A Charm of Magpies 03 Flight of Magpies (2 page)

It was probably indiscreet, Crane knew, but he refused to care. They had fucked joyfully and talked properly for the first time in a fortnight, thanks to Stephen’s damned over-demanding schedule, and he was not going to end those few snatched hours of simple pleasure by sending Stephen to slink furtively down the servants’ stairs as if this were some sordid liaison. Crane tipped the doormen of his mansion block lavishly enough that it was not in their interests to cause trouble about his comings and goings. And he would not start to worry about being arrested simply because he walked down a flight of stairs with his lover. He had spent his adult life in China, where nobody cared who he slept with, and he did not like the way England’s laws and expectations were creeping into his consciousness, making him fearful about what had been normal. So he had pushed Stephen towards the front door of the flat when the other man had been turning towards the back, and they walked out into the chilly street together.

It was a cold winter, but the sun was out and the sky blue, so they went on foot, breath steaming in the icy air, heading for Lincoln’s Inn Fields where the Council met.

“Think it’s going to snow?” Crane asked idly.

“Not yet. Probably. Will we be able to go to Rothwell if it does?”

“We’ll lay in supplies. Leave it to Merrick.” They were going to Crane’s hunting box, a small isolated lodge near the village of Rothwell, in Northamptonshire for two weeks around Christmas and New Year. Crane had no intention of using it to hunt anything other than a short-arsed shaman.

“I feel slightly guilty about Mr. Merrick,” Stephen remarked. “Isn’t it awfully dull for him up there when you’re, uh, preoccupied?”

“You are the only man alive whose first concern about a romantic tryst is whether the servants might get bored. Don’t worry about Merrick, he makes his own entertainment.”

“He has a widow up there?”

“It’s probably best not to enquire too closely. I never do. What does the Council want with you?”

“Don’t know.” Stephen stuffed his hands in the pockets of the topcoat that Crane had insisted on buying him for this chilly winter. It had been a great deal more expensive than Stephen, who accepted gifts with startling gracelessness, had wanted; a great deal cheaper than Crane would have preferred; unsatisfactory to both. “I got a note from Esther last night telling me we’d to be there this morning.”

Crane frowned. “Is this about the power?”

“No. I’m sure it’s not. Don’t fret.”

“I do not fret,” Crane said, offended. “
You
fret.”

“You fret like a mother hen every time I mention the Council.”

“I regard your Council with dislike, distrust and dismay, as any reasonable man would. I can’t help it if you mistake my rational caution for fretting.”

Stephen cast an affectionate look up at him. “It’s fine, Lucien. I’ve been ridiculously careful. The whole thing will be forgotten by spring, if you ask me.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so,” said Crane dryly. Stephen sounded convincing, but then, as a fluent and habitual liar, he usually did.

Stephen’s problem with the Council was all down to Crane. He knew it, hated it, and was powerless to do anything about it.

Crane was descended from a magician of immense power known as the Magpie Lord, and the Vaudrey family line still carried that power. He had no magical talent of his own, but it ran in his blood and bone and seed, and when his body met Stephen’s, the magic came with it, unsought and unstoppable.

That, in tandem with the ancient gold ring Crane had also inherited from the Magpie Lord, had lent Stephen the strength to save both their lives, but it had also exposed him to suspicion. Many practitioners of magic would kill for power—Stephen’s job was in large part about stopping them doing exactly that—and anyone whose talents were suddenly enhanced became the object of grave doubts. Even Esther Gold, Stephen’s partner, had feared he was turning warlock, stripping the life from others to make himself stronger. Esther knew the truth now, but Stephen wasn’t prepared to admit to his illegal relationship to anyone else, certainly not to the Council. And he was adamant that the tempting power in the Vaudrey bloodline had to remain secret, to protect Crane from those who would be desperate to use it. Crane, who had twice faced death and worse at the hands of people who wanted his power, was fully in agreement with that.

He had no idea if Stephen was telling the truth about deflecting the Council’s suspicions, and in some ways, he didn’t care. It would be bad if Stephen was forced from his post; humiliating for him to be dismissed in disgrace. But it didn’t matter to Crane how he left it, as long as he could whisk the obstinate little sod away from this damned rainy judgemental country to a life that included a lot more luxury and a lot less horror.

He sighed, knowing that this would not be happening soon. “As long as you aren’t about to be hauled in and pilloried for your criminal ways.”

“I trust not.” Stephen sounded vague. His attention seemed to be on the other side of the street. Crane followed the direction of his gaze and saw he was observing a street entertainer. The man had pulled a small bunch of daisies out of his battered stovepipe hat and was flourishing the flowers impressively. A chorus of derision rose from the audience of gawpers, shoppers and dawdling office clerks. The magician put on an expression of exaggerated hurt, rummaged in the hat and produced, this time, a massive bouquet of tropical blooms. He made a hopeful “is that better?” face as he showed it around that won him a ripple of laughter and applause.

“Problem?” Crane asked, glancing down.

“Just checking.” Stephen drifted casually over the road, ducking round a carriage. Crane followed, more carefully, to avoid splashing his trouser legs in the winter mud and slime of the streets.

They watched the magician for a few minutes. He was rather good, with some excellent sleight-of-hand, if that was what it was. A number of practitioners were turning their talents to supplying the current popular craze for stage magic, much to the Council’s disapproval, and the justiciary were keeping an eye out for problems. There had been a rather unfortunate business a couple of months ago with a performer whose remarkable displays with knives had attracted a lot of attention, particularly when he lost concentration at a crucial moment. As a result, Stephen had been watching a lot of theatrical magic, and to Crane’s poorly concealed amusement, was developing a decided taste for it. They had seen all of the remarkable performances on offer at the Egyptian Hall, and while Crane found it hard to get excited about illusions when he had the genuine article in his bed, he was endlessly entertained by Stephen’s rapt reaction to trickery.

He judged from the slight relaxation of Stephen’s stance now that this display was entirely about technical skill rather than unnatural powers, glanced at his fob watch to be sure they could still reach Lincoln’s Inn Fields for Stephen’s appointment, and settled back with only mild resignation to watch, dividing his attention between the performer and his lover.

The magician multiplied a series of billiard balls, whipping a silk handkerchief over and around his fingers while the ivory spheres appeared and vanished. Crane, contemplating the display, became conscious that someone was looking at him. He glanced around and saw a wild-haired man in a white muffler sketching rapidly on a pad.

The artist glanced up and caught Crane watching him. His eyes widened fractionally, and he turned the paper round to reveal the beginnings of a pencil drawing, a few winged lines capturing Crane’s well-shaped brows and high cheekbones.

“Portrait, sir?” he asked, with a West Country burr. “Half a crown.”

Crane would have thrown him a shilling, but that was ludicrous. He snorted. The artist, obviously expecting his refusal, had already turned the paper back and was scribbling again.

The magician’s little performance concluded with a flourish. Stephen moved to the pavement artist, and stopped for a moment to peer over his shoulder as he worked on the sketch.

“He was quite good,” he remarked as they strolled on. “Have you ever had a portrait done?”

“No. I suppose I ought to, but that’s such a dull reason to do anything.”

“I thought it was compulsory for your station in life.” Stephen paused, and added, diffidently, “I’d like it if you did.”

“Then I shall. Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I like looking at you.”

“I’d prefer to be here for you to look at in person—” And so would Stephen, who saw death daily and was too used to loss. Crane gave himself a mental kick and went on smoothly, “But you’re quite right. I do have a duty to posterity to preserve my beauty.”

“I did
not
say that.”

“I’ll look into it. If you’ll sit for one as well, that is.”

“Oh. Uh—”

“That’s the condition, my sweet. I like to look at you too. I shall find the right artist to do you justice.”

Stephen narrowed his eyes. “If that’s going to be a joke about miniature painters…”

Crane gave a crack of laughter that sent a pair of magpies skittering up off the pavement, and they walked on together, towards the Council.

Chapter Two

Stephen left Crane on Sardinia Street with a smile and a brush of the hand. It was as much as he dared, more than seemed quite safe. In Shanghai, Crane had said, they could have kissed on the street. That was a thought so alien, Stephen found it barely believable, but he couldn’t help the niggle of curiosity. What it would be like. Whether, if he ever went to such a place, he would dare.

Enough, Steph.
He bent his mind to work, heading for an obscure red-brick building at the corner with Lincoln’s Inn Fields, the premises of the Council that governed England’s practitioners and paid his meagre wages.

His partner Esther Gold was heading towards the door as he arrived. He lifted a hand in greeting and got a weary nod in return.

“Are you all right, Es? You look tired.” She looked dreadful, in fact, though Stephen knew better than to say so: sallow and exhausted, her hair lank. “Shouldn’t you be at home? You aren’t going to be sick again, are you?”

Esther glared at him, pressing her lips together, and swallowed hard. “Don’t even talk about that. Do you know what they’ve dragged us here for?”

“No. I thought you did.”

“No.”

“Marvellous,” Stephen muttered.

They walked together through the discreetly guarded doors, through a narrow hall hung with portraits of the great practitioners of the past. Stephen glanced, as he always did, at the engraving that showed the Magpie Lord: a handsome, aristocratic man dressed in the style of two centuries ago, his patrician features bearing a distinct resemblance to Crane’s. Esther shot him a sardonic look but refrained from comment.

The two justiciars were made to kick their heels in the anteroom for an irritating twenty minutes. When they were at last waved in, it was not an improvement. Stephen felt himself sag slightly at the three Councillors facing them, and Esther gave a very low groan.

John Slee, at the centre of the table, was the man Stephen disliked most on the Council, and possibly in the world. He was an aggressive, forceful, noisy man who thrived on conflict, for whom divergent opinions were airy-fairy nonsense or weakness, and anyone else’s expertise was a threat. He was convinced that the justiciary were encroaching on the liberty of practitioners, and could be relied on to argue every case, doubt every witness account and protest every extra appointment.

If Stephen loathed John Slee, then he despised George Fairley. The second Councillor was well-born, soft-handed, liver-lipped, and blessed with an unjustifiably high opinion of himself. When Stephen had attempted to pass on Crane’s case, back in spring, Fairley had proposed to take over on the grounds of his own excellent birth.
Like calls to like
, he had said, looking down at Stephen, son of a disgraced solicitor. Fairley was neither a trained justiciar nor a man Stephen had ever respected for his sense or skills, and his damned persistent sense of duty had made him dig his heels in and refuse to give the case up after all. The snub had humiliated Fairley publicly, and he had neither forgotten nor forgiven that. It had also saved Crane’s life and brought them together, something for which Stephen would have paid a far higher price, but Fairley’s enmity could be inconvenient at times, and this looked to be one of them.

The third Councillor present, contemplating them with pursed lips through half-moon spectacles, was not much of an improvement. As well born as Fairley but a lot more use, Mrs. Baron Shaw could be relied on for absolute fairness, but as Stephen well knew, this was only welcome when one was not in the wrong, and her expression suggested this was not currently the case.

He ran through the last few days in his head, wondering what infraction had caught the Council’s attention. It couldn’t, surely, be the Magpie Lord’s power: they would have called him in alone for that. The thought nevertheless made him feel slightly cold. Telling Esther and her husband that he and Crane were lovers had been one of the most frightening moments of a life filled with fears, and he had not even managed to form the words himself, instead retreating into Lucien like the coward he was. Explaining that to the Council… No.

Pay attention, Steph. They’re not here about that.

John Slee raised his head from the papers he had been ostentatiously shuffling. “Well, come on, we’re running late.” He looked as annoyed as if the delay was Stephen’s fault. “What have you to say about this?”

“About what?” Esther said. “Nobody’s told us what we’re here for.”

George Fairley snorted. “Your guttersnipe. That thieving young rough, what’s her name.”

Stephen stiffened, and Esther drew an angry breath, but Mrs. Baron Shaw spoke before either of them could. “That’s what we’re here to discuss, George. It is not proven. And the justiciar’s name is Saint. I can write it down if you have trouble remembering all five letters.” She gave Fairley a tight smile with no pretence at sincerity, and held it until he muttered something and glanced away, then looked over her spectacles at Stephen and Esther. “I take it you haven’t heard about the robberies.”

“What robberies?”

“A series of relatively small thefts from wealthy homes.” Mrs. Baron Shaw was hugely wealthy herself, and a member of the highest society. Stephen knew that she had met Crane several times at the parties and political salons to which Leonora Hart dragged him, as well as in a shabby church hall at Stephen’s side during an outbreak of magical malpractice. He wondered if she was curious about him.

She was tapping her finger on the desk in front of her. “Small items, cash and jewellery, stolen from rooms on third or fourth floors. Through windows which are, by any normal means, inaccessible.”

“Two separate witnesses report a figure running away through the sky,” said Fairley with immense satisfaction in the curve of his damp lips. “The thief, they say, was walking on thin air. And the witness from Monday night states very clearly that he saw a fair-haired young woman.”

Stephen stared at him. “Are you accusing Jenny Saint of theft?”

“Do you know any other blonde, female windwalkers?” Fairley returned.

“No,” Esther said. “But I know plenty of witnesses who make mistakes. And quite a lot of liars.”

“Why weren’t we told about this earlier?” Stephen demanded. “If you believe that Saint is abusing her powers to commit crimes—”

“Macready’s team has been alerted,” Fairley said.

“Macready,” Stephen repeated. “You have asked one justiciary team to investigate a member of another justiciary team.” He shoved his hands behind his back, feeling the surge of power through them as his anger rose. “You’ve accused Jenny Saint to Macready without even telling us?”

“We’re telling you now.” Fairley sounded smug.

“That’s entirely unjust. I protest that, sir.”

“We are the Council,” Slee said with thumping authority.

“We are Jenny Saint’s trainers!” Esther snapped back.

“Do I need to remind you of Saint’s disciplinary record?” Fairley put in. “You two have protected her despite consistently poor behaviour—”

“She’s impulsive,” Stephen said. “She’s not a thief.”

“She is a thief. Always has been. You
caught
her thieving. How many disciplinary problems—”

“In the past. She’s a justiciar now.” Stephen spoke through his teeth, lacing his fingers tightly together. The law against using powers in the Council building was draconian, absolute, and enforced without the slightest laxity. It had to be, to prevent people like Fairley ending up as smears on the wall. “I object in the strongest terms to anyone but Mrs. Gold and myself dealing with this.”

“You don’t make that decision, Day.” John Slee straightened in his seat. “The Council does. It would hardly be
justice
otherwise, would it?” The sneer was unmistakeable.

“Are you suggesting that Mr. Day and I wouldn’t apply the law fairly?” Esther’s voice rang like cold iron.

Mrs. Baron Shaw raised a brow at Esther. “Tell me, Mrs. Gold. If you knew that one of your team was a criminal, can you assure me you’d deal with them precisely as you would anyone else?”

Stephen felt a rush of cold down his spine. Esther knew damned well that he was committing crimes with Crane, regularly and with enthusiasm. She had lied for him he didn’t know how many times in the last few months, to cover his absences from his own poky rooms at night, his unexplained powers. Had Mrs. Baron Shaw heard the whispers and jokes that Stephen knew had always circulated about him? Was there meaning in that little smirk on Fairley’s face?

Esther’s expression was startling in its malevolence. “If Saint is using her powers to steal, she will be brought to justice. But that should be ascertained by a fair investigation.”

“Which is what we have set in motion,” Fairley said with satisfaction.

“No, I said ‘fair’. Not ‘decided in advance by people whose idea of work is sitting around a table listening to unsubstantiated gossip’.”

“Esther!” Stephen yelped.

“How dare you—” Fairley began angrily.

“Jenny Saint has scars, Mr. Fairley, earned in the line of duty,” Esther snarled at him. “She
works
. Can you say as much?”

Crane was lounging on the couch with a glass of wine and a lurid sensation novel by Mrs. Braddon when Stephen finally got in, exhausted and apprehensive, around eight o’clock that night.

“Good evening.” Crane didn’t look up, turning the page with a care that suggested annoyance. “I thought you’d be back earlier?”

“I’d have loved to be back earlier.” Stephen took the Magpie Lord’s ring from the desk, fastening it around his neck where it belonged. “I’d have loved not to go out at all. Good God, Lucien, the day I have had.”

Crane shut the book as Stephen went to pour himself a drink. “What’s wrong?”

Stephen filled the glass overgenerously with the excellent Burgundy. He felt he would need it. “To start with, Saint’s being accused of theft.”

“Your Saint? Miss Saint?”

“I’m afraid so. There’ve been jewels and so on stolen from high rooms, third and fourth floors, and a couple of witnesses claim to have seen a windwalker—or rather, to have seen a fair-haired woman running away through the air. And since Saint is the only windwalker in London that we know of, and probably the only blonde female one in all England…”

“Just a moment. Can she do that?” Crane asked, eyebrows tilting. “I’ve seen her jump around impressively enough, but actually
walk
on thin air?”

Stephen began to respond, and realised that Crane had only seen Saint in action in a cellar, never in the open air. “Yes. Windwalkers can, uh, pull the ether to a point strongly enough to take their weight for a second. They can’t stand still on it, they have to keep moving, but yes, she can walk on air.”

“Practitioners,” Crane muttered. “Full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Indeed. Anyway, yes, Saint could very easily climb through the air to a high window, and break in safely, and run away afterwards. She could and, in the opinion of Councillor Fairley, she
would
, because she was born and bred on the streets, and once a guttersnipe, always a guttersnipe.”

“Fairley. Is that the fellow I met in spring with the damp mouth and damper handshake?”

“Grovels to anyone he can’t bully. Yes.” Crane had described him as an oleaginous prick, Stephen recalled. He made a mental note to repeat that pithy phrase to Esther. “He doesn’t like me, or Saint. Or Esther, actually.”

“Mrs. Gold is something of a challenge,” Crane pointed out. “So, this windwalking is a rare skill? Not a talent you’ve been hiding under a bushel?”

“Good Lord, no. It’s an extraordinarily rare ability. I know of Saint, a grandmother who has rheumatism now, a chap in Yorkshire with a terrible drink problem, and a poor devil on the South Coast who lost concentration over a cliff and shattered both his legs in the fall. There are doubtless more of them out there, but not many—”

“And no fair-haired young women among them to your knowledge,” Crane finished for him. “It doesn’t look too good for Miss Saint.”

That was, Stephen reflected, one of the reasons he loved him. Other men might have made reassuring noises, and Stephen would have been obliged to pretend to be reassured. Crane did not.

He came to sit on the other end of the sofa, swinging his feet up so his legs rested on Crane’s lap. “No, it doesn’t look good. She’s not the most scrupulous person, and they pay us such a pathetic pittance, and…no. But I’m not going to see her convicted on that basis without hard evidence. Give a dog a bad name, and all that. We’ll keep an eye on her.” Stephen sighed. “What made it worse was that Esther had a blazing row with the Council about it. Fairley had already convicted Saint in his own head, but she put up John Slee’s back too—I told you about him, didn’t I, the idiot who campaigns against the justiciary. It wasn’t helpful. She was feeling rather poorly.” He took a gulp of wine, steeling himself. “Er, Lucien…”

Crane frowned. “What is it?”

“Esther. It’s why she’s not well. She told me today, after the meeting. She’s expecting.”

“Expecting what? Oh,
expecting
. Well, that’s good news. Isn’t it?”

Stephen made a face. “The thing is, she’s had three miscarriages so far, that I know about. And it seems as though the problem is related to using her powers on a large scale. The last time was just after the Underhill business last winter, and Dan made her promise that next time she’d stop work right away.”

“And she’s expecting now.”

“Yes, and sick as a dog with it.” Stephen had been obliged to hold her hair as she retched after the meeting. It was, he felt, a duty he could have been spared.

“So…?”

“So I’m on my own for the next year at least, assuming everything goes well. Even if she wasn’t ill, she can’t use her powers. If she did and lost the child— She shouldn’t risk it, anyway.”

“No, of course. Well, give her my best wishes. So who replaces her?” Crane paused. “You will be getting some help, won’t you?”

Stephen rather wished his lover wasn’t quite so acute at identifying problems that might otherwise have gone unmentioned. “From whom? There are seven justiciars in London, including me and Es, and four of them are juniors, and one of those is Saint. The Council have refused to appoint any more in ages, even though we lost Arbuthnot the summer before last. Esther’s been asking for someone to take her place but she can’t go on any more. She’s been sick four times a day for the last week.” Stephen opened his palms helplessly. “There’s not much I
can
do except pick up her workload.”