The Wizard of London (36 page)

Provided,
of course, she could keep people from noticing that all of the children she
took to work for her died. The problem with using orphanages as a recruiting
ground was that the people who ran them were generally busybody nosy-parkering
sorts.

Well,
she would deal with that difficulty later. For the moment, her experiment was
going well, and she might not even
need
any more ghostly recruits if
she could act in her own person as a man.

David
was deep in the countryside at the moment. This was annoying, because she could
not keep her eyes directly on him—but it was also something of a relief,
because she was free to do whatever she chose without having to have him under
her supervision.

And
the cause was good. A “weekend”—which really meant a week or
more—house party, at the estate of a very influential MP. Commons, rather
than Lords, but in this case, that was all to the good. It was time for David
to move a little out of his own social circle and into the circle that lived,
breathed, and ate politics.

Not
that the man was crude; it was his grandfather who had actually made the money.
His father had undertaken the more genteel path of investing it prudently and
skillfully. The son was a solicitor, with the specialty of estate management,
and never saw the inside of a courtroom. Actually, he seldom saw the inside of
his law offices; he had lesser solicitors and an army of clerks to do most of
the work for him. The sole reason for becoming a solicitor, both in his and his
father’s minds, was so he could go into politics, the taint of Money
having become cleansed and purified by contact with the Law.

So
David was there this weekend, under the Great Man’s prudently-extended
wing. This would be a purely social occasion; the selected male guests would be
examining him for any potential flaws, such as a weakness for dabbling in art
or poetry, or a tendency to drink too much in public—or a too-flamboyant
manner when drinking. The female guests would be probing his suitability as a
husband—not that any of them would have a chance at him. Left to himself,
he would marry in due course, but only within the ranks of the Elemental
Masters.

Or
at least, that was probably what he would do, though there were the odd
marriages outside those ranks. It would make things difficult for him, of
course, unless his wife was the sort to wish to play Lady of the Manor in the
country, while he attended to his business in the city and his position as the
chief of his Master’s Circle—Cordelia blinked at that thought, her
attention distracted from assessing the two boys as they ate.

“Graves,”
she told the maid assigned to care for them, “Give them the toys when
they have finished. And at luncheon, see to it that they not be allowed the jam
and cakes until after they have finished the nourishing meal Cook will make for
them.”

The
girl bobbed a curtsy. “Yes’m,” she said deferentially. She
had been an under-housemaid, chosen by Cook because she professed to have
looked after her younger siblings until going into service. She seemed
competent. She would scarcely have done as a nanny, of course, had these been
anything other than what they were—pale, passive little specimens
unlikely to give trouble. But she was certainly up to watching them, seeing that
they were kept clean and neat, and teaching them how to play with the toys they
had been provided with.

Cordelia
retired to her parlor, but to think, not to conduct business or attend to
social obligations.

The
Master’s Circle! How could she possibly have forgotten that? It was
David’s obsession, and if he suddenly “lost interest” in it,
his friends among the Elemental Masters would certainly take note and begin to
wonder.

But
at the same time, if Cordelia were to continue to preside over it, there would
be very little time before she was unmasked. The Masters often performed
so-called “out of body” work; the moment she entered into such a
work in the presence of others, it would be very clear who she was. You could
not mask the soul self—

—or
could you?

Was
it possible to disguise the persona that your spirit assumed when out of body?

If
it was—it would take time to learn. If it wasn’t, she had better
find out now.

Another
delay! It seemed that every time she found a solution to the problems that
beset her path, yet another problem arose! It made her furious, and that was
bad; she had to control her anger, to make it icy, rather than fiery, or it
would make problems for her. But it was difficult not to be angry. First, that
wretched child medium had come to England—the one person who could
uncover the ghost servants—

And
at that thought, she mentally cursed. The child—somewhere in the
country—was potentially within her grasp if only she could be found. She
had started the hunt days ago—so where was Peggoty?

Surely,
the wretched little girl wasn’t
that
difficult to locate! There
were only so many places near enough to London that it was possible for Harton
to travel there and back on the weekend!

Peggoty
must have gotten distracted, or gone off into one of her dreams again. It would
be the first time she had done so while engaged in a task for Cordelia, but
like many spirits, the child was becoming more detached from the world as time
went on. That was a flaw she had to constantly battle against, and was one of
the reasons why she had to keep making more servants.

Well,
it was time to reattach her, and throw a good fright into her as well.

Cordelia
retired to her workroom, pausing in the closet that led into it to take three
strands of hair from a tiny drawer, one of fifty in a handsome little cabinet
meant to hold pills. Each drawer was marked with a name card; only twenty were
filled in. Each drawer held hair clipped from the living head of the child in
question before it had lain down for its last sleep.

She
locked the door of the workroom behind her, and placed the hairs on the table
in front of her crystal throne. Sitting down on her throne, and raising her
hands, she called three Ice Wurms to her.

A
breath of cold mist drifted down over the table, and three of the tiny,
exquisitely detailed creatures coalesced out of it.

Like
Salamanders, they were sleek lizards. Unlike Salamanders, they were nearly
transparent, and looked as if someone had animated a series of three sculptures
carved from the purest quartz.

Each
of them went to the three hairs lying curled against the stone; each inhaled
one.

And
sat there, doing nothing.

Cordelia
stared at them in growing disbelief and outrage. “Well?” she
finally snapped. “Go get her! Fetch her back here!”

The
Ice Wurm closest to her looked up at her with colorless, transparent eyes.
She
is not there to be fetched
, it said shortly.

What?

Cordelia
felt as if she had suddenly run up against an invisible barrier; stunned, and
still in disbelief. “What do you mean, she is not there?” she
demanded, with just a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

She
is not there to be fetched. Not in this world
. The Ice Wurm curled itself
indifferently on the table, and its two brothers did likewise.
If she is in
another, we cannot tell
.

For
a moment Cordelia contemplated the notion that the creature might be lying to
her. But—no, it had no reason to lie. She had other means of verifying
the truth, and it knew very well she would mete out punishment if she thought
she had been deceived.

So
it wasn’t lying. Peggoty was gone—elsewhere. The Other World,
whatever thing that might be. And there would be no fetching her back either,
despite the claims of so-called necromancers. No one who had ever
gone
to the Other Side ever could be pulled back by mortal intervention.

The
Harton woman
. It had to have been her. She was the only one with the power
to send a spirit on who would also have had any contact with Peggoty. Cordelia
wanted at that moment to have the interfering cow’s throat in her own two
hands—

Still,
there was always the possibility, however remote, that it had not been the
Harton woman. It might even have been the wretched children. It was best to be
sure.

“Who
did this?” she demanded of the Ice Wurms, knowing that they would be able
to sniff out the least trace of whoever had last intersected with
Peggoty’s being.

But
the answer brought a chill to her heart that nothing she had ever encountered
before could match.

It
is best that you do not know, Master
, came the cool, sibilant voice.
And
it is best that we not tell you
.

***

The
endless rounds of empty conversation alternating with the endless rounds of
polite scrutiny finally got to be more than David Alderscroft could bear.
Perhaps it was the sultry days, and the warm nights that made it so hard for
him to keep a cool, calm demeanor. It seemed much more difficult here than in
London. And of course, a little talk with Cordelia always put things in
perspective.

The
trouble was, it was her perspective. The longer he was away from her, the more
impatient he became with some of her obstinate opinions.

Another
remedy to restlessness and unhappiness was in order. A polite inquiry to his
host gave him permission to make free of the contents of the stable; his
reputation as a good rider must have made its way even into these circles.

He
did not consider himself to be so good a rider that he was willing to mount
anything under a saddle, however.

He
consulted with the chief stable hand, and soon found himself atop a steady, if
unexciting, bay gelding. Unexciting was roughly what he wanted right now,
anyway. He needed to be away from the watchful eyes, the endless gibble-gabble,
the tiresome matchmaking games. Time alone, that was the ticket. He’d be
able to think once he was alone.

He
had studied the map, so he knew where he was. His host’s guests had
permission not only to ride the grounds of this estate but the far more
extensive lands of the neighbor’s. Highclere, was it? Highleigh?
Something like that. The owner was away, scarcely visited the place except in
hunting season, according to what he’d been told. That was good; the last
thing he wanted was to meet up with anyone.

With
that in mind, it seemed like the best solution (if he wanted to avoid more of
the guests from this party) would be to ride over to the other property. He
would be harder to find that way.

The
dividing line was a hedge that must have been centuries old, and was far too
tall to jump. He rode along it until he came to a gate in the hedge. The latch
was at the correct height for a rider. He rode alongside it, opened the gate
without thinking, and sent his horse through it.

And
his horse suddenly shied violently back, just as a childish voice full of
indignation piped, “ ‘Ere! Pay ’eed to where you’re
a-goin’!”

It
took him a moment to get his horse under control. When he finally did so, it
was to stare down into four sets of indignant eyes; two sets of bright, beady
birds’ eyes, and two sets changeable and human.

“What
are you doing there?” he exclaimed.

One
of the two children, for children they were, stood up, arms akimbo.
“Might ast you the same thing now, mightn’t I?”

Her
accent branded her as a Londoner, and from the streets. Her bold manner,
however, was all her own.

And
the bird that perched on her shoulder was easily three times as bold as that.
The sight made him start. That was a raven. And if it cared to, it could
probably take his eye out.

“Little
miss,” he said cautiously. “You know that—”

“Neville
is an uncommonly large rook,” the child said instantly, and turned to the
bird, which ruffled his feathers and stared up at him, as if daring him to deny
what the child had claimed.

It
quorked derisively at him, proving it was no rook. The girl put her hand up to
scratch the nape of its neck. He had once seen what one of those beaks could do
to a bare hand, when a Raven-keeper at the Tower was a little too slow in
feeding one of his charges. The bird had nearly added the finger to the menu
for its dinner that day.

The
girl looked at him as if she could read his thoughts, and her expression hinted
at her amusement with him. He felt himself getting angry, and warned himself
not to do anything nor say anything. These were only silly children. He
gathered cold calm about himself, and looked down on them.

The
other child had a Grey Parrot on her shoulder; the bird looked at him
measuringly, then, without warning, barked a laugh so full of contempt it could
have come from a human throat.

It
stung, so much so that his next words were a challenge. “Who are
you,” he asked icily, “and what are you doing on this
property?”

“We’re
guests, which is more’n you can say,” the first girl snapped at
him. “Don’t you fret, we got permission to be here! Hev you?”

“Nan!”
the second girl hissed warningly. The first turned to her, and the two went
into a whispered colloquy. The ruder of the two kept looking suspiciously at
him as if she expected him to mount his horse and ride them down.

He
had never encountered children quite like these two—well, truth be told,
he had never encountered a child quite like the one that kept glaring at him.
The other seemed tractable enough, but this one! He was accustomed to street
children who, at worst, offered to sweep a crossing for him, and if glared at,
skittered away. This one challenged him outright, and acted as if
he
was the one who was the intruder here. Part of him noted that she
looked
like a little London sparrow, too, with her brown hair and brown frock.