Fists of Justice (Schooled in Magic #12)

“I doubt that has escaped their minds,” Markus said, dryly. He pointed to the map. “If we surrender the protection of the river, who knows what King Randor will do?”

Emily nodded in agreement. Beneficence was cut off from Zangaria by the Tribune River, a fast-flowing body of water that would be hell to cross without modern technology – or powerful magic. The four bridges linking Beneficence to the mainland could be blocked easily by the City Guard, if necessary. She had a feeling, from what she’d seen when she’d crossed the bridges with Lady Barb, that the bridges could be cut completely if there was a realistic chance they’d fall. There was definitely enough gunpowder in the powder mills to smash them beyond easy repair.

But having territory on the wrong side would make it easier for Randor to strangle them, she thought. And the Kings of Zangaria have conceded the city’s permanent independence.

“You could always colonize one of the smaller islands to the north,” Emily mused. “Zangaria doesn’t have that much of a navy. You’d have no trouble smashing a blockade.”

“Perhaps,” Markus said. “But getting the trade goods to their destination might prove rather more difficult.”

“Trade-offs everywhere,” Emily mused.

Markus nodded. “The real problem is that we don’t have much of an international contract enforcement system,” he said. “Most merchant families are families, Emily, linked by ties of blood. They trust each other. That’s always been a problem because it limits expansion – either a family reaches its natural point and stops, or it starts making so many marriage alliances that they start to contradict each other.”

He smiled. “You’ll have discovered that yourself, I suppose.”

Emily felt her cheeks heat. “Does everyone take an interest in my life?”

“You’re an interesting person,” Markus said, with a wry smile.

Emily blushed, harder. If she hadn’t known Markus was happily married, she would have taken his banter for flirting.

Markus smirked. “And, given who you are, the person you marry is likely to be of considerable interest too. Poor Caleb.”

Emily sighed. “People will talk,” she muttered. “They do nothing else.”

“If they’re talking,” Markus countered, “they’re not plotting.”

His secretary returned, carrying a sheet of paper in one hand. Markus took it, scanned it with a practiced eye, and passed it back to her.

“No,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” his secretary said. “Shall I have security escort him out?”

“Please,” Markus said.

He watched his secretary sashay out, then looked back at Emily. “I do think we will remain fairly stable,” he said, “but I don’t like some of the rumors I’m hearing. Gods prowling the street, people being turned to stone…it’s worrying.”

Emily looked down at her hands. “Do you believe in the gods?”

Markus shrugged. “I’ve always believed in power,” he said. “Turning someone into stone permanently isn’t difficult, with enough magic. Cloaking yourself in a godly seeming isn’t difficult either. I could put together a spell to do it in a few hours, if I had the time. And there is a suspicious uniformity to the confirmed cases that bothers me. I think we have a magic-using assassin, not a god. The rumors are just muddying the waters.”

“And growing in the telling,” Emily said. She suspected Markus had a point. There were so many stories about her, she knew all too well, that some of the people who met her were disappointed. She hadn’t crushed Shadye with her bare hands, let alone seduced him into lowering his guard. There were probably more stories about Dua Kepala circulating now. “Are you watching your back?”

“I’ve taken a few precautions,” Markus said. “There’s an emergency tunnel I can use to get in or out of the bank, connected to a nearby house. I’ll key you to the wards.”

He waved his hand. Emily felt the wards shifting around her, then resettling into the background. She couldn’t help being impressed. It was a neat piece of spellwork.

“Officially, the house belongs to a sorceress called Robyn,” he said. Emily couldn’t help flinching. A sorcerer – and DemonMaster – called Robin had tried to rape and enslave her, nearly a thousand years in the past. “Unofficially, I own it. Just ask for the Robyn House and people will direct you.”

“Thank you,” Emily said.

Markus rose. “I hope to see you again, before you leave,” he said. “Perhaps you and Caleb can join Melissa and me for dinner.”

“Melissa would probably prefer to spend time with you,” Emily said. She rose. “But I’ll see you soon.”

She walked back down the stairs and into the lobby. A pair of burly guards were escorting a pale-faced man out of the bank. His mouth opened and closed frantically, but no sound came out. Someone had clearly slapped a silencing spell on him, muting any protests. The customers looked amused, rather than angry. Some of them even laughed.

A man stepped in front of her. “Lady Emily?”

Emily blinked. That hadn’t stayed a secret long, had it?

She studied the man for a long moment. He was dark-skinned, probably around the same age as Sergeant Miles. His gold-rimmed spectacles helped him to project an air of reassuring competence. The grey robes he wore reminded her of school robes, but she couldn’t sense any magic on him beyond a handful of protective charms. He looked more like a lawyer – or another clerk – than a magician.

“Yes,” she said, finally. She carefully cast a privacy charm, trying to hold it in place without making it obvious. “I am.”

The man bowed. “I am Callam, Son of Patrick.” His voice was artfully flat. “Assistant to Tryon Vesperian. He requests the pleasure of your company.”

Emily hesitated, glancing at her watch. She still had nearly an hour before she was due to meet Caleb and Frieda, assuming she could find them. And she was curious. If nothing else, she wanted to know how her cover had been blown.

“Of course,” she said. “It will be my pleasure.”





Chapter Eight

Christopher Nuttall's books