Graduation Day (Schooled in Magic Book 14)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “You taught me that,” Frieda said. She smiled. “Is it true that Professor Thande picked you up by the scruff of your neck and threw you out of the classroom?”

  Emily colored. “No,” she said. She’d purposefully not mentioned that to Frieda. “Who told you that I got into trouble?”

  “Jacqui,” Frieda said. “She came by to check on me.”

  Emily’s eyes narrowed. “What did she say?”

  “She said she wanted to fill me in on the gossip running around the school,” Frieda said. “Is it true that Melissa is pregnant?”

  “I ... I don’t think so,” Emily said. She certainly hadn’t seen any awareness in Melissa’s mind that she might be pregnant. Besides, contraceptive potions were easy to obtain if someone didn’t want a baby. “Jacqui wouldn’t be told, if Melissa was pregnant. They’re not friends any longer.”

  “If they ever really were.” Frieda hunched up her knees, wrapping her arms round them. Her pigtails dangled down, pitifully. “Would it be better if I just walked into Fulvia’s room and surrendered?”

  “No,” Emily said, flatly. “All you’d do is get yourself killed.”

  Or used as a bargaining chip, her thoughts added, dryly. Fulvia doesn’t know which way the jurors will vote, not yet.

  She patted Frieda’s shoulder. “You will get better,” she said. “And I’ll be there for you.”

  Frieda gave her a long look. “Really?”

  “Yes,” Emily said. “I promise.”

  She picked up one of the textbooks. “Why don’t you tell me what you learned from this? It might keep your mind focused.”

  Frieda sat up. “It taught me about the importance of checking one’s calculations ...”

  Emily sat back and listened, occasionally asking a handful of questions, as Frieda chatted about alchemical theory. Frieda had had less to unlearn, when she’d gone to school. She didn’t have any trouble grasping the odder points of alchemy, even though Emily had to fight to wrap her head around them. But then, Frieda had grown up in a mountain village. She was used to scavenging for ingredients for food and checking them before putting whatever she’d found in her mouth.

  And certain plants can only be eaten at a specific stage, Emily thought. Sergeant Miles had beaten a great deal of practical knowledge into her head. She could live off the land, if necessary, but it wasn’t something she wanted to try. Frieda takes that for granted.

  Her stomach rumbled, loudly. Frieda giggled.

  “I think I’d better go get something to eat.” Emily checked her watch. It was Saturday. The dining hall would still be serving meals for another hour or so. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  Frieda’s face fell. “You can’t stay?”

  Emily hesitated. She could ask Madame Kyla for food, couldn’t she? But she knew the healer would be reluctant. She disliked visitors staying too long ...

  “Probably not,” she said, regretfully. “But I will see you tomorrow morning.”

  “One thing,” Frieda said. She held up the transcript. “What happens tomorrow?”

  “More witnesses,” Emily said. “More expert opinions. More chatter. And then ... I don’t know.”

  “I wish I knew.” Frieda threw the transcript to the floor. “Either they kill me or they let me go! It’s waiting around that’s so bad!”

  “I know.” Emily gave the younger girl a quick hug. “It will all be over soon. I promise.”

  “You can’t keep that promise.” Frieda giggled, humorlessly. “If they let me choose how I die, can I pick old age?”

  Emily felt a flash of pure searing hatred for Fulvia. Frieda had been broken. And even though flashes of her old personality were beginning to surface, it was clear she still had a long way to go. Emily wanted to hunt Fulvia down and wrap her hands around the crone’s neck, squeezing until she popped like a grape. It wouldn’t be hard either, as long as Fulvia stayed in Whitehall. Emily could use the wards to kill her, crushing all of her protections through simple brute force. And then ...

  The rest of her family might back off if Fulvia died, she thought. And if they didn’t, I’d still have Heart’s Eye.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “And someone could fiddle with a pocket dimension so you’d die of old age instantly.”

  She leaned forward and hugged Frieda again, then stood. They’d have to have a long talk, at some point, about what Emily had seen in Frieda’s mind, but that would have to wait until Frieda was stable again. The last thing she needed was Emily dragging up old and unpleasant memories. Emily’s stomach heaved as she turned away, trying to keep her face blank. Her stepfather had been bad, but Frieda’s biological father had been worse ...

  Something will have to be done about that, she told herself, firmly. Frieda, at least, had been lucky enough to escape. Others, male and female alike, were stuck. But how can I change an entire society?

  She pushed the thought from her mind as she walked out of the door and along the stone corridor. Someone had fixed a very unflattering drawing of Jacqui to the wall, using a solid sticking charm. Emily took a look, then snorted in amused disgust. How old was the drawer? Five? Ten? It was the sort of humor that shouldn’t appeal to anyone old enough to go to Whitehall, although she supposed that proved nothing. Most of what passed for humor in the Nameless World was either rough, unpleasant or scatological. She’d once heard a nobleman laugh uproariously after his horse had kicked mud over a passing peasant.

  Someone was shouting in the distance. It sounded like Jacqui.

  Emily hesitated, then slipped forward to the stairwell. The voice - Jacqui’s voice - was growing louder, as if she was losing her temper. And yet, she was so angry that the words were blurring together. The odd acoustics of the stairwell made it harder to pick real words out of the rage. She considered - briefly - just walking to the next stairwell, then changed her mind and walked down the stairs. Jacqui stood at the bottom, shouting at a set of Fifth Years.

  You are expected to set an example for younger students,” she thundered. “What exactly do you think you were doing?”

  She went on and on, somehow managing to avoid mentioning whatever she’d caught the Fifth Years doing. Emily tried to guess what Jacqui thought they’d done, but came up with nothing. Anything reasonable would have resulted in a trip to the Warden or detention, not a shouting match that reflected badly on Jacqui rather than the younger students.

  “I told you, specifically, to go to detention,” Jacqui shouted. “And you just left the classroom a minute after you arrived!”

  “There was no one there to supervise,” one of the younger students pointed out. “Whitehall Rules, Section ...”

  “Don’t quote the rules to me,” Jacqui snapped. “You’re Fifth Years! You’re ...”

  There was a brilliant flash of light, followed by several more. Emily ducked back, half-expecting a hex to come in her direction. Someone had snapped. Someone had tried to hex the Head Girl. Silence fell, as suddenly as if someone had thrown a switch. And then she heard the sound of footsteps running away. The Fifth Years were fleeing for their lives.

  Emily peered forward, careful not to expose too much of herself. Jacqui stood unmoving, her back to Emily. Emily had to cover her mouth to keep from giggling helplessly. She’d free herself very quickly, but she wouldn’t be able to punish the younger students. Tradition dictated that anyone who managed to hex an older student was allowed to get away with it ...

  And she laughed at Alassa when Alassa was hexed, Emily thought. Serve her right.

  She could have freed Jacqui, easily. But she didn’t want to intervene. Jacqui needed to learn a lesson before someone got really hurt. Carefully, trying hard not to make a sound, she slipped back up the stairs. If she was lucky, Jacqui would never know she’d been there ...

  And she did tell me not to interfere in her duties, Emily reminded herself. She moved faster once she reached the top of the stairs. I’m only doing what I’m told.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

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nbsp; “YOU WANT US TO BELIEVE THAT Frieda took instructions on how to make a charmed bracelet and followed them, without even checking the instructions for herself?” Fulvia eyed Samra as if she didn’t quite believe anyone could say anything so stupid. “And then you expect us to believe that this man - this Daze - was then able to do a great deal more than merely influence her behavior?”

  “I can only testify to what I saw in Emily’s mind,” Samra said. Her face was displeased. “And she believes it to be true.”

  “She may very well believe anything her young friend says,” Fulvia countered. “But that doesn’t mean we are obliged to believe it.”

  Emily resisted the urge to rub her eyes as the verbal engagement played on. Fulvia seemed determined to disconnect Daze from Frieda, to imply that he was a stranger who’d somehow stumbled into Frieda’s life. It was, Emily admitted, a worthwhile tactic. But it was also wearing everyone out.

  “The fact remains that we have no solid proof that Frieda was enchanted by anyone other than herself,” Fulvia pressed, coolly. “Either she accidentally damaged her own mind, in which case she can be held accountable for it, or she was never enchanted in the first place.”

  Sienna rose. “And how do you explain a dead body?”

  “There are dead bodies everywhere.” Fulvia shrugged, dismissively. “And, as the dead man is dead, we can’t actually question him.”

  Which means we can’t prove that Daze used soul magic on Frieda, let alone that he was working for you, Emily thought coldly, as the verbal sparring wore on. The evidence might not be clear enough to sway the jury one way or the other.

  Gordian cleared his throat. “I believe it is time to call for a recess,” he said, smoothly. “I trust this meets with everyone’s approval?”

  Emily glanced at Sienna, who nodded. The jurors were looking tired too, even though it was only lunchtime. But then, the debate had been going on for hours. Zed - and the older jurors - might enjoy it, but the younger ones were probably getting bored. Jade and Cat were men of action, Emily reminded herself. Markus was probably the only one in their age group who wasn’t bored.

  But they’re not the ones we have to convince, she reminded herself, as the doors opened. It’s the older ones who have to support us.

  Sienna caught her arm. “I’ve arranged lunch in a private room,” she said, firmly. “We’ll discuss the case over food.”

  Emily nodded and followed her out of the courtroom. Markus had already hurried off, probably to see Melissa. Jade and Cat were talking in low voices, while Zed and Gordian were heading for the door. Emily wondered, sourly, what they had to talk about, then dismissed the thought. They both ran schools, after all. And they were both relatively new at their posts.

  “Food should be arriving soon,” Sienna said, as they entered the private dining room and cast privacy wards. “What do you make of it so far?”

  Emily sat down and looked around the room, feeling an odd pang as she tried to gather her thoughts. The chamber reminded her of the Head Girl’s private rooms, the rooms she’d lost when she’d been stripped of the title. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d come to appreciate the suite until she’d lost it. And yet, she didn’t like the job. Jacqui was welcome to it.

  She pushed the thought aside. “We have a good case,” she said, slowly. “Don’t we?”

  “Yes and no,” Sienna said. “What we don’t have - what we need - is a solid case. That’s the only thing that will keep Fulvia from browbeating her jurors into voting against us.”

  Or vice versa, Emily thought.

  She reminded herself, sharply, that the trial might bear a superficial resemblance to a trial on Earth, but the underlying currents were very different. On one hand, the jurors needed a fig-leaf of respectability to either acquit or convict Frieda; on the other hand, Fulvia possessed so much influence and power that the fig-leaf had to be very convincing. As long as there was the slightest doubt, Fulvia could press for Frieda’s conviction and convince the jurors to vote for her. There was certainly no presumption of innocence until proven guilty.

  And no central government powerful enough to squash local strongmen as well as criminals, she thought, sourly. There’s certainly no one ensuring fair play.

  The door opened. A maid entered, looking harassed. Emily smiled in thanks as the maid placed a tray of food on the table, then passed the younger girl a coin before she left. It wasn’t customary to tip the servants, but Emily had always felt sorry for them. They had hard lives. There were rules - strict rules - against abusing the school’s servants, but that wasn’t always enough to deter students from hexing them from time to time. It was no wonder to her that very few servants lasted longer than five years, even though their salaries were very good. They just couldn’t take it any longer.

  Sienna recast the privacy wards, then leaned forward as they took their food. “Right now, the central problem is proving that Frieda was influenced - and then controlled - by Daze,” she said. “That isn’t going to be easy. We haven’t managed to track down any evidence that Daze was even in Celeste, let alone that he had any contact with Frieda. And there isn’t really any proof that he was in your house either.”

  “Samra viewed my memories,” Emily pointed out.

  “Memories can be faked,” Sienna reminded her. “The fact that you are trained in soul magic - at least in the basics - is a point against us. In theory, at least, you have the ability to alter your own memories. And the fact that Frieda’s mind was so badly disrupted, first by Daze and then by you, is another point against us. You could be telling the truth, as you know it, but it might not be objectively true.”

  “And so she thinks I picked up a dead body from somewhere,” Emily muttered. She picked up her spoon and took a bite of her food. Shepherd’s pie was considered commoner food in Zangaria, but Whitehall’s students had never hesitated to eat it. “Does she really believe I’d do that?”

  “She is trying to put together a narrative that blames you for everything.” Sienna pointed her fork at Emily. “You bent over backwards, Emily, to avoid tackling the problem Frieda’s behavior represented. We haven’t even managed to conclusively identify the body. It isn’t that much of a stretch to imply that you might find a dead body and insist it belonged to a rogue soul mage.”

  And King Randor forced one of his noblemen to marry Alicia, just to hide his bastard child’s lineage, Emily thought. Put like that, it wasn’t much of a stretch at all. And all she really needs is an excuse the neutral jurors can claim to believe.

  She leaned forward. “Is there no way to link Fulvia to Daze?”

  “Only if we put Melissa on the stand,” Sienna said. “And even then ... it isn’t proof of anything. Fulvia would have several different possible angles of attack, Emily, and only one of them would have to prove convincing to get the jurors to reject her testimony. You couldn’t accuse her of anything without some very solid proof.”

  And a great deal of firepower, Emily added, silently. Fulvia was an aristocrat, to all intents and purposes. An accusation against her might be dismissed out of hand, no matter how solid the proof behind it. And anyone who dared to bring such an accusation might wind up in trouble herself. It was easier to convict the corporate whistleblower than the manager, after all. The jury might refuse to even consider that Fulvia might be involved.

  “So,” she said. She took a sip of her Kava, wincing slightly at the sour taste. “What do we do?”

  “Keep pressing.” Sienna shrugged, expressively. “We don’t have solid proof that Frieda was being influenced, but we have a great deal of evidence. It’s clear enough that her behavior only went downhill this year, after she came back with the bracelet. And she was hectored beyond belief by Celadon ... luckily, Fulvia can’t use Marian against her or things might get a great deal worse.”

  Emily nodded. “That’s something, at least.”

  Sienna held up a hand. “That said, Fulvia is pouring scorn on our narrative - and pointing out the places whe
re the story is weak. And we have very limited proof. And quite a few jurors respect Fulvia’s right to punish Frieda, even if Frieda wasn’t entirely responsible for her own actions. Everyone recognizes that she has responsibilities.”

  Her face twisted. “Which gives her yet another potential angle of attack. People who don’t care about her, or Frieda, will still uphold Fulvia’s right to carry out her duties as Matriarch of House Ashworth.”

  “I know.” Emily sipped her drink, meditatively. “She has the sympathy vote, doesn’t she?”

  “More or less,” Sienna said. “A Matriarch is responsible for defending her family. No one would blame Fulvia for prosecuting Frieda, or for doing everything in her power to secure a guilty verdict. Even if she lost, it still wouldn’t be held against her. She has a duty to try, even if she fails. Not demanding Frieda’s head on a platter would be seen as a far worse offense.”

  Emily nodded, slowly. She barely grasped the tangled web of feudal obligations that dominated Zangaria - a lesser nobleman might owe homage to a greater nobleman as well as his king, which made it hard to decide which one to support if the greater nobleman challenged the king - but she did understand that a patron had responsibilities to his clients. It was the patron’s job to demand justice, if a client was abused; a patron who couldn’t support his clients was one who’d rapidly start losing clients. And both Adana and Celadon were - technically - Fulvia’s clients. They were certainly part of her family.

  And that sometimes means a patron has to defend a client who is as guilty as sin, Emily thought, sardonically. And no one would fault the patron for doing it either.

  She took a breath. “Would it have been better if you’d pressed charges instead?”

  Sienna gave her a sharp look. “I’d have had to make sure she was punished myself,” Sienna said. “I couldn’t not punish her. And that wouldn’t have automatically cancelled out Fulvia’s claims.”

  “I know,” Emily said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It isn’t decided yet, one way or the other,” Sienna said. “But right now, things could still go either way.”