The Warlock's Curse (55 page)

Warlocks wearing red orchids.

Agency
warlocks. Ben had said the Institute would help them—but it had been Agency warlocks who had stormed the New Faith Seat of Praise. The woman said that he was in the Stanton Institute. But if it had been Agency warlocks at the New Faith Seat of Praise, then how the hell had he ended up here?

“Where is Jenny?” he finally said.

“I swear to you that she is safe,” Mrs. Zeno said, with the careful formality Will recognized as having the magical weight of a guarantee. “And I swear to you that she will remain so. But if I were to tell you where she is, I could not swear that either of those statements would be true anymore.”

Will absorbed this, and then nodded. He believed her. He did not know for sure who this woman was, he did not know if she was telling the truth about anything else, but he felt that she would not lie about this. There was something about it that was too close to her.

Will tried to stretch against whatever force bound him, but it was futile. It was as if he’d been wrapped in an invisible cocoon of unbreakable silk.

“Why am I bound?” Will asked. “Will you at least let me sit up to talk to you?”

“You have been very combative in your delirium, and it was not known how much of a threat you might pose.” She paused. “I can unbind you, but I’m not sure I should. Do you have Cowdray under control?”

“It’s almost the new moon,” Will said, but did not elaborate.

The old woman considered this, then drew a deep breath and lifted her hand. She murmured a soft command under her breath. Will felt the cocooning restraints dissolve away. He sat up slowly, stiff muscles screaming.

“Thank you,” he said.

There was a brisk knock on the door—more of an announcement of entry than a request for it—and another woman bustled briskly into the room. She was not as old as Mrs. Zeno. Rather, she looked about the age of Will’s own mother. Her hair was pulled back in a tidy ashen bun, and her brown eyes were piercing and hawk-like. She wore many layers of ruffles, as if they were sentries of fabric she had set to guard her.

“This is Professor Coeus’ brother?” Her gaze flickered over Will. “Doesn’t look much like him.”

“Will, this is Miss Hibble,” Mrs. Zeno said. “Miss Hibble is Sophos Stanton’s personal secretary.”

“They have all arrived,” Miss Hibble said to Mrs. Zeno, not sparing Will another glance.

“I will come and speak to them, but Will must answer my question first.” Mrs. Zeno turned her eyes back to Will, and behind her glasses they were clear and strong. “Where is Ben?”

There was strange force behind the question. It made him want to answer more than anything. But he recognized that force. It was the same kind Phleger had used—a credomancer’s force of will. He was not a warlock—and he swore to himself he never would be—but he had learned many lessons in the past few horrible days. He held himself firm.

“Why do you want to know?” he countered mildly.

Mrs. Zeno raised an eyebrow. “I should think the answer to that is patently obvious.”

“Is it?”

“Answering questions with other questions is a very annoying habit, young man,” Mrs. Zeno snapped.

“Ben taught it to me.”

Mrs. Zeno’s gaze was appraising. “It seems Ben taught you many things.”

Will stretched his aching muscles, tested his strength. Looking down at himself, he saw that they had left him in the same clothes he’d been wearing at the Consecration, and they were stiff with crusted blood. Phleger’s blood, Trahern’s blood, Jenny’s blood. He fought down a wave of nausea.

“I’m sorry we could not change you out of those clothes.” Mrs. Zeno saw the direction of his gaze, and the regret in her voice indicated that she found the clothes as offensive as Will did. “But I could not release the restraints until I had spoken to you.”

Will said nothing. He forced himself to be strong, to think. He did not know where he was. He did not know if this woman was who she claimed to be, or why she wanted Ben—why she
really
wanted Ben. He did not know where Ben was. He did not know why Ben had run away. He had nothing but questions. This woman might not have all the answers, but she certainly had some of them. So there was only one course open to him.

“You must want Ben because he has the snuffbox,” Will said softly. “You have me. And you know he can’t use it without me. He can’t use it at all, really, because he can’t work magic. But I can. I can work a lot of magic, more than anyone my age should be able to. And before I tell you anything, I want to know why.”

Mrs. Zeno said nothing. Then, with a gesture of her hand, she magically bade the wheelchair turn. Miss Hibble opened the door for her and they were gone.

After a while, Will felt able to climb out of bed. He found that a pitcher of water had been left for him; he drank it all, not realizing how thirsty he was until the water touched his lips. Then he went to look out of the window. The room was on a high floor, much too high to climb out of. The window looked out over a white landscape of smooth snow. In the distance, he saw the buildings of a large city, glowing with electric lights. New York City. Well, at least the old woman hadn’t been lying about that.

The door, of course, was locked. That was to be expected. And it was also to be expected that his refusal to answer for Ben’s whereabouts would not stand unchallenged. About a half hour later, Miss Hibble returned.

“You’re wanted in the Sophos’ office.”

“Who wants to see me?” Will asked warily. “Dreadnought Stanton?” As soon as he spoke the name he prayed that the answer would be yes. He’d asked Ben if the great Sophos of the Stanton Institute could banish Cowdray from his body just as he had in the pulp novel—and now he wanted to ask the man himself.

But Miss Hibble just laughed, fluty and deprecating.

“Certainly not!” she said. “The Sophos is far too busy to trouble himself over a trivial matter such as this. It’s your parents. They’ve come for you.”

She gestured for him to follow, but he made no move to do so. The thought of seeing his parents sent his heart into his shoes. God, what was he going to tell them? He couldn’t stand in front of them in these blood-crusted clothes. He was dirty and spoiled and broken. He’d cut a man’s throat. And did they already know? Did they know about Cowdray? Did they know what he’d done to Jenny?

“Come on!” Miss Hibble chirped impatiently. Then, seeing Will’s apprehension, she added more kindly, “It’s all right. They’re your parents, not monsters!” She extended her hand, as if cajoling a small child. “Besides, your mother is very worried about you. Come and let her see that you’re all right.”

Lowering his head, Will did not take her hand. He was not all right. But he did want to see his Ma’am. So he followed Miss Hibble from the room, and followed her as she led the way through the halls of the Institute. It was a very old building, only recently rewired for electricity; the electric bulbs were bright and harsh. The floors were smooth marble, veined with gold. The place had a hushed, sober feeling, and as they walked, dozens of young men peered out from behind half-opened classroom doors to watch the pair of them pass.

But Will hardly noticed this scrutiny, for he was transfixed by the fact that everywhere—massed in vases, twining up the walls—were fragrant red orchids. The exact same kind the Agency warlocks wore in their lapels.

“Those are very pretty flowers,” he murmured to Miss Hibble.

Miss Hibble smiled brightly. “Yes, aren’t they divine? They’re the Institute’s signature flower. Emeritus Zeno used to grow them.”

They finally came to an office with a very grand door. Just inside the door was an antechamber lined with books, and beyond this antechamber, an even grander office. The stained-glass window behind the massive desk reminded Will of the bright glass behind the altar in the New Faith Seat of Praise.

Enthroned behind that massive desk, Mrs. Zeno seemed younger and stronger and healthier. She lifted her chin, and Will saw that she had once been quite beautiful.

And in front of her sat his parents, and Uncle Royce.

No one spoke or moved as he entered, but everyone watched him. It was clear that they’d all been discussing him. Discussing what was to be
done
with him. But Will had been through too much to allow others to decide his fate. He had learned too much. And he was going to use what he’d learned.

“I suppose you’ve called me here to ask where Ben is,” he said before anyone else could speak. “But I’ve decided I’m not going to tell you.”

Uncle Royce narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“Before the Consecration, Ben and I made an arrangement.” Will was surprised at how smoothly the lie rolled off his tongue. “We agreed on a meeting place. But I’m not going to tell you where that is. Unless you answer my questions.”

“We don’t have any answers for you,” Uncle Royce said, looking between Father and Ma’am. “We’ve just come to bring you home.”

“That’s a lie,” said Will, turning a calm gaze onto him. “I don’t know where we really are, the Institute or the Agency, but these people are not about to let me go back to California, not with Cowdray’s power inside me and that snuffbox just waiting for me to find it.”

Mrs. Zeno tensed. “I have already told you. You are in the Stanton Institute.”

“Am I?” Will said. “But why would
Agency
warlocks bring me here? And why do Agency warlocks wear the Institute’s signature flower in their lapels?”

“The Institute has an amicable enough association with the Agency,” Mrs. Zeno lifted an eyebrow. “We are an institution of credomantic learning. Of course we train—”

“And why is it the
Agency
who destroys those books?
The Goês’ Confession
?” Will continued, as if she had not spoken.

Mrs. Zeno eyed him warily. “They destroy them because they are seditious trash, designed to undercut our noble Sophos,” she said.

Will smiled to himself, nodded. “Seditious trash. That’s exactly what Bernays called them too.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “But why should the Agency care about your noble Sophos’ reputation? He’s
your
leader. Unless—” Will fell suddenly silent as understanding overtook him. “Unless he’s
their
leader, too.”

Will suddenly perceived that his father was looking at him strangely, in a way Will didn’t recognize. What was that in his eyes? Admiration?

But it was Ma’am who rose and rushed over to where Will was standing, and hugged him desperately close.

“Will,
stop
,” she whispered. “Please. Please stop ...
thinking.
Just tell us where Ben is.”

And Will hugged his Ma’am back, but he did not stop thinking. Instead he thought harder.

“So if the Institute and the Agency are the same thing, then does that mean that Dreadnought Stanton is the head of the Agency too? Is he the one who receives the messages from Alcestis? Is he the one who receives the names of Old Users that the spirit of the Earth wants killed and sends assassins after them?”

“God, no!” Father and Uncle Royce both blurted, at almost exactly the same time. They looked at each other, and Will looked between them.

“Then who is?”

Silence.

“One of you knows,” Will said. He looked down at his Ma’am, who was still holding onto him fiercely. “I’m guessing all of you know.”

Ma’am released him from her embrace and went back to sit by Father, sinking heavily on the couch. Father placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“It seems we’re going to have to tell him after all,” Mrs. Zeno said. “Apparently he already knows much more than we expected.”

Apprehension paled Ma’am’s face. “No, don’t.” She looked anxiously at Father. “I don’t want him to know.”

“He has to, Emily,” said Father softly.

“
I’m
the head of the Agency,” Uncle Royce spat, as if disgusted by the sudden upwell of emotion in the room. For a moment Will thought Uncle Royce was simply making a stupid joke, but then he realized that his uncle was dead serious.

“You? How could
you
be the head of the Agency?” Will gestured around himself. “The Institute is in New York, and you live in San Francisco!”

“My house has a private Haälbeck door. I can come through to New York any time I like.” Royce leveled his gaze on Will. “But I don’t need to. My primary duties are in California. With your mother.”

Ma’am had pressed her face into Father’s shoulder. She wasn’t crying, only hiding her face. Father remained still, his hand resting on her back.

“The head of the Agency ... works with the witch called Alcestis,” Will was unable to believe the words even as he spoke them. “The witch who made a psychic connection with the spirit of the Earth. The witch who tells the Agency ... who to kill.” He paused, anguished. “
Ma’am
?”

Ma’am said nothing, just rocked her face back and forth against the fabric of Father’s coat in silent refusal—not of the fact, but of Will’s knowledge of it.