Sorcerer to the Crown

by Zen Cho

  “Oh, that is to understate the case entirely!” declared the dragoness. “I can never make out why mortal thaumaturges should be so ugly—puny, pale creatures, with scarcely any whiskers, and nothing in the way of scales. And as though it were not enough to be disagreeable-looking, they are shockingly bad behaved. You might do a great deal more to govern your thaumaturges, sir.”

  “I am sorry to hear you say so,” said Zacharias warily. The dragon could only be speaking of Geoffrey Midsomer—it had been too long since any other thaumaturge had entered Fairy for her to be complaining of anyone else—but he had not heard that Midsomer had caused any offence at the Fairy Court. “I have not received any complaint regarding my colleagues’ conduct.”

  “I suppose it is not only your people that are to blame,” acknowledged the dragon. “He ought not to have asked her, but then, Lorelei ought not to have gone. If I had been summoned to the mortal realm by an upstart magician, you may be sure I should have resented it. She is a designing creature, however, and there is no knowing what plans she has laid. She was betrothed before, you know, and her tears and sighings over the previous fellow were beyond anything. And then to up and run away with a mortal! Oh, she is a deep one!”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Zacharias. His voice was calm, betraying (he hoped) none of his dismay, for he could not afford to show anything that could be taken as an admission of mortal guilt. “Do you mean to allege that a thaumaturge summoned a magical creature to England, to serve as his familiar?”

  “Allege? Why, it is only the truth,” said the dragon. “Everyone knows it!”

  Spells to summon familiars had been unlawful since the Court had closed the border to traffic from England. This was part of the contract between the two nations, by which outright conflict had been avoided, and it was a compromise for which Englishmen should be more grateful than they were. Fairy had first proposed resolving their differences through war.

  “But was not the thaumaturge prosecuted?” said Zacharias. Surely he would have heard if the Court had punished the illicit summoner. Relations had not deteriorated so far that the Court would not have mentioned such a breach to the Sorcerer Royal—had they?

  “Well, no one has liked to decide what is to be done,” said the dragon. “What with the Queen being away on her tour of the subject realms, I believe the King plans to overlook it as long as he may—Lorelei is such a favourite of Her Majesty’s. They say Lorelei always intended to follow the mortal, and the whole thing was cooked up between the two of them.”

  “Indeed?” said Zacharias.

  That meant there was an extra sorcerer at large in England—one so consumed by ambition as to be untroubled by the possibility of igniting a war with Fairyland. It could only be one man. No one else would have had the opportunity to become acquainted with the Queen’s relations, and to prevail upon them to follow him to the mortal realm.

  Midsomer would, of course, have concealed the existence of his familiar, since he had obtained it by a breach of their treaty with the Court. He would have required considerable resource for a summoning spell powerful enough to draw out a subject of Fairyland contrary to the Court’s prohibition, and that must have disguised the first influx of fresh magic associated with the new familiar.

  In time Midsomer’s familiar would grow more powerful, as its understanding with its new master improved. There must already have been a perceptible upswelling in England’s atmospheric magic, attributable to his familiar. Midsomer could not have concealed that forever—but he might have hoped to take the credit for the increase as part of his campaign to oust Zacharias.

  “Do you recall the name of the gentleman in question, ma’am?” said Zacharias, in his most drearily official tone. “He should certainly be punished, if what you say is true.”

  “Do you know,” said the dragon ingenuously, “the name has quite gone out of my mind. I would try to remember it, only I will begin to bore you with all this gossip.” A knowing glint flashed in her eye. “I am sure you will have heard it all before, in any case. Leofric is well, I hope?”

  Zacharias stiffened.

  “We speak but infrequently,” he said coldly.

  • • •

  THE great halls where the guests mingled suggested that the King’s own chamber would be correspondingly grand. Yet the dark earthen tunnels through which Zacharias was led seemed to fit with a more ancient tradition of Fairy architecture. Before the fairies had built, they had dug. As Zacharias wriggled through the narrow opening into the King’s antechamber, he half-expected to emerge into a burrow.

  In fact he might have been in any fashionable town house in London. The Fairy King’s antechamber was decorated with velvet draperies slung over high windows, elegant carpets and furnishings all in the most modish style. There was only close-packed earth beyond the windows, however, and that, along with the pervading smell of fresh-turned soil and wood smoke, gave Zacharias the disconcerting feeling that he was in an ordinary mortal house that had been buried in an earthquake.

  Flanked by fish-faced guardsmen, the Fairy King lounged upon his throne, marvellously made up, and dressed in a pink watered silk waistcoat that would have made Damerell blanch. His Majesty was quite the complete dandy, equal to any Pink of the ton riding in Hyde Park or loitering in White’s, save that his attire was a decade behind the mode. Nor could the heavy perfume he wore entirely drown out his native scent—the scent of nighttime, wilderness and the hunt.

  Zacharias made his leg, grateful for the fact that the courtesy excused him from speaking just yet. He had already discerned the gleam of intelligence in the heavy-lashed eyes behind the quizzing-glass. The King might be a strange whimsical creature, and the Queen the acknowledged power in the Fairy Court, but it was clear that only a fool would dismiss His Majesty on that account.

  “We hope you do not mean to talk about familiars, Mr. Wythe,” drawled the King. “That was all the last fellow ever spoke of. One might think England cared about nothing else. Indeed, now we think of it, have not the English just received a familiar from us? That fellow took her. What was his name—autumn, winter?”

  The King peered at Zacharias expectantly.

  “I am afraid I do not know his name myself, sir,” said Zacharias. He almost wished he had not just learnt of Midsomer’s crime. It was an awkward piece of intelligence to have hanging over his very first encounter with the Fairy King. He could not, of course, accuse a fellow thaumaturge of summoning himself a familiar before the Fairy Court, however little he liked the thaumaturge in question. “As a matter of fact, I was not aware that we had received a new familiar until today.”

  Before the King could answer, a lobster-headed courtier leant over to whisper in his ear. The King’s eyes widened, and he coughed.

  “Well! Never mind that. At any rate, England may have no more familiars from us. You will do very well without.”

  “Of course,” ventured Zacharias, “I am delighted to hear that the Court has relaxed its policy so far as to permit a new familiar to cross to our realm. May I ask—”

  “You may ask nothing!” snapped His Majesty, in one of the startling shifts of mood that characterised the fairy race. His brow darkened. A small grey rain cloud, grumbling with thunder, appeared above his head. “I call it a damned piece of impertinence, do not you?” This was to the lobster courtier, who nodded solemnly, his antennae twitching with disapproval. “Was not it plain that we had no wish to speak of familiars? If you persist with your tedious questions, we shall be compelled to dismiss you. There are quite enough bores in Fairyland as it is!”

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Zacharias, alarmed. “I cannot say how much I regret causing any offence. It is the last thing I should wish to do.”

  His Majesty sat back in his throne, still rather huffed, but as Zacharias conscientiously piled repentance upon remorse, the storm cloud above His Majesty’s head grew paler and p
aler. Finally it dwindled to a white wisp, and a courtier blew it away. The King gestured to his courtiers to pass him a snuffbox, and inclined his head to show Zacharias might stop.

  “We will pass over it,” he said graciously. “What shall we talk of instead? I presume you came with a request for some boon or other?”

  It was hardly an ideal time to draw the block on Britain’s magic to the Fairy King’s attention, but Zacharias could see no alternative. He might not have the opportunity again.

  “I merely wished to apprise Your Majesty of an irregularity which has come to my attention,” he said.

  Zacharias had no doubt the Fairy Court was behind the block. The obstruction could not have been erected or maintained without the contrivance of the Queen and King, and the cork was as good as a royal seal. But he could hardly accuse Fairy outright of conspiring against Britain’s interests. The only way he could raise the subject, and avoid drawing down upon himself a royal tantrum, was to feign earnest innocence.

  “It appears there is a stoppage preventing the ordinary flow of magic through the border between our realms,” he continued. “I sought this audience in order to inform Your Majesty, knowing what a deleterious effect the obstruction to the natural circulation of magic is likely to have on your country, as much as on mine.”

  The King had been in the act of taking a pinch of snuff when Zacharias began, and his speech was seen off by a thunderous sneeze from His Majesty. This was followed by a prolonged silence while the King buried his face in an enormous handkerchief.

  A full five minutes passed before the King emerged from behind his handkerchief—a fraught five minutes for Zacharias, for he had no notion how the King would respond, though it was clear enough what the King was about. First one, and then another fish-faced courtier was drawn behind the screen of his handkerchief to confer in whispers. His Majesty’s countenance wore rather a sullen cast when it finally reappeared.

  “We do not see that you have any reason to complain,” said the King without precursor. “It cannot make any difference to you that the flow of your magic has been diverted. England’s magic has been declining for so long that you ought to have grown accustomed to it by now.”

  “Diverted?” said Zacharias. “I had understood that the magic remained in Fairyland.”

  “So it did at first, but the accumulation of magic made things so very awkward that we were compelled to pump it out elsewhere,” said the King. “You need not look so alarmed. Our surplus did not go to France—we do not like them any better than you—for greed and sanguinariness there is nothing to choose between the two nations. No, we sent the excess to a few more docile mortal kingdoms, and they were very grateful. It was really rather gratifying to have given such pleasure.”

  Zacharias was conscious of how vital it was that he should tread carefully; he had no wish to provoke the King again, but the idea of Britain’s magic being funnelled to other nations was one he could not endure in silence.

  “Your Majesty, I must protest,” he said. “Surely this is inconsistent with Fairyland’s policy never to favour any mortal sovereign over another—an ancient policy, and a judicious one.”

  “And one we should like to hew to, if we could,” said the King. “But the realities of government do not always permit the unobstructed application of principle. Besides, it would be easy enough for you to resolve the difficulty. The power to remove the block lies in your own sovereign’s hands. All your nation needs to do is put an end to its shameful mistreatment of the vampiresses of Janda Baik.”

  Zacharias gaped. At his expression, His Majesty said: “Did those wretched lamiae not tell you? We declare, they are the most blockheaded creatures that ever died! How is a threat to take away your magic meant to influence your conduct if you do not even know of it?”

  Zacharias cast his mind back over everything he could recall of Mak Genggang, wishing now that he had troubled himself to attend more closely to her whispered dialogues with Prunella. It was true Mak Genggang had remarked upon the block on magic when she had arrived at Fobdown Purlieu, but she had not seemed to know the reason for it. Or had she indeed known, and sought by circuitous language to inform Zacharias? Perhaps he had merely failed to understand her meaning, cloaked as it was in Oriental inscrutability.

  But that will not do, thought Zacharias. Mak Genggang had not been inscrutable about anything whatsoever. She had expressed her sentiments towards Sultan Ahmad with a clarity and directness adapted to the meanest understanding.

  “No,” said Zacharias finally. “We did not know it was the lamiae of Janda Baik who desired our magic to be stopped.” He hesitated. It was difficult to know what he might say without trying the King’s patience too far. But surely it must be permitted to raise the question. “May I ask, sir, why you acceded to their request?”

  “It is all the fault of that blasted sultan, of whom your sovereign is so fond,” said the King. “He was making it so damnably hot for the vampiresses that they threatened to return to Fairyland unless we did as they asked. Just when we thought we were rid of them forever! They are distant cousins of Her Majesty—Her Majesty abounds in pestilential relations—so they cannot be denied, but you can have no notion of what an appallingly uncomfortable neighbour an Oriental lamia makes. Tracks in blood everywhere, smells continually of vinegar, has not the decency to wear her feet the right way around, or to put away her innards, but leaves them dangling out in the open for everyone to see.”

  His Majesty paused to brood over the iniquity of his wife’s relations.

  “It would be an end to all peace if they returned,” he said, with a sigh. “We should give them our first-born child if that would persuade them to stay away. Indeed, we made the offer, but they would not look at poor Cuthbert. No, you will have to make do without fresh magic, Mr. Wythe, unless you can persuade your sovereign to refrain from interfering with the lamiae. He must take his chances if he intends to continue this uncertain business of Empire-building. You never know what may come of it, or whose third cousin you may offend.”

  This was clearly intended for a dismissal. The King said to a courtier:

  “You may send in the next fellow. Good day to you, Mr. Wythe.”

  Zacharias bowed. He did not say what every thaumaturge in Britain knew—that the Sorcerer Royal’s word now had little weight with his sovereign. He lacked the influence even to dissuade his Government from requiring the Society to pay its rents, much less to discourage it from adopting any course it desired regarding other nations.

  The royals of Fairy were wont to adopt diverse guises, and it could not be supposed that such a trifle as skin colour would be of any account to them. But perhaps they were aware of mortals’ peculiarities in that regard, and had some notion of how easily the staff might be wrested from Zacharias’s grasp. Why should the Fairy King comply with the requests of a temporary Sorcerer Royal? His Majesty might believe he would be replaced soon enough. Thinking of the forces arrayed against him, Zacharias could not bring himself to disagree.

  18

  AND HAVE YOU seen this Miss Prunella Gentleman, of whom so much is said?” said Lady Throgmorton, as she sat supping a cup of black bohea with her friend Alethea Gray. Their intimacy was of but two months’ duration, but that it was a true friendship was evidenced by the enthusiasm with which each spoke of the other:

  “A most fascinating woman!” said Mrs. Gray of her friend. “Truly beautiful! Truly gracious!”

  “A very good creature indeed,” said Lady Throgmorton of hers.

  “Miss Gentleman? Oh, I have not met her above half a dozen times,” said Mrs. Gray airily.

  Mrs. Gray would not have dreamt of omitting to meet Miss Gentleman a day before everyone else had discovered in themselves a desperate desire to see her. Mr. Gray had made his considerable wealth in trade, and Mrs. Gray’s parents had been no one in particular. She was well aware that her intimacy with the leaders
of high society rested upon her talent for being in the right place at the right time—for always guessing the piece of news everyone longed to know, and having the acquaintance of every person worth knowing.

  “A delightful girl,” she said. “So original! Her manners so wild and unaffected, and yet so pleasing!”

  “She is pretty, of course?”

  “Oh, she is well enough. I do not admire dark women half so much as fair,” said Mrs. Gray. Lady Throgmorton and her three daughters were all as golden-locked as china shepherdesses. “But she certainly shows to advantage among the Season’s debutantes. It seems impossible these days to find any truly pretty girls; it makes even a dark little thing like Miss Gentleman seem a phoenix. Your girls are an exception, of course. How I long for their coming out! What an occasion that will be!”

  “My daughters certainly never needed magic to improve their complexions or curl their hair,” said Lady Throgmorton with asperity. “What we see in our ballrooms is not so much a falling off in the general level of beauty, Alethea, but an undeceiving—a disenchantment, I might say—of a public that has grown accustomed to the illusions of vain chits.”

  Mrs. Gray had more intriguing news to impart of Miss Gentleman, and she was reluctant to be diverted from the subject by the deceptions practised by young ladies. “I doubt Miss Gentleman is party to any such sophistications. It seems she was raised in some out-of-the-way little village—never came to town, and was kept ignorant of who she was. She is being brought out by Lady Wythe as a favour to her father.”

  Mrs. Gray spoke these last words with such an air of mystery that Lady Throgmorton’s eyebrows rose.

  “Her father?” said Lady Throgmorton.

  “You will already have guessed his identity, of course,” said Mrs. Gray in a conspiratorial whisper. “It is a great secret, but it is obvious to anyone who has spoken with the girl. No similarity in appearance, mind you. It is clear she is the likeness of her mother. But she has such a way of holding her head, and using her hands, and saying droll things, that—in short, one only wonders how the family contrived to conceal the connection for so long! Blood will out, after all.”