Fallen Magic

The Central Ring is thronged with people; it’s so packed we don’t have a chance of getting through it. A few people have climbed up onto the statue. The noise is deafening: half a dozen different chants are echoing through the crowd, the most prominent of which is “We want the King!”

A regiment of soldiers stand around the edges of the ring, blocking people from passing into the Ring from any of the four great roads or leaving it for any of the Kingdom’s most important buildings. I recognise the purple-and-gold insignia emblazoned on their armour: the High Royal Guard.

There are maybe half a dozen other people gathered on the steps of the Abbey, excluding the five soldiers standing at their base. “What’s happening?” I ask the nearest man, raising my voice to be heard above the crowd.

He removes a pipe from the corner of his mouth and exhales a little smoke. “Protesting the new death taxes,” he replies. “Saying it’ll hurt the poor and line the coffers of the rich. Demanding audience with the King.”

“Will it? Hurt the poor, I mean.”

The man shrugs. “Not that much. The taxes are taken as a proportion of the deceased’s estate, so most poor families won’t lose more than a few silver pieces.”

Which is still a vast amount, to them. This man doesn’t know what it’s like to be poor.

I haven’t known true poverty myself, of course, but many of my friends from junior school would come to school in patched-up clothes because they couldn’t afford new ones. I remember once one of the teachers was furious at a couple of them for not being able to afford textbooks.

I can’t quite pin down the man’s accent, I realise. It’s not quite the polished speech of a noble, but nor is it the twang of the City. Is he foreign?

“Will the King see them?” asks Elsie.

“Not if they come to his doorstep like this, he won’t. A small group, with well-organised objections, yes. But this is barely better than a mob.”

I suddenly remember Edward telling me a couple of days ago why his father hadn’t replied to his note. There was a tax reform debate in Parliament. That must have been when they agreed this new death tax, but… “The new taxes were only just introduced,” I say aloud. “Why are there protests so soon?”

The man gives me a searching look. “You’re right,” he says. “That wouldn’t happen naturally. Someone is inciting the people, causing unrest.”

“But why?” asks Elsie.

“I only wish I knew.”

I can make a pretty good guess, though. This has happened a few times before in history, and possibly more that aren’t known. Protests and riots make the king look weak and out of touch with their people, and a weak king is one step closer to no longer being a king.

So someone is trying to undermine the king’s power, possibly as a way to increase their own.

Lord Blackthorn?

If the papers are to be believed, he’s not above using protests for his own purposes.

If Edward is to be believed, he has no designs on the throne.

I want to ask Edward about it, but I don’t think saying So, I think someone is plotting to steal the throne, is it your dad? is likely to end well.

“I guess you girls are looking to get out of here?” the man asks.

“Yes.”

“The Abbey has a back entrance. It’s normally only for priests, but they’ll let you use it in a situation like this. Just tell them you want to leave but can’t go out the main way because of the protests.”

“Thank you,” says Elsie. “Come on, Tallulah, let’s go.” She tugs open the door of the Abbey again and steps through it.

“Thank you,” I repeat, “for answering my questions.” I turn to leave.

“You’re quite welcome. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Roberts.”

I freeze, my heart skipping a beat. How does – why – what does he want with me?

“A-actually, I might just stay a little longer,” I say to Elsie. “See what happens. Wait for me inside.” I’m not letting her be dragged into this… whatever it is.

“Are you sure – “

“Yes,” I say, more snappishly than I’d like, and then more calmly: “Yes. I’m sure. See you in a few minutes.”

Elsie nods and tugs the great door shut behind her.

For a moment I wish I’d followed her, but curiosity wins out over common sense. I turn to face the man, willing my voice to remain steady. “Who are you,” I say, “and how do you know my name?”

He smiles a little. “Your friend told me. It’s an uncommon name, and you have a distinctive appearance. I’d be surprised if there was more than one person fitting your first name and description in the City.”

Which answers one of my questions without really telling me anything.

The man looks away from me, back to the sea of chanting protestors. “There seems to be an incident occurring at the Central Bank,” he remarks. “Investigate it, would you?”

One of the other women standing on the steps jerks her head up in response. “All of us, sir? But you – “

“I can look after myself. Thank you for your concern. You have your orders.”

Okay, yeah. I’m in much worse trouble than I realised. Or perhaps not, if he’s sending his people to the Central Bank.

But no. If he’s a magician then I don’t stand a chance in a fight, not without unleashing the full power of Malaina.

There is nothing that you cannot make worse by an active episode.

Electra is right, stars damn her. An explosive attack of magic now could be the spark that turns this protest into a riot.

Maybe I can get out? There’s no question of going through the Ring, but I could retreat back to the Abbey –

The five people other than the man and I on the steps pivot on the spot and vanish into thin air. Teleportation. Are they… what was that acronym Edward used? SMOs? Yes, that was it. Special Magical Operatives.

Focus, Tallulah. I take a step backwards, towards the Abbey doors.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the man says. “I just want to talk.”

I bite back the snarky reply that comes to mind and repeat “Who are you?”

“I’ve heard you’re a smart girl, Miss Roberts. You can work it out for yourself.”

All right. Fine. I’ll play his stupid games.

What do I know?

He’s dangerous, extremely so, even though he doesn’t look it at first glance. He has a team (unit? Troop?) of Special Magical Operatives at his command, and is using them to investigate the protest. And – none of the High Royal Guard manning the bottom of the steps seemed surprised or alarmed by that.

And he knows who I am.

Why would someone like that know my –

Congratulations, you are officially a person of interest to the Ministry for Intelligence.

I study him more closely, tilting my head to one side. I can see the resemblance now: it wasn’t immediately apparent but the lines of his face, the shape of his nose, clearly resemble Edward’s features.

“Lord Blackthorn,” I whisper.

Stars.

The sensible part of my mind notes that this is probably good news: he wouldn’t hurt his son’s friend.

The rest of me is too busy panicking to care.

It’s not quite the same kind of panic as a Malaina episode, but I force myself to breathe slowly and calmly regardless.

He nods. “Edward has told me a lot about you. He likes you.”

There’s a faintly threatening edge to his tone. I don’t quite know why.

“I like him,” I reply.

“I’m glad to hear it. What did Miss Cavendish offer you?”

I blink a few times. “I… what?”

“To attempt to intercede with me on her father’s behalf,” he clarifies.

Oh. He thinks I’m being bribed or something – “Nothing! It’s the right thing to do!”

“So she did ask you to do it?”

“I – yes – but – I chose to – “

He sighs and stares at me for a long moment. “There are hundreds of people who want my attention, to persuade me to vote a certain way on some issue or overlook their misdemeanours or make their case to the King. Sometimes, people will look for shortcuts to do that. For instance, befriending my son.”

Stars. “I would – I’m not using him! I would never – “

“You understand how it appears, though? After knowing my son less than two weeks, you’re writing political statements for him and begging for an audience with me to plead for the life of a traitor.”

I take another breath, set aside my anger. Pretend I’m a powerful, paranoid man convinced that everyone is playing the game of politics. Yeah, from that perspective I can definitely see how he got to that conclusion.

But how do I persuade him that I’m wrong? “The statement was entirely his idea,” I say. “He asked for my help. And the meeting with you… if he’d refused I wouldn’t have pushed him.”

“I see,” he says. “Well? I’m here now, listening to you. Persuade me.”

I can’t –

I haven’t touched my notes in a day –

I don’t remember anything –

There was supposed to be time –

I can’t –

“Malaina,” Lord Blackthorn notes, somewhere far away. “Interesting.”

Interesting. He finds it interesting.

I have to –

“Before the world,” he recites absently, “before our distant ancestors, before anything we know, there were the stars. After the world, after our distant descendants, after everything we know, there will be the stars. They are eternal. Always, they watch us. Always, we walk beneath them. Whether we know it or not, whether we believe it or not, they are our guardians.”

There’s a calm, soothing rhythm to his recitation. The First Book of Stars, oldest of the Temple’s many sacred texts, I think.

“It is our sacred duty to be thankful to the stars for this great honour. To honour the stars as they honour us, to watch them as they watch us.”

I stare at him blankly for a moment.

“We want the King!” the protestors chant, and it takes me a moment to realise how loud it is, how clearly I can hear them. I’m here, in this moment, not a Malaina episode.

“I… thank you,” I say, grudgingly. “But how – “

“I’ve known Malaina before. That sort of thing has a tendency to work. Though it’s more effective if the recitation has personal meaning in some way.”

I don’t think I’m pious enough for the First Book of Stars to hold that sort of meaning to me. Maybe it was just the strangeness of it. Or maybe it was that his voice reminds me, now I know what to look for, of his son’s.

But something to recite that does have personal meaning to me? I close my eyes for a second and remember my eager nine-year-old self, inspired by her young and energetic new history teacher, determined to memorise the list.

“Charles First-King,” I whisper to myself. “Edwin the Just. Simon the Drunkard. Thomas the Defender. Eleanor the Bold.”

I’m not fighting a Malaina episode now, but I think when I inevitably do again the names of kings will help me.

He watches me curiously for a second, and then asks “Are you afraid of me?”

There is no right answer to that question, so I give the truthful one instead: “In a way, yes.”

He laughs a little. “And yet you were able to remain calm, up until I asked you to persuade me. Why is that?”

I am not explaining this to Lord Blackthorn of all people. Not when that would ruin whatever chance I have of getting him to actually listen to me and take me seriously. “I… thought you’d say no?” I try.

“You’re that afraid of rejection, after going to the trouble of arranging this meeting? I doubt it.”

Yeah, I figured lying to Lord Blackthorn while barely able to think coherently wasn’t going to work. “I can’t tell you.”

“You can’t tell me,” he repeats, speaking slowly and precisely. I’ve said the wrong thing, haven’t I? “I need to understand you, Miss Roberts, for the sake of my son. So if you can’t tell me things… then we have a problem.”

“This is nothing to do with Edward. It’s… personal.”

He studies me again for a second. “Afraid that I’d react with suspicion to your arguments, and do whatever monstrous things your imagination has no doubt decided I would?”

“I don’t think you’re a monster,” I protest.

“Oh? Why not?”

“Edward loves you,” I reply. “Really. Anyone whose child can love them that much can’t be a complete monster.”

I don’t quite recognise the expression that flashes across his face for a moment. “That is your judgement, then? I appreciate it.”

Is he mocking me? I think he is. I hate it when people do that, but at the same time… yeah. Who am I to say whether he is or isn’t a monster? What right do I have to judge him?

“So not afraid of what I’d do, then. What, then?”

I don’t answer.

“Of not being ready?”

That’s closer to the truth. I try not to react.

“Of failing?”

This time I fail to keep a grimace away from my features.

“I see. Do you know how many times I have failed?”

“…no?”

“More than I can count. It’s a fact of life. What matters is fixing your mistakes and finding another way – or deciding that what you’re trying to do isn’t worth it. There’s nothing you could have said that would have convinced me. I have made my decision.”

“Do you know what that will do to Mildred?” I almost flinch, not sure quite what gave me the courage to say that to him. Still, I might as well keep going now. “Because I do. I’ve seen her crying in the bathroom, because her father is going to die. Because of what you did.”

He’s silent for a long moment, and I worry I’ve gone too far. “Your compassion is commendable,” he says after a while. “It is a luxury I cannot afford. I’ve delayed you long enough. Your friend must be worried about you.”

I’m shaking in relief and the aftermath of the Malaina episode as I tug the Abbey’s great door open. I hesitate just before stepping through it and look back. I should say something – goodbye? Thank you? How can you live without compassion?

He speaks before I can. “If you ever hurt my son,” he says, and that slow precise speech has returned, “if you ever use him, if you ever break his heart or let him down, I will know. And then I will destroy you.”

I have no doubt that he means every word. “I won’t do any of that,” I say. “I promise. Goodbye, Lord Blackthorn.”

And then I step through the door, pull it shut behind me, and lean back against it, trembling.