A College of Magics

by Caroline Stevermer

  “A pleasure deferred,” said Menary.

  Faris sneered.

  “Get your servant to explain the concept to you,” Menary added.

  “That’s enough,” said Jane grimly, as Faris bristled.

  Menary laughed. “Be still, Dame Brailsford.” She made the title a mockery. “You know nothing of this. This is a matter between the sailor’s brat and me.”

  Belatedly, Dame Cassilda put a restraining hand on Menary’s sleeve. Menary shook it off disdainfully.

  From an inner door no one had noticed as it opened, the Dean said, “This meeting will now come to order.”

  As those in the room turned, the Dean swept forward among them. At the spot she deemed satisfactory, she halted. “Here, I think, Tyrian.”

  From the inner room, Tyrian emerged, bearing a lyre-backed chair which he set for the Dean. He bowed her into it with grave courtesy. At her gesture of dismissal he stepped backward to join the ring the others made before her. From her place in the ring, Faris regarded Tyrian closely. Whatever had passed in his interview with the Dean, his customary expression of calm indifference was back. Inwardly Faris rejoiced at the sight.

  Through the outer door Dame Villette entered, Drayton Reed in tow. They joined the circle between Faris and Jane.

  “I thought I left you waiting in the tumbrel,” Faris whispered to Reed.

  “You said you wouldn’t be long,” Reed replied.

  Faris kept her eyes on the Dean and replied out of the corner of her mouth. “I tried to hurry. See where it’s brought me. Court-martialed.”

  “Wouldn’t a simple notice that you won’t attend any more classes have done the trick? Who’s the dragon lady?”

  “That’s the Dean of Greenlaw College. She’s in charge here.”

  “It figures. Trust Tyrian to ingratiate himself with the ruling class.”

  “Dame Villette, Dame Cassilda, Dame Brailsford, we are here today to deal with the transgressions of these two students.” The Dean nodded at Faris and Menary as she named them in full. “The inquiry I have conducted has satisfied me that they were party to acts of magic as undergraduates. What they have done before, they may do again. If they attempt any action, physical or metaphysical, you are to do your duty and restrain them by any means in your power. Do you understand?”

  Dame Villette looked mildly pleased, Dame Cassilda mildly wary, and Dame Brailsford mildly distressed. All nodded.

  “Very good.” The Dean turned from Menary to Faris. “Do either of you have a defense to offer for your extraordinary behavior? Do you?” There was perfect silence in the room. The Dean looked from Faris to Menary, her eyes blazing. “Speak up if you do.”

  Faris looked at Menary. Menary was staring with polite resignation at a point in the air over the Dean’s head. She looked as if she were listening to distant music she did not much care for.

  Faris met the Dean’s steely gaze. “Very well. I do.”

  “Speak.”

  “I didn’t try to do any magic. I tried to kill Menary, that’s all. She harmed someone in my service. Send me away if you must, but know that I did what I did for a good reason.”

  “Do I understand you correctly? You admit you attempted to kill your classmate.”

  Faris nodded.

  “You consider that a defense?”

  Faris nodded again.

  The Dean turned to Menary. “And you? Do you offer any explanation of your actions?”

  Menary brought her gaze down to meet the Dean’s. “No.”

  The Dean held Menary’s gaze for a long moment, then Menary looked at the floor. The Dean said, “You are expelled from this college. You will both be gone by sundown today. Never return.”

  Menary bowed her head and withdrew from the circle with a gliding graceful step.

  Faint impatience troubled the Dean’s gaze. “Where are you going?”

  Menary halted, gray eyes wide. “I was about to leave the college, never to return. I obey orders.”

  “Not invariably,” said the Dean dryly. “Don’t be so hasty. I have not quite finished speaking to you.”

  Menary returned to her place in the circle.

  “For reasons of your own, concerned perhaps with vanity and spite,” the Dean told Menary, “you have misbehaved almost from the moment of your arrival at Greenlaw. You brought with you not merely an insolent notion that because you had the inclination to question rules, the rules did not apply to you, a notion which a few of your classmates share—” Here she glanced pointedly at Faris for an instant. “—but a vicious habit of mind as well. You have done those things which you ought not to have done. It matters not at all how you did them. I grant that you did not use the magic of Greenlaw. Still, no matter how you contrived it, you have done those things.”

  Impassive, Menary returned the Dean’s gaze.

  “At first you showed great promise. Despite complaints, I allowed you to go your own way. I erred. I was loath to break your spirit merely in the name of manners.”

  “Fear not,” said Menary softly. “I have resisted sterner efforts at discipline than yours.”

  The Dean looked sad. “I know it. It seems you are determined that your promise will go unfulfilled. But I must not allow you to leave just yet. You are half trained and wholly unreliable. Before you go, you must tell me what you saw on your vigil.”

  Menary’s eyes widened, then narrowed. She said nothing.

  “You understand. Tell me, or I will ask you again and you will have no choice about answering.”

  “I saw—” Menary hesitated. Her eyes slid from the Dean to Dame Villette and back to the Dean.

  The Dean held up her hand. “Don’t trouble to lie.” She pointed at Menary and Menary seemed unable to take her eyes from the Dean’s index finger. “For the third time, and the last time, and the time you must answer. Tell me.”

  Menary paled until her eyes seemed nearly black in her white face. “Tyrian,” she said softly, unwillingly.

  Faris glanced at Tyrian. Unmoved, he was watching the Dean closely.

  The Dean lowered her hand. “The damage your whim did him has been undone. He is free of the bond you laid upon him. Now, with your word, you are free of him. You are free of the power your vigil lent you. Go now. Never return.”

  Menary’s color rushed back, a tide of scarlet that overwhelmed her pallor. She blushed but still her gaze did not fall. After a moment the high color subsided until it burned only in her cheeks. “I have nowhere to go. I must send for a ship from home.”

  “There are rooms to be rented in St. Malo. I do not want you within the gates of Greenlaw, not even down in the village. Dame Cassilda, attend her while she packs. See that you escort her to St. Malo.”

  Chalk pale, her bearing stiff but still proud, Menary withdrew, Dame Cassilda with her. When the door was closed behind them, the Dean spoke again. “Now for you, Faris Nallaneen. You are lucky to have such observant testimony in your defense. It is plain to me that you brought no magic to the encounter. Indeed, your primitive defense states the matter fully. You lost your temper and tried to kill Menary. Let me remind you that wrath is a deadly sin.”

  For the first time since she had left Dame Brachet’s deportment class, Faris dropped her gaze and examined the toe of her shoe with minute interest.

  The Dean continued. “You cannot remain at Greenlaw. Your uncle and I agree on that, if on nothing else. Yet I have no mind to set a half-trained witch of Greenlaw at liberty in an unsuspecting world. Tell me what you saw on your vigil.”

  Faris frowned. “I told you all that.”

  The Dean lifted her hand. “Tell me again.”

  “Very well. It was dark. It was cloudy. Just before dawn it cleared and I saw the stars.”

  “Come here.” At the crispness in the Dean’s tone, Faris came forward without demur. When she was an arm’s length from the lyre-backed chair, the Dean halted her. “Kneel. Look at me.”

  Faris knelt and found she could look nowhere else. The
Dean’s dark eyes held her motionless and silent. She was only remotely aware of the floor beneath her knees, of the ache in her neck, of the stillness in the great hall. All she could see were the Dean’s eyes. It seemed to her that their darkness took fire from the angled sunlight until they glowed golden.

  “Now tell me.”

  “I saw the stars.” Faris’s voice sounded distant and sleepy.

  “Name them.”

  From some distant lesson in natural history, the names came back. “Arcturus,” Faris said. “Vega, Spica, the Northern Crown—”

  “That will do.” The Dean folded her hands.

  Faris rose stiffly.

  “You may go. You may not return. You have come too far to tread the student’s path any longer.” She sounded tired. Her eyes were merely brown.

  Faris steadied herself. “I’m not ready to go yet. I have some questions and I want some answers.”

  “Inquire in the rue du Sommerard. It is Hilarion’s business you wish to know. He would not thank me if I tried to enlighten you. Go to Paris.”

  For a moment, fatigue and impatience stirred the embers of Faris’s temper. “Very well. Since I have been expelled, contrary to your word, and since I have been sent for by my uncle, and since it is on my way home to Galazon, I will go to Paris.”

  “You are very obliging.” The Dean closed her eyes wearily.

  “But I will not leave until you have refunded the balance of my school fees for the term—not to mention the balance of the funds held in escrow since my admission.”

  The Dean opened her eyes and fixed Faris with a glance of deep displeasure. Faris returned it. “Dame Villette, kindly inform the bursar she is to draw up a letter of credit for this young extortionist. Dame Brailsford, go and pack your things. I am not sending Faris Nallaneen away from here with a full purse unless I can be quite certain that she is properly supervised in Paris. She seems to listen to you. You will escort her. See she pays the call I require in the rue du Sommerard. It is of the first importance. Go.”

  Jane’s eyes widened. “Go now, ma’am?”

  “Now. Have Faris’s things packed, too. Be certain she behaves herself. Paris is full of distractions, particularly for the well-to-do.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jane departed.

  The Dean rose, shook out her robes carefully, and regarded Faris, Reed, and Tyrian. “Stay here until Dame Brailsford fetches you. There should be no difficulty in reaching Pontorson in time for the Paris train. Be very certain you are on it.” The door in the paneling was open. She walked through it and it was gone.

  Reed and Tyrian exchanged glances of guarded relief. Faris sat down in the lyre-backed chair. However long the wait for Jane’s return, she was far too tired to pace.

  Volume Two

  The Warden of the West

  7

  Hilarion

  By half past five, the train was well on its way to Paris, charging along in clouds of steam and a haze of soft coal smoke. Across the compartment from Faris, Jane sat with her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression unguessable behind the heavy veil she wore. Reed and Tyrian had solicitously installed them in a first class compartment, but both left without explanation a few minutes after the train’s departure from the station.

  Faris sat quietly, yielding to the steady sway of the railway carriage. The compartment smelled of cigars and managed somehow to be stuffy and cold at the same time. It was already dark outside and the yellow gaslight in the compartment was dim enough to make slumber easy for anyone. For Faris it was nearly irresistible. Although she had too much to think about, it was impossible to concentrate. She blinked and wished the brim of her hat allowed her to lean into the corner.

  The compartment door slid open and Tyrian entered, dexterously balancing a tea tray. Awestruck, Jane lifted her veil to take a long look at the teapot and cups arranged on the tray. “Tyrian, you are a thorough brick.”

  She took the tray from him and added, “See if you can bring down my hat box from the rack without dislodging any of the other things, please.”

  “It’s only railway tea,” Tyrian said, with an apologetic air that surpassed mere boastfulness. “This hat box?”

  “Yes. I packed up the last of Aunt Alice’s plum cake. It was the only food I could find on short notice and it was much too good to leave for Dame Villette or the students.” Jane pulled off her gloves and poured tea. She held out a cup to Faris, giving her a glance of appraisal at the same time. “Are you all right?”

  Faris smiled and accepted the cup Jane offered. “Just about. Ask me again in a few hours.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll manage everything.” When she could spare attention from the teapot, Jane looked sharply across at Tyrian. “Who are you, anyway?”

  Tyrian was slicing the plum cake with a large knife of alarmingly efficient design. “I beg your pardon?”

  Jane addressed him sternly. “You know what I mean. You appear like the slave of the lamp just in time to stop Faris killing that sailor. You bring out the worst in Menary and the best in the Dean. You can make the French railway produce tea and you carry a knife better suited to cut throats than to slice cake. Who are you?”

  Tyrian looked embarrassed. “I am no one, my lady. Merely a precaution on her grace’s behalf while she is far from home. I have agreed to escort her back to Galazon. Reed intends to help, too. He is on watch in the corridor at the moment.”

  “A precaution, hm?” Jane looked dissatisfied. “Against what, precisely? Do you know of any particular threat against Faris?”

  Tyrian shook his head. “Lord Brinker’s chief concern was that her grace might leave Greenlaw. I think he did not wish her to be out in the world with no protection.”

  “Say, rather, he did not wish me to come home unexpectedly, to surprise him in his schemes.” The tea was weak but hot, the cup’s warmth comforting to Faris’s cold hands. She accepted a piece of Jane’s sticky dark cake, and thanked them both. “When do we arrive in Paris?” The cake was heavy, damp, and rather sparingly spiced. Traveling through the post had probably improved it. Faris could not remember when she had tasted anything so good.

  “Too late to go out for dinner, even if you had anything suitable to wear. That’s why I thought of the plum cake.”

  “Not before ten o’clock,” said Tyrian, handing Faris another slice of cake as she finished the first. “I took the liberty of wiring to arrange a hotel. We have reservations at the Hotel Suisse.”

  Jane’s eyes widened over the rim of her teacup. “The Hotel Suisse? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s quiet and close to the station. It’s even clean.”

  Jane regarded Tyrian with consternation. “Who will believe that a duchess would stay at the Hotel Suisse? What modiste in her right mind would willingly send large purchases on credit to an address near the gare Montparnasse? What is wrong with the Hotel de Crillon? My family always stays at the Crillon.”

  “What sort of large purchases on credit?” countered Tyrian. “As soon as Reed and I arrange it, the duchess will return to Galazon.”

  Faris handed her tea cup to Jane. “You will kindly include me in this conversation.”

  Jane ignored her. “First she has a call to pay in the rue du Sommerard. Do you suppose she will be received dressed as she is now? She’s a perfect ragamuffin. She must have new clothes.”

  “Am I a parcel?” Faris inquired to the compartment at large. “Am I a portmanteau? I will not be spoken of as if I am not here.”

  “The Hotel de Crillon is very elegant. It is also very large. Reed and I can’t possibly secure the whole building.”

  “You needn’t. You need only watch her.”

  Faris reached up and began to unpin her hat.

  “You know better than that, Faris. No lady travels without a hat.”

  “No lady? But then, I am no lady. I am a ragamuffin, so let me be a comfortable ragamuffin. Since you persist in referring to me in the third person.” Faris folded h
er cloak about her. “You leave me no choice but to ignore you both in return. Wake me when we arrive.” She turned to Tyrian. “And when we arrive, we go to the Hotel de Crillon.”

  “To soothe the vanity of a dressmaker?” Tyrian glanced at Jane.

  “To soothe the bankers. Before you arrange the train tickets, before Jane arranges my call in the rue du Sommerard, before we spend a sou on accommodations, we must first consider the bankers. They are sure to feel more at ease with a letter of credit from a young person who resides at the Hotel de Crillon than from a young person who stays at a hotel convenient to the gare Montparnasse.”

  Jane and Tyrian looked at one another. “You must admit she’s right,” said Jane.

  “Of course she’s right.” Tyrian smiled angelically. “She is my employer.”

  Faris nestled into the corner and gave them a last exasperated look. “Wake me at the station. Not before.”

  On her first morning away from Greenlaw, Faris woke in time for the Dean’s lecture. In the half-light of early morning, she lay in the unaccustomed luxury of a featherbed and considered matters. It took her a moment to remember that she would not need to rise early for that lecture, nor any other, ever again. Her time as a student was over. Despite her uncle’s guardianship, she was the duchess of Galazon, and as such, was required to conduct business on Galazon’s behalf while she was in Paris. There were bankers to see, urgent arrangements to make. And most urgently of all, there was a call to pay in the rue du Sommerard.

  Duty called. She should rise and answer. Instead Faris pulled the coverlet up over her face and fell asleep again.

  Faris woke the second time when Jane dropped a neatly wrapped box on her stomach. “Do you mean to sleep all day?”

  Cautiously, Faris peered over the edge of the coverlet. “What time is it?”

  The bedroom was filled with light. Jane was silhouetted against the windows, fussing with the drapes. “Past eleven. I’ve rung for rolls and coffee. If you hurry, you’ll be finished in time for luncheon.” Jane turned away from the windows. She was wearing a stylishly enormous hat, the veil still down. As she neared the bed, Faris pushed herself up on her pillows in surprise.