by Juliet Kemp
“None from the Houses,” Marcia admitted. “I’ve barely started to test support.”
“And you haven’t found any,” Madeleine said. It was a statement, not a question. “Then you have even further to go. For this, you need a convincing House majority, not just two votes. We do not need a situation where the Houses defy the expressed wishes of the Council.”
True enough. Marcia wished, fervently, that she did have more support; that she was able to tell Madeleine that she’d already been working on this, that she had already progressed on it. But she hadn’t, and she couldn’t.
“Would you vote for it?” She already knew the answer, but she wanted Madeleine to say it.
“No,” Madeleine said. “The current situation has only been as it is for ten years, and we should allow it to settle for longer. And in all honesty, I do not see the Guilds as ready for more power. However, I am pleased that you are thinking about the future, and that you have a serious project. As long as your endeavours do not affect our House interests adversely. The House must come first, Marcia. I know you understand that.” She paused. “I will, however, consider refusing a move to the Small Council the next time it comes up, depending on who moves it, and our relationship with their House. I do see your point there, and there is often no particular reason not to discuss things in full Council. If we can postpone or reduce the dissatisfaction you describe, that would be a reasonable goal.”
It was more than Marcia might have expected, and less than she wanted. She nodded, and managed not to sigh. “Thank you, Mother. I would appreciate that. I think it will be good for our House relationship with the Guilds, too.”
“Indeed,” Madeleine agreed. She sat back, and waved a hand at Marcia in dismissal. “Now. Away with you. I am sure we both have plenty to do. Do not forget to send me that document on your plans.”
FOUR
Reb was uncomfortably aware that she’d been procrastinating. She’d promised Beckett that she would start looking for more potential sorcerers and she hadn’t, in the weeks since that promise, done a damn thing about it.
The trouble was, it was going to be so demanding of her time and energy. Once she’d found someone, and they’d agreed to an apprenticeship, it would be at least a year before they were at the point of semi-independent study and she could consider taking someone else on. She’d have to reduce her own practice to do it, too, and the assistance was unlikely to make up for it. Just thinking about it made her tired; so she’d been letting herself ignore the problem and practise her own skills, which she’d allowed, if not exactly to atrophy, then certainly to fall shy of her best, over the years since the plague had killed most of her colleagues.
Beckett, however, wasn’t having any of it. The cityangel’s new willingness to engage directly with humans, or at least with certain humans, was more than a little disconcerting. Not content with interfering about Cato and the Group, Beckett had appeared in the middle of her front room that morning to enquire sharply after the progress of her search for apprentices.
The Group. Reb would have much preferred to go on with the previous arrangement, whereby she and Cato ignored one another unless necessity absolutely required otherwise. But the absence of the Group was clearly dangerous, and that had to be fixed, whatever her personal preferences were. At least they had a functional proposal now, even if it had taken Beckett’s somewhat worrying intervention to get there. But she couldn’t put off the apprentice thing any further.
She sat back a little in her armchair, and sighed. Her front door stood slightly ajar, indicating that she was free for business enquiries. Today was unusually quiet. She’d put some effort into building up her customers in recent weeks, frustrating though it was to need to. She’d never had to look for customers, before. Marcia had assured her that it would be like that again, but in the meantime, she had to rebuild her reputation.
Her reputation, and Marek’s magic. And Beckett was correct, when it really came down to it; she couldn’t just continue to avoid the only other competent sorcerer in the city. And Cato was more than competent. That wasn’t Reb’s problem with him. Her first problem was his general lack of morals, and willingness to work with anyone who would pay him regardless of the job. In the last decade, she’d more than once had to solve problems that Cato’s lack of care and forethought had created. In fact, she’d probably have had to do less of that if he were less able. He was also happy to promise things with no intention of doing them, for an easy life. He made a great many promises about his behaviour to the Group, back when there was a Group, over the years, and never once let that affect his decisions once he’d left their presence. And there never had been all that much one could do about a sorcerer who wasn’t raising demons or risking the fabric of reality or anything like that; when they were just making a mess, breaking the law, and being a damn nuisance.
But that was old news; and until recently, she’d known that even Cato had some limits on what he was prepared to let happen. What she was more bothered by was the fact that she still didn’t know exactly what his role had been in what had happened with Daril and Urso. She did know that Cato hadn’t been involved with Beckett’s initial removal. But he had been part of the arranging of a replacement, because “Daril offered me a very large sum of money”. That was bloody typical.
On the other hand, whilst she didn’t know how Jonas had wound up part of the final ritual, she was fairly certain that Cato had been behind Jonas’ ‘failure’ at the critical moment. And also that Cato’s own ‘failure’ immediately afterwards had been deliberate, leaving Urso to hold the thing up alone. Urso had almost managed it, too, until Jonas’ friend Asa had, taking an entirely non-magical approach to the problem, hit him with a chair. The ritual had collapsed, Beckett had been restored, and all was well. Cato had steadfastly refused afterwards to say anything about what had happened, merely bemoaning the fact that he hadn’t had the second half of his money. Reb strongly suspected that he’d thought better of the implications of linking a different spirit to Marek, one that wasn’t bound by the same contract as Beckett; Cato wouldn’t admit it. And much to her annoyance, Reb couldn’t think of a way of making him talk about it. Not a way she was prepared to use, at least. Using sorcery on him would be unethical, unlikely to work, and disastrous for their already fraught professional relationship and she was annoyed at herself for even thinking of it.
In any case, that particular problem had been solved. The cityangel was still bound to the city, and vice versa; even if the cityangel now had themself a name for the first time and seemed to be taking a rather more direct interest in Marek than they ever had before. But the longer-term problem, the one resulting from the plague two years before, still existed: the fact that Marek, city of magic, had only two functional sorcerers.
In an ideal world, she and Cato would both be taking on apprentices, so they could both contribute to returning Marek’s magical strength to its former levels. But it hardly seemed likely that Cato would do anything which didn’t directly suit his own ends. She’d thought about talking to him about it, when they were coming to their agreement about the Group, but…
… But Reb hated arguing with Cato. He slid around her, always had, his words turned to perfection and dripping in multiple meanings. She hated how she always felt that he was laughing at her. Marcia insisted that it was just the world that Cato was laughing at, not anyone in particular, but Reb was unconvinced. Cato might not laugh at his sister; that didn’t mean he wasn’t laughing at Reb.
She scowled again, and got up to shut her door, finishing her working day. If she didn’t want Beckett to be back again tomorrow morning, she should at least start seeking potential apprentices.
She went into her workroom, a tiny room off the main living area, and bolted the door. There were no windows in here; it was safer that way. Her ingredients were neatly lined up on shelves above her worktable, but most of the room was empty, the floor clear for sorcery.
She’d spent an absurd amoun
t of money on a map of Marek, showing the whole of the city, from the goat-villages on the other side of the Hill and the fishing-villages in the marshes east of the city proper, to the market square in the north-west where barges and carts from Teren unloaded, and the increasing sprawl in the south-west where builders kept trying to reclaim more of the marshland around the solid ground that Marek had been founded on. She was sincerely hoping that it would be undamaged by the sorcery. It was likely to be an expensive enough business training apprentices, without having to buy a new damn map just to find each one.
She spread it out on the floor and weighed it down with the scraps of street-stone she’d found from each corner of the city. She’d done the work herself rather than send messengers, to be certain it was correct. Over the map, she scattered the street-sweepings she’d collected from various shops across the city and mixed together; that had been a long day, but at Marcia’s suggestion she’d also used the visits to remind people that Marek’s sorcerers were still around and working, and she’d gotten a fair few commissions out of it. It had been reassuring to see Marekers’ enthusiasm for their city’s magic.
She had prevailed upon Marcia for some sweepings from House Fereno, although for the rest of Marekhill she’d had to ask at kitchen doors. Happily, Marekhill servants didn’t share their employers’ feelings about magic, and were perfectly happy to exchange charms for sweepings.
Once she’d spread the sweepings, Reb traced a quick rosemary-and-salt circle around the map. This working shouldn’t generate any untoward energies, but some of the things that had happened during Beckett’s absence from the city had left her cautious.
For scrying usually one might use a mirror, or water, but in this case the map itself was the scrying-tool, with the sweepings tying it to the city. To activate them, Reb needed something to direct the power. Soot was a good general mixer, earth and fire combined. She combined it with a little cinnamon for strength and some metal filings, into the open pouch at her waist, and tied a cats-cradle of string around the fingers of her right hand. Carefully, she stood up, standing across the map and within the circle. She muttered a few words under her breath, sought and caught the state of mind that permitted magic to happen – it seemed easier now that she’d met Beckett in person, and she wasn’t sure if that was down to her or down to Beckett – and dumped a generous pinch of the mixture from the pouch across the string. The whole thing caught together and began to glow about her hand, and she nodded with satisfaction. She eased the string gently from her fingers, twisted the ends together, and let it float in mid-air. Once she was satisfied it was stable, she squatted down to take a closer look.
Dotted across the map were little glowing points, each reflecting the blue-green glow of the ball within the cats-cradle. Over in the squats she could see the bright round point that was Cato. Her own point glowed equally bright in her own street. Urso was no longer in the city; she knew that in any case, but it was nice to have it confirmed. He wouldn’t have been as bright as either Cato or herself, but he’d been a surprisingly strong sorcerer (and she was still painfully aware that she should have realised he was there, but there was no point crying over that now). The remaining points of light – prospective sorcerers, those with possible ability – were all much dimmer. Ten or so, she counted, and she pulled a piece of paper and a pencil from her skirt pocket to note down the addresses. Not that she could be certain that they were permanently at the locations she’d seen them at – that was one of the downfalls of this method – but, if she visited, she’d be able to tell once she was at close range. A trained sorcerer was unmistakable to another sorcerer. An untrained one was easier to miss, but she would be looking, and she could take a scrying-tool.
As she finished her list, she saw one of the dots moving, heading along the docks. As she watched, whoever it was turned north again. Reb blinked. Could it be possible that this person was going to go straight past her front door? She tapped her thumb against her fingers, thinking quickly. The spell was stable enough, and she’d finished making her notes. If she took the cats-cradle back into her hand, and very gently broke the circle, the floor-sweepings would no longer be of use, but that was as expected. The map should be fine, and the cats-cradle would survive for as long as she held it. And it would flare if this potential sorcerer came close.
The dot was moving closer. She needed to act quickly. She gathered the cats-cradle up again, still softly glowing, broke the circle, and unbolted the workroom door with her spare hand, bolting it again (a long-established habit) behind her. She threw the front door open and stood in the doorway, watching the passers-by. The glowing ball in her right hand was drawing a great deal of attention. She suppressed a snort. Marcia would doubtless call this excellent advertising. Reb wasn’t entirely comfortable with it, but she shouldn’t need to stand here long.
Looking down the narrow street towards the Old Market and the alleys that came up to it from the docks, she saw someone coming towards her with the fast easy gait of a messenger. Well, that would make sense, someone moving at the speed she’d seen on the map could well be a messenger. She frowned. The messenger had Salinas-fair hair, and looked almost like…
“Jonas?” she said aloud. But hadn’t he gone back to Salina?
The messenger looked up, and straight into her eyes, as the cats-cradle flared into brilliant life.
“Jonas!”
k k
Reb. Jonas swore under his breath as he saw her standing in her doorway. And what in the hells was that thing she was holding? Something magical, for certain. He’d been avoiding Reb for a number of reasons, not least his deep desire not to have any kind of discussion about magic – especially one that might accidentally lead to talking about flickers – with her. But this street was the quickest route for the message he was running, and he’d thought he’d get away with it.
Idiot.
He tried to work out if there was any way that he could still just avoid her. Or… agree to come back later. (And then not do it, obviously, and hope that she didn’t track him down some other way.)
“I want a word with you,” Reb said, and moved towards him, that terrifying ball of light still balancing over her hand. He shouldn’t find it terrifying, by now; he’d seen enough magic. Perhaps it was Reb’s expression that was alarming him. Reb was alarming all by herself; she exuded the solidity of someone who had power, and was comfortable in it.
“Reb,” he said, trying for a smile. “If you’ll excuse me, perhaps another time, I have a message to run…”
It was an inviolable law of Marek that one should not impede a messenger. It was equally an inviolable law of Marek that sorcerers were sacrosanct. Everyone within earshot immediately turned away and busied themselves with something, anything, else, having absolutely no desire to attempt to resolve these two competing principles.
Reb grabbed his arm with her free hand.
“We will pass the message on. I will compensate you accordingly. I need to speak with you. Immediately.”
He could probably break away and run for it. But it wasn’t like he could avoid her forever. Lots of people would happily do a favour for a sorcerer. Lots of people would happily hand him over to Reb, thinking they were doing entirely the right thing. He couldn’t hide away and not run messages; he’d starve. Or have to throw himself on Cato’s forbearance, which didn’t appeal either.
He’d delayed for too long. The time for running was past.
“As you prefer,” he said politely, attempting to salvage some dignity from this encounter.
Reb yanked him into the house and shut the door firmly. She indicated a chair for Jonas to sit in, then leant out of the window, collared a passing messenger, and negotiated the transfer of his message.
“Here,” she said, handing him a couple of coins – twice what he’d expected for the run, he noticed.
She was still balancing that infernal light or whatever it was in one hand.
“Um,” he said. “Does that – do you
really need it?”
“Oh,” Reb looked at it, as if she’d forgotten she was carrying it. “One moment.”
She walked around him with it, backed off a little, came closer, studying the variations of light carefully as she did, then nodded to herself. She tossed it in the air, clapped her hands twice underneath it, and the light winked suddenly out. A scatter of dirt and string fell to the floor.
“Now then,” she said, sitting herself down in an armchair. “This may or may not come as a surprise to you, but… how long have you known you were a sorcerer?”
Jonas could think of several things he could say, but not a single one that he actually wanted to. He stayed quiet.
“Since you spoke to Urso?” Reb suggested. “I saw you in the embassy, of course, but I could have sworn Urso and Cato were carrying most of that. I thought you must have a little talent – more than Daril, for example, who has none at all – but I imagined it was mostly about your being Salinas. A connection to the ground Urso was working on, which none of the rest of them had.”
She stopped again, and looked enquiringly at Jonas. He still couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Feel free to step in at any time,” Reb said, her voice growing a little testy. “Or would direct questions help?”
Jonas shrugged a shoulder, very slightly.
“Well. Did Urso tell you you were a sorcerer?”
“No,” Jonas said, unwillingly.
“Did you know you were a sorcerer? Before today?”
There was no way he was going to get of this, was there? And in any case, if he was a sorcerer – and he had done magic yesterday – then he couldn’t avoid admitting that to Reb forever, could he? Unless he just gave up now and went back home, but he didn’t understand any of this yet, and he wanted to.
Reb visibly fought her impatience, lips pursed, as he thought it through. Reluctantly, he concluded he’d have to admit it.
