal said after the three of us had settled into the comfortable old chairs. “Lighting a candl
e is always a good one. Useful skill, easy to do.”
He produced three candles and set them on saucers on the table between us. “Three?” I said.
“I thought Mr. Dart might like to participate.”
Mr. Dart made a face. I nodded, not paying much attention to his quibbles, but instead feeling an odd thrill of anticipation and nerves. Magic had been such an ordinary and uncomplicated part of life for so long—until it wasn’t. During Imperial days there had been no indication I had any magic in me—I hadn’t made lights or made things move or made anything happen at all—and I still couldn’t quite believe that Lark had been stealing power from me.
She had stolen my heart, my attention, my self-respect, certainly; but magic?
Hal picked up the candle closest to him. “Note that these are all candles that have already been lit. It’s easier to light an old candle—”
“Always is,” Mr. Dart said, patting his pocket for his pipe. “The wax is already drawn up into the wick.”
“Yes, and the candle knows it’s supposed to light. All right: Jemis, we’ll see how, ah, ready the magic is. You concentrate on light, and say ivailo ivaro ivo.”
“‘Light, lighten, be lit’,” I murmured, picking up the candle to look at it more closely, the Old Shaian words coming clearly to mind. I felt a bit foolish. I had no idea what it was supposed to feel like, calling fire. I imagined a point of light gathering around the little bulging edge of the wick, imagined heat gathering, imagined pressure in my mind. Said, “Ivailo ivaro ivo!”
To my great surprise the candle lit.
I lowered it hastily. “Well, now, I wasn’t expecting that to work.”
Hal whooped with laughter. “Really, Jemis! You have magic practically leaking out of you.”
“I can’t tell,” I said dourly. “If I blow it out, can I light it again?”
“You can certainly try. Or try oraino oraro oro—”
“Is magic seriously just a matter of saying three forms of the imperative in Old Shaian? I’m a little disappointed my tutor never mentioned this.”
“Most people don’t learn Old Shaian. These are just the fundamentals. It’s much more complex once you get past the basics.”
I said the words, imagining pinching the candle (despite Hal’s words, I couldn’t believe that just stating the words would work; otherwise why had I not made all sorts of things happen during Old Shaian? I’d started the course before I’d been caught by Lark). The flame obediently went out, then relit itself when I said the other words.
“This is—this is seriously—”
“Magical?” said Mr. Dart, lighting his pipe from my candle.
“Your turn, Mr. Dart,” Hal said, smiling encouragingly.
Mr. Dart looked strangely hesitant. “I don’t think ...”
“Come now, Mr. Dart,” I said. “You might learn something. Unless Stoneybridge filled you right up to completion?”
He puffed at his pipe, blew a careful smoke ring up towards the ceiling. Glanced cautiously at his candle, sighed, slowly said, “Ivailo ivarno—” He stopped.
“Ivaro,” Hal repeated, enunciating clearly.
Mr. Dart didn’t appear to be listening. He was frowning at the candle in its saucer, attention fixated, the pipe drooping in his hand. Said sharply, “Tisso!”
Flame gushed a full three feet upwards.
For a moment I was caught back in the memory of last week’s excursion into a burning house, the smell of wood and fire—the heat, the light, the heat—
“Aoro!”
The flame lowered itself reluctantly, obedient to Hal’s command (‘now diminish’), dwindled to a torch, to a taper, to a fine point, to an ember glowing in a puddle of wax, to a thin coiling line of smoke.
Mr. Dart’s eyes were wild. “What—what happened? Why did that happen?”
Hal unhurriedly moved the two other candles out of the way. “Why did you say that word? It wasn’t what I’d told you.”
Mr. Dart was still staring fixedly at the remnants of his candle. “I—that was what the candle wanted me to say—”
“Perry,” I said, reaching out to grip his shoulder. “What do you mean, it wanted you to say that?”
He pushed back against the chair. “I’m—I’m not supposed—I’m not supposed to listen!”
“Wild magic,” breathed Hal. “It must be. Mr. Dart, when did you first—”
“I’m not supposed to talk about it!” he cried, thrusting back so hard his chair fell over. His stone arm hit the floor with a thud, and he pushed himself into the corner, wrapping his good arm around his knees, hiding his head. His voice came out more softly. “I promised my Papa I’d never talk about it.”
“Perry, your papa died when we were six.”
“I promised! He made me promise. He told me I must never never tell anyone.”
Hal frowned, making a gesture to me that I interpreted as ‘keep him talking’. I rose from my seat, lowered myself down next to him. Had a sudden memory of Sir Hamish imitating the late Squire Dart saying Now then, Peregrine, when Mr. Dart as a little boy would say something about some inanimate object not ‘wanting’ something or other.
“Mr. Dart, Perry, you can talk to us ... We won’t tell anyone else.”
He buried his head, voice muffled. “You wouldn’t break a promise to your father, would you, Jemis?”
I stopped my initial response, for the answer, of course, was no, I wouldn’t.
Hal said, “Mr. Dart, if you have a gift at wild magic, it makes sense your papa would try to prevent you from developing it—in the days of the Empire it was a sentence of exile or death, if it couldn’t be controlled. You managed to repress it successfully—that’s a wonderful thing. Most people couldn’t, you know. But now ... now it’s different. The magic is different. You won’t be driven mad by Schooled magic—the system is different.”
I nodded. “Your papa wouldn’t want you to—your papa would be so proud of you!”
“Now that you’ve called the magic—Mr. Dart—it will come again. You have to learn how to control it. Magic either comes once; or often.”
“Even wild magic?” I asked, feeling Mr. Dart shivering against me.
Hal said, “It’s wild magic, it doesn’t obey rules ... But if Mr. Dart has been suppressing his gift, it will be ... it will be wanting to come out. Have you been finding that—things—are speaking to you more?”
“I don’t listen to them!”
I leaned back from the vehemence, then cautiously put my hand on his shoulder again, glancing beseechingly at Hal.
He made a helpless gesture. “It has to be his decision.”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “Would you go against a promise to your father?”
“I promised my father I would take care of my mother and my sister and that I would always strive to be as fair and just a lord as I could,” Hal said, scraping at the puddle of wax that remained of Mr. Dart’s candle. “I promised him I would always treat people fairly. I promised him I would always try to listen to all sides of the situation. I promised him I would always strive to be a good man.”
None of that seemed to be helping. I leaned my head back against the wall. I desperately wanted to try the magic again, but that was selfish. I felt terrible that I had not noticed how much Mr. Dart was hiding behind beard and always-cheerful demeanour.
“My father made me promise things like never to try to cheat Mrs. Henny the Post at Poacher.”
“I’m sorry—Mrs. Henny the Post? Why is she called a post?”
“Not a post; the Post. She’s the postmistress. Like Fogerty the Fish is the fishmonger, Mrs. Jarnem the Sweet has the sweetshop, Kulfield the Iron is the blacksmith.”
“There’s an apprentice blacksmith named Kulfield on my ship. I think he’s from Fiellan?”
“Yes, Roddy Kulfield. Mr. Dart and the Honourable Rag were telling me that he’d gone to sea to be draughtsman. You might have heard that the strength contests at the Fair are now wide open; that�
��s why.”
“The Honourable Rag?”
“Roald Ragnor, the Baron’s son.”
“Oh Lady,” said Mr. Dart suddenly, still into his knees, “the Baron is going to be so angry that you’re studying magic.”
I laughed ruefully. “Isn’t he just? He’s rabidly against magic, Hal.”
“So?”
“It’s easy enough for you to say that,” Mr. Dart said, lifting his head. His eyes were red and he was pale, but he was more composed and his voice was steady enough. “You don’t live here and you’re an imperial Duke.”
“Jemis is an imperial Viscount. He outranks any mere regional baron. As for you, Mr. Dart, Jemis has told me all sorts of wonderful stories about you, and none of them made you sound craven.”
“Hal!”
“I’m not learning magic,” Mr. Dart said, though his eyes were straying to the candles.
“What do other people do here who have inclinations towards magic?”
“Hide it or leave, I suppose,” I said, seeing that Mr. Dart’s attention was focused on the candles, though I couldn’t tell whether he was listening to us, or just ... listening. “No one talks about it, or at least ... not before. Last week they were not very happy about the magic that came out ... That’s why Magistra Bellamy’s gone off north for a while, Mrs. Etaris said. The Honourable Miss Jullanar fell in love with an itinerant knife-sharpener who turned out to be the Earl of the Farry March in disguise, but her father refused the match because there’s too much magic in the March. Mr. Dart, did you hear what the Honourable Rag’s response was? I wasn’t here.”
Mr. Dart lifted his pipe and puffed on it a few times. “He had an argument with his father, but the Baron holds the purse-strings.”
I shook my head, thinking once again what a waste—what a drone—the Honourable Rag was turning out to be. “From what Violet said, he was playing far too high in Orio City—he went to Tara, Hal.”
“And not on merit,” Mr. Dart said, blowing smoke rings. We were still seated on the floor, looking up at where Hal was sitting sideways on his chair, but otherwise Mr. Dart seemed back to his usual self. He smiled crookedly. “All of them play too high—the Baron, Sir Vorel and Lady Flora, the Talgarths, the Woodhills, the Figheldeans—that’s what you should do, Jemis, you could play Sir Vorel for the Arguty estate.”
Bee Sting Cake: Greenwing & Dart Book Two Page 18
