A Matter of Magic

by Patricia C. Wrede

  Mairelon looked at her.

  “I never knew Mannering much,” Kim went on, “but people said he was a fly cove and right knowing. And anyone can see that that Lord Starnes is as cork-brained as they come, even when he’s not bosky. I wouldn’t tell Starnes anything important, and I’m nothing like as downy as Mannering.”

  “True.” Mairelon’s expression brightened briefly, then he shook his head and said in a tired voice, “But in that case, we’re no further along than we were before.”

  The duchesse made a hesitant gesture. “There is one more thing, of a sort. I would not have thought of it, only you said that it was Henri’s livre de mémoire these people have, and Henri—” She smiled reminiscently and shook her head. “Henri d’Armand was a most unusual person. Things that came easily to the rest of us were most difficult for him, and things most persons find greatly difficult were for him very simple. He was in many ways a brilliant wizard, but he never truly believed that.”

  “I am afraid I don’t understand,” Mairelon said.

  “I explain very badly,” the duchesse told him. She thought for a moment. “A livre de mémoire is for writing down things that one is most likely to forget. For most of us, that is the unusual—the word that must be changed for a spell to work so and not so, the one corner of a diagram that must be circled instead of crossed, the ingredient one always forgets. For Henri, it was otherwise.”

  “But what else—” Prince Durmontov began, then stopped, frowning.

  “Henri remembered changes easily enough,” the duchesse said, nodding. “It was the original spell itself he sometimes had difficulty in recalling. So his livre de mémoire was full of spells, like a true grimoire, except that most of them did not work correctly because he had not yet worked out the necessary changes. We used to laugh with him about it.”

  “So d’Armand’s livre de mémoire looks useful, but isn’t quite,” Mairelon said thoughtfully. “Do you think that Mannering is after the other books in order to correct the spells in the one he’s got?”

  “That would be of little use,” the prince said. “Without knowing the wizards, he could not know which spells the bits and pieces in the other livres de mémoire refer to.”

  “Bits and pieces.” Mairelon’s eyes widened. “All his spells are bits and pieces, strung together. . . .”

  “This is all very possible,” the duchesse said. “But it is still not quite what I wished to say.” She hesitated, then went on slowly, “Your description of this . . . this trap, Monsieur Merrill, sounds familiar—very like something that happened once by accident when the seven of us were constructing a new spell. If you do not object, I would like to examine the remnant that you say still affects you. I think perhaps, if I am right, I may be able to offer some suggestions.”

  “I am at your disposal, Your Grace,” Mairelon said instantly. “So long as you are quite certain your examination will not expose you to the same . . . misfortune.”

  “If it is as I suspect, I can assure you it will not.” The duchesse rose and nodded to Kim and the prince. “I trust you will excuse us. My workroom is not large enough for so many. I do not expect that we will be long. Monsieur Merrill? This way.”

  22

  Kim could not help fidgeting in Mairelon’s absence, but he was not gone long. In less than half an hour, he and the duchesse returned. The duchesse looked grave; Mairelon seemed in a state of suppressed excitement. “I will let you know as soon as I am certain,” the duchesse said to Mairelon. “I cannot promise anything yet, you understand, but the basis is plainly Henri’s spell for sharing la puissance. I do not see how this wizard has—But it may be clearer after I check some of my reference books.”

  “I sincerely hope so, Your Grace,” Mairelon said.

  “You understand the risk?”

  Mairelon’s jaw tightened. “Thoroughly. I will . . . consider the matter carefully.”

  Kim gave him an inquiring look, but neither he nor the duchesse seemed inclined to explain.

  They took their leave soon after. Mairelon spent the journey back to London in a brown study. Prince Durmontov, after one or two unsuccessful attempts to rouse him, beguiled the time by telling Kim about his family in Russia. It was very interesting, and she was almost sorry when they let him off at his new lodgings.

  “Prince Durmontov,” Mairelon said as the prince climbed out of the coach. “From what the Duchesse Delagardie has said, we may need more than one wizard to . . . remedy the current situation. As you are already somewhat involved—”

  “You may depend on me,” the prince replied.

  Mairelon relapsed into reverie as soon as the coach pulled away, and remained so until they reached Grosvenor Square. There he roused himself to send Hunch off with messages for Lord Kerring, Lord Shore-ham, and Renée D’Auber. Kim knew better than to insist on touchy explanations in front of the grooms and footmen, but by the time they entered the house, she was bursting with impatience.

  “Is my mother in?” Mairelon demanded of the footman. “Well, when she arrives, tell her I would like to speak with her. I’ll be in the library.”

  “Mairelon,” Kim said as they climbed the stairs, “what did that duchesse tell you? And what did she mean about risks?”

  “Hmm? Oh, I thought that she’d made that clear.” Mairelon turned in at the library door and began scanning the shelves.

  Kim followed him in and shut the door behind them. “She maybe made it clear to you, but I wasn’t there,” she said. “What did she say?”

  “The magic-draining enchantment does seem to be based on an early version of a spell the duchesse is familiar with,” Mairelon said without looking at Kim. “Les Griffonais invented it for their own use, years ago. Unfortunately, that particular spell was flawed to begin with, and the version that’s affecting me has some unusual variations.”

  “The duchesse can still get rid of it though, can’t she?”

  “Possibly. She suggested casting the spell afresh, properly, and then disassembling it. The odds are good that doing so would take this other enchantment with it.” He frowned suddenly and turned. “I have covered that with you, haven’t I?”

  “It was in that first book you gave me,” Kim said. “The one with all the Greek.”

  “And?”

  This is not the time I’d pick for lessons. But she could see that Mairelon wouldn’t tell her any more until she answered. She thought for a moment, trying to remember what the book had said. “The easiest way to correct a flawed spell is to cast it a second time and do it right. The structure of the new spell is stronger, and . . . and it sort of takes over the one with the mistake in it.”

  Mairelon smiled suddenly. “Not quite the way Cornelius phrased it, but correct in its essentials. D’Armand’s spell was meant to be cast by himself and his six friends, as a way of sharing their magical abilities during major projects. They used it only for short periods; keeping it going for more than a few days was, er, uncomfortable for everyone, and they suspected that long-term maintenance would have . . . unpleasant consequences.”

  Ma Yanger, Kim thought. “Does that mean that whoever is keeping this spell on you is uncomfortable?”

  “I devoutly hope so,” Mairelon said. “But according to the duchesse, the early versions of the spell were unstable—they fell apart after a few minutes, or hours at most. Our mystery wizard seems to have found some way of stabilizing the spell without correcting any of the other fundamental flaws.” He frowned again. “He also seems to have altered the spell a bit.”

  “Altered it?” Kim said. “Why would he change the spell and not fix any of it?”

  Mairelon shrugged. “The flaws have to do with the way magical power is shared among the seven participants. Our mystery wizard has found a way to use it to strip away power, rather than share it. Possibly he didn’t think it necessary to fix the parts he didn’t need. But because of the changes he made, we can’t be perfectly certain that recasting the spell will work the way it’s suppose
d to.”

  “Is that what the duchesse meant when she talked about risks?” Kim said, frowning.

  “Partly.” Mairelon went back to scanning the shelves; after a moment, he pulled out a thick brown book and carried it to the library table.

  “What’s the other part?” Kim said, her stomach knotting. Mairelon only got like this when he was about to do something dangerously goose-witted—and knew it.

  “Other part of what?” Mairelon said.

  “The risk.”

  Mairelon looked at her, then looked away. “There’s a distinct possibility that if this doesn’t work, I’ll lose my magical abilities permanently. You don’t have to be concerned about your training,” he added hastily. “Kerring will be happy to take you on, if. . . . But it’s not likely to be necessary.”

  “The training ain’t what I’m nattered about!”

  “Isn’t what you’re upset about,” Mairelon corrected, then added in a low voice. “I appreciate your concern.”

  It ain’t just concern! “Mairelon . . .” Kim hesitated. “Is it worth it?”

  “It will settle matters, one way or another. And the risk isn’t great.” But his eyes did not meet hers, and she knew he was not as certain as he pretended. She could also see that he had made up his mind, and, having done so, was not about to change it.

  “Of all the buffle-headed things to say!” she said angrily. “Next you’ll be telling me that gallivanting around France with the whole army after you wasn’t dangerous. Have a little sense!”

  Mairelon looked at her and smiled crookedly. “Why should I start now?”

  The library door opened and Lady Wendall entered. “You wished to see me, Richard? Good heavens, look at the pair of you! I can see you have a great deal to tell me.”

  “More than you realize,” Mairelon said. “We may have found a way of removing this antimagic spell or whatever it is. It’ll take six wizards besides me; I trust you’ll be one of them?”

  “Of course, dear. Who are the others?”

  “Kerring, Shoreham, and Renée, if they agree; Prince Durmontov already has, and the Duchesse Delagardie will be directing the spellcasting. We’ll need to clear out the ballroom; the library isn’t large enough for the floor diagrams.”

  “Very well,” Lady Wendall said, stripping off her gloves. “But you appear to be leaving out a good deal, and you did promise to tell me all about it when you returned.”

  “Did I?” Mairelon said. “Well, I suppose it is only fair.”

  As Lady Wendall and Mairelon settled in to talk, Kim stole quietly out of the library, her emotions in turmoil. Mairelon’s choices for the other six wizards to cast the spell that would—they hoped—return his magic to him were logical ones; all six were either trusted friends, like Kerring and Shoreham, or wizards already involved in the matter, like the duchesse and Prince Durmontov, or both. But though she knew it made no sense for him to include a mere apprentice in the spellworking, she could not help feeling hurt and left out because there was no place for her.

  She did not have much time to indulge in hurt feelings; less than half an hour later, Lord Franton arrived and requested the favor of a private word with her. Kim swallowed hard when the message was brought to her; in the excitement of the morning, she had forgotten—or allowed herself to forget—that she could expect a visit from him. Well, at least I’ll get it over with.

  Lord Franton was waiting for her in the drawing room. He looked up and smiled as she entered. Kim swallowed again, and he must have seen something in her expression, for his smile became uncertain at the edges. “Miss Merrill—”

  “Mairelon told me—I mean, I—” Kim’s face grew warm and she stuttered to a stop, unable to think of a way to phrase what she wanted to say. She should have just let him speak, instead of trying to refuse him before he’d even begun.

  The marquis looked at her. His eyebrows flew up and his expression stiffened slightly. “Am I to understand that you are aware of my intentions, but are not willing to entertain my offer?”

  “That’s it,” Kim said with relief.

  There was a pause. “May I inquire as to the reason?”

  Kim hesitated, searching for a way of expressing her difficulties that would be neither insulting nor wounding. “We’d both end up being miserable. I’m no wife for a gentry cove.”

  “Is it your background, then?” Lord Franton smiled and shook his head. “That need not worry you. You’re a wizard now; what you were before does not matter to me.”

  “Yes, it does,” Kim said softly. “Because part of the time you’re sorry about it, and part of the time you think it makes me interesting, and part of the time you ignore it. But you never forget it.” Mairelon was the only toff who truly didn’t care that she’d been a street thief . . . but she’d best not think of him just now.

  “I do not—” Lord Franton cut off his automatic denial before it was well-launched. He considered for a moment, his lips pressed tightly together, then looked at Kim once more. “I think I see what you are getting at,” he said with reluctance.

  “You never really forget it,” Kim repeated. “And I don’t think you ever would.”

  “I could try,” he offered tentatively. “That is, if your sentiments are such that you would reconsider . . .”

  Kim could only shake her head wordlessly.

  “I see,” Lord Franton said after a moment. “I . . . honor your frankness, and I wish you well. Give you good day.”

  He bowed and left. Kim stood staring at the door for a long time afterward, wondering why she did not feel more relieved and hoping she had not just made the biggest mistake of her life.

  By evening, preparations for the spell to disenchant Mairelon were well underway and Kim felt more excluded than ever. A message from the duchesse arrived late in the day, and was apparently very promising, for it set off another round of notes and letters to the proposed participants. Mairelon spent the remainder of the evening shut up with his books, and the following morning conferring with his mother; then Renée D’Auber and Prince Durmontov arrived, and the four of them went into the ballroom to prepare for the casting ritual.

  Under other circumstances, the activity would have been fascinating, for Kim had not previously seen a major ritual spellcasting requiring several wizards. All of the participants, however, were too occupied with learning the parts required of them, and with making certain that every aspect of the spell was precise to a fault, to explain anything to Kim. Nor could she bring herself to distract any of them with questions—not when Mairelon’s magic depended on their getting everything exactly right.

  So she ran whatever mysterious errands anyone thought to ask of her, supplied the wizards in the ballroom with new grapes, sour wine, and powdered pearls on request, and concealed her fears as best she could. Lord Kerring and Lord Shoreham turned up shortly after the preparations had begun and went instantly to join the others, leaving only the duchesse still unaccounted-for.

  Mrs. Lowe was somewhat disturbed to learn that callers other than the participating wizards were to be denied, but after expressing her opinion of the imprudence of such a move and of the folly of suddenly determining to perform a major spellcasting at the height of the Season, she retired to her rooms and did not reappear. Consequently, it was Kim, waiting impatiently in the drawing room for the duchesse to arrive, who heard the commotion from the front hall. Slightly puzzled, she hurried out into the hallway and down the stairs.

  “Don’t go gammoning me!” a young voice said belligerently as she made her way downward. “I come for the frogmaker. I got a message, and I ain’t givin’ it to nobody else. So you just hop to it and tell him so, see?”

  “Mr. Merrill is not at home to callers,” the butler said with the air of someone repeating himself.

  “That’s nothing to me,” the belligerent young voice said. “I got a message for that Kim, and I’ll see him straight and no bobbery.”

  “I’m Kim,” said Kim, coming around the last
turn. “What do you—Matt!”

  The dark-haired youth who had somehow insinuated his way into the front hall turned and gaped at her. “Garn!” he said after a moment. “I knew you was a frogmaker, but—” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard and shook his head. “Well, I’m scunnered, that’s all,” he announced.

  “You said you have a message for me?” Kim said sedately, imitating as best she could Lady Wendall’s calm, matter-of-fact responses to startling announcements and events. Tom Correy’s nephew could think what he liked; she owed him no explanations. Tom would be another matter.

  “Tom needs to see you, right away,” Matt said, confirming her misgivings. Well, she’d known she was going to have to face Tom sooner or later and tell him the truth about her sex; she just hadn’t expected it to be this soon.

  “Tell him I’ll come by this evening,” she said. They’d have finished reworking the spell on Mairelon by then, and they’d know the results. One way, or another.

  “No,” Matt said with considerable force. “Right now! You got to come back with me.”

  Kim frowned. “Something’s happened?”

  “Yes—no—You just got to come,” Matt said desperately. “Tom’ll explain.”

  “Oh?” Kim’s eyes narrowed. Matt was Jack Stower’s nephew, as well as Tom Correy’s. But Jack was safe in Shoreham’s hands, and had been since yesterday morning. Still. . . . “How do I know Tom sent you?”

  “He said to tell you to mind when the rattling cove took you for a mumper, and the old fussock rang a peal over him to get you off.”

  Kim nodded, satisfied. No one but Tom and Mother Tibb knew about that incident, and Mother Tibb was dead.

  “You’ll come?” Matt said anxiously.

  “Let me think a minute,” Kim said. There was nothing for her to do here but fret; running off to see Tom would at least occupy her while the spellcasting went forward. It felt like abandoning Mairelon—but she couldn’t help him, and if she could help Tom, shouldn’t she do it? She’d known Tom Correy longer, and she owed him a good deal. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she told Matt, and ran upstairs to the ballroom.