Cold Magics (9 page)

Thomas felt his stomach sink. Behind him, he heard Eileen swear softly.

“Witchcraft?” repeated Captain Fergus. He looked to Thomas. “You didn’t say anything about witchcraft.”

“There was no witchcraft,” said Thomas. “That one was killed with a sword, that one with a table leg, and the third…” he took a moment to look at the man with the broken neck. “Well, I suppose Lionel killed him with his hands.”

“I am not talking about the fight,” said Captain Dillman. “We were informed this morning that you practise witchcraft in this apartment.”

“By whom?” asked Thomas.

“Not your concern.”

Captain Dillman held up the book he was reading and turning several pages. He stopped, then, looked closely at the page and read, “‘A charm for the even splitting of wood.’” He tossed the book beside the others on the floor and looked at Thomas. “Now, why would you have such a thing in your library?”

Thomas felt himself flush with anger. The other church guards had stopped what they were doing and were moving closer.

“Why should I not have such a thing in my library?” said Thomas. “It is a silly charm; part of an old superstition. Such things don’t matter.”

“In the eyes of the church they do,” said Captain Dillman.

“No, they don’t,” Thomas said, making his voice as hard and as cold as he could. “What matters to the church is whether or not there is proof of someone calling to the Banished for the power to enact such horrors as those practised by your late Bishop Malloy. That,” Thomas pointed at the book, “is a silly piece of folklore.”

“You quote the church law to me?” said Captain Dillman, his voice soft and very dangerous.

“Yes,” said Thomas, managing to keep his fear out of his voice. “Shall I also quote you the king’s laws about his students and whose jurisdiction they are under?”

“Don’t bother,” said Captain Dillman. “Explain it to the inquisitors when you speak to them.”

“I am not speaking—”

“You are,” said Captain Dillman, gesturing with one hand. All three of the guards drew swords. Behind him, Thomas heard Eileen gasp; heard George say, “What’s going on?”

“Stay where you are,” said Captain Dillman. “This young man is under arrest on suspicion of engaging in witchcraft. Any who aid him will join him.”

“Thomas?” George’s tone was unsure.

“They have no authority over me,” said Thomas. He looked at Captain Fergus. “Do they?”

“Not in judicial matters,” said Captain Fergus. “But this isn’t a judicial matter.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Thomas. “I’m a student of the Royal Academy. Any actions against me must be taken by the crown.”

“Don’t worry,” said Captain Dillman, smiling at Thomas. “We will inform the king in due course. Surrender your sword and come with us. Now.”

Thomas looked at the three men with their weapons drawn, their eyes on their commander. There was a slim chance he could have taken them if his own blades were already drawn, but as it was, he knew he would be cut down before he could do more than draw. And there were still eight more at the bottom of the stairs. Thomas turned to Eileen and George. Eileen had taken the cloth away from her breast and had her hands close to the hilts of her blades. George was frowning, and his hands were starting to clench.

They’ll be killed, if we start fighting now.

Thomas unbuckled his sword-belt and tossed the weapons to Eileen. “Keep these for me.”

Eileen’s mouth dropped open in shock even as she caught the weapons. George wore the same expression and for a brief moment Thomas could actually see the resemblance between them.

“A wise choice,” said Captain Dillman. He gestured again and two of the men took up positions on either side of Thomas. “Go with them. Don’t make a fuss.”

“Thomas?” George was looking very worried, now.

“It’s all right,” said Thomas. He turned on his heel as the men grabbed his arms and let them lead him out. He looked at Eileen again as he passed. Her face was white, his weapons belt clutched tightly in her hands. She mouthed,
Henry?

Thomas nodded, and Eileen stepped back to let the three pass. Lionel rose when he saw Thomas being led out, much to the consternation of the healer, who had removed the knife and now struggled to keep a folded bandage pressed to the open wound.

“What’s going on?” Lionel demanded.

“Eileen will explain,” said Thomas, not breaking his stride. “Stay out of their way.”

He could feel the tension in the men as they started down the stairs. One went down in front, the other behind. Thomas considered for a moment breaking free of them, but knew that if he actually managed to escape, his friends would all be arrested and held until he came back. He kept pace with the man in front of him and made no sudden moves.

When he reached the ground floor, he heard Captain Fergus call down, “Let them pass! He’s arrested on church business!”

Thomas’s guards spoke to their companions at the bottom of the stairs, who quickly brought out two pairs of manacles. Thomas held still while the guards pulled his arms behind his back and bound his wrists, then his ankles. Four other guards, including the one who had challenged Thomas before, closed ranks around him. Two of them grabbed his elbows and hauled him forward, making him jog to keep up.

It was a pace Thomas knew he could not manage with the manacles on, and he had no doubt that the guards knew it, too. He tried slowing and got hit from behind, hard enough to send him sprawling into the gutter, leaving him scraped and wet and covered in the filth of the streets.

They picked him up and made him run again. Thomas did his best to keep up. The people in the streets watched, but no one said anything. It was an unusual thing to see a man arrested by the church guards, but not unknown. The guards ignored the crowds, keeping their pace up and occasionally tripping Thomas. When he hit the ground he was hauled to his feet and set to run again.

They crossed nearly half the city to a quadrangle of squat, brick buildings beside the Cathedral of the High Father. Benjamin had once told Thomas that they had been built to house the bureaucrats that the church needed to keep its empire organized. It was also where the church kept its prisoners.

They led him inside and down a hall, stopping to exchange words with guard at the door. It was a sizeable prison, Thomas realized once they hauled him down the stairs. The hallway was lit only by the light coming in from a single ground-level window.

The guards tossed him into an empty cell without bothering to take the manacles off. Thomas lay on the ground, waiting for someone to come.

No one did.

7

The floor of the cell was cold against Thomas’s face.

Thomas sat up, trying to gauge the time by the light. His only window was in the cell door and it looked onto the hallway. What little light filtered in was thin indeed, but the fact that it was still coming in at all meant that night had not yet fallen.

His arms were excruciatingly sore. He shifted his shoulders, but it didn’t help. At least the manacles weren’t cutting off his circulation. Thomas was thankful—for that, and for the lack of rats, so far. He struggled to a kneeling position, then pushed himself up to his feet. Walking in short, awkward steps, he began to pace.

The cell was small, perhaps eight feet wide and twelve long, with a single large steel ring bolted into the floor close to the wall opposite the door. There was neither a hole nor a bucket for sanitary purposes, and no one had delivered any food or water.

Thomas wondered if Eileen had managed to get to Henry, and if Lionel was all right, and if George was planning to break him free.

He shifted and stretched his arms as much as he could. He managed to keep the blood flowing, but it didn’t relieve the pain in them. He paced back and forth across the cell a hundred times, from all different angles.

The last time he’d been in a prison, they’d brought him books and fed him well. Of course, that had been the student gaol, and he had been waiting for news of his innocence. This time, his gaolers were far less likely to be pleasant.

He wondered if they were going to let his arms free, or if he would have to relieve himself in his breeches.

Another hour or more passed before he heard the clank of the prison door opening, and many sets of footsteps approaching along the hallway. He was stunned to find himself hoping they were coming toward him.

They were. His door was unlocked and two guards with large, wooden clubs stepped inside. They took him by the arms and pinned him against the wall. Another pair of guards followed, armed like the first. The first of them brought a chair, which he set down inside the door. The second had a small writing table with quill, ink and paper that he placed directly in front of the chair. The two guards who had pushed Thomas against the wall pulled him to the metal ring on the floor. One knelt and undid the manacle on Thomas’s left leg. With a practised motion he threaded the chain through the ring in the floor and locked the manacle back around Thomas’s ankle.

The four guards walked out of the cell, leaving Thomas standing, chained to the floor. Thomas felt a shiver of fear run through him and did his best to suppress it.

 A moment later, a small man dressed as a priest of the High Father stepped inside, carrying a lamp. He took a seat at the desk, surveyed Thomas with look of disdain, then said, “I am Father Alphonse. You will answer all of my questions, and only my questions. You will do so truthfully, without pause or questioning back. Do you understand?”

Thomas nearly asked the man to release him, but he saved his breath, knowing it would do no good. “I understand.”

“Good.” The priest set the lamp down, picked up a quill, and dipped it in the ink. “Name.”

“Thomas Flarety.”

“Age?”

“Eighteen.”

“Profession?”

“Student.”

“Residence?”

“The Blackwell Apartments.”

“How long have you been practising witchcraft?”

And there it is. “I don’t practise witchcraft.”

He had expected some sort of a reaction from the man, but there was none, only the continuous scratching of his quill on the paper. “When did you first come to the city?”

“About four years ago, now,” said Thomas.

The man scratched some more. “And where did you come from?”

“Elmvale.”

“And how long did you live there?”

“Fourteen years.”

“And before that?”

“That’s the only place I lived.”

“And why did you leave it?”

“To be a student at the Royal Academy.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“You asked that already.”

The pen stopped scratching and the little man looked up. “Answer the question.”

Thomas sighed. His arms were cramping and pressure was building in his bladder. “About four years.”

“And was it in Elmvale where you started practising witchcraft?”

“I don’t practise witchcraft.”

And so it went for at least an hour. The man would ask a series of questions, some of them variations on questions he’d asked before, others new and at strange tangents that Thomas could make no sense of, and with questions about witchcraft peppered throughout. Thomas found his mind wandering, and had to focus hard to make sure he answered properly.

“The man who was stabbed in your apartment, what was his name?”

“Lionel.”

“And the other big man, the young one, what was his name?”

“George.”

“And the boy?”

Thomas nearly corrected the inquisitor, but caught himself. “Alexander.”

“And were Alexander and George present when you killed Bishop Malloy?”

“Yes.”

“Did you use witchcraft to kill Bishop Malloy?”

“No,” said Thomas, remembering the rapier thrust that had ended the man’s life.

“And why was Lionel here?”

“Alexander had run away from home. Lionel was here to get him.”

“And George?”

“Same reason as his father.”

“And do they know that you engage in unnatural relations with Alexander?”

“What?” Thomas was suddenly alert. “What?”

“Did Alexander run away to be with you?”

“No.”

“Why did he run away?”

“To go to the Academy.”

“How long have you been engaging in unnatural acts with him?”

The man waited calmly, pen above the paper, for his answer. Thomas stared at him. A moment later, despite the pain in his arms and his aching feet, Thomas began to laugh. It started as a giggle at the absurdity of it all, and grew to near hysterical proportions. He was aware of the little man sitting, staring, waiting for him, but he couldn’t stop. All of the emotional upheaval of the last two days flooded out of him. He kept laughing until tears were in his eyes and he nearly lost control of his aching bladder.

Still the little priest waited.

At last, Thomas managed to take some deep breaths and stand upright again. His inquisitor hadn’t moved. Thomas took some more breaths and stifled one last giggle. “I have never engaged in an unnatural act with Alexander,” he managed.

“Did you practise witchcraft with Alexander?”

Thomas sighed. “I have never practised witchcraft.”

The questioning went on for another hour. The same questions, repeated over and over in various order, all coming back to the central theme of witchcraft. Thomas’s shoulders burned from the manacles, his feet were sore from standing in place, and his bladder ached with the need for release. By the end, Thomas was bent over and cramping. The priest ignored his discomfort, only asking his questions and scratching down Thomas’s answers.

At last the little man stood up, gathered his papers together under one arm and picked up the lamp. “Guard.”

The four guards came in at once. Two held Thomas roughly by his arms while the other two removed the writing table and chair. The priest remained for a moment, looking at Thomas. “Is this all you have to say about your crimes?”

“I didn’t commit any crimes,” said Thomas.