CHAPTER 4

They called it the Room of Cabinets. More properly, it was designated the Workshop of the Magician to the King of Crown Point. Its chief virtues were the locks that kept it secure and a window seat on the north side of the room, overlooking the valley of the Colombia River. It had been his mother’s room once. The place where she taught him the arts of conjuring and deception.

“If I teach you to lie, it only makes the truth between us more precious,” she’d said, time and time again.

Despite its favourable position in the north wall, it was a lonely corridor from which the Room of Cabinets was accessed. Out of habit, Edwin checked left and right, scrutinising the shadows before turning the door’s six brass tumblers, each inscribed with different symbols. They clicked through the combinations until a bolt sprung. Edwin checked along the corridor one final time before scrambling the tumblers again and stepping inside.

No gold was held within. The treasures of the Room of Cabinets were merely secrets. But without secrets, his privilege and safety would be gone. Magician of Crown Point and First Counsellor to the king were positions of great influence but little direct power. A dangerous combination. The dogs were kept back by the king’s indulgence. But if for a moment that favour slipped, Edwin would be torn apart.

He poured himself a glass of red wine then weaved between the cabinets and workbenches to take up his position in the window seat, looking down on the valley. The strands of the river reflected the hills on the far side, a smoky image of blues and greens. That view had once been the entire domain of the Lords of Crown Point. How quickly they had extended their reach. Ambition was one of the few things in the world that lacked discernible limits. But the wider the kingdom spread, the more vassal lords came under its influence, the more complex the politics became.

A raven wheeled over the valley, level with his window, but far above the shingle at the river’s edge. Searching for carrion.

If the king achieved his aim, what then? When the King of Crown Point became Lord of the world, he would have no more need of illusions to baffle the minds of his subjects. A few of his counsellors had already lost their belief in magic, though they would never admit to such doubts. Secret conversations were a different matter. If enough of them came to see coloured flames and mind reading acts as simple trickery, disbelief would become the focus of rebellion.

Putting down the glass, half-finished, he walked back through the room, letting his fingers brush the cabinets on either side. The oldest among them were objects of awe, lacquered black with lettering or arcane symbols in blood-red. One had been decorated with closely spaced patterns, which drew the eyes and played with them, seeming to shimmer and jump. He ran his hand over its door, feeling the slight ridges where lines of decoration crossed the smooth surface. Opening the cabinet brought a waft of camphor, a memory of his mother.

Spectacle had been her way. She’d learned her art in the travelling magic shows of England. But in the deadly politics of Crown Point, he had discovered that mundane settings worked better. When an ordinary cupboard vanished a gun, or produced one, magic seemed to be reaching its tendrils into the real world.

Closing the cabinet, he stepped on through the room, deep in thought, hardly seeing his surroundings.

If he could perform a grand illusion without the props of stage magic, it might convince more of the court that his powers were real. That could give him the authority to navigate the present crisis. He knew many tricks. But the greatest illusions required an accomplice: someone who had to know that the marvels were mere trickery. Such knowledge would give them a power over him of life and death. There was no one at Crown Point that he could so trust.

A vanishing act would require just such a helper. Or, if doing it alone, he would be absent at the end, when the trick was revealed, which would undermine its very purpose.

He’d been nursing two possibilities. The first was an ordeal of endurance. Something that would seem not magic, but superhuman. Surviving terrible cold or submersion in the river or a prolonged period without food. Perhaps burial alive. Feats of endurance they would be. Mental and physical. But not to the extent that they appeared. There were ways to take on food while fasting, or air while submerged or buried. There were devices that could allow life to continue in extreme cold. Such illusions would make him seem more like a holy man than a magician. But that might be a protection in itself.

He found himself standing next to a low ottoman made from woven willow: one of his own construction. He’d painted it white, then rubbed all over the surface with a flat stone, leaving it scuffed as if uncared for. The seat, he’d upholstered in green paisley fabric, salvaged from an old curtain. Horse hair showed through one of the moth holes.

Lifting the lid revealed the empty interior. The musty smell came from a layer of soil hidden within the base. That was a sensory detail he had worked out for himself – the illusion of neglect.

He closed the lid and opened it again. This time a flintlock pistol lay in the bottom, the image of a leaping hare inlaid in turquoise in the stock. The balance of it in his hand and its texture were exquisite. The room was full of memories.

The second possibility was more tantalising. He had read about the bullet catch and its dangers. He’d heard accounts of illusionists who’d tried it and failed at the cost of their lives. If all was set up correctly, he could allow a volunteer to fire the gun directly at him. He would then snatch the bullet from the air with his hand. Or, better, catch it with his teeth. That would impress the warriors among the king’s court, men who understood what something as small as a bullet could do to human flesh. The implication that he might have supernatural control over weaponry could do no harm. He might offer to cast charms and blessings over the army as it set out to do battle. But only if it outnumbered the expected enemy.

The bullet catch had other virtues. It was loud. It would not be forgotten. And nothing excites an audience more than the possibility that a performer might make a fatal mistake.

But the trickery of the bullet catch did not remove all danger. Who among the audience would step forwards and volunteer to take the shot? It would be all too easy for them to slip an extra bullet into the barrel or substitute their own gun.

Edwin froze. He’d caught a small noise from outside the room, a scuffing of feet perhaps. Carrying the pistol, he slid back the bolts and opened the door.

A man with a pasty complexion stood immediately outside, all his features soft-edged.

“Eavesdropping, Lord Janus?” Edwin asked, mirroring the man’s gentle smile.

“I’m no lord. But thank you.”

“One day, perhaps.”

It was impossible to know if Janus had been annoyed by the reminder of his low birth. Resting the pistol barrel on a forearm, Edwin positioned himself beneath the lintel, occupying the space. “What fair chance brings the pleasure of your company?” he asked.

“The hope of a few words.” Janus spoke as if this was the most reasonable request in the world. “This crisis consumes our waking hours. But we who have the king’s ear should make the time to speak, in private, don’t you think?” He cast his gaze along the corridor, as if to say their conversation would be so much more secure within the Room of Cabinets itself.

“Of what would you speak?” Edwin asked.

“Your plan to install a puppet king in Newfoundland.”

“Our king’s plan.”

“Every plan is the king’s plan. But all remember who suggested it. And when it comes to ruin…” The softness of the man’s brow could not have sustained a frown of any severity, but his eyes conveyed regret.

“My magic is dedicated to the king,” Edwin said. “He understands my loyalty.”

“Your magic…” Janus angled his head, looking over Edwin’s shoulder. “I sometimes wonder what I might learn from half an hour alone with your mother’s boxes. She was very proud of you, you know. Her son. Or daughter?”

“She gave me this,” Edwin said, lifting the pistol in a limp grip, letting its aim linger on Janus’s chest, as if by accident.

“There’s no need for that.” Janus pushed the barrel away. “I came with an olive branch.”

“Then show it.”

“Very well. When Newfoundland rejects your call to arms – and they will – what will happen then? You will lose your place at the king’s right hand. I will become First Counsellor. You will be – how should we say – vulnerable? I could protect you.”

“Your price?”

“Tell the king that he should follow my advice. No more waiting on the dream of an alliance. War without delay. Tell him to send the army across the border into the Gas-Lit Empire. Tell him the auguries have revealed themselves, or some such nonsense… I always admire the way you put these things. Tell him the ghosts have change their minds. Tell him you were wrong. Then I promise to protect you.”

“My magic wasn’t wrong.”

Janus rolled his eyes. “Your magic!”

Edwin reached out and snatched a playing card from the air between them, where there had been none before. It made a crisp snap.

Janus blinked, accepted the card, turned it. “If you could really bend the laws of the universe, you’d stop the hearts of our enemies. Perhaps you’d stop mine. But no. You magic up the knave of swords.” He tore the card in half. “Your tricks have no power.”

“Then why are you whispering?” Edwin asked.

The gentle smile returned to Janus’s soft face. “Remember what they did to your mother, when her tricks ran out? She was fully woman. That much they understood. But you – boy, girl, whatever you are – you make their stomachs turn. What will happen to you, do you suppose, when your magic is all gone?”

The two halves of the playing card fluttered to the ground in his wake as he walked away.