by Juliet Kemp
“Are you – is everything well?”
Daril took both her hands. “My father…” He looked around. “Could we – would you mind if we went somewhere else?”
“Of course not,” Marcia said, gathering up her bag.
“Let’s go up to the top of the Hill. I’d like to talk to you, but we could use a little privacy.”
He hadn’t said much as they made their way along the crowded streets, walking up towards where the rows of houses (and Houses) gave way to Marekhill Park; but as they emerged into the park itself, and gained a little space around them, he seemed to relax a little.
“Your father…” Marcia said, tentatively. “Did you have an argument?”
Daril barked a humourless laugh. “You could say that.” He looked upwards, towards the statue of Marek and Beckett that stood at the top of the hill. “We were discussing the Guilds.”
After decades of wrangling, the Guilds were on the cusp of persuading the Council to add ten elected seats to their number; so for the first time, Guild representatives would join the Heads and Heirs as part of the Council. But the final vote was still uncertain. Madeleine, on the side of the reformers, had spent weeks now closeted with one Council member after another, looking increasingly harried.
“Yes?” she said, cautiously.
“Father was – he thinks it is a disaster. He voted against it throughout.”
“Mother thinks it is an unfortunate necessity,” Marcia volunteered. “She would prefer otherwise but fears the consequences if they are not admitted. And besides, it is a mere ten seats.” Which meant that the Guilds were still handily outnumbered by the twenty-six Heads and Heirs of a full Council, although several Houses, including both hers and Daril’s, lacked an Heir at the moment.
“I think it is a good thing,” Daril said, fiercely. “The city is not simply a fiefdom of the Houses, any more. The Guilds are as vital to Marek’s success as any of us.”
“But without the Houses trading, the Guilds would have no outlet for their wares,” Marcia objected.
“That goes both ways,” Daril said. “Without the Guilds, what would we be trading? Potatoes and beets and rice and cured meat.” He waved a hand. “The true wealth of our trading relationships are based on what the Guilds make. Fine cloth. Jewellery and finished gems. Paper. Marek leather. That is what we have to offer. And it is hardly fair to continue to exclude them from decisions.”
“So you said that to Gavin,” Marcia said.
“At length,” Daril said. “We… disagreed. Violently.”
“I’m sure he’ll forgive you after a while,” Marcia said, after Daril hadn’t said anything more for a moment. “I often argue with Mother. But you will be Heir soon.”
“No, I will not,” Daril said. His face was set, but Marcia could see him swallow after he spoke.
She blinked at him. “But –”
“The conclusion of our conversation,” Daril said, biting the words off, “was that my father is no longer prepared to confirm me as Heir after the elections. Indeed, he reserves the right to never do so, if I do not – shape up, was his expression. By which he means, bow down and agree to all of his demands. I will not.”
Marcia didn’t know what to say. Daril was twenty-one now. It was unthinkable that he not be confirmed this autumn.
“Is he disowning you?” she asked, finally.
“No,” Daril said. “That would at least be final. No, he wishes me to have plenty of time to consider my decisions. To recant, I believe he said. To think better of my principles.” He bared his teeth. “I will do no such thing. I swear.”
Was Daril right? Was he right enough to stand against his father like that, rather than going along with things until he became Head himself? It didn’t seem like something she could ask just at this moment, with Daril looking the way he did.
Instead, she tugged him down onto the grass, and let him put his head in her lap and rant until he was calmer, while she half-listened and half turned the problem over in her head. Gavin thought the Guilds should have nothing to do with government. Madeleine thought the same, but would rather let them in to keep the peace – very literally. Daril thought they should if anything have more power than the Houses. Marcia herself had never truly thought about it before; and the idea of standing against her mother in the way Daril was arguing with Gavin gave her chills. Surely the wellbeing of the House was more important than all of this?
She carded her hands through Daril’s hair, and stared out at the city spread below them, and wondered.
It had been a week after that when the final vote succeeded. Gavin Leandra-Head had voted for it, to everyone’s surprise. His price had been an amendment that removed the twenty-five-year-limit rule and allowed Heads to choose when – and if – they handed over to their Heirs. The amendment that Marcia’s friends were so bitter about now. And two months after that, Daril had tried to summon a spirit, and everything else in Marcia’s life had changed.
In her own room, ten years later, she blinked fiercely. Whatever. It was ten years ago now. It didn’t matter. What mattered was helping Cato get out of whatever hole he’d fallen into. Whatever hole Daril b’Leandra had pulled him into. She was not going to stand by and let Cato get screwed over by Daril the way she had been. At least Cato would have more sense than to get romantically involved with him. The memory of how stupid she’d been, how much she’d believed in Daril, always gave her a surge of nausea. She swallowed against it, pushed the memory away. It was ten years ago. She’d been a kid. A stupid kid. And Cato wasn’t stupid. She couldn’t believe that he would willingly get involved with anything Daril was up to. He knew all about what happened last time. He’d refused to get involved back then. He wouldn’t change his mind now.
Which meant that Daril had to be forcing him. And she wasn’t going to let her brother languish in trouble, in Daril b’Leandra’s clutches, if she could get him out.
Not that it was going to be that simple, of course. She could hardly just march over to House Leandra, barge in, and demand that Daril produce Cato. But Reb, surely, would help. She had no love for Daril either. She would visit Reb, and Reb would help. They would rescue Cato together.
Reb had given Marcia her address the day before – a single-floor cottage on a narrow but busy street behind the Old Market. She wore an aggravated look when she opened her door, but it vanished when she saw Marcia.
“Oh! How did last night go?”
Marcia stepped into the house. The front room had wooden floorboards and white-washed walls; basic but clean. Against the right-hand wall there was a small stove. A dresser with crockery stacked on top of it was next to the stove, and a water-basin next to that. Towards the left of the room was a battered armchair, three wooden chairs, and a couple of side-tables. Beckett stood next to a chair, by the wall, their body held stiffly. There were two doors in the back wall, one of which was not just shut, but bolted shut. Did Reb do her sorcery through there?
Reb hesitated for a moment, then sat down in the armchair, and gestured Marcia towards one of the wooden chairs. It creaked a little as she sat down. Beckett turned to look at her, their torso moving as though Beckett wasn’t so much inhabiting it as controlling it by force of will.
“Daril knows where Cato is,” Marcia said without further preamble, and told them of the conversation. “So. We need to get him out. How are we going to do it?” she finished.
“Well,” Reb said slowly. “I suppose what we do now depends on whether we think Daril b’Leandra is behind what has happened to Beckett, and whether that is why your brother is there.”
Marcia blinked. “What do you mean? What we do now is, we get Cato the hell out of there.”
There was a long pause, then Reb spread her hands. “Marcia. As a sorcerer, I do not hold with folk holding sorcerers against their will. Or indeed, with anyone else being held against their will. That much is true. But – forgive me, but we have no evidence that it is against his will.”
Marc
ia felt sick.
“He wouldn’t work with Daril b’Leandra. He wouldn’t. They said, the people who saw him, someone came, persuaded him, he didn’t want to go… He was taken. He wouldn’t have gone.”
“Marcia.” Reb looked uncomfortable as she leant forwards. “Cato is a sorcerer. I haven’t much time for what he does, or his attitude, but he’s always been more than competent. I can’t see how Daril b’Leandra could hold him against his will. He was seen in the pub, voluntarily leaving with whoever it was. Daril, if you like, I accept that it’s likely that it was him. They went back to Cato’s rooms, together. The wards were set again, from the outside – he had time to do that.”
“You said he didn’t take all of his things, his work things.” Marcia felt light-headed. Surely Reb couldn’t believe…
Reb shrugged. “Not all. Some. But he wouldn’t necessarily take everything.”
“The room was left, though, he didn’t pack up properly, he didn’t clear anything up…”
Reb’s expression was kind but faintly exasperated. “Marcia. You’ve visited Cato there before, yes? It’s not like he’s particularly inclined to being tidy, is it, now? The one thing he’s likely to be reliable about is the wards, and he dealt with those.”
“What about that spirit you were talking about?” Marcia demanded, desperately. “You said – you said he’d summoned a spirit. Or someone had, anyway. Maybe it – maybe it threatened him, maybe it took him. Maybe it was working for Daril.”
Reb looked down at her hands. “Marcia. Cato works with spirits. Much more than I do. And that’s fine. There are spirits and spirits, certainly, but plenty of them are – there’s nothing wrong with them. Only a few of them are like that one Daril tried to summon that time.” Reb had, at least, the courtesy not to remind Marcia directly of her own involvement. “They’re not. And more to the point – Daril isn’t a sorcerer. He couldn’t summon anyone. Last time he worked with others with ability. But you know what happened to anyone with ability two years ago. There’s no one else left. It’s me, and Cato. I didn’t do it. So if anyone summoned a spirit, if anyone’s working with a spirit, it’s not Daril. It’s Cato. And, perhaps, Daril through Cato.” She looked up. “I’m sorry, Marcia, but that’s what it looks like. That’s the simplest explanation.”
Marcia was shaking her head already. “But he can’t. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t work with Daril. He wouldn’t.”
“Cato has always said he would work with anyone who paid his rates,” Reb said bluntly.
“Not Daril…” Marcia said, but Reb was already carrying on, talking over her.
“I thought this over, last night. Beckett has to take priority. The cityangel must return; we must return magic to its normal state. I can’t prioritise Cato over that. And I definitely can’t if it looks like he’s working with Daril b’Leandra. It’s not my job to rescue him from his own decisions.”
“Just because he doesn’t stick to your rules,” Marcia said, furiously. Her insides were raw. Reb wasn’t listening. She didn’t believe Marcia, didn’t believe that she knew Cato better than this. “Just because he makes his own decisions, doesn’t belong to your little club…”
“There is no little club any more, remember?” Reb’s voice was suddenly raw. “They died, Marcia? You remember? They all died, and why Cato and I didn’t, neither of us know. Which,” and her shoulders sagged, “is why I have to prioritise. Because if I don’t fix it, then it won’t get fixed. And then there won’t be any sorcery at all here. Or it’ll be back to blood, to the way everyone else does it, and trust me, we don’t want that.” Her eyes softened, and for a moment Marcia was hopeful again. “Marcia, I do understand why you just want Cato out of there. Truly I do. But…”
Marcia shook her head, her lips pressed together.
“I’ve run around town trying to find out things for you. I made a fool of myself trying to – talking to Daril b’Leandra. And now you’re letting me down.” She swallowed, trying not to cry. She’d thought she could trust Reb. She’d thought there was something there, some way they could work together. And now…
“You’ve been trying to find out things for you,” Reb said, sharply. “Don’t make out like you’re entirely altruistic. You want your brother back. I want magic sorted out. Beckett wants back where he belongs. Jonas wants…” she paused, a frown crossing her face. “Where is Jonas, anyway?”
“You want magic back, and you don’t give a ha’penny for anything else,” Marcia spat. “I wish I’d never bothered trying to help you out. I should have just gone my own damn way to find Cato.”
“Marcia, look,” Reb took a deep breath. “We’re both tired, we’re both wound up…”
“Oh, shut up with that lackwitted patronising nonsense. I’m wound up? I’m wound up because my brother is stuck in that mausoleum of a house, with Daril forcing him into who-knows-what…”
“Or he’s there by choice,” Reb said.
Marcia stood up and looked across at Reb. Her cheeks were burning, and she felt like she couldn’t breathe properly.
“Very well,” she said, tightly. “I will fix this myself.”
She slammed the door viciously behind her. It didn’t help.
k k
Marcia was fuming as she stormed out of Reb’s front room and up the street. Screw her. If no one else cared about Cato, she, his sister, certainly did, and she would damn well sort it out by herself.
Her footsteps slowed as she reached the market square, and she stopped. A big woman with a shopping basket on her arm pushed past her with a glare, muttering something about thoughtless rich folk, and Marcia glared back at her before starting to walk again, towards the jetty at the south end of the market where the ferry came in.
She would sort it out by herself. But what exactly was she going to do? If it were as straightforward as walking into House Leandra, Cato would already have walked out all by himself.
Assuming he wanted to.
Marcia scowled. If he was happy to be there, why hadn’t he let her know? Surely he would know that once she thought he was in danger, she would do her best to get him out of it? Surely he would know that she would worry if she found him just gone from his rooms like that? Reb had to be wrong. He wasn’t there by choice.
Then again – arguably he’d been in danger for years, doing what he did where he did it, and she’d never lifted a finger. But she had offered, back in the beginning, and he’d been at pains to point out that he was there by choice, and that he could look after himself. They’d argued over it, even. But that had been his choice. This time she was certain, whatever Reb might say, that he was there against his will. And she would not let her brother be used by Daril b’Leandra. Not like she had been.
The ferry across to the foot of the Hill was coming in as she reached the jetty. Almost all of the other waiting passengers were servants from households on the Hill, or porters, all with bags and boxes of goods enough to make it worth paying the ha’penny for the ferry rather than walk around and across the bridge. A messenger hung over the railing at the end of the jetty – she must have been given the fare to get her message delivered faster.
The ferry hooted, the ferryman cast off, and Marcia leant on the rail at the front of the deck and looked across at the Hill rising on the other side of the river. Beautiful and aloof, the houses stared out across the river. She could see House Fereno at the top, and the park rising behind it; as the houses spilled down the Hill they increased in number and decreased in size, crowded together in neat rows until the higgledy-piggledy jumble that spread around Marek Square and Old Bridge at the foot of the Hill.
What in the hells was she going to do, then? The question span unanswered around her mind all the way across the river. At the other side, the messenger jumped off the boat almost before the gangplank had settled properly on the deck, and was off at speed, running up the twisting path to the top of the Hill. A couple of carriage-porters hanging around hopefully at the pier offered Marcia a lift up the pa
th, but she shook her head. The walk would do her good. Behind her, she heard one of the servants haggling with them for herself and her collection of boxes and bags.
Halfway up the steep, winding path, she paused for a moment to rest. She looked back across to the market and the docks to its west. Ocean-going Salinas ships bobbed alongside tiny fishing boats and marsh barges. Out towards the coast she could see a few fishing vessels tacking to and fro.
She remembered, suddenly, climbing this path with Cato. They’d climbed up and down it often enough, as children, but the time she was thinking of had been just before he left.
They’d been sixteen, and it was the first summer the two of them hadn’t spent all their time together. She’d been wound up in Daril; Cato in magic. She’d bragged about Cato’s abilities to her lover, and Daril had been fascinated. The nearest they had come to a row was when he suggested – then denied that he had meant to – that he was disappointed that Marcia herself wasn’t talented. Of course, if she had been it would have been illegal for her to use, given her standing in the House. Daril thought that was ridiculous. Cato just shrugged and ignored her when she mentioned it. And Cato wasn’t in line for Heir, so she had decided, with a little discomfort, perhaps it didn’t really matter.
Then Daril had decided to summon a demon, after that day when his father had told him he wouldn’t be Heir. Marcia hadn’t realised exactly what he was planning, until Cato told her bluntly, once he himself had declined to be involved. That was their other near-row. Marcia had been shocked by the idea, but Daril had reassured her. Plenty of magicians and sorcerers dealt with demons, he’d said. They were only a form of spirit, and even in Marek, with all its restrictions on magic, people dealt with spirits. Even then, Marcia had known that that was an exaggeration, but Daril had waved her questions away. No need to worry. And, love-dazzled and young, she’d allowed him to convince her.
He’d never really explained what he wanted of it. Power? Money? Revenge on his father? Just the challenge of it? He said things that had sounded like an explanation at the time, but when she thought about it after it was all over, she never managed to make sense of it.
