Fallen Magic

There are a few dozen recorded cases of a punishment for treason other than death, at least that I’ve managed to track down. Two were extremely close to the King before their betrayal, so Charlotte Ginger and Thomas the Defender let them live out of some lingering attachment. Three more committed treason against Lucius the Usurper, and their punishments were quite possibly worse than death.

Another dozen or so occurred during a time of war, and the traitors were sent to the most dangerous parts of the battlefront with the expectation they would die there, though the two who managed to survive the war received full pardons and returned to life at court.

It all makes for fascinating reading, but none of those are precedents I can use to argue that Lord Cavendish should be spared. There are more useful cases, though: several traitors had their sentences reduced in exchange for naming their collaborators and contacts. Surely Lord Blackthorn can see the merit in that approach, being Minister for Intelligence?

Then there are the miscellaneous cases. Iris Woodward was a ranking priestess of the Temple four hundred years ago, and at the time the law prohibited the execution of priests. She was sentenced to life in prison, but died of supposed food poisoning a month or two later. A couple of the more radical sects still hold that she was a walking star, though the Temple itself has no official stance on the matter.

And then Georgiana Blackthorn, daughter and heir of Felix. She was found guilty of supporting her father’s illegal seizure of the throne during the purges that followed the end of the Second Civil War, but suffered only the seizure of most of the Blackthorns’ wealth and the loss of lands that would have resulted from the new anti-magician laws anyway. No-one quite knows why she was spared: some historians claim that she was a childhood friend of Charles the Ruthless, while others argue that her father made it a condition of his surrender.

I don’t think the circumstances of this case are quite that special. Still, I’m putting together a few arguments that stand up to scrutiny: potential gain of intelligence about whatever Sirgalese faction is plotting to provoke war, the risk that an execution could agitate Lord Cavendish’s political allies and turn them against the throne, the option to exploit the situation to show the King’s great mercy and wisdom.

It's a start.

“How’s it going?” asks Edward, poking his head through the door of the study room.

I shrug. “Making progress.”

“You missed dinner.”

I blink a few times and glance up at the clock. It’s seven and fifteen after noon, and now he mentions it I am rather hungry. “Oh. Oops.”

“I brought snacks,” he says, stepping inside to reveal that he’s holding a plateful of fruit and cheese.

“Thanks,” I reply absently.

“You’re not going to help anyone if you work yourself to death,” Edward says.

“I’m not – “

“Skipping meals isn’t a healthy habit.”

“I didn’t mean to skip dinner! I just… lost track of time.”

“Sure,” says Edward in a tone that suggests he doesn’t entirely believe me, even though I’m telling the truth. “Anyway. Have a break and some food.”

“Fine,” I mutter, clearing a space on the desk for him to set the plate down. “Have you heard – “

“I only sent the message five hours ago. He’s still at work. There’s a debate in Parliament about reforming the tax system today, and I imagine he’s extra busy dealing with the Cavendish case as well.”

“Tax reform,” I say, latching onto something that isn’t what’s consuming my mind right now. “What… sort of tax reform?”

Edward shrugs. “I don’t know the details. I think they’re planning on increasing death taxes so they have more money for the defence budget.”

Because of the possibly-impending war that I’m not supposed to know about –

“Wait. I can’t talk about, uh, Sirgalese relations with your dad, can I?”

“Not unless you want him knowing I accidentally told you state secrets. And I would prefer not to have to deal with that conversation. But if you – “

“It’s fine. I’ll think of something else.”

“Thanks.”

I take a slice of cheese. It’s a little strong for my tastes, but the aftertaste is quite pleasant.

“Speaking of tax reform,” says Edward, “have I told you how my dad got income tax reforms passed?”

“No,” I say, shooting him a sceptical look.

“It’s a better story than it sounds, honestly. Helps you understand how he thinks, but mostly I just want an excuse to tell it.”

I shrug. “Go ahead, then.”

“About six or seven years ago, income tax was just a flat percentage of your earnings, no matter how much money you earned. And… do you know anything about how ministerial budgets work?”

“Why would I?”

“Right, yes. I guess you wouldn’t. How it works is each Ministry is given a certain amount of funding per year, and then the Minister allocates that money to where it’s needed within the department. Staff wages, rent on premises, equipment, whatever else they need. Each minister’s budget has to be approved by Parliament, but that’s mostly a formality. Barely anyone even reads through the budget before approving it.”

I begin to get a sense of where this story is going.

“It takes a lot of money to run a good intelligence network. A lot more money than the Treasury was giving the Ministry for Intelligence. So my dad submitted his budget, and it was approved. And what they didn’t realise was that he’d given himself a very large negative salary, so he was effectively paying for half the Ministry’s operations out of his own pocket.”

“You can do that?” I ask.

“Well. Not now, you can’t. Strangely enough, Parliament decided to pass a law stating that no-one should pay to do their job shortly after this incident. But at the time, there was nothing stopping him. So he proposed a tax reform law, which stipulated among other things that anyone earning below a certain threshold doesn’t pay income tax. It was rejected, because there was a lot of opposition to it and a lot of people who’d reject anything proposed by a Blackthorn on principle.”

He's grinning. “And then payday came around, and he walked into the Treasury and demanded their money. Because if you have a negative salary, you pay negative income tax. That caused the scandal you’d think it would, though he did intimidate an official into actually giving him the money. And when he was called out in Parliament, he just pointed out that what he had done was perfectly legal. And that he’d wanted to prevent himself from doing this, but they’d rejected the law that would have done that.”

“…wow. That actually worked?”

Edward nods. “Made him a few enemies, but got the tax reforms passed and the Ministry properly funded. And several laws passed to make sure no-one could ever do that again.”

I laugh. “I can see why.”

If that was supposed to be a lesson in how Lord Blackthorn thinks, all it’s taught me is that I have no idea beyond “prone to exploitation of loopholes”. Though… could I use that? A scheme like the one Edward described is exactly what we need right now.

“Does he… enjoy doing things like that?” I ask.

Edward narrows his eyes. “What exactly do you mean?”

“If… would the challenge of finding a way to spare Cavendish without the political damage be enough in itself to motivate him to try it?”

“Oh! I hadn’t even thought of that.” Naturally, he then proceeds to snuff out that flicker of hope. “I don’t think so, no. He isn’t in this to indulge himself in scheming for scheming’s sake.”

“Then what does he want?” I feel a little silly asking that, because it should have been the very first question that came to mind. The best way to understand someone’s actions is first to understand their motivations. Miss Jenkins used to say that a lot; it’s good advice even when dealing with figures not yet consigned to history, and I’d nearly forgotten it.

“To keep Rasin safe,” Edward replies without hesitation. “Whatever’s best for his country.”

I don’t know why I’m so surprised at how… idealistic that sounds. I’ve probably heard too many rumours about how he’s planning to seize the throne or otherwise increase his own power. “And,” I say grimly, “in this case…”

“…it would be hard to argue that it’s in the country’s best interests to let a traitor live,” Edward finishes in almost the same tone. “And it would be hard to argue it’s in your best interest to keep thinking about this instead of taking care of yourself. So eat.”

I accept defeat and take another piece of cheese.

I make little further progress over the next day, despite the amount of time I pour into the project. Enough that I realise at ten after noon that I haven’t finished the Magical Law and Culture essay due the next afternoon. So I lose two hours’ sleep, and the sleep I do get isn’t of the best quality. In fact I wake at some stupidly early hour, convinced that if I were a better researcher or knew more about politics I’d be able to solve this unsolvable problem I’ve set myself.

And that leads to a Malaina episode I don’t notice until it’s nearly too late, but I do eventually manage to control my breathing and fall back asleep without waking anyone else.

“Have you heard?” I ask Edward for the fifth time, the moment I come down for breakfast. I’m normally a morning person, but today he looks almost offensively alert compared to me.

Edward shakes his head.

Surely Lord Blackthorn must have found the two minutes to reply to his son by now?

We’re short on time, the newspapers are eager to remind us. The trial of Lord Cavendish for high treason begins today. Though at least it’s likely to go on for several weeks, so we have that long to arrange the meeting and find a compelling argument.

I’m quieter than normal in the day’s lessons, my focus stolen by the knowledge of the pile of books to cross-reference as soon as I get the time. It takes me a couple of seconds to even realise that Sam is asking me a question, and a good few more to pull together a half-coherent answer.

I can’t meet Mildred’s eyes all day. I promised her I’d find a way, and I’m failing.

At least I can catch up on sleep that night. Or that’s what I think, until Hannah announces that it’s her birthday (did I know that? Should I have known that?) and our dormitory is celebrating it. I retreat behind the curtains, consider sleeping, realise that’s not going to work and continue reading through an old tome about the Temple’s stance on the death penalty by a conjured light.

After a while the words start swimming before my eyes. I find myself reading the same sentence three times and still not being able to remember what it says a few seconds later. I’m just so tired…

“I’m sorry, Mildred,” I mutter, the book sliding from my lap.

Sudden bright light. I open my eyes and blink a few times. I’m lying on top of something hard: the book I was reading last night. It’s bright, too bright. The curtains are open, and Lucy and Aisha are perched on the end of the bed.

“Tallulah?” asks Aisha softly.

“Mm,” I mutter, still mostly asleep. “What time…”

“Eight and forty.”

That’s enough to jolt me awake. Eight and forty. Alchemy is at nine. Do I even have time for breakfast? I can’t skip breakfast. I can never function before I’ve eaten. I leap out of bed – or try to; turns out sleeping half-sitting on top of a heavy book makes you somewhat stiff when you wake up.

“Tallulah, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I insist, pulling my trunk out from under my bed and fumbling for a set of clean clothes. “Just got to get to breakfast.”

“You’re not fine, Tallulah,” says Aisha. “I saw you in class yesterday, you were clearly distracted.”

“The Death Penalty and Temple Doctrine Through the Centuries,” Lucy says, picking up the book – I feel a flash of guilt for so badly mistreating it, and hope I haven’t caused any permanent damage. “You were reading that last night instead of sleeping?”

Oh. I don’t have an answer for that, so I ignore it, snatch up the last of my clothes and pad to the bathroom to change.

“Is this about what’s happening with Lord Cavendish?” guesses Aisha. “It’s shocking, I know, and one of our classmates as well – but – “

I step into the bathroom, ignoring her.

“Tallulah, you need to talk to someone – “

I slam the door in Aisha’s face, hating myself for it.

They don’t understand. They don’t understand that I’m meeting with a man I’m quite frankly terrified of and that what I say to him could determine whether Mildred’s father lives or dies. They can’t understand I’m failing.

And I can’t talk to them. I can’t talk to anyone about this.

I can’t do this any more.

I’m not even particularly surprised to hear my heart pounding in my ears and feel as if I’m watching myself collapse onto the bathroom floor. Breathe, Tallulah.

Why? What difference does it make?

Look at me. It’s okay.

That’s Edward’s voice in my mind, and I almost laugh at how stupid I’m being.

There is someone I can talk to.

I just need to make it to breakfast and not be late to Alchemy.