Scourge

by Gail Z. Martin

  Justice. Vengeance. I want both—for Wil’s sake, and for Papa’s. If I can’t get rid of this new magic, maybe I can use it to help.

  “You’re quiet, all of a sudden.” Elinor laid a hand on his arm. “You can’t keep blaming yourself for what happened. It’s like when the fever comes through: some die and some don’t. It’s the way of things. It’s a waste if you survive and don’t go on enjoying life.”

  Rigan managed a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  She poured the mixture into a pottery jar, and their fingers brushed as Rigan reached for it. He felt a spark, so brief he figured that he imagined it, except that Elinor’s eyes widened, just a bit, as if she felt it, too. Not just attraction. A bit of magic? Could it be?

  “Thanks for mixing this up,” he said.

  She did not snatch her hand away.

  “Thanks for coming by,” she replied with a hint of a smile.

  Parah and her customer had turned back toward them, and Elinor withdrew her hand, though she did not hurry to drop her gaze. “You’ll have to see if Kell will let you come more often.”

  “Definitely.”

  Parah hurried over. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Rigan? I’ve got a shop to run, and Elinor has orders to fill.” Her tone was tart, but the amusement in her eyes softened her words.

  “Just leaving,” he said, withdrawing his coin purse to pay. “Many thanks.”

  KELL DREW UP with the cart of the day’s dead just as Rigan returned home. “Good. You’re back,” he said. “Help me with these bodies. We’ve got four today, and one of them is a heavy son of a bitch.” He glanced at the burlap bag Rigan carried. “You got more pigment? We’re going to need it.”

  Rigan helped Kell heft the dead weight of a man who probably outweighed the two of them together. “By the gods, he’s heavy!” Kell groaned as they shuffled their way into the workroom. “On three. One... two... three!” They heaved the body onto the nearest table.

  Rigan was about to comment when he heard raised voices from the front of the shop. He lifted a hand to silence Kell and they crept forward, toward the door that divided the business office from the workroom.

  “That’s a silver more than you demanded last month!” they heard

  Corran protest.

  “The Guild fee’s gone up,” another voice said. “You want more guards to go after the monsters; the Lord Mayor raised the fee, so our contribution goes up. Otherwise, there’ll be more of those hunters taking the law into their own hands, not much better than the creatures they’re hunting.”

  Kell’s face flushed with anger, and Rigan felt his own heart pound.

  But Corran’s voice was calm, though Rigan heard the strain it took.

  “We always pay our fees: to the guards, the Guild, and the gods. Take it and go. I’ve got work to do.”

  “I don’t imagine your customers mind when you make them wait,” the man said, and guffawed.

  Kell looked spitting mad, but Rigan grabbed his arm hard and gave him a stern look to remain silent. “The dead might not, but their families expect prompt burial,” Corran said. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  The Guild collector grumbled something Rigan did not catch, right before the door to the street banged shut. Rigan and Kell were back into the workroom, working on another corpse when Corran stormed in. “You two are late!”

  “Just that kind of day,” Rigan replied. “We carried in the heavy one already—the rest shouldn’t take long.”

  “We’ll be up all night at this rate, and I’ve got a Guild meeting later.” Corran went out to the wagon, heaving one of the remaining bodies over his shoulder.

  “Tonight? I didn’t hear anything about a meeting,” Rigan said, as he and Kell went back for the next body.

  “It’s a special group that Guild Master Orlo has brought together.

  To discuss how all the undertakers in Ravenwood are charging for services.”

  “They should know better than to hold late meetings,” Kell complained. “Tempting fate to have you out past curfew.” Corran shrugged. “I’ll be fine. But I don’t fancy being up at dawn doing work that could be done tonight, so let’s get to it.” Kell bustled around the workshop, mixing up pigments and preparing the ritual bath. Kell told Rigan what each family had paid for, and Rigan fetched the appropriate shrouds.

  “Do you want me to help down here, or feed you?” Kell asked after mixing the pigments and setting out the bucket of prepared water. “I want to eat!” Rigan voted. Corran shrugged. Rigan and Kell exchanged a glance.

  “I vote with Rigan,” Kell announced. “I’ll call you when it’s ready.” He headed up the steps. A few moments later, they heard Kell banging around in the small kitchen.

  Corran’s silence weighed on Rigan as they worked. “A copper for your thoughts?” Rigan said, bringing over the bucket.

  “Nothing to tell. Just tired.”

  He was like this for months after Mama died. He hasn’t been himself since Jora’s death. Corran was preoccupied, and if Rigan didn’t know better, he would have guessed his brother was torn between fear and anger. “Something go wrong today?” Corran shook his head. “No more than usual. The Guild raised our fee.” He snorted. “They’ve become quite the cutpurses.” “The Lord Mayor likely gets a piece of that.”

  His brother merely nodded.

  “Did the collector give you a hard time about the fee?” “Bloody bastards,” Corran muttered. “Wouldn’t be so bad if they actually did anything useful.” The tirade did not surprise Rigan—it occurred every time the collector came for their money—but his brother’s mood was grimmer than usual.

  Corran was quiet all through dinner. Even Kell’s wildly embellished stories did not get a reaction. Kell and Rigan shared a look, and Rigan shrugged.

  Outside, the bell in the city tower rang eight times. “I need to get going to the Guild meeting.” He still did not meet Rigan’s gaze.

  “Stay and finish things up. I’ll be back.”

  “Well, what do you make of that?” Kell said after the door shut behind Corran.

  “No idea. I haven’t seen him that upset in a long time. Come on.

  I’ll help you clean up.” Rigan hesitated. He didn’t want to lie to either Kell or Corran, but telling them about his newfound magic or his training Below was not an option if he meant to keep them safe. “Donn stopped by, earlier,” he said. “I didn’t want to mention it to Corran. But Donn’s having a hard time of it, since Wil died.

  He asked if I could come over and play some cards. We’ll be at his house, not the tavern. I figured I’d stay the night, so I don’t have to worry about curfew.” He licked his lips. “I think he could use someone around.”

  Kell shrugged. “Sure. I’ll let Corran know.” Kell turned away, cleaning up the dishes. Something in his voice let Rigan know that the lie had not been entirely successful. “Thanks,” Rigan said. I’d be putting them at risk if they really knew where I was going. I won’t do that, no matter how mad Corran gets at me for being gone. Rigan got his cloak and slipped outside, making his way through the shadows to an entrance to Below.

  How can I learn magic a few candlemarks at a time? And with the mood Corran’s in, I’ll be in for real trouble if I’m not back early in the morning. At least I let Kell know. At least they won’t be out looking for my body. Rigan remembered the naked relief he had seen in his brothers’ faces when he had returned after going missing, and reflected how hard that night must have been for them. He found the old warehouse, picking his way across the littercovered floor, wincing as ruined floorboards creaked beneath him.

  Rigan let out a sign of relief when he reached the other side of the room. Steeling his nerve, he found the hidden door and slipped through to Below.

  Rigan descended the dirty stone steps leading deeper underground.

  A long-disused cellar led to a passageway in a forgotten part of the city that at one time had been open to the light. The air smelled of lamp oil and smoke,
of cooking fires and roasting meat. Corran had always teased him about being good with directions; now, Rigan was glad that he could remember his way. He emerged from a side tunnel into the crowded marketplace, loud with the babble of voices as buyers and sellers haggled. How many come here because they need to get out of someone’s way? he wondered.

  Damian was waiting for him at the entrance to the witch’s residence. “I had a feeling you’d be back.”

  “I don’t really have much choice, do I? The odds aren’t in my favor trying to figure this stuff out on my own.”

  Damian chuckled. “You always have a choice, but some options are better than others. Come with me.”

  “I can only stay until morning,” Rigan blurted. “If I’m gone too long, my brothers will come looking for me.”

  “You haven’t told them about your magic?”

  Rigan shook his head. “I’m not going to put them in danger. This is my burden. They have enough to worry about.”

  “You see your magic as a burden?”

  “What else would it be?”

  “It saved your life. Some might consider that a gift.”

  Rigan let that pass without comment. “Where is everyone?” he asked as Damian brought him into a large room.

  “Busy. There’s more to life here than just magic. We still have cooking and cleaning and mending to do, just like everyone else.”

  “Can’t you just use magic for that?”

  Damian laughed. “Only if we wanted the chores to take twice as long and leave us thrice as tired. Power takes a toll.”

  Rigan looked around. Dozens of candles lit the large room. A few worn cushions lay on the floor, and to one side sat a chalice, a bowl of salt, and several pieces of charcoal. Smaller bowls contained pigments of various colors.

  “Sit here,” Damian said, indicating one of the cushions. Rigan sat. Damian walked in a circle, leaving a thin trail of salt behind him, leaving enough room for one or two people to join Rigan inside the area of protection.

  A plump old woman with short gray hair emerged from a doorway, and Rigan recognized Baker. “Ah, I see you’re back,” she said.

  “Can you sense his power? It rolls off him too easily,” Damian said.

  Baker nodded. “That’s not good. No wonder he’s had difficulty containing it.” She peered at Rigan, as if seeing down to his bones. “Better if you stayed here Below. Safer for everyone.”

  “I can’t do that,” Rigan replied. “My brothers need me.”

  “Humpf.” Baker sat quietly for a moment, putting a small brass bell on the floor between them. “Move the bell.”

  Rigan reached out a hand, and Baker smacked him on the knuckles. “Not with your hand. With your magic.”

  Rigan looked at her as if she were daft. “I don’t move things with my mind,” he replied. “So far, I’ve only buried the dead, banished ghosts, and killed someone.”

  Baker shrugged. “You warmed the tea that night with your magic. You’ve got more control than you think. A knife can cut food or slit a man’s throat; it’s just a tool. So is magic. What matters is intent— and control. So... move the bell.”

  Rigan took a deep breath, focused on the bell, and imagined sliding it to the right. Nothing happened. He tried to remember what he had done to warm the water in the tea cup. He leaned forward, staring intently at the bell, brow furrowed. This time, he visualized moving the bell to the left. Nothing.

  “Maybe I don’t have the kind of magic that moves bells,” he said, sitting back with a sigh. “Maybe I’m better at stopping things than starting them.”

  “Nonsense,” Baker snapped. “There isn’t such a thing as ‘bell ringing magic’ or ‘killing magic.’ Magic is magic. I want to see what you can do.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea—”

  Before Rigan could finish his sentence, Baker sprang at him. She was faster than he expected, and bowled him over, one hand going for his throat.

  Rigan reacted before he thought. His arms came up reflexively, and the same thrum of power he had felt before surged through him, hurling Baker away, sending her flying a few feet through the air. An iridescent curtain of power cushioned her fall as she landed at the edge of the circle of protection.

  Rigan’s cheeks flushed with shame, and he sprang up. “Are you all right? Gods, I’ve killed her!”

  Baker chuckled. “It takes a lot more than an untrained pup like you to kill me.” She turned to Damian. “I am grudgingly impressed.”

  “I told you he had power.”

  Baker snatched up the bell and hurled it at Rigan. It hit him in the forehead. “Ow.”

  “But he’s going to need a lot of work,” Baker observed, drily.

  “Maybe he wasn’t afraid of the bell killing him,” Damian replied. “Right now, his power only seems to surge when he fears for his own life.”

  Baker crossed her arms. “Perhaps that’s a good thing,” she mused. “If he can stay out of trouble, it might keep him from the attention of the Lord Mayor’s mages.” She cocked her head as she looked Rigan up and down. “Still, that’s not something we can count on. I think he can do better.”

  Rigan lost track of time as Baker set him one test after another, assessing his power, trying to determine the limits of his control. His head ached and his stomach knotted. Finally, when it felt as if Baker had been drilling him forever, Rigan slumped forward onto his hands and knees, trying to hold on to consciousness.

  Baker helped him to lie down, still within the warded circle, then rose and stepped carefully over the wardings. “Stay here,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

  When Baker was gone, Rigan turned toward Damian. He felt as if he had put in a hard day’s work. The room felt wobbly. “Am I doing well enough?”

  “I think you actually impressed her.”

  “Do you think she’s right? I mean, about my magic being good for something besides banishing ghosts and killing people?” Rigan tried to keep the hope he felt from coloring his voice.

  “Do you go around killing people with the knives and saws you use in your trade?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Not even when you’re angry?” Damian pressed.

  “It’s not the same thing. I can control what I can do with a knife. The magic just comes out of nowhere.”

  “Actually, the magic came from inside you, not out of ‘nowhere,’” Damian corrected, “and you controlled it quite well under duress. Many men, when faced with a fight for their lives, can’t defend themselves with a knife or a sword, even with practice; with no experience, you not only summoned your power, but sent it specifically against the person who endangered you. You didn’t blow him to bits. You didn’t kill everyone on the whole block. You killed your tormentor by making his heart stop. That’s rather remarkable.”

  Maybe there’s hope that I won’t turn into a murderer, Rigan thought, cautious but relieved. After all, soldiers train how to kill in battle, but they don’t slice their neighbors to bits. At least, not often.

  Baker returned and stepped inside the circle, then stopped, raising a hand, palm out, toward Rigan. “If I concentrate, I can feel a flicker of magic from him,” she said. “Damian?”

  “Yes. I feel it too.”

  Rigan managed to sit up. His head pounded and he was drenched in sweat, but he took pride in managing to stand without assistance.

  “Take this.” Baker dropped an amulet of wood, metal and bone on a leather strap into Rigan’s outstretched hand. “Put it on.”

  Rigan tied the strap loosely, so that the talisman lay against his collarbone. Once again, Baker stretched out her hand. This time, she nodded approvingly. “Better. Damian?”

  “Muted and diffused,” Damian replied. “Harder to be certain it comes from him.”

  “How does it work?” Rigan asked, touching the amulet.

  “It’s not going to hurt you,” Baker said with a chuckle. “The design won’t attract attention—it’s a style often worn by those who worship
the Old Ones. It won’t give you away, if that’s what you’re afraid of. The magic is subtle. It’s a mild distraction enchantment, but the beauty of it is that the spell distracts from its own existence as well.”

  “What effect will it have on others around me?” Rigan asked. “It’s not going to be much good if no one can keep their mind on their work if I’m in the room.”

  Baker laughed. “No, lad. Only a mage will be distracted, and not from everything. Unless a witch truly focuses with intent, their attention will just skim past you. You’ll be present, but unimportant. They won’t notice the distraction, or the latent power beneath it.”

  Baker stepped forward, uncomfortably close to Rigan. “Now listen. This is important. If you draw attention to yourself, the amulet won’t make you invisible. If someone knows about your magic, they can sense it; they’ll know where to look. If they’re suspicious enough, they’ll find you out. So stay out of trouble, don’t go out more than you have to, and for the love of all that’s holy, steer clear of anyone in the Mayor’s entourage that might be a witch. Do you hear me?”

  Rigan nodded, hoping he did not look as utterly overwhelmed as he felt. “Yes. I will. Thank you.” He staggered, and Baker caught his arm. Damian came around the other side, holding him up.

  “You need to rest. We’ve pushed you hard,” Damian said as he and Baker got Rigan to bed.

  “I’ll bring a healer,” Baker promised as they eased him down. “It’s only midnight. You should be able to go home in the morning. But mind that you come back within the week. Your power is too strong to leave untrained.”

  She might have said more, but Rigan did not hear her as he fell into a deep sleep.

  * * *

  RIGAN HAD A moment of panic as he tried to get his bearings. A shuttered lantern on the table beside to the bed gave him enough light to realize he was still in the house of the witches. What time is it? Still dark?

  He chuckled ruefully as his mind cleared. Of course it’s still dark. I’m underground.

  “We need to get you home,” Damian said from the doorway. “Baker was right, though; come back as soon as your strength is regained. Training is your best protection.”