Zacharias glared at them. “Much as you are to be pitied, Rollo, I have a great many things to attend to, and I have no intention of delaying them to make a cake of myself before a parcel of schoolgirls.”
“But—”
“Let us have an end to this, if you please,” said Zacharias. “I have heard enough. You must simply give this speech yourself, for I will not do it, and that is my final word on the matter.”
3
EDGEWORTH HAD NOT troubled to confirm the time of day when Zacharias might expect him, but he did not leave Zacharias in suspense for very long. Zacharias had not been in his study for an hour when his manservant knocked on the door, begging pardon for interrupting. Mr. Edgeworth had arrived with his guests.
“Foreign gentlemen, sir, two of them,” said Simpson. He hesitated. “And a lady—I believe the wife of one of the gentlemen.”
Zacharias saw the reason for his hesitation soon enough. The two gentlemen Edgeworth ushered into the room were impressively attired in rich foreign dress, but it was the fourth member of the party who made Zacharias stare.
“Your Highness, may I present to you Mr. Wythe, our Sorcerer Royal?” said Edgeworth, addressing the more gorgeous of the two gentlemen.
“Sultan Ahmad governs the island of Janda Baik in the Malaccan Strait,” he added, turning to Zacharias. “His companion is Mr. Othman, and this is his royal wife. I hope you do not object to Her Highness’s joining us. The sultan cannot be comfortable leaving her alone in a foreign land, as I am sure you will understand.”
Edgeworth’s pointed look recalled Zacharias to his manners, and he averted his eyes from the sultana, his cheeks warm. She was a pretty creature, very young, but it was her incongruously large belly that had drawn his gaze. It seemed extraordinary that she should have undertaken the rigours of travel in her condition.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “Pray take a seat, Your Highness. I beg you will not be concerned by the skull at the window—it is only a harmless relic. In life it belonged to Felix Longmire, who was exceedingly mild-tempered as Sorcerers Royal go.”
This did not seem to assuage his visitors’ nervousness. Zacharias’s study bore the marks of his predecessors, whose taste had run decidedly stoicheiotical. They had had a fondness for skulls with burning lights in their eye sockets, crystal balls in which mysterious shapes came and went, and dark velvet window curtains traced with obscure runes.
Though Zacharias had asserted himself so far as to cover the walls in a light sprigged paper, which did wonders for the room, the study was still wont to induce unease in the unmagical. His guests sat at the edge of their seats, drawing their feet away from the mystic sigils inscribed upon the floor.
Zacharias was scarcely more comfortable than they. At least it did not seem likely that Edgeworth would confront Zacharias with the dwindling of English magic, since he had brought a foreign potentate with him. But if Edgeworth had not discovered their crisis of magical resource, then his visit must be for the usual reason the Government sought out the Sorcerer Royal—in reliance upon that magic, and in expectation that it should be used for whatever purpose the Government deemed best.
“Janda Baik, alas, is beset with magical difficulties,” began Edgeworth unpromisingly. “When Sultan Ahmad approached us for assistance—for His Highness knows what an interest we take in everything concerning his nation—I told him I knew just the fellow to help him. Mr. Wythe would settle these wretched females in a trice!”
“Wretched females?” said Zacharias, glancing at the globe by his desk. Janda Baik was a minute speck in the Malay archipelago, so small it seemed hardly to merit a name—but to the east lay the riches of China; to the west, the vast waters of the Indian Ocean, to which Bonaparte had such convenient access from the Isle de France. The reasons for the Government’s tender concern for Janda Baik were obvious.
“I daresay the trouble is best explained by the sultan himself,” said Edgeworth.
The sultan was a slender, handsome man, not much older than his wife. Though he had looked askance at Zacharias upon their introduction—a black man could not have been his idea of Britain’s first magician—his manner was courteous when he spoke. Mr. Othman interpreted.
“Our kingdom is afflicted by a group of old women who profess to practise magic,” Sultan Ahmad began. “Aunts and grandmothers, whom we have tolerated out of respect for their great age, and because we believed they did no harm with their chantments.”
“Witches, in short!” interjected Edgeworth, who was enough of a thaumaturge to grimace at the notion. Nothing disgusted a thaumaturge so much as a witch. Shameless, impudent, meddling females, who presumed to set at naught the Society’s prohibition on women’s magic, and duped the common people with their potions and cantrips!
“At first they contented themselves with rain-making and wave-settling, to which we made no objection, since it pleased the people,” continued the sultan. “But now we have reason to regret our magnanimity. Of late our witches have entered into commerce with evil spirits, even taking these creatures into their own homes. We find ourselves overrun by monsters! The lamiae swarm our isle, so that decent people cannot sleep peacefully for fear they will be devoured in the night. It is to succour our people that we travelled here to seek assistance.”
The young sultana leant over to whisper in the interpreter’s ear. Mr. Othman cleared his throat and said:
“The French approached us with an offer of support, but we declined. We hate that tyrant Bonaparte, and our loyalty to our friends could not permit of our accepting aid from their enemies. We knew that the British would not fail to help us!”
“His Highness knows Britain is a friend to Janda Baik,” said Edgeworth. “Our man Raffles made the introduction, and I assured the sultan we should do everything in our power to help.”
“Certainly,” said Zacharias, after a pause. Addressing the sultan, he said:
“I hope you will forgive my ignorance, sir, but Oriental lamiae are a species of magical creature of which I have had no experience. I have read Du Plessis’s monograph, and understand them to be a type of ghoul—the vengeful spirits of mortal women wronged in life—but though his is the best exposition we have of the subject, Du Plessis says nothing of how they may be dealt with. If you would be so good as to explain, what form of assistance is it that you seek?”
His sentence had scarcely been conveyed to the royals when the sultana sat up and let out an urgent stream of words. This was translated succinctly.
“Guns!” said Mr. Othman.
“That is out of the question, of course,” Edgeworth said hastily. “As your Highness knows, mere artillery would be nothing to witches and vampiresses. We discussed that yesterday, if you recall.”
Zacharias wondered, not without a touch of irony, whether they had also discussed the fact that the Government was nearly as overstretched as the Society. The long war had drained the nation’s resources. Britain was pressed so hard that it was very unlikely it could spare either troops or ships for a squabble over a remote island, however commanding its position.
“Mr. Edgeworth is in the right of it,” he said. “Lamiae being already dead, guns would not frighten them.” Before he could wonder aloud whether cannon might nonetheless be efficacious in blowing the lamiae apart, Edgeworth cried:
“We are of one mind! I have already told His Highness that you will be only too happy to oblige with some thundering piece of magic—some fearsome hex, vastly better than any number of guns, which will put these vampires in their places. Sultan Ahmad was delighted. His Highness understands that the Sorcerer Royal is an enchanter of considerable powers.”
Zacharias was so taken aback that he scarcely knew what to say, or how to look. This, then, was the reason Edgeworth had given him no forewarning of what would be asked of him. Edgeworth knew how little likely Zacharias was to agree to any involvement in a foreign dispute.
The Society’s policy of non-interference in affairs of state was of long standing, and the history of the vexed relations of England’s thaumaturgy to its sovereigns had proved its necessity.
But Edgeworth meant to back Zacharias into a corner. He knew Zacharias could not easily object in the sultan’s presence, or express his indignation at Edgeworth’s high-handedness. No one would have dared play such a trick on Sir Stephen, but Zacharias was untried. Perhaps Edgeworth thought the new Sorcerer Royal might be more docile than an Englishman—or ought to be.
Zacharias went to the window, turning his back to his guests. He was in such a state of cold anger that he could not trust himself to speak. It was tempting to leave both Britain and Janda Baik to resolve their own difficulties.
But Zacharias’s was a changed world. Unlike the sorcerers before him, he could not retire to a tower and spin curses in splendid isolation. Like England herself, Zacharias ignored the world beyond at his own peril.
He turned, swallowing his indignation, and began, “I should counsel against rushing into any sort of violent action—” when Felix Longmire toppled off the windowsill.
A faint persistent magic lingered in everything to do with a sorcerer, and the skull fortuitously avoided collision with anything that might cause it injury. It dropped onto a cushion that had fallen off an armchair, where it was forgotten by the living—for their attention was engrossed by the crystal ball vibrating upon the sill.
Zacharias made occasional use of the shewstone for scrying, and to commune with fellow magicians in distant lands. When it was not in use he covered it with a black velvet cloth, partly to shield it from dust, but also to preserve the sensibility of any unmagical guests. Shewstones collected traces of atmospheric magic, resulting in the appearance of disturbing images upon their surface: horrid impish faces, mystic letters, tiny desperate figures running from some lurking doom.
Seizing his staff, Zacharias snatched the cloth away, and caught the crystal ball when it juddered off the windowsill. Within the glass loomed two giant dark orbs, and a harsh, ancient voice bellowed:
“Raja Ahmad!”
The sultan sat up, his eyes starting from his head. The sultana clasped his hand, her face pale.
“What—what is that?” cried the interpreter.
All at once the shewstone became as hot as a poker taken off the fire, scalding Zacharias’s fingers. He dropped it with a cry, and the crystal ball rolled across the room, catching up at Sultan Ahmad’s feet.
The dark orbs within the crystal resolved into ordinary eyes, set in the face of an elderly female. She was a foreigner, like the sultan and his companions, with skin several shades lighter than Zacharias’s own. Her grey hair was partly concealed by a scarf, her face wrinkled and sere. Despite her scowl there was little in her appearance to inspire fear, but Sultan Ahmad jumped out of his seat as though he had seen a snake.
“Who is that woman? What is she saying?” hissed Edgeworth, grasping Zacharias’s arm. Zacharias drew a quick symbol in the air, murmuring a formula. The woman’s speech sprang into clarity.
“You thought you would escape without anyone’s discovering your purpose, but you ought to have known you could not evade Mak Genggang so easily!” she said. “I know what you have been about! Pleading with the British King for cannons and blunderbusses, the better to attack your own people with. Is this the reason the Achinese restored you to us, Raja Ahmad? Better that you had never come home, if so!”
The sultan was crimson with fury and embarrassment. He swept Zacharias and Edgeworth with a raging look, crying:
“I am betrayed! Damn you all for traitors and villains!”
He stormed out of the room, followed by the sultana. The interpreter only paused at the door to snap in a trembling voice:
“That is a poor attempt at a translation spell, for you ought to know that he called you a black-faced villain, and I quite agree!”
“Is that you, Othman?” cried the old woman in the glass. “See what cowards these men are! They are bold enough to bow and scrape to foreigners, but they would rather flee than look poor old Mak Genggang in the eye. You may tell your master from me that he has ground his face in the earth for nothing, Othman. All the broadsides in the world will not affright the witches of Janda Baik!”
• • •
THIS is a pretty pickle!” exclaimed Edgeworth.
Zacharias picked up the shewstone. The woman’s face had vanished, and the glass was cloudy again, showing only the fleeting images produced by atmospheric magic. But traces of Mak Genggang’s spell still lingered, stinging his fingers.
It had been potent magic that had allowed the witch to enter the shewstone though she had not been summoned, all the more as she was working her spells in Janda Baik. It was possible in theory to cast any enchantment from afar, but it required considerable skill—more than Zacharias would have expected from the type of village witch Sultan Ahmad had described to them. But it was clear neither the sultan nor Edgeworth had told him the whole story.
“What can have possessed you to spring that hag upon the sultan?” Edgeworth continued. “With a little effort we might have made a valuable friend for England, but now you have sent him off in high dudgeon, and the work to cultivate him is all to do again!”
Vexed as Zacharias was, he was almost tempted to laugh. He had not expected an apology, but still it seemed extraordinary that Edgeworth should be reproaching him for springing unwelcome surprises upon his guests.
“I did not summon the witch,” said Zacharias. “She inserted herself into the proceedings.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Edgeworth. “I was always told that the Sorcerer Royal’s quarters and possessions were hedged about with wards, but I am a mere layperson and cannot claim to know anything about the matter.”
“The shewstone is warded,” said Zacharias, holding it up to the light. “But the dimensions within it belong to anyone who can master the spaces between the worlds. A shewstone must be open to any influence that is capable of entering it, or it could not perform its ordinary functions. It says much of this witch that she was capable of penetrating it, however. Sultan Ahmad has good reason to be anxious.”
“Nor is he the only one,” said Edgeworth. He seemed to have a great deal more to say, but he cut himself off and exhaled, striving to govern his irritation. After a moment he said, with a tolerable appearance of complaisance:
“Come, Wythe, cannot we arrive at a suitable agreement? The Government longs to consolidate our power in the Indian Ocean, for if we do not, like as not Boney will pip us to the post. We cannot afford to offer Janda Baik either men or ships, but if there were some means of placing the sultan in our debt—some knockdown spell, say, which would put paid to these harridans—the Government would be very much obliged, and I am sure it would show its gratitude in a fitting fashion.”
Zacharias said he should be sorry to disoblige the Government, but he was sure it would not depend upon him for any knockdown spell. “It would, you know, be rather like making war against these witches. The Government will recognise how impossible it is for thaumaturgy to involve itself in anything of that sort. The Government will not have forgotten our treaty with the French sorcieres.”
It was Sir Stephen who had negotiated the entente between France’s sorcieres and English thaumaturgy at the beginning of the war. Both sides appreciated the profound devastation that would be wreaked by a magical war, and neither wished to provoke it. Fairy commonly scorned to take notice of mortal skirmishes, but a fairy never lived who could resist adding its hexes to a magical scrimmage, and that was a result no one could desire.
Thaumaturgy benefited from the treaty, for it enabled English magicians to avoid testing their declining powers against the French, who had given no sign of suffering from any lack of magic. But it also suited the French sorcieres: they were as froward and jealous of their independence as any illusion
of magicians, and they had no desire to be ordered about by their government as though they were no better than the military. They had agreed with the Society that no magician would advance the political aims of either nation by magic, so long as the war continued.
“Any use of military magics to assist the sultan risks breaching our agreement, and provoking France’s sorcieres,” continued Zacharias. “I need not tell you, sir, that we are already sufficiently embattled, not to court the addition of magic to Bonaparte’s arsenal.”
He and Edgeworth had both been pretending that neither of them was as annoyed with the other as they really were—Zacharias with rather more success, for his life had been such as to cultivate his ability to feign complaisance even when he was angriest. For all the privileges Sir Stephen’s patronage had lent him, Zacharias could not often afford the liberty of honest emotion.
Neither his colour nor his birth was such as to render such habits of self-control necessary for Edgeworth, however, and his composure began to fray at the edges.
“And I suppose we have no magic to frighten Boney with!” he snapped. “We are a laughingstock—a nation of hundreds of enchanters, and nothing to enchant with!”
Zacharias’s face went stiff. This was what he had feared all along, that the Society’s weakness should be revealed to the Government. In a moment he had recovered his equanimity, but not quickly enough. Edgeworth had seen his look of alarm, and said:
“Oh yes, I know of our want of resource, and what is worse, I am not the only man in Government who suspects it. I need not tell you what that is likely to mean for the Society. You know the Government has never liked magicians above half: they are expensive creatures to keep, and they hardly pay for the keeping. Your arrogance may have served in the old days, when thaumaturgy had the power to justify its independence. Now, however—!”
He paused and took a turn around the room, his forehead creased with worry.