Sorcerer to the Crown

by Zen Cho

  “I would not surrender the staff to Midsomer,” said Zacharias. “His conduct has given me no confidence in his suitability for the office. I would not be worthy of my title if I conceded so readily to the loss of my staff to him.”

  “It all seems perfectly absurd to me,” said Prunella. “To think of enduring hexes and floods and politics for a staff, when your only reward is to labour unendingly, and be abused by the Society for it!”

  “Floods?” said Damerell.

  “Did not you see the state of the hallway when you arrived?” said Prunella. She hesitated, then opened her palm, showing the orb Nidget had found. “It was caused by this.”

  “Oh, we did not come by the hallway,” said Rollo, but Damerell let out a long low whistle.

  “What is it?” said Lady Wythe.

  “Either someone is so fond of Zacharias as to wish to spare him being sacrificed,” said Damerell, “or he despises Zacharias so much he cannot bear to wait for the Hallett to be carried out. That is a curse.”

  “It is not a curse,” said Prunella. “That is to say, I thought it was used to convey messages—is it not, Zacharias?” She held the orb out to Zacharias, who took it.

  “I have not seen anything like it before,” he said.

  “I have never seen one used to convey anything but malice,” said Damerell. “They are hardly to be found in this country; we have yet to discover the secret of producing them ourselves. All those I have seen were from India.”

  The orb was unexpectedly heavy in Zacharias’s hand. He inspected the pinpricks upon its surface, ordered in regular patterns.

  “This is writing,” he said.

  “Curses are commonly inscribed with a glorification of their owner, or a description of their intentions,” said Damerell, joining Zacharias in his study of the orb. “That looks like a Fairy language to me. The cantillation marks are very similar to those one sees in certain dialects of Banshee. Can you read it, Rollo?”

  Rollo made the attempt, but was unable to make out the words.

  “I had a governess who was a Banshee, and she tried to hammer it into my noggin,” he said. “The governor chased her off in one of his rages, more’s the pity. But perhaps it’s just as well. The curse brought a flood down upon you, did you say, Miss Gentleman? You may keep several spells in one of these what-d’ye-call-’ems—we say secretkeepers in my family. Reading the inscription aloud unlocks the other secrets, and like as not all the secrets in this one are unpleasant. The best thing to do would be to get rid of the writing, would not you say, Poggs?”

  “I am of your mind, Rollo.”

  “Surely we ought not to remove the writing yet,” said Prunella, recovering the orb from Rollo’s loose grasp. “We ought to learn all we can of the orb’s secrets first.” She brought it close to her eye. “I do not know how we would remove the writing in any case. It is engraved upon the metal, and I am sure it is magical.”

  “Oh, that is the easiest thing in the world,” said Rollo. “A jet of dragon’s flame would do it!”

  22

  PRUNELLA HAD ONCE thought life in London would be all flirting and balls and dresses, hitting attentive suitors on the shoulder with a fan, and breakfasting late upon bowls of chocolate. She sighed now for her naïveté. Little had she known life in London was in fact all hexes and murder and thaumaturgical politics, and she would always be rising early for some reason or other!

  She could not help feeling a twinge of guilt as the latch clicked shut behind her. The orb that had flooded them out sat in her reticule, along with the familiars, shrunk for ease of transport.

  Yet why ought she to feel guilty? She had left a note to explain her purpose. Zacharias would likely be unhappy that she had gone by herself, but he could scarcely accompany her. He had been overtaken by another of his paroxysms the evening before, and had retired, grey with suffering, at Lady Wythe’s insistence.

  Prunella had recognised the strange orb at once. It was identical to the one she had seen at the Midsomers’. She thought it must be the same, but she knew so little of singing orbs that she could not be certain. There could be no harm in going quietly to Mr. Midsomer’s house, however, and seeing if the orb she had noticed before was still there. If it was not, that was a piece of the evidence Zacharias needed to be able to accuse Mr. Midsomer of his crime.

  Prunella had a mission of her own as well. She had examined her singing orb the night before, in the solitude of her bedchamber, and it was clear to her now that what she had thought to be mere ornamental carvings—the loops and swirls engraved upon the surface of her orb—were writing, though in a script so unfamiliar that she had not recognised it as such.

  As for what script it was, she had her guide in the name of Seringapatam, which Mr. Hsiang had mentioned. The spectacular fall of Tipu Sultan’s court at Seringapatam had been such a victory as no one would soon forget—a victory that had secured his vast kingdom of Mysore for Britain.

  It all fit together. Her father had returned to England from India, and her mother . . . But Prunella would soon know more of her mother. She might discover something useful about her own singing orb while she investigated the Midsomers’. Perhaps she might even have an opportunity to interrogate the sibyl, whose mysterious reference to the Grand Sorceress Prunella now understood.

  When Prunella approached the Midsomers’ house, an air of stillness hung over the building. Its facade looked like a solemn white face: “Of someone rather unhappy, I think,” said Prunella to her familiars.

  It was not too difficult to locate a window looking into the room where the sibyl’s painting was hung. It was on the first floor, as Prunella recalled, but this proved no obstacle. Murmuring the formula she had learnt the day before, she summoned a wisp of cloud, clambered atop it, and floated up to the window, Nidget under her arm.

  A brief examination of the room through the window satisfied Prunella that no one was there. Another minute’s spellcasting opened the window, and Prunella scrambled into the house, Nidget following her.

  “Why, that was simple enough,” she said, dusting herself off. “I declare I do not know why more thaumaturges are not burglars. If I cannot find a wealthy gentleman to marry, Nidget, we could always resort to burglary for our livelihood—though I suppose Zacharias would disapprove.”

  “I cannot say I disagree with him,” said a voice that was decidedly not Nidget’s.

  Prunella jumped and clutched Nidget, staring. A woman rose from a sofa at the other end of the room. It was placed at such an angle that her person had been blocked from Prunella’s view when she had surveyed the room through the window.

  “So you are a sorceress,” said Mrs. Midsomer sourly. “Midsomer swore there were none in England.”

  Prunella straightened. It was an awkward position in which to be detected, but there was nothing for it. Denial was fruitless. She could only put a bold face on the matter, and be grateful that Tjandra and Youko had not come in with her.

  “I am the first, and have not chosen to reveal my powers to the Society,” she said. She could not resist adding, “Though it is no surprise Mr. Midsomer should be mistaken. He is wrongheaded in every respect!”

  “There, too, I must agree,” said Mrs. Midsomer, taking the wind out of Prunella’s sails. “If I had known he was so remarkably stupid, I would never have come away with him. However, I am sworn to his service, and since we are now bound together, I suppose I am obliged to take offence at your insult.”

  “There is no insult I can fling at Mr. Midsomer which he would not deserve,” said Prunella. “He shall hear them all, and defend himself, if he can! Where is he?”

  “Do not you know?” said Mrs. Midsomer, with a curious half-smile. “And Geoffrey was so worried when he heard you had been at our party! I told him you were of no account, and he ought to focus his attention on the Sorcerer Royal. Geoffrey has a silly habit of seeing enemie
s wherever he looks.”

  “He is right to be worried about me,” declared Prunella. “I am his enemy, and I know what he is about. Tell him I have found this!”

  She presented the orb with a flourish.

  “Where did you get that?” said Mrs. Midsomer sharply. “It is not yours!”

  “It certainly is not,” said Prunella, closing her hand around the orb. “I am not in the habit of trying to murder Sorcerers Royal. But Mr. Midsomer is—and he shall account for it!”

  Mrs. Midsomer’s grey eyes widened, and she stepped forward, actually reaching out to clasp Prunella’s arm.

  “It worked?” said Mrs. Midsomer. “Zacharias Wythe is dead?”

  Prunella withdrew her arm in disgust. “I am not sorry to disappoint you, but no, he is not. He is a great deal more difficult to kill than your master seems to believe, and I must say your master is an absurdly ineffectual murderer!”

  “My master!” sniffed Mrs. Midsomer. “He knows nothing of it!”

  She snatched the orb from Prunella’s grasp, moving so quickly that Prunella had lost it before she knew what was happening.

  “You ought not to take things that are not yours,” said Mrs. Midsomer.

  She spoke always with a slight, charming accent of indefinable origin. It was stronger now, and her voice itself seemed to change. It had deep tones in it that were not altogether human, but recalled the clash of thunder and the deep-chested roar of the sea. Mrs. Midsomer’s shadow grew, expanding so rapidly that it filled the room.

  Prunella took a step back, and then another. Nidget was taut in her arms, waiting to spring. She could feel the presence of her two other familiars outside. She had been striving to restrain them, but if she did not suppress her increasing fright, they would soon burst in. She bumped into a table and looked around. The painting of the sibyl was behind her.

  “You have been remarkably foolish, chit!” said Mrs. Midsomer in a booming inhuman voice. “Zacharias Wythe may have escaped me again, but you need not think you will be so fortunate!”

  “Sibyl,” said Prunella. She was glad to hear her voice ring out, hardly trembling at all. “Pray tell me, who is Mrs. Midsomer?”

  “Lorelei,” said the sibyl behind her. “Monstress, siren and mermaid—murderess in desire if not in truth—and a paltry hussy if I ever knew one!”

  “Be quiet!” snarled Mrs. Midsomer. She lobbed her orb at Prunella.

  Light burst forth from the orb in an array of colours—green, purple, blue and red. Each ribbon of light was a curse, and they scythed through the air towards Prunella.

  “Nidget! Youko! Tjandra!” cried Prunella. “To me!”

  • • •

  ZACHARIAS’S temples throbbed as he hurried down the stairs. He had passed the night in Lady Wythe’s spare room, and overslept in consequence. This invariably happened when Lady Wythe was present to overrule his orders to be awoken at such and such a time:

  “Nonsense!” she would say. “Zacharias ought to rest. It would be the height of wickedness to wake him. Do you but try it, Lucy, and you shall have to look for another place.”

  Yet it had been Lucy who woke him in the end, at Lady Wythe’s behest. Lady Wythe rose when he entered the sitting room, wringing her hands. Damerell was there also, pacing a groove into the carpet while he muttered a formula under his breath.

  “Oh Zacharias,” cried Lady Wythe. “The poor motherless girl! I feel culpable, truly. I ought never to have lent countenance to her pursuit of an establishment. I should have done more to bring home to her the folly in proceeding as she did. And this is the result!”

  The note she thrust into Zacharias’s hand bore a few lines in Prunella’s round, ungainly handwriting.

  Dear Lady Wythe,

  By the time you read these words I shall be gone. I beg you will not be alarmed—I shall be back before you know it—but pray tender my apologies to Mr. Wythe if I should miss our lesson today. When I return I think I may promise a GREAT SURPRISE! What I mean I cannot tell you now, only wait and you shall see. You may tell Mr. Wythe I have taken my case, and plan to put to use my acquaintance with his friend Mr. Hsiang.

  I am, your humble and affectionate servant, &c.

  “Now what does this mean?” said Zacharias.

  “Dash the girl, cannot she stay still?” exclaimed Damerell. “The enchantment will never get a fix on her if she keeps flitting about.”

  When Zacharias looked at him, he said:

  “I came prepared to fight off a magical ambush, but find myself embroiled in a domestic melodrama—and what is worse, striving with Murchie’s wretched locationary, which is a spell I have never liked. Indeed”—turning to Lady Wythe—“I think it unlikely Miss Gentleman has done what you fear, ma’am. She is surely too sensible to run away with a man upon a single day’s acquaintance, when she has no assurance regarding his income.”

  “You believe she has eloped?” said Zacharias.

  Lady Wythe hesitated.

  “It is a dreadful thing to think of her,” she said. “But I cannot make any sense of Prunella’s note unless it is that her abductor reappeared and repeated his offer. I did think that she seemed to regret refusing him, when she was telling me of him yesterday. It would be imprudent of her to accept, of course, but she is so young, and has lacked the guidance of firm principles, and it is so easy for an unscrupulous man to impose upon a giddy young female! Zacharias, are you acquainted with the gentleman who wished to run away with her?”

  Zacharias murmured that they were acquainted, but he believed there was a misunderstanding. Mr. Hsiang was a very gentlemanlike man, not given to the abduction of young ladies—apart from anything else, he already had three wives.

  “And he is so plagued by them that he has often expressed regret that he was not contented with one,” said Zacharias. “No, I cannot think she has run away with Hsiang.”

  He was worried, but for quite a different reason. Zacharias did not know why Prunella had taken the familiars with her, but he suspected it meant Prunella had a plan. The thought filled him with apprehension.

  The pale, frightened face of a footman peered around the door.

  “Beg pardon, ma’am,” he said. “I have said you are not at home, but they have marched all the way from the Society, and they say they will not be put off whatever we do.”

  For once Damerell relinquished his self-control so far as visibly to lose his patience.

  “Oh, what now?” he cried.

  • • •

  ZACHARIAS opened the door to an illusion of magicians on Lady Wythe’s doorstep. Midsomer was among them.

  “Zacharias Wythe, you are summoned to appear before the Presiding Committee of the Royal Society of Unnatural Philosophers to surrender your staff,” said one of the men. He handed Zacharias a scroll. “At a meeting called this morning, it was proposed that the Hallett procedure should be undertaken today. The vote was passed by a majority.”

  Zacharias took the scroll silently.

  Damerell swept the group of thaumaturges with a look of supreme contempt, ending with the man who had spoken. “Why, Cullip, you ha’penny conjurer, Wythe gave you your step!”

  Cullip drew himself up to his full height.

  “I was elected Secretary to the Committee because it was believed I should do my duty,” he said. “And I am doing it now, I hope.”

  “Quite right,” said Zacharias composedly. “Gentlemen, I shall be with you directly. Damerell, if you would have the goodness to tell Lady Wythe—”

  “I shall tell Lady Wythe nothing,” said Damerell. Damerell did not often lose his temper, but he did nothing by half measures. “They used to say that a man became a magician who was too scheming for Parliament, too bloodthirsty for the Army, and too much of a bloody sodomite for the Navy. But these are not quite the end times. We must still attempt to merit the name of civil
ised people. On what grounds is it proposed to strip Mr. Wythe of his staff? Even Hallett was deposed for a reason, however factitious. What fiction have you invented, pray?”

  Cullip had gone a deep pink.

  “It is a matter of common knowledge that Zacharias Wythe murdered Sir Stephen Wythe—his predecessor, his benefactor and the man who gave him his name!” he said. “And if it is possible to do worse than that, he has done it, for he also murdered the familiar Leofric, who had served the Sorcerers Royal of England since time immemorial. Now Wythe seeks to rob honest Englishmen of our magic, and give it over into the hands of women and foreigners!”

  “What an extraordinary series of accusations,” said Zacharias. “On what basis am I said to have committed such wrongdoing?”

  He strove to keep his voice light, but his heart sank when he saw the look on Midsomer’s face. This was the opportunity for which his enemy had been waiting.

  “Do you deny, sir, that the Fairy Court has deliberately withheld magic from Britain at the behest of a parcel of Malayan vampiresses?” said Midsomer. “And was it not you who received their chieftainess when she came to England to further her scheme of revenge? You who defended her, and contrived at her escape when she was confined for her violent assault upon an Englishwoman?”

  “I have not heard that Mrs. Midsomer suffered any greater injury than in losing a turban,” said Damerell. “Indeed, having seen the headdress in question, I am inclined to believe the witch rather did her a service.”

  Zacharias shot Damerell a warning look. To Midsomer he said:

  “I only recently discovered the block on England’s magic, and the reason for it. If you were aware of it before, sir, I am surprised you did not report it sooner. A solution might have been arrived at by now if the circumstances had been explained to the Society. But it seems you have preferred to foment dissension among our colleagues instead.”

  “I have been working to ensure the removal of a murderer, a thief and a traitor from the highest office in English thaumaturgy,” said Midsomer coldly. “It is hardly for you to judge the value of the exercise. If you wish to defend yourself, however, you may do so before the Presiding Committee. The Committee will doubtless give due consideration to any pleas you wish to submit in mitigation.”