Chapter Thirteen
Dee’s Last Incantation

Marvo’s chasing after me. “That was stupid, Frank!”

“I don’t make mistakes.” I stop to wait for her. “Not with magic.”

“So what are you saying? Is Wallace’s body still rattlin’ around out there somewhere? There’d have to be a loose head, too—”

“Maybe he had a twin brother.”

“He was an only child.”

“I’m just pointing out, there’s other possibilities besides me being wrong. Maybe it’s a double. Maybe he’d had a head transplant.”

“Is that possible?”

“Christ, no. Maybe he was a man so tortured by self-loathing—”

“All right, I get the picture.”

“No you don’t. Damn! Why did I do that stupid test in the first place?”

“Yeah, Frank, why did you? If you’d done what Caxton told you—”

“Arsehole!” I mean me. I ought to shut up, but I can’t let go of it. “Have you got any idea what it’s like having to deal with idiots like Caxton?”

“How d’you think I feel? At least you’ve got the Society to look after you.”

“On my back, you mean. Thanks to you.”

“It was your own bloody fault. An’ if you’d just stop being such a prat—”

“I could lose my license.”

“What does that mean?”

“That I’m not allowed to do magic.”

“Well, so what? Is it the end of the world? I mean, at least you can still see!”

Fair point. I take a couple of deep slow breaths. My heart stops racing. “How are your eyes?” I ask.

“Good. I had my checkup the other week and they’re fine.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“It’s not funny, Frank. I don’t just lose the ability to do stupid stuff with twigs—I go stone blind!”

“But that’s years.”

“Ten years. Max.”

“And it’s not like they don’t pay you well, so you can afford a guide.” Even while I’m saying it, I know that’s a crap thing to say. I mumble, “I’m sorry.”

“Never even thought about it, have you? It’s all poor little Frank, going post-peak.”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Fix it.”

I just stand there blinking like an idiot. I know what she’s asking, but I just don’t know what to say.

“Come on, you’re the boy genius. Can you help me?”

Actually I can, but I’m not allowed to. I can’t even tell Marvo that it could be done.

“I’m sorry.”

“You keep saying that.”

I manage not to say it again. “OK,” I mutter at last. “I’ll try not to get up Caxton’s nose.”

“Well, that makes me feel a whole lot better.” Marvo sighs. “Look, forget it.” She takes my wrist and turns it so that she can see my watch. “You must be starving.”

We’re out the back of the building, in the courtyard where all the bodies come in and out. And yes, my gut’s screaming at me for food.

I don’t know what to say about Marvo. What we’ve got here is a world where kids do all the seeing. It wasn’t always like that. I mean, it stands to reason, things must’ve been different once upon a time, otherwise the world wouldn’t be so impossible for grown-ups to deal with when they go Blurry: we’d have organized things so they could get by, even half blind. Instead we’ve got this situation where people need to read and do stuff . . . and most of them can’t.

Who dreamed up this stupid mess?

There are several versions knocking about. One story says it goes right back to ancient Greece when some idiot let a whole bunch of demons loose. The ASB doesn’t buy that; they insist everyone could see perfectly fine up until about 1550 . . . not long after the Society of Sorcerers was founded. They say it was a conspiracy: a way for the Society to get control of everything.

I don’t know.

There’s another thing, though. Like I say, there’s nothing I can do to help Marvo, but ever since those two columns of smoke merged into each other inside Ferdia’s circle I’ve realized there’s something I can do to settle this business about the contiguity once and for all. It’s not a good idea. In fact it’s dead stupid, and even thinking about it brings me out in a cold sweat.

“Frank, you OK?”

What I ought to do, of course, is apologize to Caxton and say I made a mistake—a bit of arse-licking and everybody’s friends again. But it’d still be hanging over me: the fear that it’s happened once and it can happen again.

I mean, we all know Ferdia’s post-peak. But what about me?

Either I can work magic, or I can’t. And this plan that I’ve dreamed up, it’ll sort out who’s right—me or him. Or it could just get me killed . . . which is kind of a neat way out.

Marvo’s still staring at me. “So do you want to get something to eat?”

I shake my head. This bright idea, if I decide to go through with it . . . and if I had any sense I wouldn’t go through with it . . . well, one way to guarantee that I’ll wind up splattered across the floor in tiny charred pieces is to have anything to eat in the next twenty-four hours.

I’m standing there, feeling very cold inside and wondering if there’s any way I can explain to Marvo without sounding rude or giving the game away . . . when I see a let-out. He’s about my height and looks dead smart in a peaked cap, black belted jacket, and jodhpurs with shiny boots. He’s Matthew’s driver.

“The Superior General would like to know if he can offer you a lift.”

“What about—”

“I have no further instructions.”

I turn to Marvo. “I’m sorry.” I point toward the silver Ghost parked across the courtyard.

“Frank . . .”

I realize she can’t look at a Ghost without thinking about her brother and I feel bad, but I say, “Matthew’s my Master. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Whatever.” She glances at the driver and whispers, “How come he don’t need specs, your boss?”

“The Superior General is waiting,” says the driver.

As I follow him, I turn back to Marvo and waggle my fingers. Her eyes widen.

“Magic?”

I nod.

“Frank, if they fixed his eyes—”

I jump into the Ghost before I have to say no again.

Listen, the rich have got it made. There’s four white calfskin armchairs in the back of the Ghost. As I put my case on the floor and lean back, there’s a faint perfume—musky, like soft hands around my thoughts—and gentle music playing . . .

“I won’t pretend I was just passing,” says Matthew, with a smile. “I was worried about you.”

“Why?”

“The disciplinary hearing . . .”

“Oh, that.”

“Friday afternoon at three. And it’s not a joke, Frank. Most of the board want your license suspended or revoked entirely.”

“That’s not going to happen, though.”

“Ignacio Gresh wants the death penalty.”

Crunch. My thoughts go flying around. I see flames and smoke and a screaming face, the skin blistering and peeling.

I see a man in a black suit, silhouetted against the fire. I see Ignacio Gresh.

He’s the Society’s Grand Inquisitor. Yes, we have our own Inquisition: thirteen former sorcerers, each with a bigger chip on his shoulder than the next. Anyway, there’s nothing grand about him; he’s a complete knob and he’s never liked me.

I shake my head violently. Gresh and the fire vanish. I’m still safe in Matthew’s Ghost. His hand is on my arm.

“Are you all right?”

“Will you be there?” I manage to whisper.

“Of course I will.” He takes his hand away. “But it wouldn’t hurt your case if this investigation was successfully concluded.”

The ride around the scenic route, over Ferry Bridge, is utterly smooth. Not a tremor of vibration. I know Matthew is watching me closely.

“I’m sorry, Frank. I just need you to understand how serious this is.”

I manage to nod. Death? Can’t happen.

Finally he says, “So can you explain the discrepancy between your result and Ferdia’s?”

“Who told you?”

He just smiles.

“Ferdia’s post-peak,” I say. “He expected a certain result. He got it.”

He sits in silence for a while. Finally: “There’s no question about the head. And it’s the only body you’ve got . . .”

“The wounds on the body,” I say. “The knife he was stabbed with . . . narrow blade, triangular cross-section, probably about four or five inches long. Then he could have been beheaded with a sword.”

“I’m not quite with you, Frank.”

“I’ve got a knife that could’ve done the job. And a sword . . .”

He smiles. “Are you confessing?”

The driver has always known that we were going to the termite nest. The Ghost doesn’t exactly stop. There’s no sense of braking. It simply ceases to move.

Do you have any idea what a Ghost costs? More than Caxton could earn in a lifetime, that’s how much. The coachwork, the fittings—it’s all the best money can buy. But that’s just a drop in the ocean compared with the price of the driver.

He’s an elemental. An elemental with the Knowledge of every road in the country. An elemental who can create a contiguity between the Ghost and wherever the owner wants to go, and can get there without driving over small boys. An elemental who takes a lot of skilled, highly-paid work to build and maintain. Charlie missed a trick there.

I know what you’re thinking: a Ghost is magically powered anyway, so why bother with a separate driver? Why not build the ability to navigate into the structure of the vehicle? Well, it could be done, in theory at least. But someone has to open the doors.

“Thank you,” I say to the driver as I step out. He doesn’t care, but I do.

A solitary protester pushes himself off the wall and holds up a placard: “Go to hell!”

Matthew is beside me. “I’ll walk you in.”

I’d rather he didn’t. Dee’s last incantation is up on my blackboard, itching to get me into trouble.

“It’s still a mess,” I say.

But he takes my arm and walks straight at the protester, who jumps aside.

The monastery door opens. It’s my favorite termite, Brother Thomas.

“Where’ve you been?” he grumbles. “You were supposed to—”

Matthew may be thirty years post-peak, but it’s like he just walks through him. The door closes.

Sometimes, when all the termites have stopped howling in the chapel and retired to their lairs, this place really is the oasis of tranquillity it’s supposed to be. The sun has almost disappeared behind the roof and its last light is shining across the cloister, casting a tiny, perfect rainbow through the fountain. A goldfinch speeds past in a flutter of yellow and red.

There’s only one blot on the landscape: Brother Thomas, glowering suspiciously at us as he finishes locking the main door. Finally he gives up and scuttles back into the lodge.

Matthew smiles. “You’re saying it could have been a sorcerer who killed Henry.”

“I’m just speculating about the weapons.”

“Have you mentioned this to DCI Caxton?”

“No.”

“I appreciate you talking to me first.” He gestures me to lead the way.

“But she must be aware there’s a problem with the security elemental in the palace grounds,” I say.

“Does she still think they brought the body in through the gate by the river?”

“There’s not a drop of blood anywhere in the palace or the cathedral.”

“Did anybody talk to the elemental’s operator?”

“Nothing. They had to put it down. But Caxton knows Wallace was at Saint Cyprian’s . . .”

Matthew nods. “If there were a sorcerer implicated in the crime, the Society wouldn’t protect him. But maybe you should be . . . economical with any ideas you pass on to the police, at least until it becomes necessary.”

We’re in the passage leading to the garden. Matthew chuckles: “Henry struggled with sorcery. He could achieve the basic magical effects, but he didn’t really believe in them—he seemed to regard them as some form of self-hypnosis or mass hysteria. In the end it was demonology that did it for him. It was rather amusing, actually. The Master Thaumaturge performed a demonstration ritual to call up . . . oh, some minor demon or other . . .”

There are three Institutes of Sorcery in western Europe: Saint Cyprian’s outside Doughnut City, Saint Martin’s at Würzburg in Germany, and Saint Eugenio’s at Salamanca in Spain. Most novices start at the age of seven. I was six when I went to Saint Cyprian’s. The course lasts seven years, if you’re lucky. There’s a lot to learn.

At the end of your first year you attend your first demonstration summoning. It’s impressive. Look, I’ll come clean for once: it’s scary—literally as scary as hell.

“Henry simply denied having seen anything. The supervisor accused him of falling asleep, but Henry described the ritual in exact detail, right up to the point of manifestation. Except that he insisted that nothing had manifested. Of course there was a huge row. Henry didn’t say much, but he managed to imply that the ritual had simply induced a mass hallucination to which only he was immune. Several of the novices bought it. One tried to commit suicide. Obviously Henry was kicked out. There was some talk of hauling him in front of the Inquisition. This is all in confidence, by the way.”

I nod. “Yes.”

“I lost touch with him for several years. I worked for the intelligence services, as you know. Then a couple of years after I came here as Superior General of the Society, he was appointed Bishop . . .”

We’re in my corridor. My door barks. Matthew smiles. “May I try?”

There’s nothing I can do to stop him. And if I’m honest I have to admit that I’m curious to see what happens. He stops dead, a couple of feet from the door. He closes his eyes. After a couple of seconds there’s a disturbance across the surface of the door. For a split second the wood liquefies to form the head of a wolf . . .

Then it relaxes and goes smooth. The door swings back. Matthew opens his eyes and smiles.

Peak Gift is seventeen to eighteen. You’re OK for a year or so after that. By twenty-one you’re struggling, like Ferdia. By twenty-five all you’re good for is elemental work. There are about a dozen documented cases of sorcerers hanging on to their Gift into their thirties: there was one Master at Saint Cyprian’s who was said to have summoned a demon at forty-five. Maybe that’s why he was in a wheelchair.

So Matthew is one of the unusual ones. It’s faded, but he hasn’t entirely lost it. I never saw him in action: by the time he supervised me he was way post-peak. Technically I suspect I’m better than he ever was, but I’ll never be Superior General of the Society—you can bet on that. I’m just a junior forcer hauling lumps of meat in and out of the mortuary ice room. The magic’s the easy bit; it’s staying awake through it that’s the challenge.

Matthew steps into the studio ahead of me and lights the gas. And of course the first thing he sees is the code on the blackboard.

I put my case on the bench. It’s cold, so I open the draft on the stove and go up to the other end to light the fire. “Let’s say I did make a mistake . . .”

I glance around and Matthew is smiling. “That must hurt, Frank.”

It does, like hell. “So if the body is Wallace—”

“Which I think you have to assume—”

“—could it have anything to do with what happened at Saint Cyprian’s?”

“It’s an interesting thought.”

“Should I mention it to Caxton?”

“Leave that to me, if you don’t mind. I need to think about it.”

I watch him think about it, and I’m just beginning to believe that I’ve steered myself out of trouble when he points to my code and says, “So what’s this all about?”

“John Dee’s last incantation.”

He stares at it for a long time. “You’re on dangerous ground.”

“I know. I was going to bring it to you. I’m working from the 1687 Bulwer edition—I found a copy in a junk shop—but it’s a mess.”

I make a few shapes and the cabinet swings open with a contented sigh. I hand Matthew a ragged book, coming apart at the spine. As Marvo noticed, he doesn’t need spectacles to read; the Society has a procedure—dead expensive and very exclusive—to reverse the Blur. If you’re over twenty-five and can still see things close up, either you were a sorcerer, or you can afford to pay one . . . or you’re a tatty and you’d better enjoy it for the few years you still can.

Matthew opens the book carefully at a paper marker. “You know this is worth a fortune in the wrong hands.”

“That’s what I was going to ask you: does the Society have Dee’s original manuscript?”

“It’s in the Closed Archive.” Matthew gives the blackboard another long, hard look. Then he says, “I think you’d better rub that out. I’m sorry . . .”

I hesitate. I take the duster and count to five. I wipe the blackboard clean. Hell, it’s not like I can’t remember it.

“And on second thought . . .” He strides across and tosses the book into the fire.

“That’s not fair!”

Matthew stares at me for a moment in surprise. “I’m sorry, Frank, but in the present climate the last thing the Society needs is you dragging people back from the other side.”

What the hell: it’s too late anyway. The book is already blazing happily away. Matthew examines his watch.

“Don’t go looking for trouble. Behave yourself. Let me find a place for you. You’ve got to think ahead: what will you be doing ten years from now? You know, after . . .”

The great unspeakable thought.

Unspoken thoughts go unanswered. “Anyway, I must get on. I’m glad we had this chance to talk.”

“I’m better than Ferdia,” I say.

“That goes without saying. But there’s something not working for you. Some sort of resistance, maybe.”

His fingers tap on the door. I’ve got my work cut out stopping it from turning on him.

“It happens,” he says. “To all of us. I told you, you’ve put a lot of people’s backs up, but if you can just step back from all this, trust your own abilities, stop overcompensating . . .”

“I’m trying,” I say, too loudly.

He smiles. “See what I mean? Working for the police—”

“That wasn’t my idea.”

“It’s a waste of your Gift.”

“But you’re always saying that!”

The first time he said it was after I finished at Saint Cyprian’s, when I didn’t get the exam results I expected and I thought Matthew would step in and fix it, but he said he couldn’t. Just gave me this sad smile, agreed that the examiners had had it in for me, and told me not to worry, he’d find something for me.

“And I’m always telling you that I’m going to get you back at Saint Cyprian’s doing work like that.” He points at the smudges on the blackboard. “Legitimately. It’s just a question of finding the right time.”

And me staying out of trouble. So it’s in the bag.

“Trust me,” says Matthew. “It’ll all work out. I’ve every faith in you.”

After he’s gone, I grab the tongs and try to pull the remains of the book out of the fire; but it just disintegrates into a pile of glowing ashes.

I drag out a chair, sit down, and close my eyes. I settle my breathing and clear my mind. It takes longer this time because I didn’t have a chance to scan the blackboard properly. It’s nearly an hour before I step forward and write all my code out again.