“I am
not
—“
“Yes, you are!” Henry snapped, turning on Thomas. “You said that you were the only one that can see or hear this ‘magic.’ ”
“Yes, but—”
“When the bishop commanded your father, did anyone else there notice?”
“No, but—”
“And when Ailbe healed Eileen, did anyone else see the white light?”
“No, but—”
“You see and hear things that no one else does, Thomas. So either you’re insane, in which case it’s all right, or you’re a witch, in which case Benjamin would have to report you.”
Thomas was about to protest the difference between magic and witchcraft again, when he realized what Henry was doing. A smile he couldn’t help spread itself across his face. “Of course. I’m insane.”
Comprehension lit Benjamin’s face a moment later. “Of course you are. Completely.”
“That’s right,” Henry said, slapping Thomas’s arm affectionately. “Mad beyond all singing of it. Of course, that doesn’t help him with his real problem.”
Benjamin opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. After a moment, he said, “You know, I’ve forgotten what that was.”
“I’m wanted for murder and witchcraft,” said Thomas.
“And he says the bishop is guilty instead,” said Henry.
Benjamin’s eyes started to glaze over. “Didn’t we just have this argument?”
“No, this is a different argument,” Thomas assured him. “That argument was theoretical. This one is practical.”
“All right, then. Practically, what do you need?”
“He needs to prove the bishop is guilty,” said Henry.
“No, first he needs to prove that he’s innocent,” argued George, “then he gets to prove the bishop’s guilty.”
“They go together,” said Thomas. “And before I can do either, I need to find out what he’s up to. I don’t even know if he’s back in the city, yet.”
“I can find out,” Benjamin said. “I know the initiates who serve in his house once a week. I’ll ask them.”
“Good. But he can’t find out that I’m here.”
“I won’t mention you,” Benjamin waved a dismissive hand. “Besides, he doesn’t talk to initiates anyway.”
“Thank you.”
Eileen, who had been quiet through the whole discussion, was wearing a very confused look on her face. As her head turned slowly from one student to the other, she said, “So, you two are going to help him?”
“Yes,” said Benjamin. “After all, he’s insane.”
Eileen turned to Thomas. “You are?”
“He is,” said Henry, smiling and raising the wine bottle and filling mugs. “At least until he proves otherwise.” He filled the last mug then raised his own. “So tonight, we drink until it all feels better.”
“Knowing tomorrow the hangover will make it all feel worse,” intoned Benjamin.
“Speaking of tomorrow,” said Thomas, “I want to get into the library.”
“The library?” repeated Benjamin. “What’s in there?”
“Some answers, maybe. About the bishop.”
“Where?” demanded Henry. “In the witchcraft section?”
“Well, there’s got to be something.”
“No there doesn’t,” Benjamin was lilting a bit to one side, now, but sounded fairly clear. “I went through the witchcraft section in the library for one report I wrote on the workings of the Banished in the world and the social impact of those workings on the three estates—”
“Which estates are those?” asked Eileen.
“The three estates,” said Henry. “The king, the nobility, and you lot.”
“Ah.”
“The primary focus of the essay was to determine which acts, ascribed to the Banished, were actually done by them through their witches, and which were actually the results of human stupidity and sheer incompetence.” Benjamin stopped for a moment, tried to start again, then stopped once more. “Why am I talking about this?”
“Witchcraft,” prompted Thomas.
“That’s right,” Benjamin nodded several times, then looked lost. Just before Thomas could prompt him he started again. “I wrote a report. And I went through the library and there was very little information there. There’s nothing in it except books on how many witches have been caught over the last hundred years, how many converted, how many flogged, how many hung, and so on. Not even any books on how to detect witches or how not to detect witches or how to tell a real witch from a fake one.”
“And nothing to tell the difference between witchcraft and magic,” guessed Thomas.
“Not a thing.”
“Well, that’s useless.”
“That it is.” Benjamin realized he was on an angle, and righted himself, only to starting to listing to the other side. “Though there is one book that talks about body markings and extra hairs and strange behaviours.” He looked at Eileen. “Did you know hiccups can be considered a sign of witchery?”
“I did not,” said Eileen.
“Neither did I.” He righted himself again and this time managed to stay erect. “Nothing in there would be any good to us.”
Thomas suddenly felt very depressed. He looked down at his mug, still full, and put it down. Hopelessness grabbed him hard, taking away any desire he had for more wine.
Benjamin shook his head. “No, all the good stuff is in the Theology building.”
Thomas sat up straight. “What good stuff?”
“On witchcraft,” explained Benjamin, over-enunciating. “I told my professor about the report and he got me into the witchcraft section. Students aren’t normally allowed in there.” He cast a baleful eye at Thomas. “Especially not philosophy students or lawyers, of which you are both.”
Eileen stared at Thomas, her mouth falling open. “You’re doing philosophy and law?”
“Aye.”
“Is it hard?”
“Not if you’re insane,” said Henry, raising his mug in Thomas’s direction, “which he is.”
“We need to get into that room,” said Thomas.
“And how are we going to do that?” asked Henry. “We’re hardly even allowed in the building, except to take classes.”
“I don’t know,” Thomas picked his mug back up and took a long drink. “But I’ll think of something.”
Chapter 19
Thomas woke up on the floor of the common room, a cushion lying near his head, and his mug still clutched in his hand. The hangover that he had taken for granted would come was there in full force, and, judging from the sonorous bodies he stumbled over on his way to the balcony, he wasn’t going to be alone. He stumbled outside, the fresh air assaulting his lungs and threatening to start a coughing fit as it drove the stifled and squalid air of the apartment from his lungs. Thomas managed to navigate the stairs and cross the rough cobblestones to the fountain without so much as a stumble, much to his relief. Stripping to the waist, he dunked his head underneath the water. It was nowhere near as cold as that from the well at the smithy, but it woke him up enough to realize how miserable he was feeling. He plunked himself on the edge of the fountain, truly thankful that the sun wasn’t high enough to light the courtyard.
Despite his declaration that he’d think of something, and the several hours of alcohol-soaked inspiration that had followed it, Thomas had not come up with any ideas at all. He sighed, shook his head and instantly regretted it. At least he knew there were books he could look at. All he had to do was get at them.
Movement from above caught his attention. Squinting up to the balcony, he could see a thin figure in a loose shirt making its way out of the apartment and down the stairs. Eileen, he realized, wearing her trousers and one of George’s shirts. It was large enough to look ridiculous on her, but judging by the expression on her face, she didn’t much care. She made it down the stairs on not-too-steady feet and walked directly towards him.
“I saw what you did,” she said, eyeing the water in the fountain. “Did it help?”
“Some.”
“Good.” She pulled the collar of the shirt apart wide enough that it slipped past her shoulders. With one hand holding it in place, she leaned forward and dunked her head under. She stayed down for a fair while then surfaced with a splash, gasping for air. She wiped her face with the hem of the shirt, and then sat down on the edge of the fountain beside him. “I feel awful.”
“Second hangover of your life, is it?”
“Aye.” She rubbed at her face, wincing as she did. “I thought that stuff Timothy fed us was bad, but this…” She looked up to the sky. “Where’s the sun?”
“It doesn’t reach the courtyard until about eleven o’clock, this time of year.”
“Thank the Four.” She looked around the silent, empty courtyard. “You have strange friends, Thomas.”
“Aye.”
“Do they always drink so much?”
“Only when they can.”
“Benjamin seems nice enough, but Henry’s…”
“Strange,” finished Thomas. “Aye, he is.”
“Where did he get the scar on his face? Duelling?”
“No,” said Thomas. “Frostmire is on the Northern border. He spent three years fighting against raiders before he came to the Academy.”
“Oh.”
Thomas looked for another subject and took the obvious. “Why are you wearing George’s shirt?”
“I got tired of being tied down,” Eileen crossed her arms in front of her chest. “It can’t be good for them.”
Thomas didn’t know how to reply to that, and so kept quiet.
“I thought if I put this on I could save tying myself up until we’re ready to go out.” She squinted at Thomas. “When are we going out?”
“Fairly soon, I should think,” Thomas said. “In fact, I’m surprised the bell hasn’t rung yet.”
“What bell?”
As if in answer to her question, a loud, deep-toned bell began ringing from somewhere not too far off. A moment later there was scurrying movement on the top floor of the building opposite Thomas’s apartment. A student, not looking too steady himself, stepped up to what looked like a ship’s bell. He grabbed the cord, winced in preparation, and rang it for all he was worth. Much smaller than its counterpart at the university, it nonetheless managed to fill the courtyard with its sharp pealing.
“By the Four,” Eileen moaned, holding her head. “What is that for?”
“First bell,” said Thomas, covering his ears and wincing. “Classes start in half an hour.”
“Half an hour?” Eileen looked around. “No one is moving—”
The buildings around them erupted into sudden, busy life. Doors were flung open, robes hastily tossed on, and dozens of people began making their way down the staircase in waves. Thomas took Eileen by the elbow and moved her away from the fountain. “Come on. We’ll try not to get run over.”
She did as she was told, keeping well back from the crowd and keeping her arms crossed in front of her chest. Several students stopped to dunk their heads in the fountain; others just splashed their faces or ran straight out the gates. A few were leading girls down the stairs, talking to them quietly in the midst of the tumult. No one looked twice in their direction. Benjamin stumbled down the stairs, his black hair even more messy than the day before, his skin grey and his eyes bright red. He managed a brief wave at them and grunted something that Thomas couldn’t understand before joining the crowd streaming for the gate. Thomas waved back, and watched as Benjamin stumbled away.
Eileen turned to him. “Where’s all the young ones?”
“They have to stay in the dormitories,” Thomas explained. “You can’t live outside of the Academy until you’ve reached sixteen.”
“Then everyone does, no doubt.”
“Everyone who can afford to,” Thomas agreed. “It’s expensive.”
“Then why do it?”
“No curfew, for one,” said Thomas. “And for another…” He pointed to the students kissing their girls good-bye.
Eileen shook her head. “My father would kill me if I stayed out all night.”
The bell from above stopped pealing, leaving echoes that rang through the courtyard for what felt like an inordinately long time. The bell-ringer ran down the stairs and was out the gate as the last echo faded.
“Why does he have to ring the bell?” asked Eileen. “Do you take turns?”
“Sort of,” Thomas said. “Every two months all the students in the two apartments pick teams and have a football tournament. The team that loses the most games rings the bell until the next tournament.” He watched the student making his way across the courtyard. “I think he was the goal-keeper.”
“Ah.”
The last of the students cleared the courtyard and Thomas led Eileen back up the stairs to the apartment. Inside, Henry was sitting hunched over at the table, his face sour and his eyes red. There was a cup of wine in his hand and another on the table. He carefully poured wine from one of the half-empty bottles into the cup before him.
“No classes this morning?” asked Thomas, coming over to the table. He looked at the cup on the table and shuddered when he recognized the contents.
Henry grunted, took out a small bag and added something powdery to the cup. He stirred, then brought out a small, black bottle and poured a dose of a viscous liquid into the cup. He stared at the cup in front of him a moment, then took a drink from the one in his hand.
Thomas sat down beside him. “You drink too much.”
“This from you,” growled Henry, adding something black and leafy to the concoction.
“I don’t try to keep up with George.”
“That’s because you have no manners.” Henry stirred the contents of the cup, looked closely at it, then stirred again. “You should match your guests drink for drink, not leave them to drink alone.”
“George doesn’t mind. And even he isn’t drinking this early.”
“Hair of the dog,” said Henry. He drank off the rest from the cup in his hand, then stared balefully at the one on the table. Thomas waited. A moment later, Henry picked it up and swallowed the entire contents in one go. A shudder ran through his entire body, and his breath gasped out, then back in. He shook his head, and straightened up. “Much better. Want one?”
Thomas sighed. “I probably should. Though I’m not sure the hangover isn’t the lesser of two evils.”
“What is it?” asked Eileen, watching Henry divide a half-dozen ingredients into three more mugs.
“The secret hangover cure of the Dukes of Frostmire,” said Henry. He poured wine into the cups, stirring them with a spoon. He added the powder, the viscous liquid and the leaves, and stirred them again. When they’d reached the right consistency, he handed one to Eileen. “To be used only by nobility and those in desperate need.”