Fists of Justice (Schooled in Magic #12)



EMILY WAS NOT SURPRISED TO DISCOVER that Vesperian’s mansion was located in Starry Light, the richest part of the city. It was one of a dozen mansions, each surrounded by small gardens and protected by private guards. Their owners had gone to some trouble to try to make the buildings unique, placing statues of their ancestors or the gods outside their homes. Vesperian had placed a giant, stylized ‘V’ outside his mansion, just like the one she’d seen in the funicular. It glittered gold in the noonday sun.

She tensed as she passed through the gates, silently readying a handful of protective spells. It hadn’t occurred to her until she’d already agreed to go that it might well be a trap, although she knew no one in Beneficence who might want to do her harm. She certainly couldn’t recall meeting Vesperian – even hearing of him – before she’d headed off to war. It was possible that he’d been one of the industrialists who’d flocked to Cockatrice as the New Learning became more prevalent, but Byron and Paren had been in charge of handling such matters. She’d chosen to keep her distance.

Which might have been a mistake, she told herself sternly.

She reached out with her senses as they reached the door, which swung open as they approached. There were a handful of protective wards – one tuned to keep out supernatural vermin, the remainder aimed at anyone entering with bad intentions – but they didn’t feel directly linked to a sorcerer. Given time, she knew she – or any reasonably competent magician – could probably break into the house. The butler, wearing a long dark robe, bowed politely as Callam led her into the hallway. She couldn’t help thinking that he lacked the loyalty and devotion she’d seen in some of King Randor’s liegemen.

Vesperian hadn’t lived in the mansion long, she realized, as she looked around the hall. It looked as though he and his family had only moved in a year or so ago. The walls were lined with paintings and portraits, the former showing a combination of real steam locomotives and remarkable designs that wouldn’t have been out of place in a steampunk universe. Some of the latter would take years to build, even assuming steam technology continued to advance; the remainder were probably doomed never to materialize, unless technology went in unprecedented directions. She couldn’t help smiling as she followed Callam down the hallway. Vesperian, whatever else could be said about him, didn’t lack imagination.

But he did lack taste, she noted. Everything he’d placed on display showcased his wealth: golden statues clashing uncomfortably with old paintings and artifacts that dated all the way back to the pre-imperial days. There was no overall theme, none of the quiet elegance she’d seen in Whitehall or Queen Marlena’s private chambers. The servants wore striking clothes, the men showing off their muscles while the women displayed their breasts and legs. She couldn’t help thinking Vesperian had designed everything to call attention to himself and his wealth. He was definitely nouveau riche.

King Randor has to show off his power, she thought. She understood the logic, the need for the king to show off his power even when funds were running low, but she’d never cared for the style of King Randor’s court. And Vesperian has to show off his wealth.

She felt a twinge of pity, mingled with amusement. Vesperian had no title, no long family history he could call upon to back up his claims. The older families in the city had probably sneered at him, once upon a time. She wondered, as they stopped outside a large wooden door, if they were laughing at the parvenu now. A man who had purchased – or rented – a mansion in Starry Light could not be dismissed.

The doors swung open. “Lady Emily,” Callam said. “Please allow me to introduce Tryon Vesperian.”

Emily braced herself as she strode into the office. It was huge, easily larger than a small classroom at Whitehall. The walls were lined with bookcases, save for one wall dominated by a giant painting of Vesperian and his family. She sensed three more protective wards, one of which was definitely a supercharged privacy ward. The other two didn’t seem to have any purpose, as far as she could tell. They were clearly designed to resist outside probing. She pulled back her awareness before she provoked a reaction. God alone knew what the wards were designed to do.

Tryon Vesperian rose to his feet and bowed, politely. He was tall, probably in his early forties, but running to fat. His face was pale, but his almond eyes suggested that he, too, had some mixed blood in him; his hair was orange, a neatly-trimmed goatee dominating his chin. It was a statement, Emily suspected. An unkempt beard would have suggested a nobleman, one dominated by his lower impulses. She’d seen too many of them at King Randor’s court.

Vesperian wore fine clothes, cut from the most expensive silk; a pair of black trousers, a white shirt and a black waistcoat. That too was a statement, she suspected. Vesperian had come far in the world, far enough to afford such materials, yet he hadn’t forgotten his humble beginnings. The shirt wasn’t too different from what a common laborer would wear, but the silk would cost more than a thousand laborers could earn in a year.

“Lady Emily,” Vesperian said. His voice was polite, tinged with a hint of aristocracy. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.”

His handshake was firm, Emily discovered, as he shook her hand. It made her smile as he invited her to sit, summoning maids to bring food and drink. His manner suggested that he considered her an equal, perhaps more than an equal. She found it oddly refreshing. He wasn’t bowing or scraping to her…or dismissing her, as some noblemen in Zangaria had tried to do. They’d never wanted to take women seriously…

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