M ARAH TOOK A BREATH, BALANCING ON the rooftop, and then swung herself down and through the open window.
She landed neatly on the floor, drawing her wand from her sleeve as she looked around for signs of trouble. The merchant who owned the house – it looked like a tiny mansion – had warded all the lower doors and windows, but he’d clearly thought it impossible for someone to get onto the roof. Marah couldn’t help being amused at his folly. For someone who had worked his way up from nothing – or next to nothing, according to the official story – he’d clearly lost touch with his roots. She was hardly the only person who used the rooftops to get around…
Her wand twitched in her hand as she cast a detection spell, checking for traps. Her master, Virgil, had told her, more than once, that merchants were paranoid… and had enough money to buy some of the best magical traps in the known world. She was almost disappointed as she straightened up. There was a charm on the door designed to make it impossible to enter without permission, and another set of nasty-looking spells on the desk drawers, but the room was otherwise defenseless. She guessed the important documents were locked in the drawers, if they weren’t kept solely in the merchant’s head. Nearly everyone could read and write these days, thanks to the New Learning, but not everyone trusted to the written word. What you didn’t write down couldn’t be used against you.
Marah smiled, then kept her eyes open as she made her way around the desk. The office was strikingly tasteless, although she had to admit she’d seen worse. The merchant had made it – and wanted to make it clear, to anyone who entered his office, that he’d made it. The walls were lined with books – fancy bound manuscripts, not books from a cheap printing press – and expensive portraits of his family. Marah made a private bet with herself that the man and his family had never looked so good in their entire lives, although they probably did dress themselves in finery. The merchant was rich enough to ignore the sumptuary laws.
She glanced down at the desk, noting the lack of anything she could pick up and examine, then took the pamphlet from her cloak and laid it on the table. It was hard not to feel a flicker of irritation at the task, a mission that could be given to any rooftop kid willing to risk life and limb for a single coin. Marah wanted – needed – something more to do, after her last adventure, but her master had kept her doing mundane tasks instead. She ground her teeth in irritation. Sure, reminding a wealthy merchant of his roots – and that he had to choose between the old order and the new – was important, yet…she was wasted on a mission of intimidation. Compared to her last job, this was almost painfully easy.
The window gaped open, invitingly. Marah knew she should make her exit as quietly as she’d come, leaving no one aware she’d been and gone until the merchant found the leaflet on his desk – inside his wards and locked doors – but she had no intention of doing anything of the sort. She checked the doorknob, just in case the magician who’d done the wards had tried to be clever, and then opened the door. The corridor outside was just as tasteless as the office… she grinned and hurried down the stairs, keeping her ears open. It wasn’t long until she heard the screech.
“Sandra, girl, what are you doing?”
Marah felt her grin grow wider as the lady of the house made her appearance. She was a sour-faced biddy who’d married well, the type of person who spent all her time denying she’d ever spent a moment in the slums. Marah doubted the silly woman had spent a moment with her parents and siblings after her husband had struck it rich, not when she could lord it over her servants and try to cozy up to her social superiors instead. She knew the type. They thought they were better than they were…
The woman gaped at Marah, suddenly aware she wasn’t the mysterious Sandra. Marah could guess how she treated her maid; like so many other insecure people, she abused the people below her to make herself feel like a big man. Or woman, in this case. Marah felt a hot flash of anger. She could admire someone who had genuinely worked their way up from nothing, but not someone who’d made it and then pulled the ladder up behind him. A wealthy merchant could have done so much good for the poor and hopeless, but instead he’d betrayed them. Marah had never met the man, yet she already hated him.
“Who are…?”
Marah waved her wand. The woman froze and toppled over, her body hitting the ground with an audible thump. Marah allowed herself a second to enjoy it – one day, she promised herself, she was going to go back to her stepfather and make the man suffer – and then stepped over the frozen woman, leaving her behind. The spell wouldn’t do any permanent damage – and it would wear off, if another magician didn’t break it first – but it would teach her a lesson. Probably. If nothing else, it would stop her from screaming at her maid for a few hours.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and peered into the living room. Two kids were sitting at the table, eating dinner… Marah looked past them and saw a thin girl, with sad eyes, staring at her. Sandra, she guessed. There was a defeated look in her eyes that tore at Marah’s heartstrings. The kids started screaming, the moment they realized Marah was there; she froze them both, winked at Sandra, then turned and hurried through the door. Behind her, she heard a scream. The maid was either terrified of Marah, or all too aware her mistress would blame her if she didn’t do anything to alert the authorities. Marah understood, all too well. The poor girl had nowhere to go, if she left…
The revolution is coming , she promised herself. And everything will change .
She stepped onto the street and saw a watchman hurrying towards her, pushing his whistle into his mouth. He blew, an instant before Marah threw a spell at him. She had to admire the man’s reflexes as he jumped aside, narrowly dodging the spell. He rolled behind cover, still blowing his whistle. Marah had no idea if help was on the way– she had been told most of the guardsmen were protecting the main roads, while the private guards wouldn’t lift a finger to assist the king’s men – but there was no point in taking chances. Her master would be annoyed enough at how she’d danced through her target’s house; he’d be a great deal more annoyed if she got herself arrested or killed. Marah owed him too much to let herself fail, no matter how much she’d resented being sidelined over the last two weeks. She wanted –needed – to play a greater role in events.
A squad of guardsmen appeared at the far end of the street. Marah turned and ran, sprinting as fast as she could. The guards shouted and gave chase, scattering the handful of people on the road. Marah wasn’t too surprised the people didn’t try to grab her. The local residents were either rich – if not always ennobled – or their servants. The former didn’t want to get their hands dirty and the latter weren’t inclined to do much for their oppressors. Marah darted past a pair of carts – she briefly noted how the vehicles were crammed with personal possessions, a sign of yet another family leaving the city ahead of the revolution everyone knew was coming – and into a dirty alleyway, one of the handful used to allow the help to come and go without being seen by their betters. The guards kept up the pursuit as she picked her way through the passageways, then started to fall behind as she led them into the Coalsack. The guards had always been reluctant to risk entering the darkest part of the city, at least when they didn’t have enough men to deter the locals, and now they knew better than to try. Marah allowed herself to slow down, gasping for breath. The guards didn’t catch up with her. She wondered, idly, what they’d tell their superiors.
Probably that they beat me to death , Marah thought, amused. The Royal Guard was prone to exaggeration. A small argument between two coalwives became a riot involving hundreds of people, a lone murderer became a serial killer… her master had been reported dead so many times, he’d told her, that it was a wonder anyone believed it until they saw the body. They’ll claim they killed me, then left the body behind as a warning .
She smirked as she forced herself to walk deeper into the Coalsack. It hadn’t changed much in the last two weeks – the shops still sold illegal goods, the loan sharks offered loans at very unreasonable interest rates, the whores still offered their charms – but there was a nasty edge in the air that worried her, even though she had been assured it was a good sign. Men marched up and down, carrying weapons that were technically illegal; women made bandages, practiced basic medical skills and whatever else they needed to do to support the men. A large sign hung outside the magical district, warning that anyone who entered without permission would be transfigured. Marah parsed out the words carefully – she still found it hard to read and write – and then stepped over the line. She was a magician. She could enter safely.
A shame the guards didn’t follow me here , she thought. The magical community was pulling up the drawbridge, preparing to isolate themselves from the coming chaos. They were too scared, although they’d never admit it, not to respond harshly to intruders. A few weeks as toads would teach them a lesson .
She kept walking, passing the alchemist and charmshop. Two more were boarded up and heavily warded, their owners choosing to leave Valetta rather than risk being swept up in the coming chaos. Marah was sure they could have stayed to fight, or at least hunker down and wait for the revolution to sweep away the old order, but it was better to be rid of such people than risk having them put a knife in their backs. Far too many magicians didn’t care about the common people, losing touch with their roots… just like the merchants she so hated. It was a marvel her master cared, and he’d taught her to care.
The thought warmed her as she reached their base of operations, a nondescript house at the rear of the magical quarter. The door seemed harmless, as she pushed it open, but she felt defensive charms poking and prying at her the moment she stepped across the threshold. Her master liked his home to remain unobtrusive, odd given how flamboyant he could be. But then, everyone had to sleep somewhere. The fewer people who connected the home with Virgil Quintus Fabius, otherwise known as the Wild Fox, the better.
She stepped through the inner door and into the living room. Her master was standing on the far side of the chamber, studying his appearance in the mirror. His outfit was astonishingly flamboyant – he looked like a cross between a dandy and a peacock – and his hair and beard had been neatly trimmed, ensuring that he couldn’t possibly be missed. Marah had no idea how he managed to walk through the streets without being recognized, although she supposed magic had something to do with it. She was nowhere near his equal, when it came to magic, and she knew how to avoid unwanted attention.
“Marah,” Virgil Quintus Fabius said. He didn’t look around. “I take it the mission was successful?”
“You know it,” Marah said. She took a seat and forced herself to relax as the excitement started to wear off. She’d have to rest tonight, after taking a bath. “When are we going to do something fun?”
Her master turned, slightly. “Leaving a note behind wasn’t fun ?”
“You know what I mean,” Marah said. She knew she sounded like a petulant child, but she didn’t care. She hated the system; the monarch and his aristocrats, the jumped-up commoners who grew rich on the backs of their former peers, the enforcers who kept the workers in line… she would do anything, anything at all, to bring it down. She wanted to be on the streets, hurling rocks with the street children or surrounding homes and factories in a bid to intimidate their owners… not dropping leaflets in delicate places. “I want to do something more important .”
Virgil looked back at his reflection. “And reminding a man with much to lose that we can find him isn’t important?”
Marah snorted. She wanted to see the system burn . She wanted to go back to her hometown and teach her stepfather a bloody lesson. She wanted to study magic freely… she hadn’t done enough of that in the last two weeks, after she’d escaped Lord Allenstown’s mansion. Her master had been too busy to give her more lessons…
“You know what I mean,” she said, again. “I want…”
“To do something more active,” her master said. He turned and met her eyes. “There is something you can do, if you are willing to take a considerable risk.”
Marah nodded, impatiently. She owed him everything. She would do anything to repay her debt.
Virgil walked into the next room, motioning her to come with him. Marah followed, feeling more wards – powerful protective charms – hovering around the chamber, keeping out prying eyes. A handful of devices lay on the table, linked to yet more charms… some very nasty, from what she could sense from a distance. There was no point in trying to pretend there was anything innocent about the devices, or that their mere existence wouldn’t land them both in hot water if they were caught. The monarchy didn’t want anyone to own anything that threatened its monopoly on power.
“There have been some interesting developments,” Virgil told her. “Our dear monarch is feeling the rope around his neck” – he mimed hanging with his fingertips – “and has finally decided to hold a peace conference, to which he has invited many moderates to discuss possible concessions he can make, in exchange for calling off the revolution.”
Marah blinked, feeling as if she’d been punched in the stomach. “Those… those traitors !”
“Quite,” her master agreed. His voice was cold, hard. “There is no one so willing to discuss concessions than someone with very little, someone who fears to lose what little he has.”
“I…” Marah muttered a word that would have earned her a beating from her stepfather – not that the man had ever needed an excuse to beat his children and stepchildren – and got a smile from her master. “They think the king will keep his word?”
Virgil shrugged. “They are afraid of losing what little they have,” he reminded her. “If the king makes them sweet promises, and offers them a handful of concessions, they may be very tempted. And if they accept…”
Marah’s imagination filled in the rest. The underground had been growing in power for years, ever since the New Learning had swept across the world, but not everyone wanted the same things. The moderates wanted some degree of reform, like Zangaria, while the hardliners – like her – believed the system could not be reformed and wanted to burn it to the ground. She had no faith the moderates would remain loyal to the cause, once they got what they wanted, and suspected they’d sell out their fellows in a heartbeat. It was no consolation that they’d probably be sold out too, in their turn, when the king was powerful enough to do it; by then, there’d be no one left to exact revenge. It would be the end of all dreams of freedom and equality and everything else she’d devoted her life to, since her master had saved her from a lifetime of slavery. It would be the end of a great many things.
“We need to kill them,” she said. Traitors deserved nothing but death. “Quickly.”
“We need to kill the envoy ,” Virgil told her. His lips twisted in disdain. “The Allied Lands has insisted on sending a negotiator from Zangaria, a young aristocrat who was deeply involved in the aftermath of their civil war. We believe this envoy intends to convince the king to make concessions now, in a bid to forestall a revolution, and then claw them back once things calm down here.”
“Just as King Randor did,” Marah said.
“Just so.” Virgil looked amused, just for a second. Marah didn’t understand the joke. “The envoy will be heavily protected. Getting close will be impossible, not without making it obvious. But we can use these devices to strike him from a distance, if you are prepared to take the risk. You could get caught – or killed – very easily. It might not be possible to get you out in time, if they take you to jail.”
Marah shivered. She’d heard stories about dissidents who went into the cells under the castle. They rarely came out again – and, when they did, they were broken men. She wanted to believe the stories had grown in the telling, but she feared otherwise. If she were caught… she’d be lucky if she were merely killed. If the horror stories were true…
… But she owed her master too much to say no.
“I’ll do it,” she said. “Please.”
Virgil smiled. “Very good,” he said, lifting up the first device. “Now, listen carefully…”