by Juliet Kemp
Once outside, he put his head back for a moment, watching the seagulls swoop and circle around the square, high in the blue sky. He badly wanted to talk all of this through with someone, finally admit the flickers, but he couldn’t think of anyone he could do that with. Urso? Maybe? If the man seemed trustworthy? Maybe. He sighed, and started off towards the wholesale market. Bound to be a job or two there, even if it did smell of horses.
A couple of jobs later, when he reached Urso’s house, halfway down Marekhill, Jonas realised he might have done better to have changed into his respectable Salinas clothes before he came here. The servant who answered the door clearly had no intention of admitting some messenger lad to see her boss.
“You should come back later,” the servant said firmly.
Jonas stuck his foot pre-emptively in the door. “Truly,” he said. “I was invited, by your master. Jonas t’Riseri. We met yesterday at the Salinas embassy. Just go and ask, I promise you.”
Very reluctantly, she let him in to wait in the hall. But after a few moments, she returned, and, with poorly disguised reluctance, showed him in properly, to a reception room where Urso stood with a smile. His coat lay on the table beside him.
“Sr Leanvit,” Jonas said, bowing formally. “I am sorry, were you just going out?”
“No, no, indeed the opposite,” Urso said, greeting him with a Salinas double handshake. “I have just come in from an early appointment. And truly, just Urso is fine.” He nodded, looking satisfied about something. Perhaps the meeting he had just come from.
“Now, Sr t’Riseri, I did not expect to see you again so soon.”
“Jonas, really,” he said, flushing. “I didn’t… I mean, you said… But probably you are busy now.”
Urso was eyeing him a little speculatively, but then broke into a cheerful, open smile. Jonas relaxed a little.
“Not at all,” Urso said. “What is it that I can do for you?”
“The books. The magic,” Jonas said, then cursed himself for being so incoherent and tried again. “You said, you had books on magic. Not just Marek-magic, but other magics.”
“Indeed I do. Perhaps you would like to see my library?”
“It’s probably an imposition,” Jonas said hastily, beginning to regret this, but Urso shook his head.
“No, no. I have a turn or two before my next appointment, and I am always delighted to share my enthusiasm. If anything I fear I will end up imposing on you – do stop me if you become bored.”
Urso led Jonas up the staircase to the library on the first floor. The place was full of books. More books than Jonas had ever seen together in one place. His vague notion that he would be able to look at everything and find whatever was useful crumbled away. Thinking hopefully of a useful flicker didn’t produce anything, either. Stupid ability, showing up only when it wasn’t wanted.
Urso stood back, smiling a little, as Jonas peered at the shelves. Was all of this stuff on magic? Some of the shelves had labels on: Geography, Languages, Novels and Stories. No, then. Where then was the Magic shelf?
“What exactly is it that you’re interested in?” Urso asked. “Perhaps I can direct your search. I admit that I’m a little surprised – I know the Salinas take little account of magic.”
Jonas did his best to look nonchalant. “As I said before – I’ve been interested in it since I was small. Maybe because it’s not known at home. Different, you know?”
All of which, strictly speaking, was true.
“It’s foretelling that I’m most interested in,” he went on, a little cautiously. “Prophecies and that sort of thing. My Mareker friends don’t seem to think much of that, other than a few stories about Eli Beckett.”
For some reason, that made Urso’s smile twitch a little.
“Hm,” he said. “It’s not strictly speaking magic, of course.”
Jonas must have looked disappointed, because he laughed a little. “Well, most magicians and sorcerers would tell you that, anyway. Your Mareker friends… Have you spoken to a Marek sorcerer, then?”
Should he mention Reb? She was public enough, but something tugged at him, telling him to be cautious. He shrugged. “Are there any left? I heard about that plague.”
Urso turned away to the shelves. “One or two, but in obscurity. A great loss. Marek magic has been famous since the city’s founding. There’s a story about some deal that one of them did, Marek or Beckett, at the founding, that has established it that way. The details aren’t clear, but you’re right that several versions of it include a vision or prophecy.”
He poked around on one of the shelves, and pulled a book off it. “Here you are. If you’re interested. This is one of the stories told about Marek and Beckett’s expedition. It’s rather more esoteric than the usual pragmatic discovery-story that the Council and the Thirteen Houses prefer. And is all most likely nonsense, of course, if interesting nonsense.”
And in any case, Beckett had already said it was nonsense. Jonas tried not to let his disappointment show.
“Here’s something about prophecy from Exuria.” Urso handed him a book from another shelf. “They have a tradition of that, in their mountain ranges. I believe the Teren mountains have similar traditions, but I don’t have anything about that. You’re welcome to sit for a turn or so and look at them.”
Jonas was opening one of the books, when he heard Urso take a long breath, the sort that indicated an attempt to broach a difficult subject.
“It is – a great shame, the situation with Marek’s magic,” Urso said. “There was a great deal of lore here.” He hesitated. “I have been doing my best to track down more information about Marek’s former magics, so it is not all lost.”
Jonas looked up at him, suddenly alert. Might he be in contact with Reb? Or – he blinked. Cato? He seemed to be waiting for Jonas to say something. He couldn’t be a sorcerer himself. Reb had said there were only the two of them left.
“But I have never heard of a Mareker sorcerer with the gift of prophecy,” Urso went on, after a long pause. “It is rude of me, but I do find myself wondering why it is here that has your interest. And, ah, if you did have access to any Mareker information about any magics, of any sort at all, I would be most grateful.”
He was offering payment, Jonas realised. For information on Marek sorcerers. Well. Reb was public enough, right? Information on her couldn’t hurt anyone. Except that just at the moment, telling Urso about Reb might mean him finding Beckett as well, and for some unexamined reason, Jonas was less keen on that. And at any rate – he’d already said that he knew no Mareker sorcerers. He didn’t want to give himself the lie.
“Only wish I could help you,” Jonas said, shrugging. “As to why I came here – well, I’m Salinas, you remember? We don’t know much about any magics. But Marek is famous for magic, right? I figured people would know stuff, here. Seems not.” He pulled a rueful face, and sought about for a distraction.
Then his vision went black, and he staggered.
A large room, almost entirely empty. Urso standing in the middle of it, and a sense of other people around him but it was Urso’s face which filled almost all of his vision. Urso’s face with gold sparkles turning in his eyes, his hands up in invocation of something… Urso performing sorcery. Unmistakable.
His head ached like it was caught in a vice, and he was down on his knees on the floor. For a moment he blinked down at the soft woven rug, unable to remember where he was or what he was doing. They were getting worse. More immersive. More painful.
“Jonas?”
The voice from above him was enough to bring him back. He was at Urso’s. In the library. Looking at books about prophecy.
Someone – Urso, presumably – was helping him up, a hand supporting his elbow. His head still ached.
“You’re a sorcerer,” he blurted, and the pressure in his head went away. “You are.”
Urso was looking him in the eyes, and there was a moment where Jonas could see him about to deny it, then anothe
r moment where he could see Urso putting something together, then…
“And you have the gift of prophecy,” Urso said, just as bluntly.
He hadn’t contradicted Jonas’ claim. That was a tacit admission. Jonas balanced on the knife-edge of denying his flickers… but they both had something on each other now, and Urso had these books, this might be the nearest he had come yet to an answer, and Mid-Year was tomorrow…
He’d waited too long to answer. Urso’s eyes widened.
“Oh my,” Urso breathed, his eyes wide. “But you’re Salinas.”
“Why d’you think I’m here?” Jonas said, bitterly, giving up on secrecy. “I want rid of it.”
“You want rid of it? It is true prophecy, and you wish to lose it?”
“I don’t know about ‘true’ prophecy,” Jonas said.
It was a relief suddenly, such a relief, to tell someone. Someone who didn’t look at him in disgust. Someone who was honestly interested. It felt like a breath of sea-air, the first touch of wind when you were becalmed. His hands were shaking with it.
“What is it like, then?” Urso asked, intently.
“Just a, a little picture. A few heartbeats. Like – I call it a flicker. That’s all it is.”
“But then it comes true?”
“Always,” Jonas said. “So far,” honesty compelled him to add.
“Can you bring them on at all?” Urso asked. “Deliberately, I mean. Can you try to see something?”
Jonas shook his head. “Never tried. I told you. I want rid of them.”
Urso was paging through one of the books, muttering to himself. “There. That’s a description by someone in old Teren of one of her visions. Does that sound like yours?”
The language was archaic, but… “Yes,” Jonas said, wonderingly. “Yes, it does.”
“Eli Beckett got visions, back in Teren,” Urso said. “Or so they said. And then they got here, and… You’ve heard the legend of the Marek cityangel.”
Jonas nodded.
“Well. Not such a legend, in fact. As sorcerers know, but largely choose not to talk about. The lower city accepts the cityangel, Marekhill not so much, but then Marekhill has far less to do with magic, you see.” Urso’s words were tumbling out over themselves now. “It’s the Marek cityangel allowed us to work magic without the blood-price,” Urso said.
But Beckett had denied visions… Jonas couldn’t say that.
Urso stopped pacing and turned to Jonas. “I think I can help you. I think I can take you to someone who can help. But this is – has to be – a secret. I think we can do a deal, if you’ll let me use – share with me – your magical ability. Just for one thing.”
“Magical ability? I’m not a sorcerer,” Jonas protested.
Urso shook his head. “You don’t need to be. It’s – I can handle that. It won’t do you any damage, I promise.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Urso looked downwards, blinking. Calculating. Deciding what to tell, unless Jonas missed his guess.
“There is a new cityangel,” Urso said, finally, looking up. “But – it lacks the power, of the old one.”
It fell, with a sudden weight, into place. Urso had got rid of Beckett. Urso was working with Daril b’Leandra. They were the ones who had done that to Beckett. Jonas’ stomach turned over.
“We need – we have to help the new cityangel find its power,” Urso said. “To support it. There is – well, there is a lot of political nonsense going on as well, that there’s no need for you to burden yourself with. I will say this though – when I warned of the possibility of danger, to Salina, yesterday? That was flat truth. There is risk of war, and I can help avoid that. Your ambassador is already helping us.”
Kia was helping? With magic?
Urso nodded, and Jonas realised that he’d said that aloud.
“Exactly so. This is important enough. That is what I need your help with. You will help Salina, and you will help Marek as well. And afterwards – you can meet the new Marek cityangel, and it can help you. I’m sure it can. What do you say?”
This was the person who had thrown Beckett out. But – but he was fixing it, now. And Beckett couldn’t help Jonas. Jonas couldn’t help Beckett, either, when it came to that. It was too late for that. The new cityangel might not be able to, either, if Beckett had told the truth, when they said they knew nothing helpful about visions. But it might. It might.
Urso was offering him the best opportunity yet to fix his problem. And he’d be helping Salina as well.
“Yes,” Jonas said, and felt his stomach tilt.
k k
Reb leant in the doorway, and looked out at the morning bustle of the street. Everyone was busy preparing for the Mid-Year festivities later this afternoon and evening, when most of Marek would come to a standstill. The Council did something official up on the hill, but the big celebration was the public one, in Marek Square, with tumblers and fire-swallowers and musicians to keep the crowd entertained until the fireworks as night fell. Along with an extensive array of people selling alcohol – lots of alcohol – and street food.
Marcia had sent a message, the evening before, apologising that family – by which, presumably, she meant political – responsibilities meant that she would not be able to return until the next morning. Which meant this morning, by now. It was fair enough. The urgency was gone; Beckett’s place was filled, and anything left was, more or less, damage limitation. Reb would still like to know what magic there was now to draw on, and she might still be curious about what Daril b’Leandra was up to, but that didn’t make for urgent.
Realistically, Marcia when saying this morning had probably meant late this morning, hadn’t she?
Yet here Reb was, looking out at the street. Waiting. She rolled her eyes at herself, and sat down on the step. She massaged the tops of her cheekbones with the fingers of her good hand, closing her eyes. She felt wrung out in a way she hadn’t in years. And her broken wrist ached vilely despite dosing herself up with the healing recipes she’d learnt as a child.
What was Daril b’Leandra doing? And what was Cato doing with him? Being paid, presumably, but contrary to the image Cato liked to project, he did have some moral scruples, especially around magic. He wouldn’t necessarily fall meekly in line with any plans of Daril’s, even for money. And what of this other sorcerer, Urso, that Marcia had mentioned? How had Reb missed him?
Was Marek magic still there? She hadn’t dared try. Couldn’t even think about trying. Her own failure still rubbed too raw at her. But maybe, perhaps, the new cityangel was doing exactly as the old one had. Maybe. What would happen if she tried it out?
She shook her head, still rubbing at her cheekbones. Too many questions. Too few answers. What she needed now was a nice calming infusion, and then she could think about the whole thing more clearly.
Beckett was sitting on a chair inside, bolt upright.
“Marcia’s not here yet,” Reb said, unnecessarily.
“I remember Marcia,” Beckett said, suddenly.
“You do?” Reb said.
“She – I was not permitted to engage with the politics of the city, but it forms a part of the city, it,” Beckett was gesturing now, trying to suggest something, “it shapes the city. It shapes the way that people are in the city. All of that is part of mine. Or was.”
“So you knew the people who are involved in that?” Reb asked.
“I knew everyone in Marek, to a greater or lesser extent,” Beckett said, simply. “But often – not until I needed to. Marcia I remember noticing.” They looked aside for a moment, eyes slightly unfocussed. “She will be more, I think, in due course.”
“She’ll be Fereno-Head,” Reb said. Her voice came out drier than she intended it to.
Beckett looked back at her. Their eyes were penetrating. “Does that perturb you?”
“Why should it?” Reb said, her shoulders hunching slightly despite her best efforts.
“Because you like her,” Beck
ett said, as if it were obvious.
Reb stiffened. “She’s certainly improved over the last ten years, that’s for certain.”
“It is permitted, to like people,” Beckett said.
“It’s dangerous,” Reb said, more harshly than she meant to. “People I like tend to die.”
“Zareth was not your fault,” Beckett said. “Nor Marcia’s.”
“It wasn’t Marcia’s,” Reb conceded. “She didn’t realise what was happening, I think, until the last minute. And she did her best to help Zareth. But – if I’d been quicker, if I’d been the one in front, I could have saved him.”
“That does not make it your fault,” Beckett said.
Reb hunched again. “And the plague, then? Why everyone else? Why not me?”
She hadn’t meant to say that either. She’d thought it, over and over again then and in the two years since, but she’d never said it. There hadn’t been anyone to say it to.
“An accident of body,” Beckett said. “I know no more than that, but… Cato, too. Both of you survived. It was not a thing with intent, any more than any other disease.”
I’m still dangerous, Reb thought, but didn’t say. I shouldn’t get attached to people.
“Remaining alone is – unwise,” Beckett said, looking away again.
“So you have attachments, then?” Reb demanded. “The cityangel is not alone?”
Beckett looked back at her, and their eyes looked more human than they had before. “How do you think I know this, Reb?” They looked away again. “You like Marcia. That is a good thing. Do not deny yourself that.”
The conversation, thankfully, seemed to be over. Beckett crossed the room and leant out of the window. It was the most casual Reb had ever seen them look, elbows resting on the windowsill, neck craning forwards between slightly hunched shoulders.
“Is there something special today?” Beckett asked, without looking around. “The street seems… different.” They frowned. “Unless it is my misunderstanding.”
