“What is it?” the blond asked.
“Magic as a thing unto itself,” she said in wonder.
“This box has been enchanted so as to make the invisible visible,” Talon said. “The phenomenon you see stirring within it is magic. The magimatical structure that contains it is what we call a construct. Magic does not like being constrained and so it expends a great deal of energy trying to escape. This tension, the energy expended, is captured by the construct, which in turn powers the enchantment of the box. A circular process.” His jaw clicked in a horrible parody of a guffaw.
Talon’s smugness was grating, but Miranda shared the excitement of the room. This was the first real secret of the Convergence she had been shown and she was not disappointed.
“In order to structure magic, first we need to find it. Where can we find magic?”
Lavety’s voice rang out. “Here.”
“Yes, here. Why here?”
“Because it is a sacred place.”
“Yes. Good.”
It’s not as if that was a difficult question, Miranda thought, and imagined the far more insightful answer that she would have given.
“The Convergence is a place of power,” Talon continued. “Whether it is sacred or enchanted, and what the difference is between the two, is a question for the theorists. It always has been. Nevertheless, we, by which I mean the Honourable Company of Cunning, have enhanced it. We have created a limitless reservoir of other-worldliness.”
Talon sucked air noisily through his rotted teeth for an unfeasibly long time. Miranda wondered where it all went – his chest did not swell an inch. “We have added to the flow of magic through this place, its liquidity, through an accumulation of ritual, mainly incantation and sacrifice.”
“Which is better?” a man called out.
“The particulars of an act are irrelevant,” Talon replied with irritation. “What matters is the conviction and skill of the practitioner. As I was saying, to derive a useful effect from magic it must be structured. Magic does not like to be trapped and so we are presented with a battle between the cunning of a master and the wildness of magic. A construct must be formed in the mind of the master and imposed on the magic. That is what you must attempt to achieve in the coming weeks.”
Miranda nodded in agreement. What Master Talon was saying almost made sense. She was not alone in that thought. The audience welled with excitement.
“Structured magic, derived magic, can be used in diverse ways: as a source of power, to animate, to imbue properties, even to project the senses. The applications are limited only by our imaginations. As an example, consider the hekamaphone, a recent innovation. The device amplifies the sympathetic connection between the bloods of two persons. It is effective to such an extent that they can communicate over any distance as if they were present in the same room.”
The audience gasped at the idea. Miranda’s thoughts spiralled sideways as she grappled with the implications of communication without delay.
“Let us speculate. If a man arrived in the Unity from a land without magic, what would he make of the hekamaphone? Anyone?”
“He would believe it impossible,” someone declared excitedly.
“Idiot. Do you actually understand what impossible means? Get out. No, stay. Anyone else?”
Miranda twitched. She scanned the room, hoping somebody else would answer first, but she couldn’t help herself. Her hand shot up like a firework, stood solitary.
The birdman pointed at her. Talon appeared to not notice.
“Anyone?” he asked.
The room remained silent. The birdman squawked and jabbed a cloth-clawed finger. The whole auditorium turned to look at her. Her heart beat so strongly, she could hear it. There was no question of lowering her hand; her pride would not allow it.
“I see the girl, Geoffrey,” Talon said. “Is there no man in the room who can answer the question?” He sighed a thousand little deaths. “Go on then, if you must.”
“He might assume that it was a machine which transported the messages in accordance with nature,” Miranda ventured confidently, “by wind or light, or some other means. Perhaps the vibration of ropes or wires?” A hush fell over the assembly. The only sound was the grinding of Talon’s teeth.
“Nice,” whispered the blond. Miranda knew it was a good answer; her interest was in Talon’s opinion of it. The master said nothing, just stared at her with his dead eyes.
“There are two key requirements for the successful formation of a construct,” he continued. “The first is that the practitioner is able to visualise a coherent and lucid structure, a pattern within which magic can be trapped. Choose one today and start practising it immediately. I recommend something simple. A cube or a sphere.”
Miranda had an idea. She scribbled it frantically into the margin of her commonplace.
“The second requirement is that you make yourself visible to the magic. To structure it you must be able to relate to it, and likewise it to you. We achieve this by making ourselves otherworldly, like the magic. How? There are infinite paths. You could choose to speak only in a language of your own invention, or backwards, or never at all. You might never sleep, like Master Somney. Dress ridiculously. Grow a beard to your feet. Wear a pointy hat and cultivate eyebrows that extend beyond its brim. Indulge constantly in perverse and loveless acts of sexuality. Flagellate. The specifics of the method you choose matter less than its scope and extent. Be original. What you are attempting to achieve is simple. You must become unnatural. The more extreme, difficult and consistent the path, the more powerful you will become.”
That explains the odd costumes.
The room quieted as the audience considered what was being asked of them. Miranda thought it pathetic that Talon could only think of ways to become unworldly that were cruel or silly. She imagined a beauty as irresistible as gravity, so powerful it drove men and women to worship and despair.
Talon broke the silence. “As you can see, I have chosen the Path of Complete Immobility. I have not lifted a finger for twenty years – spent every minute strapped down or tied up. The sores on my back weep for my sacrifice, but I can work miracles. It was not easy. Many turn from the path after a short while. Others waste health or sanity without achievement.”
Miranda wondered how many had been destroyed by the process, and began to see Talon in a more forgiving light.
“Is that why magic was forbidden for so long?” someone asked.
“What the godsworn and their censors failed to understand was that our ancient predecessors, who gained power by bathing in the blood of innocents under full moons, were not necessarily evil; they were simply doing the best they could with limited resources. The Convergence does not dabble in magic. We research, structure, invest and sell – and we must be careful not to upset our customers. I fear that virgin sacrifice is no longer on the agenda.”
The auditorium filled with mean laughter. Talon whispered something to Geoffrey, and was turned to face in Miranda’s direction.
“Of course anything that brings you closer to the practical, the mundane, will rob you of ability. Romance, children, domestic work. That is why the mind of a woman is not equipped to achieve any significant power. Her maternal instincts and gentle nature prevent it.” Talon waited for a response. Miranda’s brow knotted at the baiting but she resisted the temptation to dignify his provocation with a response. Talon addressed the blond.
“You at the back – the lumbering one next to the chatterbox lady.” The blond raised an eyebrow. “What is your name?”
His nervousness made him hesitate. “Edmund, Edmund Sutton.”
Sutton? There was no bloodline of that name that Miranda was aware of, no heraldry and no armigers. Miranda knew them all by heart. New money.
“Sutton, is it fair that some bright young man has lost the opportunity to work here in order that
a woman without qualifications could take his place?”
The audience murmured in agreement and Miranda hated them for it, the way they already thought as a pack. The blond glanced at Miranda, and she gave him a look of ice, dared him to concur. He coughed into his hand to clear his throat, and as he did so, winked at her slyly.
“Could I deny it?” he replied jovially. It was an evasion culled straight from semioticians of Alessandria and if only two people in the room knew he had not agreed with Talon, then at least that was something. Maybe he was not quite as stupid as he looked.
If Talon noticed the equivocation, he did not press. “An apprenticeship at the Convergence is a resource not to be squandered. To award one to a female is idiocy. It is impossible for a member of the weaker sex to become a master. If it were up to me she would be sent back home to her needlework and gossiping – but nothing can be done; Grandmaster Gleame insists because she is a ward of the duchess.” A murmuring of disapproval spread across the room and a few cast glances in her direction. “No matter. As much as her presence might vex me, she will at least provide the rest of you with some entertainment.”
The audience laughed again.
Miranda rose to retort but the blond put his hand on her thigh and pushed her firmly back into her seat. She glared at him in indignation. He released his grip.
Without further comment, the gurney was reset and Talon was fixed horizontal like the effigy atop an emperor’s tomb. The birdman wheeled him back to the trapdoor and they both sunk slowly out of view.
Miranda and the blond waited as the lecture room emptied around them. She ignored the glances of the departing and glared at Lavety as he sauntered towards the exit, as stiff as a lamp-pole. To her astonishment, he turned at the last moment and made his way towards them.
“Lord Lavety,” she said.
“In fairness I thought your answer was not at all bad.”
“Thank you.”
“I would have you for dinner. A formal invitation will be forthcoming.”
“Of course,” she replied, thin-lipped.
Lavety bowed again and departed. The blond stared at her incredulously. Oddly, he seemed more distressed by her good manners than the dishonour of being ignored by another gentleman.
“Friend of yours?” he said.
“Sir, you forget yourself!” The blond stepped back as if bitten, then made a very straight, almost military bow, most unlike the gestures she received at court.
“Edmund Sutton of Bromwich, at your service.”
“I know who you are.”
“I apologise unreservedly.”
She realised that he had not meant to mock her, and almost regretted losing her temper.
“A formal invitation is well within his rights, but I shall arrive at least an hour late, with a chaperon twice his size, and leave early with an upset stomach.” Apologising to the blond was impossible but she curtsied a full inch lower than his station deserved and offered the back of her palm. “Miranda, Ward of the Grand Duchess.”
He stared at her outstretched hand uncomfortably. It was very strange. Mr Sutton had shown no fear of Master Talon, yet now he seemed on the verge of running away. Clearly the poor boy knew nothing of the intricate rules of invitation by seniority, or curtsies for that matter. It was understandable, she supposed; his noble obligations probably went no further than leading the first barn dance of his estate’s harvest festival. Maybe his father had seen no value in courtly ways. There was only one thing for it – to keep him talking.
“We are all equals here, according to Talon Turon. Apart from me, of course.”
“The master was vicious, but has made his point,” Edmund said. “I doubt he will feel the need to do so again.”
“Maybe.” Miranda was not convinced. Gleame had warned her about him, but she had not expected something so brazen. If Talon was willing to humiliate her publicly maybe Gleame’s support was less of a protection than she had supposed. Sutton bowed again and turned to leave. Miranda felt uncharacteristically lost for words. “How do you find your lodgings?”
“Comfortable. I am lucky enough to have a room of my own.”
“I have one in the Masters’ Quarters,” she said enthusiastically and immediately regretted the boast, which seemed to confirm all of Talon’s prejudices. “It can feel lonely there.” That was even worse. What would he think she meant? She felt her cheeks redden and sucked them in.
“Of course,” he said, looking more confused than ever.
The introduction was a disaster, but she was feeling fragile after Master Talon’s remonstrations and Mister Sutton was at least pretending to be friendly. She racked her brains for a suitable subject of conversation with a Bromwich merchant’s son and found that her brains were not at her service. I’m overthinking, she decided, and gave up.
“Would you be so kind as to escort me to the Masters’ Quarters?”
“That would be a pleasure.”
Edmund Sutton smiled broadly, and his smile was delightful.
The Holt
The red pennant had been flying from the railing for less than ten minutes. Twice already Jon had decided to take it down and had climbed the stairs to the minstrel gallery, only to change his mind and return to the mill hall. He cursed his resolve and poured himself a large sherry. His hand shook as he drank it, so he poured himself another and went to the spice rack for a mint leaf to chew on.
How was he going to convince Anna of a plan he was so unsure of himself? He realised that he couldn’t, and that her reaction would change his mind in an instant. The first she would know of it would have to be when he returned – if he returned.
There was a hammering at the door. Barehill must have had someone watching the mill the whole time. The realisation pulled at his gut.
“Who’s there?” Anna called out from the gallery, the baby crying in her arms.
“A customer – at last.” Jon closed his eyes and thought about the price on Barehill’s head. A substantial reward, the censor had said. It had better be.
“I found some coloured string, to offer at temple,” Anna said.
“Well done, love. Bolt the door behind me.”
He gathered his courage along with his coat and stick, pulled his hat low over his brow and slipped out of his own house like a burglar.
Kareem was waiting for him. He was taller than Jon remembered. A wiry sort of fellow, younger too. The wispy moustache he was growing failed to make him look any older than the twenty years Jon guessed he had. The clash with the crate had left a bruise the size of a gull’s egg on his forehead. He still looked like a weasel.
“Follow.”
They went south, through the nameless alleyways of Turbulence, then across the great bazaar and on to Moor Street. Kareem moved swiftly but discreetly, led Jon through a hole in an alley wall, later through a mercer’s shop and out the back door. It was done out of habit, or maybe to impress; Jon saw no sign of pursuers when he glanced over his shoulder.
“Where are we headed?” Jon asked.
“You’ll see.”
The sun was setting as they approached the temple district. The factories on the horizon towered over their neighbours like mausoleums between tombstones, pompous and immense. The hundreds of windows that flanked their sides burned with reflected light.
“How’s your head?” Jon asked.
“Clear enough to see through the likes of you,” Kareem replied.
Jon halted, heart beating guiltily. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Kareem squared up to him. “It means keep your trap shut, Miller. I don’t trust you, or any of your sort. So shut the fuck up.”
Under normal circumstances, no Turbulence man would allow an affront like that to go unpunished. Today, Jon had no choice, and both men knew it. Kareem turned his back and set off with a swagger.
&n
bsp; Jon’s mind chewed on the insult. What did the vagabond mean by his ‘sort’? Men who worked? Men who made something of themselves? He was arguing with himself again. That was pointless. When it came to naming names, Kareem’s would be the first he gave to the censors.
Jon was still brooding as they crossed through the slipstream of the factories. The unnatural, constant breeze stuck their clothes to their skin, as if they were suddenly wet.
At the foot of the temple district they passed by the squat black pyramid that was the temple of He-who-sits-upon-the-mountain. A jackal and cat-like mafdet guarded its entrance. The two faces of justice; mankind’s laws in life and the gods’ laws in death. Jon focused on the obsidian pyramidion that capped the building and made the sign of the eye.
“You don’t believe in that rubbish, do you? It’s just fairy tales, told to keep the people down.” Kareem looked at him in disgust and spat at the basalt statues.
Jon shook his head in disbelief and imagined the stone animals springing to life, pinning Kareem to the ground and tearing out his faithless throat. The sun glinted on the gold leaf that surrounded the statues’ eyes and in that moment, it seemed to Jon that they winked at him.
“You want to be careful,” Jon said.
Kareem scoffed, “I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut.”
They came to a temple of He-who-trembles-the-earth. All that was visible above the ground was an alabaster cupola, very old and in poor repair, in the curling shape of an enormous snake burrowing from the earth. Its apex was its frightful head, wedge-shaped and grasping a crimson heart between its fangs. A godsworn with a shaven head, wearing a green cassock and a menat in the shape of an adder, stood outside the temple’s iron-grilled entrance.
Jon had never visited the temple before. He rarely worshipped the Devourer. Its virtue was honesty, and he knew the world could do with more of that, but its negative aspect was sloth. It was a complicated god, but the truth was, Jon just hated snakes. He looked around, got his bearings. The temple’s location was easy enough to remember.
The Censor's Hand: Book One of the Thrice~Crossed Swords Trilogy Page 14
