The Magic Council (The Herezoth Trilogy) (42 page)

They walked some more, back through those
alleys and side streets among a small crowd of people winding their way home.
They passed before the theater, where August stole a kiss, and turned into a
street on the opposite side of the building from the roads they had already
explored. Some five corners down, a giggling woman around Bendelof’s age came
running out and brushed August’s shoulder.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear!” she said, and
laughed some more, hanging on August’s arm. “I didn’t see you. I had dared him
to catch me.”

The streetlamps and moon were both bright
enough that Vane and the man who rounded the corner after his companion had no
trouble recognizing one another, despite their casual attire and unembroidered
cloaks.

“Ingleton.”

The woman supporting herself on August
stopped laughing. She drew back with a shocked look, staring at Vane, who
stepped between his wife and the newcomer.

“Yangerton.”

“Fancy meeting you in these parts. Quite
a ways from home, no? And you had business at the Palace only yesterday, I
understand.”

“My means of transportation don’t concern
you.”

Amison’s face said plainly that if they
were magical they concerned everyone. He remarked, “You did have business at
the Palace, no? With that council they just released news you’d decided to
join. You presented your colleagues to the queen and Chief Adviser. You joined
that farce of a Magic Council after all.”

“The council’s no farce, Amison. No farce
at all. If it were, you’d never have threatened me on its account. And don’t
feign surprise I joined. You never doubted what I’d do.”

“No,” replied Amison. “No, let’s not
feign anything. Let’s be honest and open and cordial with introductions.” He
pushed Vane aside to get a view of August. “This must be….”

“My
wife
,
yes.”

“Charmed,” said Yangerton. August
extended a trembling hand to him; she didn’t know what else to do. Rather than
take it, the duke spat at her feet, and Vane moved back between them, one hand
stretched behind him on August’s shoulder.

“You will leave,” he told his peer. “You
will go back the way you came, or I swear to all that’s holy you’ll regret it.
I don’t care if you’ve a witness. I don’t care if she talks to every reporter
from here to Fontferry, am I clear?”

Yangerton folded his arms. “You dare
threaten me?”

“You will not
disrespect my wife in my presence. Am I clear, Amison?”

Amison seethed in response.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?
Funny, I see no feline on this street.
Am
I clear?
”

Perhaps it was the shadows, but Amison
looked clammy, and a line of sweat appeared to break out along his neck.

“Perfectly,” he confirmed.

“So why are you still here?”

Amison gripped his lover’s hand so
tightly she yelped and swept her around the corner. Vane and August listened to
their footsteps fade.

“August, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she whispered.
Vane wrapped an arm around her and led her back towards the theater.

“August, I….”

“So that…. That was the Duke of
Yangerton?”

“It was.”

“And he…. He knows you used magic to come
here?”

“He does.”

“After you swore to Rexson you’d stop
using it when we eloped to Partsvale and the papers made such a fuss about the
fact we could only have gotten there with a spell?”

“After I swore that, yes.”

“Will he…? Val, will Amison speak?”

“He might. Or she might.”

They stopped near a different theater
than the one where they had seen the opera, a smaller theater, and August took
her husband’s hand. “It’ll be all right,” she told him. “It’ll be all right, it
has to be. Val, he’s nothing but a hypocrite, spitting at me like that when
he’s got his tart born no more noble than a workhorse not five feet away.”

“He doesn’t despise commoners, and
doesn’t care that we’re together. He wouldn’t care if I spent every night with
you. He just cares I married you. I shouldn’t have married you, see? That isn’t
done. It’s
that
he resents. He’s no
hypocrite. He’d never marry that woman, and she knows it. He’s a lot of things,
most of them indecent, but he’s no hypocrite.

“Damn it! Damn
it, August, I’m so tired of this! We can’t have one day, one
bloody, normal day without everything going to hell. And if there’s a baby….
August, what are we doing? What have we gotten ourselves into?”

August squeezed his hand. “We’re living
one day at a time, like we decided at the start. We’re taking each moment and
each crisis as it comes. Val, listen to me, you listen, I don’t regret a thing,
especially not day two hundred and ten.”

Vane blinked. “Two hundred and ten?”

She smiled. “The day we married. I
counted back on a calendar last week. We met on August nineteenth, no? I’m not
quite sure of the number. That day’s pretty rattled, you bonking me on the head
and all.”

She gave him a playful jab in the
stomach, and he said, “You’ll never let me live that down, will you?”
          

“Never ever,” she swore. “As for the
baby: yes, it’s a complication. Yes, it’ll cause a headache when people learn
I’m pregnant, if
I’m pregnant at all.
I’m terrified for all kinds of reasons, and I just know I’m going to start
feeling sick any day now. Val, I never knew terror could be something
beautiful, beautiful and blessed and utterly wonderful. I learned that these
last hours, though. I wouldn’t change a thing, not the baby if one comes, not
the peace I found all day before that run-in, but I need to know you feel the
same way, because in spite of all you said when I first mentioned a child, I’m
not sure you do. That’s the only fear right now I want to get rid of, because
I’m just not sure you….”

“I meant every word I spoke when you told
me you might be expecting. August, I would never give up what we have, any
child first and foremost, to get rid of the mess that comes with it.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Val, thank
you.” She embraced him and said, “I’m sorry I kept us out this long. We
shouldn’t have stayed. We could have avoided….”

“I wasn’t ready to go back either,” he
told her. “Though we probably should go now.”

“We probably should,” she agreed.

They transported back to Oakdowns, and as
bad as the end of the night had been, for August the next day was equally
miserable. She spent much of it vomiting into a pail. Neither she nor Vane had
much doubt after her nausea continued the entire week that followed, and none
at all the week after that, when August still felt ill and missed a second
cycle to boot: bring with it what it may, a baby was coming.

Each morning when August attempted to eat
breakfast she blamed a common stomach illness for her lack of appetite, and
also feigned a fever to throw off suspicion of pregnancy. She and Vane read the
Bugle
carefully in their dining room,
but without dread. That was because Vane had already dressed in common clothes
and transported to Yangerton to bring back its papers. It was those the couple
read together with forced calm on their faces and tension in their arms before
August even rose from bed. No word from Carson Amison concerning them appeared.

Finally, after two weeks of fretting
about the Duke of Yangerton and suffering constant nausea, August scowled as
she threw the
Yangerton Weekly
on the
rug. She wore her nightshirt and sat propped up with pillows beneath a thin
sheet, her husband beside her. “Why doesn’t he speak?” she asked. “Why does he
wait? I can’t take much more of this!”

“I don’t think he will speak, August, if
he hasn’t by now. He’s not the type to bide his time, not when he’s no pressing
cause.”

“Was it your threat against him, do you
think? Is that why holds his tongue? He knew your uncle well, the king said. He
knows what any sorcerer can do with the proper spell.”

“Perhaps,” Vane consented. “It could also
be for the circumstance in which he met us. If he doesn’t trouble to hush his
affairs, he’s never drawn deliberate notice to them either. He’s not completely
shameless. Who cares why he’s quiet? Why question the one bit of good luck
we’ve had all year?”

August insisted, as she did daily, just
once, “You should tell the king what happened. He should know of it.”

“I can’t, August. You know I can’t. He
all but forbade me transporting out of Podrar. Making a show of my magic. It’s
already far too much in the public eye. What happened with Amison is precisely
why he demanded caution. Rexson wouldn’t be pleased I ignored him.”

“This could affect politics, Val. The
king should know.”

“He’d simply worry. I’d only disappoint
him, and for what? Nothing seems to have come of this. August, I’m not a
coward. I understand that if Amison does cause trouble, I must tell Rexson why.
But until the cad does, I don’t see the value in troubling the king. He’s
enough to be dealing with day to day without me heaping my cares upon him.
Anyway, as things stand, I believe we’re in the clear now.” Vane paused. As
much to change the subject as to get a different worry off his chest, he said,
“I think I should visit Treel again. Not for him, for the old man. If I can get
Treel to dictate me a letter....”

“Jorne would be grateful,” said August.
“Val, that’s a lovely way to thank him for his loyalty to your parents.”

CHAPTER NINE

Amison’s Intentions

Before the prison guards brought Treel
into the small, poorly lit visiting room where Vane waited, Vane found himself
sweating in the summer heat. The prison was poorly ventilated, and the stone
walls kept the humid air contained as securely as they did Podrar’s criminals.
When Treel finally walked in, he looked more miserable than Vane had ever seen
him.

Never stout of body, Treel had lost more
weight, so that he looked gaunt. His stringy dark hair needed a trim, and fell
to block his eyes. His pointed nose looked red, as though he suffered a chronic
cold. His skin had taken on a gray tinge from lack of sunlight, and his drab
prison garments were soaked to a point that Vane’s nicer, if still informal
garb promised to reach within ten minutes. Treel’s hands were bound in front of
him, only for the visit, and he stared resolutely at Vane’s boots.

As soon as the guards left the men alone,
Treel lifted his head and demanded in a rough voice, “What do you want? Why in
the Giver’s name have you dragged me...?”

“I saw your uncle. Fairly recently.” At
that, Treel took the room’s first chair. He stared with curiosity at the paper,
quill, and inkwell Vane had set on the wooden table, and Vane sat too. “You
asked me not to mention you, so I didn’t. Jorne brought you up, knowing I’d be
familiar with the Palace where you worked. He mentioned some colleagues of his
who work there now. They told him of your aspirations to become a jewel thief.
He nearly shed tears in front of my wife and me, not only because you landed
yourself in prison, but because he’s heard nothing from you on the topic.
Jorne’s a decent man, Treel. You owe as much to him as I do to the king, and
you’re not going to treat him this way. You’re going to dictate a letter to him
right now. I’ll make sure he receives it.”

Treel banged his tied fists on the table.
“Who are you to tell me I must write him?”

“Me? I’m a man who also owes Jorne a debt,
for the faithful service he showed my father. For the aid he gave my mother
when she had to flee her home. For saving one small piece of my parents’ lives
together in a portrait he hid away so it could escape Zalski, even though his
masters couldn’t. I owe him as surely as you do, and I plan to see he’s paid.
Why wouldn’t you write him a letter, Treel? Are you ashamed? He already knows
where you are. Afraid he’ll write you back? I promise, he won’t chastise you.
He knows prison will do a fair job of that without his help. Why wouldn’t you
want his letters to look forward to? Why wouldn’t you want to offer him some
comfort at his age, to thank him for all he did for you? I’ve helped you as
well, Treel. I’m under no obligation to give your sister money, but I’ve been
doing that. The payment I demand is a letter to your uncle.”

Treel’s gray face twitched. He spoke
through gritted teeth, as though to form words was painful. “Grab your quill,
then.”

Vane did so. “If you can,” he suggested,
“speak directly to Jorne. I swear not to interrupt you or to change a word you
say. If you wish Jorne to know I put pen to paper, then tell him. If not, let
it remain a mystery.”

The letter turned out long. Treel admitted
at the start that Ingleton had paid him a visit and convinced him he should
write. He apologized for not writing sooner; he had wanted to spare Jorne the
knowledge of what he’d done. He assured Jorne his crime was in no way the
result of poor guidance in his youth. His uncle had striven to teach him the
value of a clean conscience after a hard day’s work. Treel was grateful for
that, and never once had felt inclined to blame anyone but himself for his poor
decisions.

Then Treel spoke of his days in the
prison. He was learning to read, taking advantage of lessons offered by an old
scribe who came once a week to teach anyone who expressed an interest. Treel
passed long hours keeping the prison far cleaner than he’d ever seen the
Palace, and enjoyed what time he was able to speak with other prisoners. The
guards always kept a close eye on things, so conversations were safe and
superficial, but Treel had met some people with fascinating stories.

He ate well enough. The food could be
warmer, with more flavor, but it was plentiful. Treel did miss the Palace
kitchens, particularly in the mornings, because breakfast was a thick,
tasteless gruel. Lunch and dinner varied each day: soup or stew with bread and
cheese, or meat when a guard brought down a buck or boar in the woodlands.
Sometimes there were greens, sometimes berries, or apples, or a generous slice
of melon. Treel had requested to work in the kitchens for pay, and had every
reason to suppose the application would be accepted.

Treel reminisced about his childhood with
Jorne, asking if the old man remembered this or that event. He mentioned in an
offhand way that his uncle had been right; Jorne had always said Treel would
regret befriending Dorane Polve, that good-for-nothing dreamer, and reflecting
on his childhood, Treel wished he had spent more time with Lu, a huntsman’s
daughter, instead. Treel ended by telling his uncle he hoped he’d write back.

As the duke and the prisoner let the ink
dry, Vane asked, “How are things really?”

“What does it look like?” Treel spat. “I
didn’t lie to the old man, Ingleton. I’ve never lied to him. But you can tell
this life is taking its toll. Your king runs his prisons fair, but they’re
still prisons.”

“You would have had visits from me, if
nothing else, if you hadn’t shown so plainly you disdained them.”

“I’ve told you a million times, I don’t
want your pity.”

“I don’t pity you, Treel. I’d pity an
innocent man in your situation.”

That shut Treel’s mouth for a moment. He
asked the duke, “You came here for Jorne, then? Entirely for Jorne?”

“To get you to write that letter, yes.”

Vane was glad to have met Jorne. To know
Jorne’s opinions of the old duke’s style of leadership was an immense aid. With
half a year gone, Vane still felt uncomfortable having servants wait on him; a
part of Vane would have preferred to be the servant. That was no surprise,
really, considering he’d grown up helping Teena run her inn, but master he was,
and he had to grow into that role. Jorne’s assertions that the staff had
esteemed the previous Duke of Ingleton gave Vane confidence. He had been unsure
until then whether a servant, by nature, must resent those whose beck and call
he had no choice but to attend.

“I’m glad you came, if it was for the old
man,” offered Treel. “I
 
should have
written him a long time ago.” He paused. “Jorne helped your mother escape from
Zalski’s coup, did you say? He never told me that. Had lots of stories about
the duke, mostly, so many he rarely recycled one, but his role in aiding your
mother.... Guess he’s a bit of a hero, then.”

Vane said, “I consider him that. He’s
humble about it, too. Had no reason not to tell you once Rexson Phinnean was in
power. He considers he was doing his duty, I suppose. Doesn’t judge that
laudable.”

Treel nodded thoughtfully. Then his
countenance took on a sneer of self-loathing. “He did everything right by me.
Everything, even though I ended up....”

“He knows he raised you well. And it’ll
mean a lot to him you acknowledged that. Thank you, Treel, for telling me about
him. Where I could find him. My mother mentioned him not a few times in the
journal she kept with the Crimson League.”

Treel’s eyes widened. “So that’s what you
panicked about when you found me rummaging through your things. That journal
was your mother’s? Can’t be a relaxing read.”

“Far from it. A fair portion of what she
wrote’s about me. Those sections, there’s a lot of information I can’t help but
feel she would want me to know. Things she would have told me herself, had she
been able. The journal unnerves me, but I owe it to her to read it, to read it
all.”

As a general rule, Vane tried not to wonder
what his life would have been had his mother survived that assault on the
Crystal Palace. His childhood had not been what his parents envisioned, but it
was a happy one. He spent his days chasing Teena’s chickens, fighting imaginary
ogres with the local children, or helping pick apples and bundle hay. The inn
was always warm, with a fire going when needed and the saliva-inducing scents
of Teena’s stews wafting from the kitchen. As much as he wished his mother had
lived to see her son grow—she deserved that much, after all she’d sacrificed
for his sake—Vane could never bring himself to wish away those fond
memories of the life he had known. That would have been a slight to his aunt, a
woman who had taken him in at great danger to herself and with no assurance of
recompense.

“I never knew my parents either,” Treel
noted.

“You know what shocked me most when I
found you out? You called Dorane family, said one doesn’t turn his back on
that. That got me thinking about my mother: Zalski was her twin. Do you think
she should have stood by him, offered her support because they shared blood?
Would that have made her more respectable than fighting against him?”

“Look, I know I was an idiot. I should
have told someone what Dorane asked of me, instead of helping him. If I’m here,
at least he’s off working to collapse in this heat down in Yangerton. Outside.
With bricks and mortar. Ingleton, you’d better make sure he’s never in the same
prison as me. Keep us apart, you got that? Given the chance I’d throttle the
life out of him, and then they’d have to kill me for the murder. Not a good
situation. Keep him away.”

“He’s not leaving the prison where he’s
kept, except for the work they make him do. I’ll make sure you’re not
transferred there, Treel. By the way,” Vane added, “the king gets notice of
Dorane’s visitors. He’s had none. His wife will have nothing to do with him.
She sends him no packages of honeycakes, no letters. Won’t bring his son to see
him. Nothing. He’s entirely on his own. It’s the same with Arbora Anders, the
woman who ran that group he was so obsessed with. She’s working in a shipyard.
None of her old followers have paid her a visit or written. They go on as a
unit, but they want nothing to do with their foundress.”

“Serves the two bloody right,” Treel
muttered. “Dorane for sure. I never met that Arbora, don’t know the slightest
thing about her.”

“Count yourself lucky.” Vane remembered,
just then, Arbora urging him not to join the Magic Council. He hoped word had reached
her that he had. Surely Rexson kept her and Dorane informed of all progress
toward the council’s founding?

“Think Jorne’ll write me back?”

“Of course. The thought that you hadn’t
written him was enough to bring him to tears, I told you that. Was enough to
bring me to visit you again. As long as he’s still breathing when that letter
arrives, he’ll respond to it. And his health is good.”

“Wish I could see him.”

“I wish he could visit you,” Vane
responded, and left things there. He was not about to offer to transport Jorne
to Podrar, not after what had occurred the last time he broke his word to Rexson
to be careful with his magic.

Treel admitted, “It’s been nice to speak with
someone who’s not a prisoner. Who has a life outside these walls to return to.
The guards never discuss their real lives with us.”

A life to return to. A life growing each
day inside August.... Yes, Vane had an existence separate from the prison, all
right. He just wished it weren’t so complicated.

“Has your sister come yet?” Vane asked.

Treel winced at the thought. “What a
nightmare that would be! Look, it’s my duty to provide for her, even though
she’s older. I’m grateful you helped me do that, ‘cause we all know I needed a
hand. She’s not a bad woman, but to have Miss Nose in the Air judging me with
every word....”

“Should I return?” Vane asked.

“Don’t trouble yourself. It’s not like you
don’t have things to do. We’ve got no real connection besides Jorne. There are
people here to read Jorne’s letters to me and help me write him others. Soon I
won’t need them anyway.”

  
Pride
flashed in his expression as he spoke of becoming literate. Vane smiled. “You
sure you don’t want visits?”

“Not from you. Not pity visits, no.”

Treel sounded determined, so Vane let the
subject drop after telling him that if he changed his mind, or if something
ever came up he wished to discuss with Vane, he could send a message to
Oakdowns. Treel thanked him but seemed to think little of the offer.

The ink on Jorne’s letter had dried by
then, which Treel used as an excuse to send the duke away. Treel was an odd
man, Vane thought as he walked through the dreary, stone-lined corridors: an
odd mix of pride and self-hatred. Perhaps prison would give him time to find a
balance between the two extremes that overtook him in waves. Would Treel ever
send for him, he wondered? He knew the man would not. The wound to Treel’s
pride in begging that companionship would be too great, or he’d deny himself
visitors he felt he did not deserve.

Vane had agreed not to visit. Perhaps he
should ignore Treel’s wish and come anyway, for Treel’s own good, but he
wouldn’t. He had done the right thing in forcing Treel to write that letter,
but beyond that, Treel was on his own. Vane had too many other concerns to
waste time helping a prisoner who claimed he wanted nothing to do with him.
August and the baby. The Magic Council. August, and that baby....