The Conjuring Man, page 20
It can’t be helped, he thought, remembering how his mother had fussed over their clothes when they went to the temple. The girls had gotten the worst of it, even as children, but the boys hadn’t been spared her attentions. Too many old ladies would comment on something – anything – that might give the appearance of impropriety, even if they were completely wrong. If they get the wrong impression, it’ll stick.
“Just be yourself,” Lilith advised, as she helped him wipe and dry the floor. “And don’t let them intimidate you.”
“I wish Master Caleb was here,” Adam muttered. “He’d understand.”
Mistress Irene was punctual. Adam was sure no more than an hour had passed before there was a sharp knock on the door. He opened it to reveal Mistress Irene, Yvonne, Praxis and – unfortunately – Master Dagon. Lilith’s father looked unhappy to see his daughter in the workroom, even though he knew she could defend herself. Adam tried not to roll his eyes. Master Dagon was a magician, yet he was acting like a merchant father who wanted his daughter to marry up, rather than for love. He put the thought aside as the Gorgon brought up the rear, her scaly face unimpressed. Adam wondered, absently, what she was thinking. Did she welcome the distraction, or see it as an imposition?
“This is the magiwriter,” he said. “It lets mundanes cast spells.”
He took a breath, then launched into a brief explanation. Mistress Irene and Dagon didn’t seem too impressed, to the point he wasn’t sure how much of his outline they were following. It wasn’t so much explaining colour to a man born blind as a blind man trying to explain colour to a man who could see. The magicians took so much for granted, particularly the assumption they shared a common understanding, that they had never evolved a way to talk about such things to mundanes. He made a mental note to work on it. If Lady Emily could devise a system of measurements that were universally accepted, there was no reason someone else couldn’t do the same.
“I see,” Mistress Irene said, when he’d finished. She sounded as if she’d had a particularly disturbing thought. “You can adjust the spell without cancelling it.”
“Just like a magician,” Praxis said. “And how does it work?”
Adam took a breath. “The magic isn’t channelled through the runic tiles, not exactly,” he said. “The tiles, rather, project ... the spell matrix, rather like a mirage, and then the power is channelled through the spellwork. It doesn’t overload because the spellwork isn’t solid – any overspill, instead of damaging the tiles, simply gets channelled around and back into the infused blood ...”
Master Dagon muttered something, just loudly enough to be heard. It didn’t sound pleasant.
“Interesting,” Mistress Irene said. “Cast a spell.”
Adam nodded, casting one spell and then another and another as the board bounced questions off him. They seemed weirdly perturbed, even alarmed, by what he’d shown them. Adam wasn’t sure what the problem was, unless they were worried about mundanes casting spells themselves. It was a little late, he reflected, to worry about that now. The technique for brewing potions – and gas – without magic was out and spreading. And it was just a matter of time before someone improved upon his work.
“Clever,” Master Dagon said, finally. “And dangerous.”
“Anything can be dangerous,” Adam said, feeling Lilith stiffen beside him. “If you know how to use it ...”
“Quite.” Mistress Irene turned to her peers. “We’ll discuss this later. For the moment, I must speak with Master Adam alone.”
Adam flushed. Master Adam? He wasn’t sure if he had any right to claim the title. He had no formal qualifications in anything, magic or mundane. Lilith and Taffy were far ahead of him – and Lilith, of course, had the great advantage of being able to use magic. The council filed out of the room, the Gorgon nodding for Lilith to follow her. Adam didn’t know how well they got on, but Lilith would probably be happier with the demihuman than her father or her masters. Mistress Irene waited until they were alone, then cast a spell into the air. Adam frowned. It was a privacy ward.
“You did something impressive here,” she said. “Did you take the concept from Emily’s notes?”
“No,” Adam said. It was hard to believe Mistress Irene had taught Lady Emily. “I ... some of the concepts she outlined I used, but the overall design is mine.”
“Emily and Aloha looked at something like this, years ago,” Mistress Irene said, slowly. “It never got off the ground.”
Adam flushed. “She did?”
“Aloha was one of the smartest students I knew,” Mistress Irene said. “And Emily ...”
“Is a genius beyond compare,” Adam said, stiffly. Lady Emily was his heroine. “She changed the world.”
Mistress Irene smiled, as if she knew something he didn’t. “She’s remarkable,” she said, finally. “But ...”
She shook her head. “Do you understand the dangers of overspill?”
Adam shook his head. “No.”
“It isn’t discussed that often,” Mistress Irene said. “A magician composes and casts their spells in their mind, even if they need to move their hands to shape and channel the power. If there’s overspill, if magic leaks out of the spellware, it damages the magician’s mind and threatens insanity. Modern magic is designed to limit that as much as possible, but it is difficult to prevent it completely. Necromancy is so incredibly dangerous because there is no way to keep the magic surge from damaging the caster’s mind. Even the most coherent necromancers” – her lips thinned in distaste – “are still insane, just better at hiding it.”
“I see,” Adam said, slowly.
“No. You don’t.” Mistress Irene turned her gaze to the magiwriter. “The necromancers would have won, decades ago, if they had been able to think clearly. Our advantage – our only advantage – was that we could outthink them, a difficult task when they were so insane they were utterly unpredictable. The necromantic rite doomed the casters as surely as it doomed their victims, making it impractical for anyone with any sense to risk. It was our only edge.”
She tapped the magiwriter. “And you might just have made necromancy practical.”
Adam swallowed. “Are you sure?”
“I wish I knew.” Mistress Irene turned back to him. “Can you assure me that channelling vast amounts of power through your runic spellwork would lead to an explosion? Or would the power be channelled right into the storage medium and be stored there, for when the caster needs it?”
“I’m not sure,” Adam said. The infused blood had to have upper limits, didn’t it? He’d been reluctant to see where they were, if indeed they existed. There didn’t seem to be any limits on how much power batteries could store ... “I ... did I make a mistake?”
“I don’t know,” Mistress Irene said. “Years ago, if the old scrolls are telling the truth, the first true magicians found ways to channel their magic so it didn’t cause madness and sterility. They changed the world, in ways both good and bad. I suppose it might depend on one’s point of view. But you ...”
She shook her head. “I’ll discuss this with the others,” she said. “Until then ... be careful, very careful. There are people who would kill – or worse – to get their hands on this device.”
“I will,” Adam promised. “But if we need it ...”
Mistress Irene smiled. “And now you know why I sleep so poorly,” she said, as she turned to go. “Sweet dreams.”
Chapter Twenty-One: King Ephialtes of Tarsier
Once, years ago, Ephialtes had begged a witch to carry him on her pitchfork.
He’d been told he couldn’t do it, of course. He was – he’d been – Crown Prince, a Prince of the Realm, a person whose life couldn’t be needlessly risked. And the witch had been reluctant to carry a nine-year-old boy on her pitchfork, coming up with all sorts of excuses as to why it couldn’t be done. She’d shown off her skills afterwards – Ephialtes had watched with awe – and yet, she’d been nothing more than an insect compared to the giant thing advancing towards him. It was ...
He stood on the battlements, hands clasped behind his back, as the airship flew over the city. It was huge and ponderous, inching forward with all the grace and relative speed of a snail, but somehow that added to the sheer intimidation as it cast a long shadow over the city. The airship was both huge enough to seem within reach and yet high enough to be utterly untouchable. He wanted to reach out his hand and pull it from the sky, yet he knew it would be worse than useless. A handful of shots echoed over the city as his musketmen opened fire. If their firing had any effect at all, there were no visible signs. The airship just kept coming.
“Your Majesty,” Chancellor Hallam said. The man was standing by the tower, by the doorway that led down into the keep. “You shouldn’t stay here!”
Ephialtes shook his head, without looking back. There were guards and servants and dozens of others all too close to him, dozens of watching eyes just waiting for a hint of weakness, for a sign the king was losing his grip. It was frustrating to think that a single mistake would bring down his reign, and probably cost him his life, but there was no point in trying to hide from it. His wretched sister had proclaimed herself, nailing her colours to the mast in no uncertain terms, and Ephialtes knew his supporters were wondering if she’d be a better monarch. Or a worse one. No one expected a mere woman to show the leadership a kingdom needed, if it were not to devolve into a loose coalition of petty fiefdoms and cities; no one thought she could lead troops into battle, let alone command the loyalty she’d need to keep herself on the throne. She certainly wouldn’t have the guts to teach the nobility a lesson, when they challenged her, or keep the commoners in line. Ephialtes ground his teeth in silent fury. The nobility was already considering throwing their support to his sister or he was a bastard with no more right to rule than the kitchen boys. They’d see her weakness as a point in her favour.
The airship continued to advance. Ephialtes studied the looming bulk thoughtfully, schooling his face into a mask that kept his innermost feelings from watching eyes. The slightest sign of weakness, here and now, would have his enemies summoning their assassins and directing them at the king. It was treason ... no, it was only treason if it failed. Ephialtes knew the score. A usurper who took the throne had been the rightful monarch all along and no one would dare say any differently, not if they liked having their head on their shoulders. He wondered, sourly, if Violet would punish his murderer, then shrugged. She might never know who’d ordered the kill, let alone carried it out.
He leaned forward as cannons boomed, hurling shot at the airship. They seemed to fall short, the metal balls crashing somewhere within the city. Ephialtes gritted his teeth. The commoners would bitch about that soon, as they bitched about everything else. His men had rounded up the loudest voices, the handful of traitors who insisted the king should bend the knee to his people, but his spies reported the grumbling hadn’t stopped. The news from the west hadn’t helped, no matter how hard he’d tried to cover it up. Farrakhan had risen in revolt, driving out the king’s servants and imposing a whole new order, creating a new heaven and a new earth. Ephialtes knew better than to believe the wilder rumours – the rebels hadn’t had time to create their paradise – but others weren’t so perceptive. There was no lie so convincing as the lie people wanted to believe.
The airship seemed to pause, its stately advance coming to a halt. It hung in the air over the city, the population below holding their breath. Ephialtes wondered, numbly, if the airship was going to drop bombs. Or ... or something. It was hard to believe the reports from the city, hard to accept that an impregnable fortress had been smashed from the sky ... he’d ordered the first messengers tortured, when they’d given him the news, simply because he couldn’t believe it. But he believed it now.
There was a moment of ... something ... and then a flock of birds seemed to flurry away from the airship. Ephialtes blinked, confused. Transformed soldiers? It was possible – he’d certainly heard of entire armies turned into animals and marched straight into their targets, right under the noses of the defenders – but it didn’t seem right. Understanding dawned a second later. He’d been wrong. The shapes weren’t birds. They were leaflets! He almost laughed. He would have, if it hadn’t been so serious. He’d spent so much time and effort sealing the gates, making sure that anyone who entered his city was searched thoroughly, that he’d thought he’d kept news from spreading. The idea of dropping leaflets from high overhead ...
Cold anger roared through him. He spoke without looking back. “Send out the troops,” he ordered. “Those leaflets are to be collected and burnt. Anyone caught reading one is to be sent straight to the pillory.”
Chancellor Hallam’s voice was flat. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Ephialtes clenched his fists, feeling his anger burn. The leaflets were petty things – he’d expected the airship to bomb the castle, even though he’d already evacuated half his staff and servants – and he was sure most of them would be collected before word spread any further, but it hardly mattered. The simple fact the airship wasn’t dropping bombs on his head – or smashing the city walls – was a taunt, a hint his enemies saw no reason to put an end to him. It was clear proof of his weakness, no better than a chevauchee that rampaged through his lands, burning his fields, plundering his towns, slaughtering his menfolk and raping his women. His lips twisted in sour amusement. It might even work better for his enemies than a traditional raid. The commoners didn’t like being robbed, raped and murdered. And now no one was being hurt and nothing was being damaged or destroyed, save for his pride. There were no downsides.
“I’ll make them pay,” he snarled. He wasn’t sure who he meant – the university, the rebels, his ungrateful populace and unfaithful nobles – but it didn’t matter. “I’ll make them all pay.”
The guns boomed again, as ineffective as before. Ephialtes cursed savagely. It would be better to keep the guns in reserve, rather than make the city look defenceless. His nobles were already hedging their bets ... if they thought they could get away with murdering their monarch and coming to terms with his sister, they’d do it in a heartbeat. His eyes drifted towards the nearby tower, where his guests – hostages – were being housed. Would there come a time when the hostages would be considered expendable? Or ... or would the aristocracy gamble their lives on being able to depose the king before he could issue the kill order? Perhaps it would be better to kill them now ...
Ephialtes turned, calming himself with an effort. The hostages were a double-edged sword. If he killed or even mistreated them, their value would evaporate. Hell, their families couldn’t be allowed to even think they were dead. No, they had to remain unharmed as long as their relatives didn’t give him any reason to kill them. And yet, the thought of lashing out through the hostages was almost overwhelming. He wanted to make someone hurt.
He controlled his thoughts as he walked through the door, the chancellor falling into step behind him, and down the stairs to the inner court. He’d doubled his guards in the last few days, rotating new men in and out of the guardposts and altering the schedules without warning to make life harder for any watching spies. The men were paid well – he’d promised his captains heredity peerages when the war was over – and yet, he didn’t trust them. Not completely. The guards had orders to keep their eyes on each other as well as visitors and ...
Chancellor Hallam cleared his throat as soon as they were through the outer defences. “Your Majesty, I beseech you to consider the marriage proposals,” he said. “It is vitally important you marry well and sire an heir ...”
“No.” Ephialtes had considered all the proposals, from distant kings who offered nothing beyond prestige to noblemen who thought marrying their daughters to the king would boost their station. It was true he needed an heir, and Princess Daphne had technically abandoned the engagement when she’d fled with his sister, but still ... he knew what he’d done to his father. It would be ironic indeed if his son did the same to him. “I’ll consider the matter once the war is over.”
“Your Majesty ...”
“Be silent,” Ephialtes said. He strode into the empty war room and studied the updates on the walls. “Send for the magician.”
Chancellor Hallam bowed and backed out of the room. Ephialtes grimaced in distaste. The chancellor was far from stupid, and he had his ambitions, but he was also an ardent coward who could easily be forced into submission. He was a tool – useful, yes, yet also dangerous if someone else got their hands on him. The man had no moral character whatsoever. Princess Violet – Ephialtes refused to think of his sister as a ruling Queen – was more of a man than him and she was unquestionably a woman.
And she won’t marry in a hurry, if at all, Ephialtes thought. There had been rumours about her courting a magician from Heart’s Eye – he’d taken care to have his agents spread a few themselves, nasty little suggestions rather than stories beyond easy belief – but no prospective husband had materialised. Ephialtes wasn’t surprised. A husband would be expected to rule in his wife’s name. She needs to win first before she can even consider taking a husband to her bed.
“Your Majesty,” Master Lance said, strolling in as casually as if he owned the room. Ephialtes kept his face carefully blank, hiding his irritation. The sorcerer was a very different kettle of fish than the weakling chancellor. Ephialtes knew he had to be handled carefully, until the time came to rid himself of the rogue magician once and for all. And that would come the moment they no longer needed each other. “You sent for me?”
Ephialtes nodded, stiffly. His mind raced. The sorcerer was an asset, but also a potential threat. The man had no discernible weaknesses. Ephialtes had given him free run of the maids – and the manservants, if his tastes ran in that direction – and he hadn’t even so much as looked at them. He barely even ate! Ephialtes would have been happier to know the man had a weakness, even if it was one that would sicken even the hardened aristocracy. It would have made controlling him so much easier.
