A Ragged Magic

by Lindsey S. Johnson

  “Do you think you’ll be recovered by tomorrow? I would like — if it’s not too soon for you — I would like it if you’d be nearby while I have an interview with Bishop Gantry.”

  “An interview?”

  “We’re going to discuss the hospice, and what recompense might be made to families who’ve lost anyone due to neglect.” He grimaces. “I don’t expect it will be a pleasant meal.”

  “You’re serving dinner?” I feel a sick chill in my stomach. This might be my chance.

  “Luncheon, tomorrow. We’ll have something light, most likely. I won’t be very hungry, I’m sure.”

  “Of course I’ll help you. Where will you have it?”

  “In the lesser hall. It’s nice and impressive. It’s useful for intimidations and such, if Bishop Gantry is capable of being intimidated.”

  I toss the damp rags in a pile with some others and turn to Hugh, trying to seem nonchalant. “Where will I be?”

  “In the small pantry, which should be close enough to hear. There’s a spot to hide.” He grins suddenly. “It’s a great hiding place, really. You’ll love it.”

  I look at him, not trusting that grin. “We’ll work out how your barriers should work for this, so you can listen in without giving yourself away. I think you’re almost there.”

  “If someone discovers me, I’ll have some explaining to do.”

  “I used to hide in there all the time as a child: no one ever found me. And anyway, we can figure out something plausible. But I don’t think it will be a problem.”

  I think he’s being too blithe: he’s worried about something. But I want to do this. This could be my chance. “All right,” I agree, and Hugh smiles and leaves me to my tisane.

  The vision of Hugh shouting washes over me again. But I can’t tell what he’s shouting, why he’s so angry. If it’s because I’m successful, I will live with it, I think. It’s too vague to be sure, anyway. I brush it off. If my magic wants me to know something, it needs to be more specific. I pour the last jar of tisane and clean up, tired again. But a dark determination fills me — I’m going to see this finished.

  ～

  The lesser hall is next to the great hall, and overlooks the west barbican, and the cliffs by the sea. The long dining table takes up much of the room, and there are twelve chairs around it. The dark wood of the surface gleams in the lamp light as rain patters on the windows, and gulls cry outside.

  Hugh shoos me into the pantry, off the side of the room. A counter and cabinets and one giant wardrobe take up the small space. Two place settings lie on the counter, rimmed with gold and with the duchy seal on them. One goblet is almost encrusted in gems, and the seal is quite large.

  “Oh, good, Samuel has brought out the intimidation-ware,” Hugh says.

  I raise my eyebrows at the goblets. “I know, they’re hideous, but they do remind people that I’m a duke.” He smiles at me, a wry grin. I suppose I do forget, now and again. He wants people to, I think.

  “What is this wardrobe even doing in here?” I ask. It is ugly, and huge, and any wall space that might have existed is more than taken up by it. It covers part of the doorway to the corridor. The carvings all over the front look like sea monsters.

  “There’s nowhere else to put it,” he shrugs.

  “But — there’s a whole castle? With …” I let that go. “If you don’t like it, why keep it?”

  “Oh, I like it. But no one else does. And it is pretty ugly, I admit. But I like it where it is. I think my mother put it here in a fit of pique over something — my father brought it home from travelling somewhere. I don’t know where. And Mother was not best pleased, although I can’t remember why.”

  “And so it just … stays here.”

  “I’m probably the only one who remembers it exists,” he says. “In you go.” He opens the door, which creaks, of course, and a musty smell comes out. Some of the top shelves have linens on them, but mostly it’s empty.

  “You and any servants who have to squeeze past it,” I say, not wanting to go in there.

  “Well, yes.” He looks over his shoulder. “We don’t have time. Just listen, try to See how Gantry responds to my questions, and specifically try to learn if he had any instructions to have priests charge at the hospice.”

  He half shoves me into the wardrobe and shuts the door before I’m all the way in. I yank my arm in and stick my tongue out at the door.

  There’s a gap where the door didn’t quite shut. I shuffle back so I’m not in the light coming in, but I can still see the pantry, and the open door into the lesser hall. I stifle a sneeze.

  Someone shuffles past the wardrobe, and I can see Hugh’s servant Samuel standing at the counter, pouring wine. I watch avidly, hoping for a chance. When he walks away, I push the door open a little more, one hand on the packet in my pocket. No one is around for now. Slipping out of the wardrobe, I rush to open the packet of powder. My hands are shaking.

  I don’t know if this dose will be noticeable in this wine. I hesitate, then dump the dose in, spilling some. I make sure to use the goblet that doesn’t have the ostentatious ducal seal on it. I stir it with my finger. The spilled powder I brush from the counter, dusting my hands off, wiping them on my dark gown.

  A rustling makes me jump, look up. Orrin stands next to the wardrobe, staring at me.

  Heart pounding, I stare back at him. I don’t know what he saw.

  Biting my lip, I hide the packet behind my back, try to think of something to say.

  Orrin stares at me for a moment, then proceeds into the hall.

  I swallow, nauseated, slip back into the wardrobe. He probably knows I’m in here, but I don’t know whether he saw the poison. I don’t know what he’ll do about any of it.

  The view from my little crack in the door is limited. I can see the counter to my left, and the open doorway across from me, and part of the table. I can’t see anything much beyond that with my eyes.

  Hugh passes the doorway, then Connor. Gantry does not. I can hear the rustle of cloth, and clanking — did the guards bring swords? I can’t tell this way.

  Samuel passes by the wardrobe again and I flinch, only just stopping myself from gasping. Heart pounding, I settle a little farther back from the door, and close my eyes.

  Reaching out with my Sight, I try to get a picture of the room from someone. Hugh is easiest — we’ve been practicing this. He’s looking at Gantry entering the room, and the four guards he brought with him. The light from the window glares with that mid-day high gray, the sky and the sea and the rocks below all the same color and it makes the windows look like blank and empty eyes.

  Hugh is thinking the guards are overkill.

  Connor’s mind is, as usual, too tightly guarded for me to get more than impressions. He doesn’t like the placement of the guards, he wishes Hugh had made them stay outside, he watches Orrin closely, he watches everyone closely.

  I get nothing from Orrin at all, as if he isn’t even there. The only hint of him is the dull throb of magic that flows between him and Gantry all the time, now. What spell does Gantry have going that takes that kind of power? But I can’t tell. And Gantry’s mind is more closely guarded than Connor’s, most of the time.

  The guards are bored. One of them has a sore knee. That one thinks that Gantry is a scary, scary man. But he doesn’t trust Hugh, either. The others are thinking of lunch, and resenting this duty, which they, too, think is overkill.

  I hear the door open, and everyone startles. A new person comes in. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” says Duchess Marguerite. I feel everyone staring at her. I can See her from Hugh, from the guard.

  From Gantry. I can See in Gantry’s mind, at this surprise. He looks at her, he makes his face smile, but he wants her dead. He wants everyone in this room dead, only he’s not supposed to do it. Yet.

  Yet.

  Not supposed to kill them yet. But he dreams of it, the deaths, so like the queen’s, so like so many others. There is power in death. There
is power to give and to take — the demons whisper of it to him all the time now. He makes his face smile at the duchess, but he thinks of the power in her death to make the smile real.

  Sick, I pull back into myself. Oh, great Lords, he has plans to kill the whole family. And the only thing stopping him is that someone told him he’s not supposed to. Yet. He killed Queen Cecily.

  He killed Queen Cecily. I can See it — the spell, the demons, the sickness that came upon her. Oh, my sweet Dorei. What do I do?

  The sound of my gasping snaps me to awareness. What are they saying in there?

  “Mother, it is kind of you to offer, but I think it best if I …”

  “Are you saying that my input — after I have spent the last thirty years overseeing the business of this duchy — my input is unnecessary?” Her voice is pleasant, but the steel behind it is not.

  “Of course not, Mother.” Hugh sounds a little strangled.

  “Then you’re saying that I am too old to have anything useful to contribute?” Hugh is silent, wisely, but I can feel his dismay.

  Gantry breaks in. “I do not think this discussion is any place for a woman, your Grace. These are not delicate topics.”

  I center myself, bring myself into the room again, find the guard with the sore knee. The guard is thinking that Gantry may be scary, but he can’t be very smart.

  “You are saying, my Lord Bishop, that my place as a woman and as a duchess and as a leader of my people, is not here, to discuss how your priests have been stealing from my coffers, ruining my hospice, and killing children of my duchy?”

  Everyone freezes. Gantry has not been accused of murder before this. But the duchess is doing it now.

  “You dare,” Gantry says.

  Hugh cuts him off. “Mind how you speak to the duchess my mother,” he says in a strained tone. “My Lord Bishop. Mind what you say to her. And mind what you say to me. My tolerance is wearing thin.”

  From the guard’s eyes, Hugh seems taller than usual. But the colors are flat and wrong, and I cannot read anyone’s face. This guard is near-sighted and colorblind.

  “Your tolerance,” Gantry hisses, glaring.

  Hugh slaps his hand on the table, interrupting. “My tolerance, my Lord Bishop. This is my duchy. The archbishops and the cardinals may grant you a bishropic here, but it is me they must court if they want it confirmed. It is me they must court if they want the monasteries and the newly built cathedral in Jervaulx and Villeur Temple lands to stay in kirche hands. Those lands aren’t paid off, my Lord Bishop. To me. I own them. The lands you have your buildings on. Up to and including the Inquisitor’s building. Did you know, it has been in my family for generations. My forebears built it and lived in it and owned it. We still own it.”

  “This is outrageous —”

  “That the rents are so low?” Marguerite breaks in. “Yes, I think so, too. I didn’t before, but now I believe that they are, in fact, far too low. And that is beside the fact that you, Bishop Gantry, owe the families of the dead a death geld.”

  My head is spinning from the emotions in the room. Gantry is bleeding power — I’m sure Hugh can feel it, but he ignores me when I send him a mental nudge. He’s looking at his mother, and I can feel his fear for her, getting involved, and his exasperation with her as she steals his thunder. Through his eyes she seems a pillar of stubborn righteousness and strength. But what I feel from her is fury and fear for her children and people. I’ve never felt that from her before.

  Maybe I wasn’t paying attention.

  “Ah, Samuel. Perhaps you would be so good as to give me one of those goblets,” Marguerite says. “I’m quite dry.” I freeze for a moment, too long, my lungs stuck to my spine in shock. I hear Samuel moving.

  Don’t let her drink! I shout in my head, send it to Hugh as hard as I can, I think I might be heard out loud, and I fling back the door of the wardrobe to run out.

  The noise of the door is slightly overshadowed by a loud crash, and my heart leaping out of my chest, and raised voices in the dining room.

  Stay. Put. I feel more than hear Hugh’s mind, and I halt, one foot out of the wardrobe. A moment later Connor rounds the corner and promptly pushes me back in without even looking at me.

  “I have some towels, and I rang for someone to come up,” he says, and the door of the wardrobe closes shut — fully this time. I hear it click.

  My head is full of Linnet asking questions and Hugh’s rage and Connor’s very tightly controlled fury and everyone else’s confusion.

  “Are you hurt?” I hear out loud. Marguerite’s voice. But I don’t know who — I struggle to push myself back into any awareness in the room.

  The guards are around Gantry, the one guard is pretty sure that they’re going to have to kill — Orrin. They’re all staring at Orrin, who is staring at the floor, at Samuel, who is lying in the remains of the wine goblets and some plates and a tray. Samuel is groaning, trying not to put his hand on any broken pottery or glass or … whatever the goblets were.

  “I beg your pardon,” Orrin says in a dead voice, near whisper. I only hear him because I’m listening for it from the wardrobe, and the guard sees his lips move.

  “What is the meaning of this,” demands a guard.

  “Be quiet,” snaps Gantry, and everyone looks at him. He glares at Orrin, his lips pressed flat. Orrin does not look up.

  Marguerite kneels to help Samuel, but she pats Orrin’s hand as she does. “It was an accident,” she says, in a cheerful tone at odds with her sharp thoughts and feelings, which I can’t quite catch, but they aren’t cheerful. “Accidents happen. Oh, Connor, hand me that towel, there’s a good lad.” Everyone stares at her, and she smiles as she stands. “It’s only plates broken, Samuel’s all right.”

  Connor helps Samuel to stand. Marguerite puts her arm around Orrin. “Don’t be too hard on the boy. Growing boys are all arms and legs at this age — well I remember. Why don’t you come with me, now, and we’ll see if you were cut,” she says to Orrin, who doesn’t move.

  “No,” Gantry snaps, and now it’s time for everyone to look at him. The guards have stepped behind him — I can’t See his face. “No, he’ll come with me.” Gantry stands. “Your Graces, I will pay the death geld. And there will be no charging of money from the kirche, for Healing in the hospice. But do not think to challenge me on kirche Laws. The hospices are not to be re-opened by any lay Healer.”

  He gestures sharply and the guards fall away. Orrin shuffles toward the door, and Gantry allows him to open it, and get into the hall, before he yanks on his arm and starts to stride away. The guards follow them out, and I let go of the guard’s awareness reluctantly.

  Silence falls on the room, finally broken when Hugh speaks. “You’re all right, then?”

  “Yes, your Grace.” Samuel.

  “Why don’t you go clean yourself up. I’ll have someone else take care of this. You’re sure you’re not hurt?” he asks.

  Samuel must nod, because I don’t hear him answer, although I do hear a rustle as someone brushes by the wardrobe.

  What’s going on? What did you do? I can feel Linnet getting closer.

  Stay out of this, I send, but I don’t think she’ll listen.

  “Mother,” I hear Hugh say, but she doesn’t let him speak.

  “What was that?” she demands.

  I can’t get a clear read, everyone is too upset.

  “Mother —”

  “What was that? You planned to have this meeting without me? You planned to somehow harm the bishop? While he was under my roof?”

  “My roof,” Hugh says.

  “That wasn’t the plan.” Connor says, but Marguerite isn’t finished.

  “It was someone’s plan. And it was poorly carried out — that boy, what’s his name, Orrin. He didn’t want anyone harmed, so that’s something. But I think that child is in serious trouble.”

  “Yes, but Mother —”

  “And so are you, and don’t pretend you aren’t. I know exac
tly why you’re here. I know why Julianna is here. And I know she’s pregnant again, and trying to hide it.”

  “You know?”

  “Of course I know. I don’t know who you think you’re fooling. Everyone knows. The king knows. He wrote to me. I know all about the impending troop movements and the border raids from Fanthas and that the king’s cousin Queen Esther is angry about trade, and is harboring Stephen. I’m sorry, Connor, I know your brother isn’t a happy subject for you.”

  Stephen? I think.

  “I am aware of my brother’s location,” he says. Connor has a brother?

  “The king won’t ask you to do anything to him, if it is his influence behind all of this,” Marguerite says, her voice kind.

  “He may not have a choice. And if it is Stephen, I will not need the king to ask me.” Connor’s voice is … not kind.

  “Listen, Mother —”

  “I’m not as stupid as you think, Hugh. And I know when my children are in trouble. I know when my country is in trouble. You think I only rusticate here in Haverston, and only mind duchy business? Duchy business is country business, and my children are involved in plots and civil unrest.”

  “We’re not —”

  “Whatever side, it’s civil unrest. And I have been staying clear so as not to disrupt any plans you have. But do not think me simple. And from now on, you are going to tell me when you’re going to kill a man in my castle.”

  “My castle,” Hugh says, but after a moment he sighs. “Yes.”

  “Yes, your Grace,” Connor says.

  “And let that child out of the wardrobe, Hugh. She’s probably suffocated by now. You should get rid of that horrible thing.”

  “Good day, Mother.”

  “I suspect Julianna will be along in a moment. Tell her to come see me.”

  “Yes, Mother.” He sighs

  “Don’t roll your eyes at me. All right, I’m going. Come to me for dinner.”

  Silence descends. I push on the wardrobe door, but it’s stuck. I’m trembling, every part of me is shaking and sick, and I can’t feel my face. How did that go so very wrong?

  Chapter Nineteen