Stalls had been crammed up against one another, faded velvet curtains separating each shop. Tents and tarps were hoisted on poles, newly painted signs advertising wares beside them. Copper pans, glass vials and jars, brass cages that rattled with gaudy-colored creatures lined the walls. There was the sizzle of a cooking pan, the smell of fat and onion wafting toward us.
The men and women who argued with one another were not unlike the people we’d seen outside, haggling over flour or soap. But here, they were discussing gizzards, the tongues of flamingos, shark-tooth powders, and potions for the liver. One woman stumped across the way, her gait lopsided and odd. She’d a glass bottle in place of her lower leg, with the cork used as her foot.
“These are magicians?” Maria sounded both amazed and appalled. “They’re so…so…”
“Odd,” I finished. But my breath caught to see so many of them, ten or twenty, all working together. If the war had never come, if my parents had been alive, I might have spent time in this place. I might have called myself a magician.
We attracted some frowns and attention. Strangers who appeared in the middle of an illegal market would be suspicious. Perhaps we should have thought this through better.
As if to illustrate my point, an arm snaked around me from behind and put a blade to my throat.
“What’ve we here?” a voice whispered.
The voice belonged to a girl. I stilled as Maria pulled out her ax.
“Let her go,” Maria spit. The girl only pressed harder, the blade cutting into my skin. Threatening her was clearly a bad plan.
“There’s no need to fuss,” I said. It was hard to think with a blade to your throat. My eyes darted over the people watching us, eagerly waiting to see what would happen.
My attacker moved the blade slightly, enough to give me an opportunity. Blue fire rippled over my body, and the girl fell.
“Don’t you know it’s rude to lay hands on another magician?” I extended a hand to help her up. “I’m Henrietta Howel.”
Giving my name was a bit of a gamble. We’d attracted a great deal of attention by now, and a crowd was gathering. The girl pushed herself to her feet, dusting off her knees. Absurdly tall, she wore a bright yellow gown with a green sash. Her black hair hung loose to her shoulders. Her cheekbones were high, her eyes dark and brilliant as she stared at me in surprise.
“Wait. Howel?” She whistled. “You’re the sorcerers’ chosen girl, ain’t you? Why didn’t you say so?” She clapped a hard hand on my shoulder, and I stifled a cry of pain. “You could’ve asked for the Orb and Owl, you know. Be happy to show you,” she said conversationally.
“Er, yes. We’d like to see it,” I said, sharing a baffled glance with Maria, who finally put her ax away.
“Name’s Alice Chen,” the girl said as she led us down the alleyway. I glanced at the wary faces all around me and tried to catch their whispered words. The crowd dispersed, though I still felt everyone’s gaze.
Turning a corner, we came to a wooden sign hung over a plain brick wall that said THE ORB & OWL. The sign was carved with a tawny owl alighting on a crystal ball.
There was no doorway. Instead, Alice walked us over to a pair of old, hole-ridden boots and kicked one of them.
With a puff of smoke and dust, the hazy image of a slouching, thin-faced man appeared before us. “Password?” His voice sounded like a sigh on the wind.
I’d read of “ghosts” like this in one of the books from Mickelmas’s chest. They weren’t the actual souls of dead people. Rather, these were more like echoes of ownership attached to objects, and they could be made to act as guards or enforcers. Not the most skillful of creatures, but useful in their own way.
“Shut up and let me in,” Alice said cheerfully.
“Correct password.” The ghost disappeared in a puff of smoke, and a door opened in the wall.
“Your people are strange,” Maria whispered. Well, she was right.
We stepped into a public house that appeared perfectly normal, as far as public houses went. The walls were brick, blackened in spots by smoke from the guttering oil lamps. A tarnished mirror behind the mahogany bar reflected the room’s crowd, which wasn’t that spectacular: about ten people all told. Portraits of famous magicians gazed down on us. One of them showed Merlin; another, Strangewayes. In one corner I spotted Darius LaGrande, and in another a man who seemed curiously familiar….When I realized who he was, my throat tightened. I hurried over to look at the portrait more closely. The subject was a handsome young man with dark hair and a round, pleasant face. His smile was warm, open, friendly. The placard at the bottom read WILLIAM HOWEL.
My father had been more renowned in magician circles than I’d ever imagined. His name was carved in Ralph Strangewayes’s house, and now this? Unthinking, I touched the portrait, tracing my fingers over my father’s face.
I wish you could see me now, I thought, reluctantly stepping back. I wish, God, I wish I could talk to you.
Blinking back sudden tears, I took a moment and studied the people in the room to calm myself. Alice had already seated herself at a table and was chatting animatedly with a man. He looked like a normal sort, with light brown hair and a long face, until he coughed up a fish. The silvery creature slid out of his mouth and onto the table. It was alive, flipping and flopping about. With a resigned shake of his head, the man tossed the trout into a bucket by his feet.
I hoped that whatever the spell was didn’t last for very long. I imagined that coughing up fish was uncomfortable.
By the side of the room, a little girl with dark skin and braided hair hugged a doll, one that appeared rather badly singed. A shock of light sizzled in her hair, almost like an electric storm. When she caught me looking, she smiled.
A red hawk with beautiful feathers sat on the back of a chair, cleaning its wings.
Surely someone here could help me with Strangewayes’s weapons. I was about to start introducing myself when a dark-skinned man appeared out of thin air, right by the bar.
“My truest, most pungent companions,” he said, popping onto a stool. “Thank you for meeting me. Our wait is nearing an end, my friends. England will be great once more, with our magic to guide her.” He raised his arms, the purple-orange-red patchwork sleeves of his coat falling around his elbows. He received muted, lukewarm applause.
“Oi, Jenkins,” the fish-cougher said, lifting his drink in welcome.
Only this man was not Jenkins Hargrove. His real name was Howard Mickelmas.
My mentor, after months of utter silence, was sitting in a pub as though everything were perfectly normal. The bartender passed him a frothing mug of ale, which he happily drank.
“You know him, then?” Maria whispered. She must have noticed my look of shock.
“He taught me everything I know,” I muttered, sitting down at a table. I didn’t want him to notice me until I was ready to be noticed.
Despite everything, I was relieved to see him. Though I’d known he survived Korozoth’s attack when he gave me his magical trunk months ago, I hadn’t known what had become of him. But here he was, drinking and laughing and perfectly alive. I smiled a little as I watched him.
Mickelmas reached into his pocket and pulled out a ridiculously feathered purple hat. “Pass it around, my ostriches. A few coins go to pay for the Army of the Burning Rose.”
My smile evaporated. Oh no. No, that could not mean what I thought it did.
“What is it?” Maria asked as I balled my fists. “Do you not like roses?”
“The burning rose is my sigil. My sorcerer sigil.”
“Ah.” She whistled. “I imagine you didn’t give him permission to use it?”
“I am going to kill him.”
“So that’s no.”
Mickelmas passed the hat around, though most people didn’t put anything in it. “Go on. A penny or two for our great army’s advancement,” Mickelmas clucked. Someone passed us the hat. Maria had to send it on fast, to prevent me from setting fire to it. “And might I add how good it is to see everyone?” Mickelmas looked about the room. I ducked my head to keep him from glimpsing my face. “Yes, Alice and Sadie and Gerald and…where’s Alfred?” He frowned.