by Juliet Kemp
Marcia was taken aback, both by the baldness of the statement, and by the correctness of Selene’s deduction. Thus far she hadn’t, to Marcia’s knowledge, displayed any particular acuity; she’d just meandered around parties and social events making nice with everyone. But of course, Selene was presumably high in the Teren court, and one might suppose that that required just as much intelligence and social acumen as Marek politics within the Houses did. It might be perfectly reasonable that Selene had chosen not to demonstrate that until now; but it rang a warning bell in Marcia’s mind.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second over how to respond, then chose frankness.
“My brother Cato was disowned, yes, when he chose magic over the House. He practises over in the squats, now.”
“Ah yes, the famous free housing of Marek.” Selene looked out over the city. “Can one see them from here?”
Marcia pointed over the river, slightly northwest of where they were now. “The streets over the other side of the river, closely-packed with fairly tall buildings? There.” She reflected, not for the first time, on how seldom anyone from Marekhill went north of the river; Selene might have heard of the squats but no one would have taken her to visit them. Well, it wasn’t like Marcia was about to offer either.
“Fascinating,” Selene said, then hesitated. “Perhaps I could ask you about that some other time? If I may not speak of magic elsewhere in Marekhill company, I should like to remain with that subject.”
She wouldn’t find much conversation about the squats, either, in polite Marekhill society, but she was right that it was a question she could ask and expect an answer. Unlike magic. “Certainly,” Marcia said.
“So. I take it you still know your brother?”
“He’s my brother,” Marcia said, flatly.
Selene nodded.
“How much do you know about how his magic is performed? I understand that it is not the same as happens in Teren.”
“I don’t know anything about Teren magic,” Marcia admitted.
“In some cases it uses blood,” Selene said. “The sorcerer’s own blood, or animal blood, or the blood of other humans, which is most strictly forbidden.”
“But using one’s own blood has, I imagine, a, uh, practical limit.”
“Just so,” Selene agreed. “Which encourages the sorcerer to think about other sources of blood, whatever the law might say. And I gather that animal blood is not particularly powerful.”
Marcia grimaced.
“That is not the case here?”
Marcia shook her head. “I’ve never seen Cato,” or Reb, “use blood in his magic.”
“But my understanding was that the blood enables the passage of power between the spirit world and this world,” Selene said.
“In Marek, we have the cityangel,” Marcia said. This part she did know. “Who does that job, without the need for the blood.”
“A spirit?”
“Yes, exactly. The cityangel acts as a channel between the two worlds, and the sorcerer uses a focus, or different sorts of focus, to direct the power in the right direction.”
“A focus?”
Marcia shrugged. “Salt, or feathers, or, oh, various other things.” Cato had shelves of this and that in his room; she’d only seen Reb’s workroom once, but it was much the same. “I’m afraid, though, if you wish to know more detail, regarding sorcery or the cityangel, you will have to seek out a sorcerer to ask. We are coming to the end of my knowledge.” That wasn’t entirely true, but they were certainly reaching the end of the knowledge that Marcia cared to share with Selene.
Selene made a thoughtful noise, still looking out over Marek. The wind had picked up a little since they first walked up past the Council Chamber and through the park, and Marcia wrapped her shawl around her a bit more firmly. The trees had their autumn colours now, and the air had felt crisp this morning.
“The invocation of spirits is the other form of Teren magic. Invocation and binding.” Selene sounded as though she had come to some kind of a decision. “It sounds as if your Marek magic, with the help of the cityangel, is – reliable?”
“Outcomes are not always guaranteed, if that is what you mean,” Marcia said. “If you pay a sorcerer for a finding-spell, you most likely will find whatever you have lost, but sometimes the cityangel chooses not to assist.” And sometimes you never lost it, or rather it wasn’t yours to lose in the first place.
“Ah, no, that is not my meaning of reliable,” Selene said. “The cityangel does not take payment or revenge?”
“Not that I’ve ever heard of,” Marcia said. She turned and pointed to the statue that lay a few tens of feet behind them. “The cityangel came to an arrangement with Rufus Marek and Eli Beckett, when they founded the city; so goes the story.” A story which Beckett, who had of course been there, although at the time unnamed, had confirmed. Beckett drew power from the city; sorcerers drew power via Beckett.
“Mm,” Selene said. “It is not so in Teren. People – sorcerers – seek to do deals with a spirit, and the spirit may not always hold to the deal. Or may seek more payment than was promised. Or may otherwise exert their powers in a way that is – unwelcome. Sometimes dramatically so, involving many more people than the original sorcerer.” She had the slightly pinched look of someone seeking not to remember – or not to remember in detail – something unpleasant.
“I see,” Marcia said, and indeed, she was beginning to do so. She weighed up whether it was politic to enquire further. “I take it something of the sort has happened recently?”
“Something of the sort. Yes.”
“How do you normally deal with such problems?” Marcia asked, after it seemed that Selene wasn’t going to say anything more of her own accord. She knew Cato worked with spirits occasionally, in some form; but prior to the events of the summer, he’d never mentioned having any problems of that sort. Maybe he’d just been lucky.
“Sacrificing the one who called the spirit usually does the job,” Selene said, and Marcia suppressed her instinctive recoil. Cato must be doing things some other way, when he dealt with spirits. Maybe things worked differently in Marek for that, as well as for the focus sort of magic. He was far too fond of his own skin to risk it that way.
“But in this case,” Selene said heavily, “we could not do that, due to the fact that the sorcerer, ah, ran for it.” The colloquialism sounded odd. She turned to face Marcia. “Our sorcerers sought instead to contain the demon, and that too was unsuccessful. We believe it is seeking the one who summoned it. When I first received word of this from Ameten, I assumed the summoner would be found relatively quickly. It seems now that… well, they are still being tracked, but they are coming towards Marek, and the demon is following. So far there is no other damage, but our experience is that demons do not mean well towards humans.”
“And you think Marek is at risk?” Marcia asked.
Anxiety curdled in her stomach. But surely Beckett would protect Marek against another spirit?
“I hope not,” Selene said. “I hope we will find the fool who summoned the thing. But should they come to Marek… I would seek to speak to a Marek sorcerer, to see if we can work together to solve this problem.” She smiled without warmth. “I think we can agree that a rogue demon is everyone’s problem.”
“And you would like me to help you with that?” Marcia guessed.
Beckett had, or so they claimed, more or less eaten the fellow spirit that had tried to claim their place as Marek’s cityangel at Mid-Year. That did not, of course, mean that Beckett either could or would assist Selene with this spirit, nor was Marcia about to reveal her own acquaintance with the cityangel. But she probably could, without harm, introduce Selene to Reb. With Reb’s permission.
“If you are willing,” Selene agreed.
“I may be able to introduce you to someone,” Marcia said, slowly.
“Your brother?” Selene asked.
Marcia suppressed the automatic roll of her eyes. If Reb di
dn’t want anything to do with it – and Reb, unlike Cato, didn’t generally work with spirits – Cato was the only other option. Best not to prejudice Selene ahead of time.
“I’ll make enquiries,” she said instead. “He may not be the best fit.”
“Marek has many sorcerers, then?” Selene said.
This time it was harder for Marcia not to react. If Selene didn’t already know, she wasn’t keen to reveal that the true number, at this time, was only two. It didn’t do to give away information unnecessarily. And whilst Selene’s story seemed believable enough, it was far from out of the question that her interest in Marek’s magic had other sources, either as well as or instead of this business of a troublesome demon.
“Not so many since the plague,” she said, with perfect truth. “But I am sure I will be able to find you someone. Please, leave it in my hands, and I will message you – let us say, within a couple of days?”
“Perfect,” Selene said. “I appreciate your help, and that you have let me speak to you so candidly.”
Marcia bowed politely in response.
“Now.” Selene shivered again, trying to huddle further into the cloak. The unseasonable warmth of the last couple of weeks was definitely easing off, although Marcia wouldn’t have said it was chilly yet; but then, wasn’t Ameten warmer? Perhaps Selene felt the cold. “Perhaps we could walk back down the hill, and you could allow me to treat you to an infusion in one of the delightful salons close to my lodging?”
It occurred to Marcia, as they headed back towards the path, that she might be able to make an ally here. It would be a delicate matter – she didn’t want to give Teren an in to Marek’s affairs any more than anyone else did – but a subtle influence, perhaps… This little chat might yet be useful to both of them.
k k
Jonas seriously considered skipping his scheduled meeting with Cato, but previous experience suggested that when he did that, Cato was much more irritating the next time he went round, whether deliberately or otherwise.
And he was still thinking about that flicker, even if he didn’t intend to ask Cato about it directly.
Most pressingly, he really ought to tell Cato both that Reb had discovered that he, Jonas, was a proto-sorcerer – or whatever the hell he was – and that Reb now knew he was apprenticing – or whatever the hell he was doing – with Cato. If Reb came round to shout at Cato about that, and Cato hadn’t been pre-warned when he could have been, he was liable to become sarcastic.
He nearly ran into someone on the stairs up to Cato’s room. A narrow-faced, skinny woman, very carefully holding a small bag in front of her. She’d ducked her head forward to hide her face under her hood as soon as she saw Jonas. She must be one of Cato’s clients; the other rooms on this corridor were rarely occupied. No one wanted to live near the sorcerer if they could help it.
It was none of his business what Cato was up to, and he most certainly wasn’t going to ask. He had other things to worry about.
“Reb knows I’m a sorcerer,” he blurted out, as soon as he got through the door. No point in putting it off. “And that I’m… learning stuff. From you.”
Cato, today, was seated in the dilapidated armchair under the window. Its red brocade was threadbare, but never actually leaked any of its stuffing. Jonas suspected magic, but maybe it was just badly repaired. There was a faint singed smell in the air, which Jonas wasn’t going to enquire about. Cato, leaning back with one ankle balanced on his knee, shrugged.
“Well, I wouldn’t say you’re a sorcerer yet, not exactly, but there we go. She was going to find out eventually.”
“I know, but…”
“But she shouted at you?” Cato guessed. “She does that, Reb. It’s the overdeveloped sense of responsibility. Doubtless she’ll shout at me, too, whenever I next see her. Ah well.” He eyed Jonas. “You did realise that this couldn’t stay a secret for ever, yes?”
Jonas poked at a knot in the floorboard with his toe. “I… suppose so.” He wasn’t sure what he’d thought would happen eventually. It wasn’t like he kept it secret, exactly. Asa knew. Tam – no, Tam didn’t know, did he? Shit, he’d have to tell Asa not to tell his mother. The idea of his mother finding out anything about this made his skin prickle, even if he wasn’t sure what else he could say to her to explain why he was staying.
So what was his end-goal? To be a secret sorcerer in Marek forever? Cato was right; that was hardly realistic. Cato seemed to think he would be taking it up as a job, in due course, and you couldn’t exactly get clients in secret, could you? Well, the clients might be secret, but they wouldn’t find you if you were…
Cato was looking at him, eyes narrowed.
“Uh,” Jonas said, belatedly. “I suppose not. I just – I’m not a sorcerer yet, though, am I? I don’t want to go round claiming something that I might be rubbish at.” He felt quite proud of that, as an excuse. An explanation, even.
“Well,” Cato said. “Shall we try some simple practice again? The light spell’s always a nice one. And involves zero pigeons.”
It was nice the way Cato did it, a tiny spark floating almost joyously through the air. Jonas, however, couldn’t concentrate, and he couldn’t make the spark happen at all.
“You’re not thinking about what you’re doing,” Cato said, after a few fruitless minutes. “You know this is possible. It’s a lot less draining than that finding-spell, especially the way you did it.” He didn’t sound irritable, but he sounded like he was avoiding frustration only by an effort of will. “Is there something else on your mind?”
Jonas stared at the floor. “M’mother. Came in this morning.”
Cato’s eyebrows shot up. “Your mother? Captain t’Riseri? Of the Lion? My goodness. I have to tell you, I would love to meet… her…” He trailed off, seeing Jonas’ expression. “Of course. My apologies. The absurd Salinas feelings about magic.”
“Not absurd,” Jonas said, a bit sullenly. “It’s – magic is dangerous, is what. Spirits too. It’s all to be stayed away from.”
“Like your flickers,” Cato said. “That’s why you wanted rid of them. Does your mother know?”
Jonas didn’t say anything.
“She sent you here to lose them,” Cato said. “Didn’t she.”
It didn’t sound like a question, so Jonas didn’t bother answering.
“Well, that’s bloody ridiculous,” Cato said, sounding deeply irritated. “It’s not like you can just remove a thing that’s part of you, that way.”
“Thought you said you could, if I wanted to,” Jonas said, looking up.
Cato grimaced. “You’re right. I said that, and I meant it. If you wanted me to. But what I also said was, it would hurt like hell, and I’m not sure that there wouldn’t be other consequences. I mean – you can’t just take part of you out without it having any other effects.”
“Maybe I should though, instead of sorcery,” Jonas said. “Whatever the effects are. Maybe it would be better.” It ought to be the obvious solution. It ought to have been the solution he chose, the first time Cato offered it. And yet, thinking of it, his stomach felt hollow, and his shoulders hunched.
“It is, as ever, your decision,” Cato said. He had leant back in the chair again, and he was obviously trying for his habitual air of unconcern, but it wasn’t quite sitting right.
Neither of them spoke for a moment. Cato sighed.
“Look. Jonas. The magic, your flickers. I think – they must be related, you understand? If you would tell me more about them, perhaps I could help you work out what’s blocking you here. Because you have the power. We both know that.” He paused. Jonas didn’t look at him. “I’m interested on several levels, I admit that, but truly, a large part of it is because if I’m teaching you, then it’s my job to damn well teach you. Here you are, tangled up about your mother and your magic and your flickers, and you can’t so much as raise a spark. You see?”
“They’re a pain in the arse,” Jonas muttered. “That’s all. Without them, I�
��d be…”
“Without them, you’d be someone else,” Cato said.
“Maybe I’d rather be someone else,” Jonas said, looking up, finally. He felt something hot inside him. “Maybe I’d rather not be stood here…” He waved his hands, something bursting inside his chest, as his fingers made, without thinking of it, the same movement he’d been practising for the last ten minutes.
A shower of sparks appeared between him and Cato, and he swore, and jumped back.
Cato calmly brushed out the one that had fallen on his trousers.
“Strong emotion, that’ll do it,” he said. “But Jonas, don’t you see? This is you. Maybe you’d rather be someone else, maybe the whole thing is a pain in the arse, but you can say that until your breath runs out and it won’t change anything.”
Jonas sighed, and sat down, abruptly, on the end of the bed, half-facing Cato. He felt tired, and his knees were shaking, and he didn’t want to have to deal with any of this.
“I tried to resist my magic, at first,” Cato said, abruptly. He wasn’t looking at Jonas.
“Really?” Jonas asked, surprised. “I thought you were all, ‘go ahead and disown me’, and all that.” He regretted saying it almost as soon as it came out of his mouth – Cato never talked about his past, and Jonas knew it only through squats-gossip, and believed it only because he’d met Marcia – but Cato didn’t react.
“Yes, well. I was, eventually. But before that, I wondered what I should do, and if I should just ignore it, and… I’d been through enough change, at that point, to be going on with. I didn’t particularly want to have to deal with magic as well. But,” he shrugged, “the magic carried on dealing with me, and in the end, there wasn’t a decision to be made. Whatever my mother might have thought. It wasn’t so much a choice as… I could have never used it, I suppose, but what the hell sort of a life is that?”
Jonas didn’t say anything.
“So. I’m here to tell you. You can bung it up, if you like, like damming a river, and just let tiny bits leak out when you’re safe alone. Or you can own it, and damn your bloody family if they won’t let you make your own decisions.”
