‘COME IN.’
The cabin door opens and Major Turnbull enters. He sits back in his chair and examines her by the lantern light. It throws half her face into shadow, turning its beauty into something more sinister. Those cold blue eyes, and the cruel curve of her lips …
He has heard it said that a gang of elves attacked her mother during the Miners’ Rising, when Turnbull was just a little girl. That she hid in a cupboard and saw it all. He wonders if the story is true. It might explain the fiery rage with which she hates all demonspawn.
Hatred is one thing. But anger – too much anger can be dangerous. It is essential to remain calm. That way, no mistakes are made.
He drums his fingers on his green marble paperweight, takes a sip of blackwine and swills it around his mouth. The White Valley ’73. A fine vintage.
‘So,’ he says quietly. ‘It is done.’
Major Turnbull nods once. The Duke of Garran reaches across his desk, taking the crystal decanter and pouring a goblet for his guest.
‘You have excelled yourself, Major. The finest magicians in the Academy could do no better work.’
She shrugs.
‘I dare say there’ll be a colonel’s commission when we return to Azurmouth. Provided, of course, that nothing goes wrong.’
She stays silent. He takes another sip of blackwine, savouring its complexity.
‘Tell me. How did you conceal the spell? They don’t teach arts like that at the Academy. A room full of people watching, and no one sees a hint of – what do you call it? – ah yes: a tremor.’
He drains his goblet and sets it down, watching the lantern light glitter through the facets of the cut glass and enjoying the silence.
‘On second thought, don’t tell me.’ As if she would. ‘A magician should never reveal her secrets.’
He smiles, but of course Turnbull does not.
‘That will be all. It was a delight to speak to you, as ever.’
Major Turnbull nods, polite but silent, and leaves, closing the cabin door behind her with a creak and a soft click.
He sets down his empty goblet and takes Turnbull’s untouched blackwine for himself. As he sips, his gaze wanders over the sketches pinned to his cabin wall. Every single variety of demonspawn, catalogued for his benefit by Dr William Silverbell’s best draughtsman. His eyes alight finally on the merperson. Daemonium Piscarium.
The charcoal illustration shows a frowning mermaid, one hand grasping a bonestaff, her long tail curving away below. He recalls the relevant entry in The Authoritative Compendium of Demonspawn. A lesser form, to be sure, but far from irrelevant. If they were to side with the Fayters, the consequences could be … unfortunate.
He will not let it happen.
The Duke of Garran rises and pads across the cabin floor. He puts on his reading spectacles and peers in close, tracing the curve of the tail with one finger and examining where the girl’s upper body joins the grotesque fish tail. Where the natural turns unnatural. He feels his lip curl in disgust, but he cannot tear his eyes away. Disgusting. And yet fascinating.
He dips one finger in the blackwine and smears it across the creature’s tail, blotting it out and watching the paper crinkle and distort, until nothing remains except the upper body of a girl.