A MEMORY STIRRED within Zacharias as he entered the Great Hall among a sea of pale faces: a memory of being small and anxious, wishing very much to please, but fearful of being weighed and found wanting.
Time and use had overlaid the memory with fresher impressions. He was no longer intimidated by the vaulted ceilings, the ancient wood-panelled walls or the portraits of sorcerers past, gazing down upon the proceedings in eternal displeasure. He now knew the measure of those around him.
The Society was hard put to summon a quorum at most meetings, but today the Hall was uncommonly crowded. Curiosity about how the Sorcerer Royal proposed to defend himself against the Hallett proved an irresistible draw. Thaumaturges were packed so close in the Hall that sparks of magic flew in the narrow spaces between their bodies.
They were due to be disappointed, as the sharper-witted among them had already deduced. Zacharias Wythe was so composed one might have thought he had never heard of a ritual sacrifice in his life, and Geoffrey Midsomer sat huddled at the back of the room in a fit of the sullens.
Lord Burrow, rising to speak, put paid to any remaining illusions that the meeting might involve anything other than the usual tedious periods.
“I must apologise for this breach of protocol, but Mr. Wythe has kindly surrendered his precedence today to permit me to make an announcement on behalf of the Committee,” he said. “It has come to the Committee’s attention that a purported amendment was made to the Charter, to remove the clause prohibiting the Hallett procedure. This was done in a highly irregular fashion, and we shall be taking measures to withdraw the amendment. There is no longer any intention to undertake the Hallett; the Presiding Committee deems it unnecessary.”
At the disappointment that rippled through the audience, Lord Burrow raised his voice.
“I might add that the Committee considers the attempt to make use of the procedure ill-judged, and regrets that certain elements within the Society should have gone to such lengths to revive its availability. We are satisfied of Mr. Wythe’s claim to the staff, and no allegation against him has been proven that would render it necessary for him to surrender it.”
So far as this went, this was perfectly satisfactory from Zacharias’s perspective, and he experienced a faint pang of regret at Prunella’s timing when Lord Burrow paused, staring.
Zacharias had bribed a servant to smuggle Prunella into the building through a side-door, but Prunella had decided to disregard the discreet entrance he had painstakingly orchestrated for her. She wafted down the centre of the room on Damerell’s arm, appearing splendidly unconscious of the looks and murmurs she drew.
Midsomer glared. Josiah Cullip clearly longed to speak, but he had been given a stern talking-to by Lord Burrow after the events of the day before, and to draw attention to himself now was to risk his position as Secretary to the Committee. It was another supporter of Midsomer’s who took up the gauntlet.
“At least one accusation requires no proof, for he has admitted it himself,” said Mr. Kendle in a strident voice. “Zacharias Wythe has been teaching women magic, and has even invited one here! Is not that a breach worthy of consideration, or is the immunity of the Sorcerer Royal to shield even that folly?”
“There is no provision in the Charter either for or against the practise of magic by females,” said Zacharias. “The general prejudice against it is founded merely in convention. Of course, even if there were such a prohibition in the Charter, the Charter can be amended, as some of my colleagues will be aware.”
Kendle looked rather foolish.
“I do not deny having trained a woman in the principles of thaumaturgy,” Zacharias continued. “She is, as Mr. Kendle observes, here today. And I so dispute any contention that I have done wrong, that I shall declare now, that I hope my instruction of Miss Gentleman will be only the first phase of a comprehensive system of education of women with magical abilities.”
An outraged murmur rustled through the audience. Zacharias spoke over it. He was conscious that very little time remained to him to say his piece. Once he had achieved his purpose—the great, improbable design he hoped to effect at this meeting—it would be too late, and he would have lost his chance.
“It is my hope that we shall soon have schools for the instruction of magiciennes, as useful and esteemed as our schools for boys,” he said. “Since it will require a considerable outlay before any such establishment may begin its operations, however, I would suggest in the meantime that the Society sets up scholarships to fund the instruction of talented magic users who could not otherwise study thaumaturgy.
“Nor should the scholarships be restricted to women. Mine is only one of many voices that have decried the recent practise of demanding that magicians pass for gentlemen before they may pass for thaumaturges. Why should not thaumaturgy be open to the poor? Who among us has not seen the lad on the street, barefoot and ragged, entertaining his friends with a cantrip? The farmer who shields his crops from the frost with a spell, and the coachman who speeds his carriage by magic?”
Zacharias was prevented from continuing by the hubbub of his colleagues’ voices, as his audience vociferously denied ever having seen anything of the sort. Before either he or they had said all they wished, however, they were interrupted in the most spectacular manner conceivable.
The glass of a high window shattered, and a second woman entered the Great Hall—one whose presence Zacharias had not counted upon.
Mak Genggang glided around the Hall above the openmouthed thaumaturges, landing finally on her feet beside Zacharias. She had not come alone.
Sultan Ahmad and Mr. Othman seemed shamefaced about the wings they had sprouted, and were inclined to hang back, but the sultana was not at all discomposed. She was the only one of the curious party who remained wingless. There was nevertheless a subtle difference about her whole person, but Zacharias had little time to contemplate the change. An eerie yowl pierced the air, of such an extraordinary pitch that the magicians in the Hall clapped their hands over their ears.
“Good God!” cried Lord Burrow. “What in Heaven’s name is that?”
“Who is that, if you please!” said Mak Genggang. “He has not a name yet, but he would thank you to be civil all the same, would not he, the precious little creature?”
The infant cradled in her arms did not seem amused by her coaxing. It glowered. In a baby of its diminutive size, this should have been more endearing than intimidating—and would have been, if not for the fact that the tiny mouth contained a complete set of fangs, and the eyes shone a lurid red.
“Mak Genggang!” exclaimed Prunella. “Why, what are you doing here?”
“We are going home, but I thought it would only be civil to bid you good-bye,” said Mak Genggang. “You may give me a kiss, child.”
When Prunella had complied, the witch nodded at the indignant magicians, saying:
“And you may assure your sovereign that he need not worry about us any longer, since he has taken such a kind interest in our island. Sultan Ahmad and I have settled our differences—you will see that I have given him and Mr. Othman wings, so that we may fly home together. The queen is coming to stay with me and my women for a time, so that we can look after her and the little prince.”
Zacharias murmured confused felicitations, which the sultana ignored, and the sultan scowled at.
“Is the baby ill?” said Prunella, inspecting the child with open fascination. “Why does it look so queerly?”
“Oh, he is in fine fettle,” said Mak Genggang, bouncing the creature while it glared around with eyes like red lamps. “Such a child as any mother would be proud of. It is only that he arrived in the world a little late, after his mother had already died.
“Yes,” she added, at Zacharias and Prunella’s exclamations of horror, “the queen had an uncomfortable time of it, poor soul. She was brought to bed of the dear boy last night, but she perished in the process, alas. Fortunately she was transformed instantly into a lamia. That was a piece of great good luck, for it does not happen to all poorly mothers, you know. But it could hardly be expected that her son should be anything but a vampire after that.”
The thaumaturges who had approached to peer at their unexpected guests stepped back as one man, leaving a space around the sultana. Zacharias, looking at her with new eyes, saw the signs of the transformation she had undergone. The nails on the slim brown fingers were long and yellow; the lips were blood-red, and she licked them from time to time with an unnervingly long tongue.
“How extraordinary!” said Zacharias, feeling this did very little to describe the situation.
“Oh, certainly!” Mak Genggang agreed. “I have never seen a male vampire! To be sure, it is uncommon for the child to survive—usually it dies, or is eaten. Fortunately the sultan had the sense to seek me out at once, and I contrived to prevent his royal wife from devouring the poor babe. When a lamia first rises from her deathbed she cannot very well control her instincts, you know, but we have managed to make her understand. However, mother and child still require a great deal of attention, and the sooner we are home, the better.”
“There I certainly concur,” said Lord Burrow. He turned to Zacharias. “Mr. Wythe, this is a meeting of the Fellows of the Society, and there are certain rules to be observed. If you wish to entertain visits from every passing witch, might I suggest that the Great Hall is not the place to do it?”
“But this is not merely a personal visit, sir,” said Zacharias on a sudden inspiration. Mak Genggang was already tucking the babe under her arm and looking about for an exit. “I believe Mak Genggang intends to make an announcement of particular interest to the Society.
“Ma’am,” he said to Mak Genggang, “we had an agreement, as I recall. The thaumaturge who caused your coven such inconvenience has been punished. His familiar has been taken from him.”
“I am pleased to hear it,” said Mak Genggang. “It is no more than he deserves. I should advise you not to stop there, but set fire to his house, too, and sell his children to pirates. That is the only way he will learn to abandon his wicked ways.”
“I am sure he has already begun to regret his wrongdoing,” said Zacharias, keeping a stern eye on the furious Midsomer. “But I think you promised a favour in return for his punishment, Mak Genggang. It was to do with the block upon our magic?”
“Well!” said Mak Genggang, hesitating. “As to that, it seems to me the less magic the English possess, the less likely they are to send magical armies to menace us.”
“Oh, pray remove the block on our magic, Mak Genggang,” Prunella interrupted. “It is so provoking for our magicians to be forever running out of magic. Of course they are tiresome creatures and do not deserve anything better, but it puts them in such horrid tempers, and they take it out on Zacharias.”
“Which is very bad for him, I am sure,” said Mak Genggang. “However, if it is a question of whether he is to suffer, or my women—”
“But I am thinking of you and your women,” said Prunella earnestly. “For you must know that our King still has any number of ships and guns and soldiers, and he is probably quite wicked enough to use them if you vex him.”
“Miss Gentleman!” sputtered Lord Burrow.
But however treasonous it might be to malign one’s own sovereign to the representative of a foreign power, it seemed to have the desired effect.
“Perhaps you are right,” said Mak Genggang begrudgingly. “We shall see. I will ask my women to intercede with the spirits on Britain’s behalf, and perhaps they will permit magic to enter your realm again.”
“We should be very much obliged if you would,” said Zacharias.
“You must not expect immediate results, however,” said Mak Genggang. “My women have been in a continual twitter since the attack. You might not think it, but lamiae are the most high-strung creatures in the world! But I will tell them they have nothing to fear from the foreigners. The Sorcerer Royal himself has extended his protection to them, and the Sorcerer Royal can be trusted. Is not that so?”
The bold black eyes met Zacharias’s, and in them he read a threat that rendered their gaze rather more frightening than the baby’s.
“I certainly hope so,” he said.
• • •
ZACHARIAS’S colleagues had not followed all of the conversation, and after Mak Genggang departed through the window she broke, it was necessary for him to explain that he had (he hoped) remedied the problem of the decline in Britain’s magic, without employing a single spell.
The thaumaturges were inclined to think he ought simply to have put the foreign witch under lock and key until her followers had promised to remove the block on England’s magic.
“After all, there is nothing to say she will keep her word,” said Kendle. “Like as not she will not. No foreigner ever does.” He gave Zacharias a look pregnant with meaning.
“I do not know that I credit this cock-and-bull story of vampiresses bribing the Fairy Court to deprive Britain of magic,” said another thaumaturge. “I have taken the measure of our atmospheric magic myself this past fortnight, and it is on the rise for the first time in years—each week higher than the last.”
“Indeed,” said Zacharias. “That brings me to another announcement I wished to make today.”
“Another announcement!” said Lord Burrow: he had begun to think of his dinner.
“I think I can promise it will be my last,” said Zacharias.
“I beg you will be quick about it,” said Lord Burrow. “If it is about those scholarships, we shall take the notion under consideration, so you need not belabour the point.”
“I hope you will,” said Zacharias. “I believe it is a scheme that can only benefit the nation. I hope my successor will agree, but as I am resigning, it would be overstepping my place to say any more.”
The room went still. Damerell looked up, alert as a hound that had caught the scent.
“You are not allowed to resign, man,” cried Lord Burrow.
“I think you will find that I am,” said Zacharias composedly. “But I am conscious of the importance of avoiding any gap in succession, and I have already considered who should take the staff after me. I believe the staff will concur, for Miss Gentleman is the best-equipped of any magician living to adapt to the peculiar demands of the position.”
For a moment a fragile silence reigned over the Hall—a quiet composed of pure astonishment. It was broken by a deep, bubbling, delighted laugh, issuing from Damerell’s corner of the room.
“I have never been so happy to have risen before noon,” said Damerell.
Prunella stared at Zacharias as though she had never seen him before. But no one took any notice of her, for everyone else was having his say.
The general feeling was that Zacharias had lost his mind, and was almost as much to be pitied as censured.
“You have perhaps been working too hard, Wythe,” said Lord Burrow. “Perhaps you should take a sabbatical. A holiday will set you up.”
“It is not such a bad idea,” said Cullip, who looked in better spirits than he had since Zacharias had left him shivering upon the Cobb. “Since the Sorcerer Royal proposes to forswear the staff, we should put his successor to the vote. Mr. Geoffrey Midsomer—”
“Has withdrawn himself from candidacy,” said Zacharias, fixing his gaze upon Midsomer, who squirmed. “Besides, you forget, Mr. Cullip, that magic is not a democracy.”
With this he picked up the staff and, pitching low, threw it to Prunella.
She caught it, looking as startled as any of the men around her.
“For the sake of the Seven Spirits, Miss Gentleman, and in the name of the Grand Sorceress,” said Zacharias. “An enchantment, if you please. I would suggest a summoning. I believe your interpretation of the old formula will greatly interest the gentlemen present.”
Recognition entered Prunella’s eyes, followed by a glow of pride. She lifted her chin, holding up the staff.
It was a risk. The staff of the Sorcerer Royal was not known to be kind to the magicians whose mastery it rejected. But Zacharias was not afraid—or so he told himself, over the deafening thump of his own heart. The mistress of three familiars could justly claim precedence over any thaumaturge in the Hall, including himself.
Prunella spoke the formula for summoning in ringing tones.
For a dreadful moment nothing happened. One of the gentlemen standing by Prunella sought to take the staff from her. She offered to knock him on the head with it, before Damerell intervened:
“You will have the courtesy to permit Miss Gentleman the trial, sir, or have me to answer for it.”
“Is this some sort of joke, Wythe?” Cullip began to bluster, when a gargoyle came to life behind him.
Nidget somersaulted off the wall, knocking the astonished Cullip off his feet, and it was followed by the others.
Tjandra blossomed from the bosses above—the dear familiar bosses, which had been so helpful to Zacharias in days past. The simurgh’s brilliant green wings seemed to block out the light as he flew to his mistress.
Youko made the most conventional entry. She trotted in through the door, pushing thaumaturges out of the way with a jerk of her horned head, till Prunella was surrounded by her familiars—a small, indomitable figure, with the staff glowing in her hand.
• • •
IT is not a point that admits of debate,” said Mr. Plimpton. “The rule cannot be circumvented.”
The private room to which the Presiding Committee had retired was too small for the number of people crowded into it, and Mr. Plimpton had been growing hotter and more disgruntled in the course of the meeting. He was a large, bald man, in appearance resembling nothing so much as an irate infant, and his temper had reached such a pitch that Damerell was moved to suggest in a whisper that Prunella summon a nurse to put baby down for a nap.
He spoke in jest, but Prunella secretly thought it no bad idea. It seemed absurd that the Committee should be so perplexed by a minor point of protocol, when her three familiars sat around her feet, proving her the most powerful magician in the room.
“The command of the familiar Leofric has been a precondition of the office since the time of Roger Hayes,” said Mr. Plimpton. “The staff is not sufficient.”
“It was sufficient with me,” said Zacharias. He was wrinkling his forehead in a manner that signified he had a headache, but did not intend to let anyone else know it. It was a look with which Prunella had grown all too familiar.
Mr. Plimpton glanced at Lord Burrow, who coughed.
“We had received confirmation from the Fairy Court that Leofric had submitted to your control,” he said. “They would not be drawn on the details, but they were unwavering on that point. We could scarcely have permitted your accession to the office without that assurance.”
“I cannot see what is so terribly special about this old dragon,” said Prunella. “My familiars could match him any day, I am sure.”
“Admittedly a practitioner that has the benefit of three familiars must be reckoned an extraordinary force,” said Lord Burrow, not quite addressing her.
The Presiding Committee had not made up its mind as to how it stood on Prunella, and had fallen into two camps: one that glared at her, and another that pretended she was not there. Prunella found both equally diverting.
“But the office of Sorcerer Royal is not merely reserved for the magician that can prove himself most powerful,” said Lord Burrow. “One of its purposes is to preserve our traditions of magic, and the Sorcerer Royal’s familiar is not the least of these. The Sorcerer Royal must have Leofric as well as the staff. Since it appears Mr. Wythe retains Leofric as his familiar, he cannot simply relinquish the staff and expect to be divested of his office.”
“I assure you,” said Zacharias wearily, “if I could be free of Leofric, I would.”
Prunella was not particularly interested in the discussion. It was clear to her that she was Sorceress Royal, and if the Society wished to quarrel with the fact now, they would soon think better of it. Leofric, however, was a subject in which she had considerable interest, and she felt no compunction in interrupting the Committee’s ditherings for this.
“Have not you tried persuading Leofric to leave you, Zacharias?” she said. “I think we ought to have it out with him, ought we not? He seems a wretched inconvenience. I am sure we could find you a better familiar.”
“There is nothing to have out,” said Zacharias shortly. “Our agreement was clear. In any case, even I am unable to converse with Leofric. Our communication takes place by other means.”
“I suppose you mean your midnight visitations!” said Prunella. “It all sounds very unpleasant. I think we ought to speak to him by ordinary means.”
Zacharias opened his mouth, doubtless to object, but Prunella’s familiars had explained his arrangement with Leofric, and it did not seem to her that it would be difficult to extract the dragon. The procedure might cause Zacharias some discomfort, but if she acted quickly enough, he would scarcely notice it. Since his mouth was already open, she decided to take time by the forelock, and plunged her arm down his throat.
“Good God!” cried Damerell.
Zacharias was choking around Prunella’s arm—a horrible sensation—but she resolutely ignored it, and rummaged about. Leofric did not, of course, occupy Zacharias’s physical insides, much though it might feel like it to Zacharias. He inhabited instead a magical space that happened to overlap with Zacharias’s vitals. Fortunately Leofric was the only inhabitant, and Prunella soon found what she was after: a bony limb, covered with scales. She grasped hold of it.
Prunella withdrew her arm in triumph. Zacharias was clutching at his chest, his face twisted in a grimace. He bent over, his hand pressed to his heart, and let loose an enormous sneeze.
“Is this he?” said Prunella.
A dragon sat on the floor, looking astonished. It was far smaller than Rollo, and not half as attractive, for its skin was leathery with age, and its amber eyes had a hardened, cynical look.
“Good day, Leofric,” said Zacharias. He looked somewhat dazed. “May I present to you the Sorceress Royal?”
Leofric had clearly not been attending to the goings-on outside Zacharias, for he said:
“A Sorceress Royal? I agreed to serve you only upon the condition that you held the staff.”
“Your agreement is precisely what I wished to speak to you about,” said Prunella. “What good does your bond do Zacharias, if you are forever gnawing away at his insides and making him indisposed?”
Leofric gave her an incredulous look.
“Zacharias has access to the profoundest depths and most exalted heights of magic,” he said. “I have bestowed upon him the gift of an ageless wisdom, and an understanding of the mysteries of sorcery surpassing the ken of ordinary mortals.”
“If ordinary mortals can do without, I cannot see why Zacharias should not be content with a comprehension only of those mysteries that fall within their ken,” said Prunella. “Would not you consider terminating the agreement? You could return to Fairyland. I am told it is a prodigiously agreeable place.”
“The agreement will only be terminated when I have received my payment,” said Leofric, with hauteur. “I accepted Zacharias’s soul in exchange for Stephen’s, on the understanding that I could begin to exact payment while he was still alive. As matters stand, I have rendered service to two sorcerers, and have enjoyed the benefit of only a portion of one soul.”
“But,” argued Prunella, “if Zacharias were to live till he were seventy—which let us say he will, because the Bible says so, though it would be no surprise were he to be killed off earlier, living as he does in a nest of snakes and scorpions in human form—if, as I said, he were to live to a ripe old age, defying assassins, and being Sorcerer Royal all that time, that would require of you forty-six years of bondage. You have only rendered Zacharias a few months of service. Even if we were to be generous and allow it to be a year, you would only be entitled to one sorcerer, in compensation for your service to Sir Stephen, and two percent of another.”
Prunella was delighted with this calculation, which she had invented as she spoke, and thought rather clever. Leofric seemed less pleased.
“I am not sure I like your purported successor, Zacharias,” he said.
“Nor do any of us,” said Mr. Plimpton.
“You will have to recover the staff,” said Leofric to Zacharias—speaking as though Prunella were not there at all! “It was shockingly careless of you to have lost it.”
Prunella saw that she was losing her audience’s attention. She had hoped to avoid what she must do—what she had planned since she had heard Zacharias’s account of how he had come to be Sorcerer Royal—but there was nothing for it. The alternative was to permit Leofric to continue tormenting Zacharias, with the certain result that Zacharias would be bound for an early grave, and that was not to be thought of.
“You have not heard me out, Leofric, but I think you ought,” said Prunella. She must be calm, and keep her mind clear as glass, or the familiars would begin to suspect her intentions. “Zacharias promised you one mortal in exchange for two. But what if I were to offer you something else entirely? Another type of feast, far better, far finer, not to be compared with mortal flesh or spirit? Would not that settle the balance?”
A gleam of interest lit Leofric’s eyes.
“Speak further,” he said—but then her meaning struck him. He reared back, squealing, a noise that startled the thaumaturges, and sent Tjandra fluttering up to the ceiling.
Prunella did not take her eyes off the dragon.
“Which would you offer me?” growled Leofric.
“The oldest. It is best,” said Prunella. Her hands were trembling. She clenched them into fists. She would need them soon. She would need to act at once, quicker than thought. “But you must release Zacharias from his bond. Say it now.”
“Yes,” said Leofric, and Prunella’s hand flashed out. She seized Nidget by the scruff of its neck, and, with a strength she had not thought she possessed, threw the elvet at Leofric.
Leofric darted forward. A snap of his jaws, a heartrending wail from Nidget, and Nidget vanished.
Zacharias sat down abruptly. The other magicians were pale with shock.
Prunella observed that the trembling in her hands had spread to the rest of her person. She felt as though she had been hollowed out.
But it had had to be done, and she had her mother’s own capacity for ruthlessness. The daughter of a Grand Sorceress—the heir to the Seven Spirits—could not hesitate to act for fear of any consequence.
“Tjandra, Youko—to me,” said Prunella quietly.
There was a moment of doubt, when it was not clear what the simurgh and the unicorn would choose: loyalty, or rebellion. Out of the corner of her eye, Prunella saw Zacharias reach for his staff, before he recollected that it was no longer his.
She was not afraid. And her lack of fear—her certainty that her familiars would come to her—communicated itself to them. The familiars valued fidelity, but above all, they esteemed power.
They came to her hand, as she had never doubted they would: first Youko, bowing her head to be stroked, and then Tjandra, perching on her shoulder, and burying his face meekly in her hair.
Lord Burrow collapsed into his chair. Damerell swore in a low voice.
Prunella raised her head and looked at Leofric.
“It suffices?” Her voice was rough, as if she had been weeping, though she had not made a sound. She touched her cheek, and saw that her hand was wet. She had not noticed the tears rolling down her face.
Leofric swallowed and let out a contented sigh.
“The debt is discharged,” he said.
Damerell was clearly shaken, but he said:
“It strikes me that a fairy, in return for one and a bit of a mortal, goes far beyond an equal exchange. Indeed, it seems to me that you are somewhat in Miss Gentleman’s debt.”
“The agreement—” began Leofric.
“Oh, leave off your rules-lawyering, pray,” said Damerell. “Rollo always said this was why you were so disliked at Court. You may call it a fair bargain, and perhaps it will suit Miss Gentleman to agree, but how will the Fairy Court view your devouring one of its subjects?”
“You would never tell the Court. It would make Miss Gentleman too unpopular,” said Leofric—but this line of talk seemed to make him nervous.
“The honour of mortals is not much esteemed in Fairyland anyway,” said Damerell. “It may even be said that a fairy that submits itself to the indignities of mortal service deserves whatever it gets. But the Court is likely to take a very different view of a dragon who eats its own kin.”
He lowered his quizzing-glass and began to polish it.
“Of course,” he continued, “if the, ah, devourer in question were a familiar of Miss Gentleman’s, I should not dream of breathing a word to anyone. Miss Gentleman is a friend of mine. A ravening dragon to whom one has no connection may be criminal, but the familiar of a friend can only be eccentric.”
“I am at Miss Gentleman’s service, of course,” said Leofric, bowing his head towards Prunella. “Now that the debt is paid, and the staff has acknowledged her its mistress.”
“I am obliged to you,” said Prunella, “but I do not want your service. Tjandra and Youko are enough for me—and without intending any offence, I could not bear to replace Nidget with its devourer. Why do not you return to Fairyland? I expect you have not seen your friends there in ever so long.”
“It does not seem to have occurred to you that there is a reason for that,” said Leofric grimly. “However, if that is your wish, I shall abide by it. I am at your disposal—summon me as you wish—so long as our agreement subsists.”
“I shall be silent as the grave,” Prunella assured him. “And so will these other gentlemen be, if they know what is good for them.”
“Am I correct, then, in understanding that you have acknowledged your subservience to Miss Gentleman?” said Damerell.
Leofric was poised at the open window, but he paused to say, “Oh yes, if that is how you wish to put it,” before he leapt out into the air.
“Gentlemen,” said Damerell to the room, “I think that addresses the last of your concerns. May I be the first to congratulate our nation’s first Sorceress Royal?”
Prunella curtsied and managed to smile, though she hardly felt like it. She was already learning the price of power. For that moment at least it was small comfort that she knew herself capable of paying it.
• • •
I do not know that I have ever been more shocked,” said Sir Stephen.
“Yes,” said Zacharias. “Prunella has a gift for occasioning shock.”
They were walking in the Society gardens. The Presiding Committee had disbanded in confusion, and Damerell had escorted Prunella home.
“It is because she lacks any scruples whatsoever,” added Zacharias. “She will make a good Sorceress Royal—far better than I ever was.”
“And is Leofric truly gone?” said Sir Stephen. There was a trace of wistfulness in his voice. “He had his faults, I know. He was determined he should be acquitted according to his merits. But who is to say he was not entitled to his reward? He rendered faithful service for many years, and to me, at least, he was a true friend.”
“He held you in esteem, I know,” said Zacharias gently. “Do not think that I resent him. Magical creatures live by a different code. He did me a favour in accepting the substitution I offered—though I cannot say I regret him.”
“The pain is quite gone?”
“It ceased the moment he ate Nidget,” said Zacharias. “If nothing else, Leofric is a dragon of his word.”
“So he always was,” said Sir Stephen.
They passed under rustling canopies of pale green leaves, their measured tread bringing them along the shrubbery which screened off the outside world.
“Well, there is no need to explain anything to you, Zacharias,” said Sir Stephen. “You always knew me and Maria as well as we did ourselves. Never was there such an observant child. Your nurse said she never knew such a feeling little creature. Why, you will not recollect this, but when you were quite a little boy, no more than three or four years old, you used to take my hand when I visited the nursery, and ask if I were very tired, in such a solicitous manner as, combined with your imperfect pronunciation, was quite absurdly moving.”
Zacharias did, in fact, remember this. He had been instructed to ask the question by his nurse, who considered that, as a charity case, he should make special efforts to win his guardian’s affections.
“It stands to reason they will find it harder to love a little black creature like you, than if you had dear Lady Wythe’s blue eyes and golden hair,” Martha had said.
She had meant to be kind. Martha had been attached to him notwithstanding his blackness, and had wept to leave him when she went away to be married. It had all happened long ago, in any case, and there was little purpose in disillusioning Sir Stephen now.
“May I hope, sir, that you are finally acting in accordance with my wish that you should move on to your final home?” said Zacharias. “You know it was never any part of my intention to bind you to this world.”
“Then you should not have sacrificed yourself for the good of my immortal soul,” said Sir Stephen. “You are not the only one capable of feeling beholden to his friends.”
“If we are to enter into the question of which of us owes the greatest debt to the other—” Zacharias began.
“I beg we will not,” said Sir Stephen mildly. “I chose to take you on, you know. Since the decision to become a parent is invariably self-interested, it is my belief that a parent’s obligation is to the child, and the child’s obligation is to itself. However, let us avoid such old ground, or we will fall to quarrelling again. I have always said I would consider myself at liberty only once you were relieved of the burden you assumed upon my death. Now you are free, it is clear that my duty no longer calls me to tarry. I have known for a while that I am awaited elsewhere, and have only delayed because you had the better claim upon me.”
Zacharias could not speak. Sir Stephen’s continued presence had not always been convenient, but he had, Zacharias now realised, come to rely upon the certainty that Sir Stephen would appear when he was needed. It was curious to think that he had been present at Sir Stephen’s death, but was the only person for whom his death had not been real—until now.
“Whatever they have in the worlds beyond this one, I will miss these gardens,” said Sir Stephen, looking around. “So many memories are associated with them. Still, memory is not enough to linger on. Maria may eventually succumb to the attentions of that impudent fellow Barbary, and then where would I be? Better to pass on—to leave you mortals to the business of living, and concern myself with the business of dying.”
Rather shocked, Zacharias said: “I cannot conceive that Lady Wythe would dream of entertaining inappropriate attentions so soon after your death.”
“Oh, they are not inappropriate,” said Sir Stephen. “Daniel Barbary would never do anything inappropriate, damn him. He has vouchsafed only the most delicate civilities—the kindest consideration. He would make an excellent husband if Maria were inclined to risk marriage again. It would doubtless be for the best if she did: she was not made for a solitary existence, and though I know you would do what you could, you could not provide anything like the companionship of a husband. It would be greatly to Maria’s advantage to contract another union—and so I had better move on. Doubtless these matters will seem of little consequence in the next life.”
“You have been very good to me, Sir Stephen,” said Zacharias unsteadily. Now that the loss approached, it seemed to him that it came too soon. There still remained far too much to say—far too much left undone, to permit of their parting.
“What, now, will we speak of obligation again?” said Sir Stephen, smiling. “I have proscribed all such talk, remember. I have heard enough of duty from you, Zacharias. Now you are liberated from your office—which I know you entered for duty’s sake—I hope you will concern yourself much more with what you desire. With what would give you joy. You have given me such joy, my dear boy. That I shall remember, wherever death may take me.”
At the gate Sir Stephen paused and laid his hand upon Zacharias’s shoulder. A light pressure—a last look, full of affection—and he departed. He walked along the street, his image fading as he went, until even by straining his tear-blurred sight to the utmost, Zacharias could not descry any trace of his oldest friend.