by Juliet Kemp
It was a long time since she had felt anything like that. But then, if she were honest, it was a long time since she’d done anything with any kind of risk to it. She’d let herself become what she looked like; a street-corner witch, performing charms and protections and small magics for a few pennies or something in trade. Working for her neighbours and the odd request from further afield.
And there was nothing wrong with street-corner magic, at that. But Reb knew she was capable of more. Zareth would have told her she was avoiding something, if Zareth were still here to say such things.
She hadn’t let it slide straight away. Notionally she’d stayed part of that loose confederation who watched out for other magic-users. But she’d stepped back, and back, and back, so far that she had no longer quite known how to step forward again. And then the plague happened, and it hadn’t mattered any more.
She wiped her hand on her skirt, and stared at her wet face in the brown-spotted mirror over the washstand. In the corner of it she saw Marcia, looking down at her own hands, waiting. You’ve let yourself go, Reb.
Well; now she was stepping forward again, it seemed, and perhaps that was after all for the best. Although it would be a great deal more for the best if she weren’t so out of practice. Surely five years ago, she wouldn’t have been blown away like that by such a small piece of magic?
She took a long breath and shook her head slowly. Out of practice she might be, but even if her magic had been small, the response hadn’t been. It was as well that Marcia had been there, and had held on…
So. What next? She’d thought, if there was a new cityangel, if Marek’s magic was back to normal, perhaps Beckett’s situation, and whatever Daril b’Leandra was doing, was nothing of her business. But nothing was normal, neither the cityangel nor magic. And magic most certainly was her responsibility.
She didn’t want to believe any of this. But she couldn’t avoid it.
She grimaced in the mirror again, then took the thin towel from its hook and scrubbed her face dry. Reb turned back to Marcia, who was standing against the wall, a worried frown creasing her smooth forehead.
“Well then,” Reb said, forcing a smile. “Let’s go tell Beckett.”
Her hands were steady again now. She pulled the door open to the main room, and stopped short on the threshold. Beckett was nowhere to be seen.
“Where… ?” Marcia asked behind her.
The front door was slightly ajar. Reb leant out of the door and looked along the street in both directions, but there was no sign of Beckett anywhere. A couple of children played tag along the street, darting from doorway to doorway. She felt Marcia, close behind her shoulder, her presence now warm and comforting.
“Could they have been taken?” Marcia asked, hesitantly.
Reb shook her head. “I’d have known if someone came in. I’d certainly have known if there was someone in the house. It’s hardly a big house, after all.”
And it was hers, and she was a sorcerer. She’d have known.
“So,” Marcia said. “They went of their own accord. Or someone persuaded them out.”
“And they went without telling us?” Reb screwed up her nose. “Possible. But I don’t think Beckett’s quite that daft.”
“They went with Jonas, in the first place,” Marcia said.
“They were desperate,” Reb said.
“They’re not desperate now?” Marcia asked quietly.
Reb sighed. “True enough. But – surely they are not worth abducting now? Is it not too late? Who would bother?”
“And if they have gone off alone for some reason, raising a hue and cry would just draw attention to us all,” Marcia said. “But on the other hand, if they’re in trouble, we risk the trail going cold.”
“Wait,” Reb said, reluctantly. “A little while, at least.”
They left the door open, both, without discussing it, moving the chairs to sit where they had a view of the street.
“I should have known,” Reb said, after a silence. “All of this. I should have noticed what was coming.”
“How?” Marcia asked. “How could you have known? It’s hardly a thing to think of, replacing the cityangel.”
Reb scrubbed at her face with her hands. “No, but… I haven’t… I should have been watching. I used to watch, once. For problems.”
“And fix them,” Marcia said quietly. “We’ve all got things we should have done.” She was speaking almost to herself.
“You were a child,” Reb said.
Marcia shrugged. “I should have known better, all the same. I have a responsibility to Marek, and I knew that even back then. But,” she huffed a half-laugh, “Daril was convincing, I suppose. And I was very young, you’re right.”
Almost, Reb reached for her hand. Almost. But Marcia wouldn’t want that, she was certain of it. Marcia was younger, she was Marekhill, she had made her mistakes back when she was barely more than a child. Reb had made her own mistakes back in her own childhood, for certain; but now she was finding a whole new array of the damn things to make. She had no right to offer anything to Marcia.
But she could make a decision, here and now. She could choose to do something about the current situation. She could take responsibility for Marek magic again, regardless of what was happening to Beckett. She didn’t know yet what that would actually mean, but she could damn well start working that out.
“Right,” she said, standing up, but Marcia was pointing up the street.
Beckett, tall and slender and pale-haired, came around the corner of the street, walking lightly, no sign of any harm. Reb and Marcia both took a deep breath, at the same time, then caught one another’s eyes and smiled, not without a hint of irritation at Beckett.
“You’re back,” Reb said, as Beckett loomed in the doorway.
“Yes,” Beckett agreed, stepping inside and shutting the door.
She could hardly bawl them out. They had as much right as she did to walk the streets alone and without anyone’s permission. Rather more, if anything. And now that they were back, it seemed somehow absurd that she had worried at all. Who could harm a cityangel?
The ones who had cast that cityangel out, perhaps. Beckett wasn’t a cityangel right now, after all. That was the problem.
“We wondered where you were,” Marcia said, an edge to her voice.
Beckett’s head went up. They stared at both Reb and Marcia as if staring into their souls.
“I was never in any danger.” Beckett sounded as if the idea was an absurdity.
“I dare say you were not,” Reb agreed. “But in the circumstances, we were nonetheless concerned.”
Beckett nodded, once.
“So where were you?” Marcia demanded, into the silence that stretched out again.
“I needed to look,” Beckett said.
“At what?” Marcia asked impatiently.
Beckett made a flowing, expansive gesture, their hand taking in the whole city despite the size of Reb’s small front room.
“It is my city, but it is not the same as before,” they said. “I know it, but now I feel it differently.”
They paused, and Reb took another slow, deep breath, and caught Marcia’s eye in time to forestall another question.
“I know every inch of this city,” Beckett said, their voice quiet. “I know how it moves, what it does, how its lifeblood flows through it in all its various ways. I have walked these streets since there were streets here. But this time, I walk the streets and I feel them fully under my feet. I can stop for a fish roll and I can speak and be spoken to, I can buy it, I can taste it. For myself, not just through someone else’s senses. I can smell the river flowing past the docks; I can smell the tar and rope and piss of the docks. I can exist here.” Their voice had risen, and now it sank again.
Listening, Reb felt a sudden surge both of empathy, and of deep disquiet. To know Marek for all these years and yet never to have physically experienced it.
“I want my city back,” Beckett said,
their voice implacable. “I know it more now than I have before, and I want it back. It is still mine. I can taste and smell and feel, but it is not worth it. I want my magic. I want my city. It is still mine, and I want it back.”
Reb took a deep breath.
“Then let us sit down and talk about that, cityangel.”
FIFTEEN
Jonas didn’t know where he’d expected Urso to take him, when they left the house on Marek Square; but it certainly wasn’t the Salinas embassy.
“Jonas?” Kia said, in shock, once Xera had shown them into the main reception room.
“Jonas and I have had what you might describe as a meeting of minds,” Urso said cheerfully. “He has come to be of assistance to us.”
Jonas glanced sideways at him, and saw calculation in his eyes. What exactly was Urso’s angel in all of this, he suddenly wondered.
“I have a question, and Urso has promised to help me with it,” Jonas said, hoping that this would be enough to slake Kia’s curiosity; or at least that it would put her off for long enough that he could get away after… whatever it was that was going to happen here. “But I would like to know what is happening here,” he added, hoping to distract Kia.
In particular, he wanted to know when he was going to meet the new cityangel, which was after all the whole point of this. But he had an uncomfortable feeling about what was happening here. Why would Kia be involved with Urso and Daril and the cityangel? This was most definitely magic. Kia had been expressing discomfort about magic only a day or two ago; it wasn’t like she’d gone native or anything while she was here. But then – she was smart, and she knew her business, and Jonas knew absolutely nothing about diplomacy. He must be missing something. There must be a good reason for this.
Kia scowled, forgetting Jonas’ business for the moment. “Well, and if your questions have brought you here to support your country, that is all to the good. Urso brings me news of the perfidy of the Council, the Marek Houses who seek to steal our ships! Our ships, when we have traded fairly here for so many centuries! Our ships!”
Jonas blinked at her, confused. “But I thought… You had an appointment, ne? To discuss trading, with Marcia…”
“Who cancelled it,” Kia said, darkly. “Which indeed confirmed the word I had already had from Urso.” She bowed to Urso, who returned the bow neatly.
Jonas looked between them. “But…”
“Ah, you are thinking as I did; why would this Mareker tell me what his own Council seek to do. Well, not everyone wishes to be a party to such betrayal, no?”
“And, indeed,” Urso said, “I cannot but think this is a bad idea for Marek too, and I would much rather prevent it. I don’t wish to see my city embroiled in a war it cannot win, for ships it cannot sail anyway.” He shook his head. “I have long been a friend to Salina, too, as you well know, Kia. I see the long association between Marek and Salina as overwhelmingly positive for both of our countries, and I am truly horrified at the idea of breaking it. Truly horrified.” He sounded entirely sincere. “I do not see what the Council – or at least, those Houses who are a party to this – are thinking. Fereno-Head and Leandra-Head must have lost their minds.”
Urso wasn’t wrong; it would be a disaster for Marek if they stole Salinas ships. The Mareker fishermen and local river-traders could no more sail a Salinas ship across the Oval Sea than they could fly to the moon; and they’d have no hope of learning before Salina came down in full force to take revenge. It was a stupid plan.
But what then was a House – Houses? – of Marek doing thinking of it? For they were not, in general, stupid; Jonas knew that well enough. If Urso was telling the truth, then something odd was happening. If Urso was telling the truth. But surely Kia wouldn’t have just believed him, would she? Jonas thought back on Kia’s references to their long history together, to Urso’s references to it. If Urso had proved honest before, then how many questions would Kia ask, of an honoured friend? But would Urso necessarily treat that bond with the same honour that Kia did?
Urso knew Daril. Urso Leanvit – did that mean something to do with House Leandra? Were they related, not just known to one another? Daril was Marekhill. Whatever Marcia might have said about how he wasn’t Heir yet, they had influence there, between them, didn’t they?
Jonas realised, with a cold wash of warning up his back, that he didn’t trust Urso in the slightest.
“Urso has offered his aid, in exchange for my aid,” Kia interrupted his thoughts. She grimaced. “You may not like it, though.”
“Urso wishes to treat with the cityangel,” Jonas said, distracted, still thinking.
What did Urso want here? There was obviously something specific about here, or about Salinas help. What was it that Urso and Daril wanted to do, here, with the cityangel?
Kia blinked at him, surprised, then rallied and went on. “Yes, indeed so. And while Salina does not hold with such things, well, here we are in Marek, and Marekers have dealt well enough with their cityangel for hundreds of years, as everyone knows.”
But it’s not the same cityangel, Jonas thought, and was suddenly certain that Kia did not know that.
He could explain. He could explain quite a lot. Would Kia change her mind if Jonas told her that Urso had already replaced the existing cityangel – the one that had protected Marek for three hundred years – with one of his own?
But what even was Urso’s aim, and Daril b’Leandra’s? What did they want from the cityangel? And this plan, that Kia spoke of, was it true? All Jonas’ instincts told him that there was something off here; that Urso was using Kia. On the other hand – they were bringing the cityangel here, and that was still his best chance to deal with the flickers. And if this nonsense of war was right – and Kia believed it could be, and she knew more about all of this than he did – then it was indeed vital to stop it.
“Urso will treat with the cityangel, and the cityangel will forbid this theft, and all will be well for us again,” Kia continued. “If a Mareker – a Mareker who has been an honoured friend to me over the years – wishes to avoid the disaster that this would be to both our countries, I am equally honoured to provide this assistance, even if it would not be my choice of ways to solve the problem.”
Urso was nodding soberly, expressing his thanks and assuring Kia that this would be the quickest and cleanest solution for everyone.
Jonas would bet good money – if he had any – that forbidding this theft of ships was not Urso’s main aim in talking to the cityangel. But then, that didn’t mean that it wasn’t part of the plan. He had no proof that Urso was in it for himself, and even if he was, that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t trading fairly. Perhaps there really was benefit in this for both Marek and Salina. Perhaps Urso was indeed acting as the honoured friend Kia believed he was. Did Jonas really know otherwise? Wasn’t Kia’s trust in Urso enough to balance out his own mistrust? Kia had known the man for much longer, after all.
And he, Jonas, still wanted his own answers. (And what if the cityangel didn’t hold those answers either? What then? But it was a chance, a hope… )
He shook his head slightly, trying to dislodge his thoughts, trying to come to some conclusion… A flicker hit, like a bolt of lightning. Reb and Marcia, in an empty room, anxious looks. Where was Beckett? Then Beckett walking in, Beckett tall and powerful and shining slightly around the edges, a sense of power of purpose of…
“Jonas? Jonas!” Kia’s voice sounded as if from a great distance. Jonas realised he was kneeling on the floor, clutching at his head. Storm and wave, they were getting worse. Beckett. Marcia. Reb. They were trying to do something, they were trying to fix this… and he was here with Urso, who was doing the opposite. He might still fix the bloody flickers, but he wasn’t going to be helping Salina, and he wasn’t helping anyone else here either.
“I didn’t – my head –” he managed, before Kia was calling to Xera, instructing her to lead him to the guest room for a rest.
“We have time yet, Jona
s,” Urso agreed. “Rest for a while.”
He didn’t know if he wanted to rest. He didn’t know what he should be doing, what he should be saying, what decision he needed to make. But he couldn’t think of anything to do but follow Xera where she led, the aftermath of the flicker still pounding in his head along with his scrambled thoughts.
k k
The guest room was Marek-style – bed, not hammock – and sparsely decorated. Paper and ink were arranged neatly on the desk; evidently this was intended for official visitors. Street noise drifted in, very faintly, through the window. Jonas sank down onto the bed and put his head in his hands. What was he doing here? Following Urso around for a sniff of magic? For answers, he told himself again. For answers and a fix and a way out, a way home. And this was Salinas business, not just him. Kia had chosen this, and he could support it in all honour.
Except: had Kia chosen right? Jonas couldn’t shake off the feeling that Urso and Daril might not have the best interests of Salina at heart. That they had their own political aims. Then again, perhaps those too were for the best. Who was he to know?
And yet, and yet. Government was one thing. The cityangel was another. His flickers didn’t seem to be suggesting that the new cityangel was a good and glorious thing. And Urso was lying about it to Kia. But if it could explain, if it could take away, his flickers… ?
When it came right down to it, Jonas didn’t trust what Urso was saying. It all seemed too pat. But he still didn’t understand why Urso would want to be here, in the embassy, or why he would want to bring the new cityangel here.
Jonas didn’t understand a lot about anything, right now. Why had he picked Beckett up in the first place? Why had he got involved at all? Because a flicker had told him to; because he looked at Beckett and saw someone who needed something. Whatever his mother might have said about the unreliability of his flickers, Jonas had never been able to bring himself to mistrust them. He remembered lying to his mother, telling her that he was ignoring them and that they were dying off. Her nod of approval had shrivelled something up inside him.
