Three and Two

By Jonathan Waite

A new edition in one volume of my first two books, Three Windows and Two Magicians, with an extra story added to make up the weight.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291844771

Book preview

Three and Two

THREE and TWO

By the same author

TETRAD

OONAVERSE

By Jonathan Waite & Sam Armitage

THE EIGHT-MAN AUSTIN

THE OVERLY OBNOXIOUS OIK OPERATION

THE LOST GOATS and other tales of the Nyrond

THREE and TWO

by

Jonathan Waite

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Waite.

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-291-84477-1

To my father

who would have done it better

TWO MAGICIANS

This story started life as a plan for a screenplay, which probably explains why it’s (again) a bit short for a proper novel these days. The setting is in many ways very much generic fantasy-land, and so I suppose it’s somewhat fitting that the story revolves to some extent around an old hat, but then again there’s many a good tune played on an old hat if you can find someone who knows how to tune it. There are more stories to tell about Tamland and its neighbours, and I hope to get around to them some day.

The compass points are based on a hexagonal system, and go clockwise from the top: north, gilth, urth, south, marth, renth.

Enjoy the story.

CHAPTER ONE

Floating insubstantially in mid-air, the disembodied spirit looked down upon its world.

The sun had pushed itself up over the Gilurthern Hills all at once, paused for breath like a fat man climbing steps, and was now ascending the cloudless sky at a steadier, more stately pace, shining down on the red tiled roofs of the city and the brilliant ribbon of the river that wound through it. The last wraiths of morning ground-mist were vanishing from the well-tended fields that stretched as far as the hills in all directions. There were stirrings in the palace of the King, and here and there in the broad streets yawning traders were unshuttering their windows. The bell in the tower of the Temple of None chimed clearly twice, its song mingling with the early chorus of the birds that lived in the roof, reminding everyone not to go to morning prayers. The air probably smelled sweet, with just a hint of an underlying fragrance of goose grease and manure, although the spirit, not being equipped to perceive aromas, could not tell. It was, in short, another typical early summer morning in Tamshold, the capital and only city of the tiny kingdom of Tamland.

Pleased by the view, and satisfied with the results of its nocturnal wanderings on the astral plane, the spirit glided smoothly towards the tall white towers of the palace. Although it could have passed unharmed through the solid marble walls of the marth tower, it chose to enter through one of the tall, wide windows. Pausing in the middle of the sumptuously appointed bedchamber in which it found itself, it looked down at the occupant of the bed, admiring (as much as a disembodied spirit of the same sex could) the tall, well-muscled body beneath the linen sheets, the lustrous, wavy dark hair, the deeply tanned skin, the eyes (currently closed) which it knew were in fact deep dark brown and very attractive indeed.

An excellent body,  the spirit thought. Built for performance, one careful owner (me), all the extras. I’ll take it.

It slipped in through the right ear in the traditional manner, and Mordecai del Aguila, Court Magus to King Bran of Tamland, opened his eyes and sat up, reaching automatically for pencil and paper on the night table beside the bed. He frowned and looked where his fine, long-fingered hand was groping. There was nothing there.

Mordecai blinked and gestured. Paper flew from a pile on the dressing table, pencil from a pewter mug full of writing instruments and other objects on the bookshelf by the door to his workroom. He began to write, his carefully cultivated longhand swiftly covering the clean white paper as he strove to capture the fragmenting essence of what his disembodied self had learned on its journey to the Realms of the Unknown and back. The moment of distraction, however, had been a moment too long. Halfway down the page he looked at what he had written and snorted in disgust.

When I find out who has been meddling in this room... he muttered. Voles? Wolves? And what in the King’s name is Pergwit doing in there?

Clearly the visions had been corrupted by dream images from his body’s sleep while he had been casting about for implements with which to write it down. The journey had been wasted, just because some palace servant had ignored his standing instructions about cleaning up in his rooms. Well, he would just have to ward the entire suite and let the dust grow...except, of course, that the magic discipline required total inner and outer cleanliness at all times. There was no way around it.

He tossed the paper on to the bed and the pencil on to the night table, stood up and stretched, watching himself in the mirror with unashamed pleasure. He walked over to the washstand, splashed his face with cold water from the jug and dried it with a clean towel from the brass rail. Then he carefully sat down cross-legged on the rug beside the bed, closed his eyes and emptied his mind, preparatory to his usual twenty minutes of grounding and centring the upper and lower consciousness.

A sound ripped through the morning stillness, a ragged, bronchial rasp, an unmistakable snore. Mordecai opened one eye, frowning again. He listened for a while, then shrugged, closed the eye again and resumed his careful deep breathing. Calm...calm...seek the still point...

The snore came again, and Mordecai uttered a syllable whose potency was not magical. Rising smoothly, he grabbed his dark burgundy sleeping robe from a chair and slipped it over his head as he strode to the window. Opening the casement wide, he glared out into the sunlit courtyard.

A couple of early-rising servants, trudging across to the palace kitchens, stopped and looked up, shading their eyes. Mordecai identified them as Roldan and Farneem, stable hands.

Morning, Magus, Roldan said.

Er—good morning, Mordecai said. Um—is there someone asleep down there?

Roldan’s answer, whatever it might have been, was drowned out by a repetition of the snore, this time from behind him and to his left. Roldan and Farneem looked at each other and smiled. Plainly they heard it too.

It’s all right, Mordecai said, feeling quite foolish. Thank you.

Behind and to his left...that could only mean that the noise was coming from his workroom. Genuine anger began to replace Mordecai’s original mild irritation. The only way into his workroom was through his drawing room and bedroom. If some drunken servant, or, even worse, a courtier, had blundered in there (while he was asleep, no less) and upset any of his experiments...

I’ll turn him into a bar of soap and throw him in the river, he muttered, throwing off the sleeping robe. The grounding exercises would have to wait. This was important. Anyway, it couldn’t be that late. He would still have plenty of time to take care of them before breakfast.

He opened his capacious wardrobe and surveyed the racks of gorgeous robes, cloaks, tunics, breeches and miscellaneous accessories that were the outward sign of his exalted status (or, as Crown Prince Varnak was apt to put it, of his colossal vanity). What was needed was something sober (though not too sober) yet indefinably sinister; something that suggested not only great power but subtly hidden menace.

He selected an indigo satin undershirt, loose black breeches, a black leather waistcoat trimmed with a few understated touches of silver braid, and a wide black belt with an obsidian death’s head buckle. He brushed his hair and tied it back with an indigo ribbon, slipped his feet into heelless sandals, recast the spell that held his beard in check, and examined himself keenly in the mirror. Perfect.

The door to his workroom stood sacrilegiously ajar, and from behind it the snores proceeded, more softly now as if the sleeper had assumed a more comfortable position. Mordecai reached out to push it open, stopped and, with his other hand, picked from the pewter mug a very unmagical-looking knife. The door swung silently inwards in response to his fingertips’ pressure, and he advanced a single pace into the room.

*

Tormion yawned for the ninetieth time and turned smartly on his heel. Wall patrol was one of the most interesting details going, and that was definitely not saying much. Of course, you got to see all the comings and goings, visiting dignitaries and so on, but when it came down to it (turn) there weren’t that many.

Tamland was too peaceful, that was the problem. Not, he thought quickly, that peace wasn’t a fine and pleasant thing, in its own way, or so he supposed. He had never known anything else, after all.  A little variety, a little excitement, though, now that (turn) would be prime. He had heard Crown Prince Varnak saying exactly the same thing only the other day...when was it, now?

That was the other problem with endless peace. The days tended to blur into one another. Wall patrol, gate patrol, Hall patrol, street patrol, day and night, night and (turn) day, nothing ever happening...it wore a man down.

Peace and prosperity. Good things, oh yes, but you could have too much of anything. Here he was, a fully trained warrior, as quick with a crossbow as any, quite good with a sword, or at least (turn) adequate, body honed to the peak of physical perfection (he looked down at his middle and wondered, not for the first time, if a little more honing might not be a good idea) and what was he doing? Thirty paces and turn, thirty paces and (turn) turn, nod to his mates on the adjoining sections since they had long ago run out of things to say, thirty paces and turn, on and on till midmorning, then the lunchtime stint stationed just inside the gates without even the walking to relieve the (turn) monotony. It was no wonder the Guards had grown fewer and fewer over the years. He himself could remember when two hundred men had been thought barely enough to guard the palace, when a squadron of fifty occupied each and every border fort around the tiny valley. Now it was twenty in some and ten in others, and two squadrons to preserve the King’s life in case of invasion. It just didn’t (turn) make any sense.

Mind you, Tormion thought, why have a thousand bored highly trained warriors if five hundred will do?

He nodded to his neighbour, turned and plodded on.

*

A casual visitor to Mordecai’s workroom, even one who had been there before, would have assumed that all was well: nothing seemed to have been disarranged, jars were securely lidded, the bookshelves presented a solid, undisturbed front. Mordecai’s breath hissed in through his teeth (carrying with it a truly remarkable odour, foreign to the room, that spoke of agriculture and other basic human activities) as he noted, with his finely-honed senses both physical and magical, a thousand and one tiny disturbances that spoke of an intruder.

Without even turning his head he could see six experiments that would have to be redone from scratch, four projects on commission that would never now be completed, and—visible to his magical eyes—more than two dozen fiddly little cantrips, apparently without purpose, just cast and left hanging about, unbanished, to clutter the aether and throw all his divinations off the beam.

Well, so the invader was a magician of some sort, almost certainly an untrained amateur. Mordecai’s lips drew back from his teeth. That, at least, would make it a little fairer. He slid the knife into his belt and readied a paralysing spell. It would not be enough simply to throw this boorish interloper out on his ear. First, he must be taught a sharp lesson in relative status.

The snoring, and the smell, were coming from beneath the bench by the far window, where something like a bundle of rags had wedged itself between the orrery and his spare athanor. Mordecai noticed that the delicate copper arm that held the outer moon was now bent at right angles, and added a new orrery to the list of charges. True, he had never found a use for the thing, which was why it was under the bench, but it was a nice toy and it was his, and this lumpkin had broken it. Well, he would pay.

The bundle did not move as Mordecai advanced down the aisle between the benches. He wondered irrationally for a moment whether there could be two intruders. This hardly looked, or smelled, like major magical talent. He stretched out one sandalled foot and nudged the rags.

There was a yelp, a confused blur of motion, and six more tiny cantrips spun out into Mordecai’s face, causing him to blink and dodge back. When he had recovered, he saw that the bundle of rags had turned into a hunched, filthy and horribly skinny figure in a ragged brown tunic, breeks and ruined brown boots. A huge, wide-brimmed purple hat was pulled down over the thin pointed face, and the grimy hands were spread in a parody of the basic gestural spellcasting posture.

Tha needs to watch thysen, sneaking up on folk like that. The voice that issued from under the hat was rusty and squeaky by turns, with a peculiar accent.

What are you doing here, boy? Mordecai demanded harshly.

I bain’t a boy! the intruder snapped. I be older nor I look, he added, after a pause.

Old enough to answer a straight question?

Sleeping. Till tha wokest me. Be talking to thee now. There was a grin in the voice, and the breathlessness of one who knows he is dicing with danger.

What’s your name? Mordecai added a gesture and a certain intonation to the question, and the intruder’s head twisted up and to the side.

Willibald Volebreath, he said unwillingly, and then clamped his lips shut. The face revealed was beardless, pointed and marked with a number of fading bruises. Bright blue eyes, wide with anger, glared at Mordecai.

Mordecai gestured again, and Willibald relaxed. That were a rotten trick, he muttered, dragging his ridiculous hat off his head and twisting it in his hands.

I don’t believe this, Mordecai said. You break in here, upsetting months of work, you bend my orrery, you take my pencil and paper, you wake me up with your snoring, you—

Tha wakened when tha listed. I snore all night, me. He seemed proud of the accomplishment. Snore fit to wake dead.

Why did you break into my room? Mordecai persisted, readying the truth-spell again.

Was on t’ run. Willibald shrugged, and another small spell formed and hung in the air, just in front of Mordecai’s poised hand. Did a scry. Posh bit. Didn’t take to it. Clapped me a cheat. Ran.

You did a divination, for a titled lady, and she accused you of defrauding her, Mordecai translated, lowering his hand.

What I said. Willibald sniggered. Tha talks funny.

That is because I am Sinjaro, Mordecai said patiently. That means—

Know what it means, the ragged boy said. And tha bain’t neither.

What do you mean, I bai— Mordecai stopped and took a deep breath. You still have not answered my question. Why did you run here? A thought struck him. He edged towards the window and looked down. And how did you get in?

Clammered up t’ wall. Easy meat. Come to tower, nowhere to go but up.

Mordecai looked at the sheer marble-faced wall below his window. Several objections to Willibald’s glib explanation raised themselves in his mind, and he pushed them determinedly aside. This unscheduled chat was cutting into his morning routine, and that would have dire consequences if he was not very careful.

Listen to me, Volesnout—

Volebreath.

Whatever your name is, I don’t care. Listen. I don’t care why you decided to come here. I don’t even care why you took my pencil and paper. If—

Got bored, Willibald said, stooping to pick up a sheet of paper. It was covered with three-by-three grids filled with X’s and O’s. Kept getting draws, though.

Mordecai stared at the paper for a second, then resolutely turned away. I didn’t want to know that, he said. Now pay attention to me. I am a very busy man, this is a very private room, and you are not welcome. You have disrupted half the work I was doing here, and caused me a great deal of inconvenience. Now I want you to go away, and if you ever come near me again, I will do something to you so abominable that even I will wish I had not been compelled to do it. Now get out of here. He stood aside, indicating the door.

Can’t. Willibald looked away.

Mordecai blinked. Why not?

Web puts me here, Willibald explained. Mun bide till it bids me go.

Mordecai groaned. Just his luck that this urchin should be one of those who believed—or pretended to believe—in the so-called Web of Fate. According to this folk belief, events arranged themselves to a pattern not comprehensible to the individual, and attempting to move out of one’s place in the pattern could have results at best unpredictable and at worst lethal. Such beliefs found fertile soil in a place such as Tamland, where gods as such were made actively unwelcome. This one had been imported, if he remembered correctly, from Tsenesh, where the ruling class of female magicians found it an excellent excuse for letting things stay as they were.

If the boy seriously believed that his presence here was required by the Web, then it would be to him a matter of life and death to stay here. Mordecai could force the issue, of course, but it would be troublesome, and time was passing. He had to ground himself before starting the morning’s magery or the backlash effect from his astral voyaging would be extremely painful.

He took another deep breath. Listen to me, he said again. There was a knock at his bedroom door. He ignored it. If you break the Web, something slightly bad may happen to you. If you stay here, something very, very bad will certainly happen to you. The knocking was repeated. Now, Mordecai went on doggedly, I would have thought that even as complete and utter a moron as yourself—

The knocking became a steady barrage. Mordecai broke off, muttered under his breath, turned and stalked into the bedroom. Checking himself in the mirror to make sure he looked properly wrathful and not just petulant, he threw open the door and barked Well?

My head, said the tall, mousy-haired woman on the threshold, is pounding. My ears are ringing. My stomach is churning, my back is aching and for all I know my nose is dripping.

Take two cups of my Number Three infusion and call me in the morning, Mordecai muttered, but she ignored him.

I have been in your anteroom downstairs for the past hour, the woman continued, patiently assuring your petitioners, as per your standing instructions in these cases, that you had a heavy session on the astral last night and will be down as soon as you have recovered. Enough, however, is enough. If you do not come down now and take at least one of them off my hands, you can find someone else to sort out your bedamned paperwork and make your bedamned excuses, because I have done all I can to keep them sweet. Her pale grey eyes focussed past Mordecai’s shoulder, and her aristocratic nose wrinkled. Speaking of sweet, or rather not, what in the kingdom is that, and what is it doing in your bedroom?

Mordecai glanced over his shoulder in time to see Willibald stick out a tongue that was probably the only part of his body that could be called clean. Leaving, he replied firmly. I’ll tell you about it later, Gisel. What do you mean you have been down there for an hour? What time do you think it is?

The same time as the clock on the Temple of None, funnily enough. Gisel smiled at him. In fact, I think you’ll find you’re in the minority. It’s late, Mordecai. Magery should have started half an hour ago. You’ve got all kinds of important people down there chafing. Unless you want to be in the chafing-dish yourself, I should come down.

Mordecai stifled a curse. He must have overslept—probably disturbed in the night by Willibald poking about in his precious workroom—and now there was no time for grounding or breakfast or anything. All right, Gisel, he said. Please go down and tell them I shall be with them directly.

I’ll line them up in order of bad temper, Gisel said. She narrowed her eyes and peered into Mordecai’s face. You look frayed. Have you eaten yet?

Mordecai was framing a polite lie when his stomach decided to give vent to a growl that echoed round the room. No, he said.

Good, Gisel said sweetly. See you downstairs.

Thought tha were looking peckit, Willibald remarked in tones of gloomy satisfaction as the door closed. Tha goes out a-wandering o’ nights, tha mun eat summat in t’ morn. Silly not to, really.

I know, Mordecai said through his teeth. I know. He could feel the heaviness behind his eyes. The headache would be a killer when it came. He braced himself, turned round and gripped Willibald by the thin, rag-clad shoulders. Listen to me, he said for the third time. You are going down the stairs in front of me. You can wait in my anteroom till the Web or whatever decides to put you somewhere else. Then you go away, and I never see you ever again. Is that clear?

Willibald twisted out of his grasp, releasing another spray of tiny undirected magics. Forgot my hat, he said, and ducked back into the workroom.

Hey! Mordecai brushed the floating spells aside and charged after him, grabbed his arm and thrust him back through the door, swept his horrible hat off the bench where it was squatting and thrust it at him. Go, he said, pointing. That way.

No call to be obstropalous, Willibald muttered, nursing his arm. Mordecai ignored him, turned back to his workroom and raised his hands to dispel all the extraneous magics.

Oh, Magus! Gisel’s voice, falsely sweet, from the landing, stopped him in mid-spell. He glanced wildly back and forth, then lowered his hands.

Later, he promised the room, and pushed Willibald ahead of him out of the bedroom, through the ornate drawing room (with one anguished glance at the sumptuous breakfast that had been carefully laid out by the servants on one of the occasional tables, and would certainly be carefully cleared away again long before he could get to it and eaten by those same servants, probably on top of their own perfectly adequate breakfasts), and down the stairs to the ground floor where his offices were. Gisel, standing at the bottom, bowed and held the door to the anteroom open for them, then slipped into her own cubbyhole.

Mordecai’s anteroom was quite spacious, but right now it seemed as crowded as a broom cupboard. Mordecai recognized Chancellor Shurath and Second Lector Pergwit, and for a moment his garbled astral vision returned to his memory: but the colourfully-dressed middle-aged woman, the sullen-faced girl with her and the stocky, balding man with the disconcertingly sharp eyes were strangers to him.

My Lord Chancellor, he said, advancing into the room, a thousand apologies for this—

Actually, Magus, Gisel said, poking her head out of the hatch in the wall of her office, the Chancellor is second on your list. Donna del Ynestro and her daughter arrived first. You do make it a rule to see your clients in strict order.

Shurath’s brow darkened. The middle-aged woman, hearing her name, looked up from haranguing her daughter and bore down upon Mordecai, speaking very loudly and volubly in what, Mordecai realized with a sinking feeling, was supposed to be their common native tongue.

Donna del Ynestro is Sinjara, Gisel went on. So you’ll have lots to talk about, won’t you?

Ah, Mordecai said uncertainly. He knew just enough Sinjari to know that what Donna del Ynestro was saying was, in fact, Sinjari. He stepped back a pace, and trod on a toe which proved to be Willibald’s.

It was at this moment, while Shurath was frowning, the Donna was looking at him questioningly, and Willibald was hopping anguishedly on one foot, that Mordecai had what seemed like a happy inspiration. Madonna, he said smoothly, I would consider it a courtesy if we were to speak only Tamlandish in the presence of my apprentice. He indicated Willibald, who looked up.

Donna del Ynestro’s eyes widened, and she pointed a shaking finger. You! she cried.

CHAPTER TWO

Mordecai’s heart sank.

This is the lady you scried for last night, he said, isn’t it?

Aye, Willibald said, and gulped.

He did not say he was your assistant, Donna del Ynestro declared. Her voice was a fine contralto, with a strong—and genuine—Sinjari accent. He came to the door posing as a beggar.

Yes, Mordecai said, thinking frantically. Yes. I. Um. I send him out in rags to make his living by begging, as an exercise to—ah—to perfect his training in—um—self-denial and discipline. As you can see, he is still in disguise, having neglected to remove it before attending upon me, a dereliction for which, I assure you, he will be suitably disciplined. He gestured towards the door that led to his own office. Shall we talk privately?

Donna del Ynestro nodded graciously, snapped a couple of harsh commands at her daughter, and swept past Mordecai and Willibald into the smaller, more opulently appointed room. Mordecai followed them, ushered them to comfortable chairs, offered wine which Donna del Ynestro declined on behalf of herself and her daughter, and took his own seat behind his desk, while Willibald dropped his hat on the floor and lounged against the wall by the door. Mordecai noticed that there seemed more weight to the hat than might be expected, and wondered with an internal shudder what the horrible little boy might be keeping in it.

First of all, he said, recalling himself with some relief to the situation on hand, I would like to apologize for the unsatisfactory divination my apprentice Voleface performed for you. May I inquire in what way it was unsatisfactory?

Donna del Ynestro looked a little nonplussed. The divination was perfect, Magus, she said. It confirmed all my beliefs, and that is why we are here today.

Then why were you unhappy with—

I was unhappy, the Donna said, emphasizing the word ironically and rising majestically to her feet, because he steal three silver spoons and hide them under his hat before he leave!

Mordecai stared at Willibald, who shrugged ruefully.

I am shocked, Volespit, Mordecai pronounced slowly. Shocked, I say, and bewildered that you should let me down in this way. I would have thought the allowance I pay you quite sufficient for a person of ordinary appetites.

It occurred to Mordecai, in a vague, distracted way, to wonder why he was doing this, why he was trying to protect this ragged interloper from a doubtless justly deserved comeuppance. He could feel the headache coming, building, blossoming, billowing up behind his eyes like great black thunderclouds. It would be so easy just to admit that the boy was nothing to do with him, let him be haled before King’s Court and punished...but then he would have to explain the whole misunderstanding, admit that he could not speak Sinjari, and that would lead to more questions...and he was tired, so tired.

How many times have I told you, he went on, that to study the high magics total purity of mind and heart is an absolute prerequisite? Any more lapses like this, Volefeet, and I shall have to reconsider my generous offer of tuition.

Willibald abruptly leapt over the desk and clasped Mordecai’s knees, nearly knocking him off his chair. Oh, Master, he sobbed, kind Master, sweet master, forgive I—forgive I—’t were but a single moment’s weakness, tha knows my feet be firm set on t’ Path—oh sweet Master, send I not forth to beg my bread in poverty and hardship, oh, send I not forth from thy sweet presence...

Mordecai, somewhat stunned, found himself caressing the lad’s matted hair (he was almost sure it was supposed to be blond) and murmuring vaguely soothing endearments. Donna del Ynestro cleared her throat with considerable emphasis, and Mordecai extricated himself from Willibald’s grip by degrees.

I am so sorry, he said. How may I help you, Madonna?

This, Donna del Ynestro began, indicating the sullen-faced girl who sat a little behind and on her left, is my daughter, Charana. Last night your man here say she be great magician. So—

Charana interrupted with an impression of a vicious cat fight. Her mother replied in kind, then turned back to Mordecai with a please-excuse-us smile. What he actually say, she said, was that though my daughter have only small gift for magic, soon she be focus for great magical potential. She spread her hands, as if to say: What’s the difference? So I bring her to you for training.

Charana spat something else, and Mordecai guessed that she was none too keen on the idea herself. For him it was a perennial irritation. Every so often some proud parent decided that no lesser talent than the Court Magus himself should have the honour of guiding their cherished offspring through the mysteries of high magic. As if I had nothing better to do with my time, he would say in aggrieved tones to Gisel: and Gisel, who knew he spent half his time after magery every day tinkering with obscure magical experiments, and assumed that the other half was similarly wasted, would nod sympathetically and hold her tongue. Mordecai knew that at some point he would have to take an apprentice, to carry on his work after he was dead (the old man was a long time dying), but the idea revolted him, and he avoided thinking about it as much as possible.

Now, as he watched Charana fiddling furiously with her capacious reticule and her mother waiting expectantly for his effusive thanks, he tried, through the thunderclouds in his brain, to formulate a tactful refusal.

Madonna, he began, I am a practical magician, not a teacher. There are many excellent tutors—

We have tried tutors. They are no good. The older men, the women, they say she is lazy and untalented, the younger men all try to rape her. Besides, she will learn best by doing.

Mordecai tried again. I am Court Magus, he said. I have many calls on my time, too many to undertake the tuition of—

Donna del Ynestro said something in Sinjari whose meaning was all too clear. You have an apprentice already, a liar and a thief. Throw him out and take my daughter instead.

Willibald took this as his cue to burst into another spasm of blubbering and knee-clasping, and Mordecai’s attention was fully occupied for some moments in trying to beat him off. When he looked back, Donna del Ynestro was preparing for the next stage of her argument by producing money from a large purse, and Charana, sitting slightly behind her, was wearing Willibald’s unspeakable hat, pulled down over her ears, and making faces at her mother’s back. She noticed Mordecai looking, snatched off the hat and sat primly upright, trying to conceal an unrepentant grin. Mordecai found himself liking her, and for a moment he toyed with the idea of acceding to her mother’s request. It would get Willibald off his back...

He suddenly had a vision of Donna del Ynestro as a regular visitor, checking up on her darling’s progress, railing at him when her interest flagged, telling all her friends... He steeled himself. Willibald would be got rid of, one way or another, but not this way.

I am afraid, he said quietly, it is quite impossible. Under the terms of my Royal Charter I may only accept as apprentice a dispossessed ward of the Court, such as Volesnot here. A very sad case, you understand, parents killed in a turnip-picking accident and, as you can see, quite feeble of mind. I regret very much, Madonna, that I shall not have the chance to make the further acquaintance of your very charming daughter, and now I must ask you to excuse me, as there are others waiting to see me.

Donna del Ynestro stood up again, opening her mouth to protest. Mordecai raised his hand to silence her, and gestured towards the door. The lady’s lips drew tight, and she stuffed the money back into her purse, turned on her heel and jerked her head at her daughter.

As the Donna passed Willibald, the boy said something too low for Mordecai to catch. Donna del Ynestro’s nose tilted ceilingwards, and Charana let out a crow of delighted laughter, quickly suppressed. The two Sinjari ladies passed from the room, each clutching their reticules, and Willibald closed the door behind them.

Don’t tell me, Mordecai said, heading for the concealed entrance to the small dressing-room that adjoined the office, you speak Sinjari.

Nobbut the mucky parts, Willibald said cheerfully. What tha doing, Master? His blue eyes flashed with mockery as he spoke the word. Mordecai noticed that the room was almost as full of floating cantrips as his workroom. A wave of nausea came over him as he struggled out of his robe.

Changing, he said. I make a point of choosing the right garb for each client. It’s all part of the image. Why don’t you make yourself useful and get rid of all these spare spells? And try to stop casting them, he added. They’re very distracting.

What spells? Willibald twitched, and another one floated free. Oh, he said, following it with his eyes. Them.

My workroom is full of them. What do you do it for? Mordecai selected a plain black robe trimmed with thin gold braid.

Dunno. Never happened till I come in here. Just started popping out, them. Willibald fanned at the floating spells with an irritated hand. Every time I move, seems like.

Well, try to have some control, will you? Shurath objects to magic for some reason. He looked at Willibald suddenly. The two of you wouldn’t by any chance have met before? he asked.

Willibald shook his head, and all the cantrips burst with a faint chiming.

Just a thought. Mordecai seated himself again. All right. Please ask Gisel to send him in.

Willibald scurried to the door, and Mordecai steeled himself for what he knew was going to be an unpleasant meeting.

When he had first arrived at the palace, three and a half years before, he had not made the best of first impressions on the Chancellor, who had been fairly new to the job himself and very conscious of his dignity. Subsequent encounters had always been fraught with tension, and this would be no different, especially under the very painful circumstances.

Tall, spare, greying, Chancellor Shurath entered the office as if stepping into a sewer, looked distastefully at the chair he was offered, and perched himself on the edge of it as if suspecting the presence of humorous concealed bladders in the upholstery.

I’ll come right to the point, del Aguila, he said. I don’t have any time for magicians, as you know, and you least of all: but the King commands me to seek your advice and relay it faithfully, and I am bound to obey. He sniffed. Do you keep a dog, del Aguila?

No, Chancellor, Mordecai said, only an apprentice.

Well, for Tam’s sake train him not to do it indoors. There’s a whole public park that could use the fertiliser. Shurath, apparently deciding to trust the chair, sat back and regarded Mordecai from under his eyelids. Now His Majesty tells me that you are completely aware of the situation, but quite frankly I don’t believe it, so I’ll go over it again. His thin lips formed a smile-like shape. That way you can’t claim you were not fully informed.

Chancellor, Mordecai said carefully, I am aware that you do not like me. That makes me very sad, but I accept that there is nothing I can do about it. I suggest you accept that there is nothing you can do about me, stop trying to make me angry and carry out your commission. He had not intended to be so blunt, but his head was pounding like an army marching across a wooden bridge, and it was getting harder and harder