Shadow and Storm

by Juliet Kemp

  “And who defines that latter?” Warden Ceril asked. “Come, come, why would we abandon our current position just for that? Fourteen Guild seats, and the abolishment of the Inner Council.”

  “Warden Ceril!” Marcia protested. “How do you expect the Houses to agree to that?”

  “And yet the Guilds were expected to agree to a mere ten seats to the Houses’ thirteen. We have now withdrawn our agreement.”

  “The Teren Lord Lieutenant…”

  “Is organising against us,” Warden Bradley said. “Indeed. Are you telling me that the Houses will return to the embrace of Teren rather than negotiate with their fellow Marekers?” His eyebrows were raised.

  Marcia rubbed her fingers across her lips. She wanted to say that no, they would not; but that removed what little negotiating power she had. And on yesterday’s evidence, she feared that it would be untrue. Should she offer thirteen seats now, to see if that shifted things?

  Warden Ceril’s eyebrows had gone up now too. “So the Houses might indeed prefer Teren to the Guilds? Well. Fereno-Heir, I fear that this information does little for your case, since it indicates in what little esteem the Houses hold us.”

  Desperation gnawed at Marcia’s insides. This was falling apart around her. Why had she thought she’d be able to convince them of anything?

  Warden Ceril sat back. “In any case. Before we bother to discuss this any further, on what basis are you able to negotiate? Are you promising us that what we agree here will go through the Council? Despite the interference of the Lord Lieutenant?”

  Marcia, of course, couldn’t promise any such thing. Not without hearing from Daril. She hadn’t even talked Madeleine around yet. She hesitated; and they all saw it.

  “I am in discussions,” she said, trying for an assured tone and grimly aware that she wasn’t making it. “In order to have those discussions usefully, I wanted to negotiate first with you.” None of them were convinced. They read her as ineffectual, trying to offer something she had no control over. They weren’t wrong.

  Warden Hagadath leant forwards. They were tall, and broad, with close-cropped hair and a scar on one cheek. “I am not sure the Guilds should trust you at all,” they said, their voice quiet but clear. “You are here without backing, you have no real interest in meeting our needs. Why should we negotiate with you?”

  “Because no one else is even trying,” Marcia snapped.

  Warden Hagadath shrugged. “We believe we can outlast you. The Guilds have other options. The Houses have been useful so far; but perhaps we have outgrown them.”

  “Even if the Guilds can outlast the Houses,” Marcia said. “It will cost everyone, to change the way things are done. You believe the Guilds will suffer less; but you have no experience in making deals, no experience with putting together a cargo for a ship. Even if you, or agents working for you, can learn those skills, it can’t happen overnight. The cost will be immense.”

  “But worth paying, if there is no other way for us to be heard,” Warden Bradley said, quiet but implacable.

  The Wardens were looking at one another, shifting in their seats; Marcia could feel that they were about to close the meeting, and she hadn’t got anywhere.

  “Thirteen seats.” She couldn’t leave without offering it. She should have offered it earlier, before they realised how weak her backing was.

  And yet… all three Wardens looked back at her, and their expressions had changed.

  Warden Hagadath raised a single eyebrow. “Leaving aside the matter of whether you can deliver this… Thirteen seats? And then what if there is a tie?”

  “Two options,” Marcia said, thinking on her feet. “Either we agree that in the case of a tie, nothing has been agreed; that anything must have at least some support from either side to pass the Council; or the Reader is given the right to vote on a tie-break.”

  “The Reader belongs to the Houses,” Warden Bradley said.

  This was true; the Reader was customarily a junior House member.

  “But the Reader has demonstrated their impartiality over the last ten years,” Warden Ceril said. She was looking thoughtful, tapping against her upper lip with one finger.

  “This one has,” Warden Hagadath said. “Another might not.”

  “We could negotiate for a change in Readers,” Warden Ceril said.

  “You could accept junior House members into the Guilds,” Marcia said. She hadn’t been sure she’d be able to wind that matter into these negotiations; she’d assumed that any suggestion she needed the Guilds help to get enough House votes would destroy the whole fragile discussion. But from this angle, she could introduce it without showing her hand.

  “Junior House members are permitted to be Guildmembers,” Warden Bradley said.

  “In name only, and we all know it,” Marcia said, folding her arms. She felt like she might have solid ground under her feet again. “Change that. It benefits you immediately – surely you are losing talent at present – and it benefits us. It benefits both of us, in fact, by strengthening bonds between Houses and Guilds. And it solves the Reader problem. It’s a problem for the future, correct, since the current Reader is acceptable? So. Accept junior House members into the Guilds now, and then in due course, the next Reader can be selected from one of those.” And Aden and people like him would have more options for their futures. Options that would strengthen Marek as a whole.

  “Well now,” Warden Ceril said. “This is… an interesting proposal.” She smiled slightly at Marcia. “But not one that is, exactly, in your purview at this time. However, on that ground, I am prepared to withdraw my criticism with regard to the Reader. Which returns us to the question – can your proposal get the backing of the Houses?”

  “Does it have the backing of the Guilds?” Marcia asked. In an ideal world, the Guilds would commit to the matter of House members joining them; but she didn’t have the leverage to insist. Frustratingly, that would make it harder to get further House votes on this; but she could hardly admit that to the Guilds.

  “We cannot confirm that for certain,” Warden Hagadath said. “As I am sure you know.”

  “But… I think I can say that, as a proposal, this would be one that we could consider,” Warden Ceril said.

  “I can say that to the Houses?” Marcia pressed. “As I said. I have been in discussions. I believe there are other Houses who could support this.” House, singular, but…

  “If you feel it will help. With appropriate caveats.” Warden Ceril was smiling, but her eyes were still cold. “I hope and trust that the Houses will see the wisdom of collaborating with us, rather than with Teren.” She paused. “Unless, of course, you all wish to return to Teren. I am sure we could get on quite well without you.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to lose our long trading relationships with the Salinas,” Marcia said, more or less by rote. Warden Ceril made an agreeing noise, but the calculating look in her eyes didn’t shift.

  Marcia needed to get out of here before this fragile moment of agreement broke. She stood up, and bowed to all three in turn.

  “Honoured Guildwardens, I thank you for your time. I am sure we all agree that it would be best for Marek if we can resolve this situation to the satisfaction of Houses and Guilds alike. I will undertake to do my best in this regard.”

  Politely, the Guildwardens rose and bowed back to her.

  “Indeed,” Warden Ceril said. “We look forward to hearing from you again.”

  Marcia walked out of the room. She should feel pleased – she had wrested some kind of agreement out of this – but she was mostly just terrified. Could she really get the votes for this? Especially without a commitment from the Guilds on House members. Or were she and Daril wildly overestimating their abilities?

  Madeleine first. If she couldn’t convince Madeleine, she might as well just give up.

  k k

  Asa was already gone when Jonas woke up the next morning. He pulled a face at his formal Salinas wear, folded neatly over
the back of Asa’s chair together with the stuff he’d hired. He didn’t want to be walking through the streets first thing in that, but he had to wear something. After a moment, he pulled the trousers on anyway, and took a spare shirt of Asa’s from the press to wear over the trousers on his way back to his own room. Asa wouldn’t mind, but he’d better return it later; wasn’t like any of them were awash in spare clothes. He picked up his formal tunic along with the clothes to return, and headed for home.

  Once he was dressed in his Mareker working kit, with his Salinas clothes safely put away in the press, he knew he ought to find something to eat, ought to return the borrowed clothes, ought to get working, ought to…

  He didn’t want to do any of it.

  Instead, he climbed out of the window, up to the roof, and sat there, hugging his knees and staring out across the river towards the Old Bridge and Marekhill beyond it. A pigeon landed in front of him, cooing curiously, then settled itself into the lee of the chimney when he ignored it. He had a sneaking and uncomfortable feeling that pigeons – and possibly birds in general, a seagull had spent half an hour peering in his window the other day – had become slightly more interested in him since that absurd summoning spell. Maybe he was just imagining it.

  Magic. Magic and flickers.

  Cato had said he could get rid of the flickers, if Jonas wanted that. If the two things were linked, then that meant he could get rid of the magic, too.

  Cato had also said it would hurt like hell, and that there might be other consequences. Cato had been worried enough about that to talk about his own past, and his own family, and Cato never did that.

  Or, instead of getting rid of them, he could just choose not to use it; well, choose not to use the magic, anyway. The flickers came on their own timetable.

  Except that now they came when he used magic, didn’t they? The idea that he might, after all, be able to control them rose up in a dizzying alluring rush. Could using his magic mean he would control his flickers? Or was being able to induce them not the same as being able to prevent them?

  He’d come here to get rid of his flickers, like his mother wanted. He’d never imagined, or wanted, the magic. Cato said getting rid of them would hurt; it might do, but then it would be over, and they’d be gone.

  And he’d be denying a part of himself.

  Asa had said, last night: what do you want? That was the trouble, wasn’t it? He didn’t know.

  Or – a more difficult thought – he did know, but he was avoiding admitting it.

  The sun was warm on the side of his face, and the city was spread out in front of him. Fondness rose inside him as he looked it over: Old Bridge down towards his feet; the tiny Salinas embassy across in Marek Square with its dots of flags outside it; New Bridge away to the west; the Houses over on Marekhill with the sun glinting off their brightly painted roofs. He looked down at the ships at the Salinas docks. He couldn’t make out the banners from here, but he knew the Lion by her shape. He knew every inch of her, every board. He saw the islands in his mind’s eye, the Lion tying up at home, and his heart ached with fondness for ship and islands both.

  What he wanted, if he let himself admit it, was all of it. He wanted to explore his magic; he wanted to understand how his flickers worked; and he wanted to go back to sea again.

  But those things were mutually exclusive.

  Which left him with choices. Embrace the magic, reject the sea. Reject – stifle – the magic, and return to the sea.

  Or challenge the whole either/or system.

  What if his flickers, or his magic, could be useful to his people? They never had been, before, but he’d been suppressing them as hard as he could. What if he tried to get to grips with them, to have more understanding of how to interpret them? What if he really could in some way make his flickers and the magic work together?

  He felt something delicate rising, unfurling, inside him. Something like hope.

  What would it feel like to open himself to a flicker, instead of pushing it away? To invite it?

  He’d never tried. He wasn’t sure he had any real idea how to do it. But, riding on that tiny, delicate feeling under his ribs, he lay back on the roof, and stared into the sky, and tried to control his mind. He thought of how a flicker felt, and nudged himself towards that feeling. He tried to spread his mind out, to let it pour outwards, out of his skull, receptive to anything that might be out there.

  Slowly, gradually, something began to grow inside him, filling up his chest, expanding into his throat. A tingling began in his fingertips.

  … The Lion t’Riseri, seen from the top of Marekhill, her banners flying, sailing out of the mouth of the river and away, and a feeling of regret and satisfaction and pride all mixed together…

  It hadn’t hurt, this time. That was the first thing Jonas noticed. It wasn’t much of a flicker, it wasn’t an important one, but it told him something. It told him that he was staying here, that he was doing this.

  Magic and flickers, linked.

  He could still feel that tingling, the tightness; the aftermath of the roaring in his head. He remembered how it had felt when he summoned the pigeons; that same tightness, that feeling of focus. He didn’t have the frustration now but he could feel the edge of how it had been, could bring it towards him and collect it inside his head…

  He stretched out his hand, the way Cato had taught him. He didn’t have any focuses, for any of the more complicated spells; but Cato said you could do a light just with your own self. He cupped his hand, and thought about light; and there, barely visible in the sunlight, was a tiny ball of fire, cupped in his palm.

  He felt buoyant, joyous. He stretched out the other hand, and another one joined it.

  Remembering a former shipmate, who’d taught him to juggle once, long ago, when they were becalmed, he threw the light gently into the air. Then the other; and another one to join them; and then he was juggling three tiny magical balls of light, feeling the grin spread across his face, as a semi-circle of curious pigeons gathered on the rooftop in front of him, cooing and bobbing their heads like any audience watching one of the Marek Square street-performers.

  This was where he was. Here and now, this was what he wanted. And maybe, if he made it work, he could talk his mother, his people, into making use of it too.

  k k

  Jonas spent the rest of the day determinedly running as many messages as he could, in an attempt to bulk up his sadly-reduced purse. He didn’t mind constantly being on the edge of penury – most of his friends were too, relying on their ability to make a bit more money with a few more hours with their armband tied, and on the closely-knit messenger network to support anyone who was ill or otherwise laid up for a while – but after his mother’s pointed questions, he would feel better with a little more to hand.

  He’d always known that, unlike some of his friends, he had help if he needed it from the embassy. He’d never wanted to use that, never yet needed to, and he really didn’t want to right now.

  Running messages, too, gave him space to think. He wanted both his heritage and his magic, and he didn’t see, any more, why he shouldn’t have both. Maybe not now; but sometime.

  That meant staying in Marek; which in turn meant deciding what to tell his mother.

  He didn’t even slightly want to tell his mother about his magic. But that was the whole problem, wasn’t it? He’d been avoiding being honest with anyone – with himself – about who he was and what he wanted. Sure, he could fend his mother off for a while longer, maybe even until she got fed up and sailed off again. The Lion couldn’t stay in port much longer, not without putting a serious dent in trading relationships and profits.

  He could put it off until she left; but then he’d only be having the same conversations all over again whenever she was next in port. He’d be hiding. Again. Still.

  He thought about it, as he ran messages. And, once he was done thinking about it, towards the end of the day, he made his way to the dockside, bearing goats-che
ese pastries with him as a peace-offering.

  The crew member on deck gave him a friendly wave as he came up the side of the ship and over the coaming. “Alright there Jonas. You coming back with us, then?”

  “Not just now,” Jonas said. “You away soon then?”

  “Been loading up today, bit more tomorrow at first light,” she said. “Away on tomorrow’s noon tide.”

  He needed to get this done.

  “M’mother’s below?” he asked.

  “Saw Fett taking a drink in to her a few minutes back.”

  Fett was the ship’s steward. Someone else that Jonas had grown up with. At least that meant that his mother would have her coca, which might improve the situation.

  He squared his shoulders, slid down the ladder, and went forward to his mother’s cabin.

  “Come!” she called after his knock.

  He went in and shut the door carefully behind him. He could smell the aroma of the coca, and his mouth watered slightly. Marekers didn’t drink the stuff, and much though he liked Marek-style infusions, it wasn’t quite the same. He looked around the cabin. He’d grown up here, spent half his childhood here, spent the other half down with the rest of the crew in the main part of the ship. He belonged here, too; except that here, he had to hide part of himself.

  And didn’t he in Marek, too? In Marek he wasn’t at sea, wasn’t with people who understood everything he’d grown up with.

  But that wasn’t hiding, not in the same way. And if he had to decide between the two…

  “Jonas!” His mother sounded delighted, and he felt a stab of guilt. “I was going to send to you. We’ve to be away tomorrow, so you need to be on board tomorrow midday.”

  “I’m not coming.”

  He hadn’t meant to say it that bluntly. Too late now.

  His mother’s expression changed to irritated disapproval.

  “Jonas. This is ridiculous. You need to come back with us. It’s past time. Have you even resolved the matter of…” She waved a hand, obviously not wanting to refer even obliquely to his flickers.