10

“Maggie!” Rupert waved to her from the door at the far end of the Divinity Schools, one of the many parts of the Bodleian Library she’d never visited before. As she walked towards him she glanced up at the beautiful medieval ceiling, covered with carved stone bosses reflected from the anchor property.

He beckoned to her and then went ahead into Convocation House, a place she’d heard was much plainer in design but with just as much historical significance, especially for the mundanes. Whilst she knew there would be less grandeur, Margritte didn’t expect a mezzanine floor constructed out of glass and steel cable. It was one of the greatest crimes to interior design she’d ever witnessed. The new floor severed the remarkable interior of Convocation House in two, breaking all of the lines that the medieval architecture naturally drew to the eye. The bright electric – electric! – lighting was harsh to her eyes and made her squint. It was like stumbling into a sliver of Mundanus in the centre of Oxenford and she didn’t like it one bit. The main floor space below was divided into different areas, one containing large sofas and a fireplace that seemed to hang from the ceiling in a most unnerving manner. There was an area filled with strange machines, only one of which resembled anything she could understand: a bicycle without proper wheels. She wondered if all Sorcerers had such appalling taste.

“What do you think?” He threw his arms out open and wide.

“It’s certainly not what I expected.”

“I’ve got a generator out the back. I don’t know what you people have against electricity, it’s fantastic stuff. Come up and I’ll show you my den.”

Den? He made it sound like an animal’s nest. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, also made of glass, that seemed to float at the side of the room. She couldn’t see how they were attached to the wall and had no idea how they could be strong enough to take her weight. He laughed at the way she tested the bottom step.

“They’re safe – they’re cantilevered through the wall. I went to a gallery in Mundanus that had them and just had to have the same here. No sorcery, I promise. Not for the steps anyway.”

Margritte lifted the front of her black skirts and climbed the steps with care. Most of the wall facing her as she arrived on the upper floor was covered by three massive screens. The two on the outer edges were displaying pieces of art, some of which she recognised, fading from one to the next every few seconds. The screen in the centre was black. A huge desk filled one corner, covered with paper, and with something she thought might be a computer sitting on top of it. She remembered seeing one in a mundane catalogue a friend’s son had brought back from his Grand Tour. She and Bartholomew had looked through it late into the night, marvelling at how grotesque things had become in Mundanus. The computer on the desk bore only a slight resemblance; it was smaller and white and almost elegant in design.

Two reclining chairs made of black leather faced the screens and there were shelves of books filling the rest of the wall space. He watched her take it all in, a big grin plastered across his face. “You should see yourself.” He laughed. “Maggie in Wonderland.”

“Is this why you invited me over? To marvel at your mundane toys?”

He was wearing baggy jeans and a hooded top. Margritte was certain it was the same one he’d been wearing the first time they met. He gestured at one of the chairs. “So you wrote to your friends in Londinium then.”

“Yes.” She sat down and, before she could stop herself, slid down until the seat back moulded itself to her. Rupert pressed something at the side of the chair and she squeaked as it tipped back a few degrees and the lower front part rose into the air until she was almost lying down. It felt most improper. He jumped into the chair next to her.

“These are the best chairs you can get in Mundanus,” he said and opened a compartment in the arm of his chair that she hadn’t even noticed. He pulled out a can. “Beer?”

“I think not.”

“Oh. Don’t drink?”

“I drink wine, Rupert. Not ale.”

He laughed. “Sorry. I’ll remember that for next time.” He angled his chair back as far as hers. “One of your friends visited today. I had one of my favourite students from the university give him a tour of the town.”

The plan was working. “That’s excellent news. Who was it?”

“Freddy Persificola-Viola. There is no fucking way that twat is going anywhere near any of my colleges.”

Margritte sighed. “Did he offend you?”

“Not in person, I didn’t meet the guy. No one knows about me until they become part of the university, otherwise it’s a hard secret to keep. I made an exception for you.”

“Because I was causing you such a headache?”

“Because you’re exceptional.”

Was he trying to win her favour? Surely not whilst she was still in mourning. But then he had the manners of a savage; he probably didn’t even know that it was unacceptable. She shouldn’t really have come to his residence alone. But she was a widow, not a debutante. “Did Freddy offend someone else?”

“Worse,” he replied. “I’ll show you.”

 

Ekstrand pulled away the cloth with a flourish, revealing a small cannon. “And this is how it will be done.”

Max was still pressed against the back wall, doing his best to not draw attention to himself. If he still had a Chapter Master he’d be seeking him out. He had no idea if there had ever been a situation in which a Sorcerer was deemed unfit to hold his post but it was irrelevant now. There was no superior to take his concerns to and no one to enforce an intervention even if it were possible.

“But sir,” Gordon was saying. “Whilst I have every confidence in your ability to make a cannon powerful enough to send a shot all the way to Oxford, how would it be possible to calculate the trajectory? Only some of the variables would be known and the risk to mundane lives would be high, too.”

Max considered going to warn Rupert but there were several problems, aside from the fact that he would have to truly betray the man he was sworn to serve. The first was that it would be very difficult to even reach the Bodleian. He’d heard from colleagues at the Chapter that the city of Oxford was one of the most tightly controlled in Albion. Nothing happened without the Arbiters there finding out and responding in minutes – they were rumoured to be the most successful Chapter in the Heptarchy. Secondly, even if it were possible to get to Rupert, how could he convince him of the threat? And there was always the possibility – even though it seemed incredibly remote – that Ekstrand was right.

Rupert’s best chance was that Ekstrand’s unravelling sanity would make him incapable of striking an effective blow against him. There had been many sorcerous wars in the past but all were before his lifetime and he had no idea if Ekstrand had ever formally battled with any of the other Sorcerers when they were alive.

“Firing from outside my house in Bath would be a truly idiotic thing to do,” Ekstrand said. “Really, Gordon, I do wonder why you’re here sometimes. No. I’ve used mundane maps to calculate the exact distance between my garden and the Bodleian Library quadrangle. I’m going to open a Way and fire it through.”

Max stopped doubting whether Ekstrand was capable enough. It might only be on a couple of days of the week at most, but on those days he was still brilliant.

“This cannonball–” Ekstrand hefted one up from beside the cannon “–is inscribed with warding formulae.” He held it out to Gordon. “If you can’t interpret any of the variables your apprenticeship is over.”

The young man pored over it for a few seconds. “This is true genius, Mr Ekstrand.”

“Are you stalling?”

“No, sir. There are several strings of formulae. I can see one that would change the composition of the cannonball when it hits stone, changing it to something like… clay – to stick! And here, that’s to make it blend into its surroundings so it’s hard to find. When embedded into a building it would activate wards for the entire Nether structure against nitrogen, oxygen and several trace elements. In other words, air. This one…” He bit his lip. “I think it would force carbon dioxide into the structure – something he can’t have warded against because it’s a natural by-product of breathing. And this here… a ward against silver for the entire structure. Now that’s devilish. And this clause renders the external and internal doors incapable of being opened and the windows from being opened or broken, so it would seal the building completely. The Sorcerer of Mercia would suffocate to death.”

“Will suffocate to death,” Ekstrand said. “Grammar should never be overlooked.”