Read Small Magics Online

Authors: Erik Buchanan

Tags: #fantasy, #Fiction, #General

Small Magics (3 page)

BOOK: Small Magics
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“Brian!” The man had always looked to be in his early forties, and the four years Thomas was away had not altered his appearance at all. “How are you?”

“I am well, thank you, Master Thomas,” said Brian. “If you will come?”

“Such a rush!” Madeleine put a hand on Thomas’s arm and drew him closer, laughing again. “Can a woman not greet her son?”

“Of course,” said Brian, “but his father is insisting.”

“Is he watching?” asked Thomas, stepping away from his mother and looking up at the house. He found the window to his father’s study, and saw the man standing, looking down at them. Thomas waved, but got no response.

“Of course he is,” said Madeleine. “And he’ll keep watching until you’re standing in front of him.”

“Aye, that he would.” Thomas went back to his mother and hugged her hard, then did the same to his brother. “I’ll see you both when you get back. Time to go tell father how I’m wasting all his money.”

“Now, don’t start anything,” warned Madeleine, shaking a finger at his face.

Thomas raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll behave, I promise.”

“You’d better,” said Neal. “He’s been in a foul mood for two days now.”

“I heard,” said Thomas. His good humour sank a bit. “George said Da had a fit over wheel-irons. What’s going on?”

Madeleine sighed, and for a moment looked very tired. “I wish I knew. He’s not been himself since the start of the May festival.” She shook her head, sending the tired away and bringing the smile back to her face with the motion. “The sight of you should set him right,” she said. “Though he won’t like that sword at all.”

Thomas smiled. “Now,
that
, I knew.”

“Get on with you,” said Madeleine, giving him a light slap on the back of the head, then ruffling his hair with her hand. “And mind you don’t disturb the guests.”

Thomas caught her hand, bowed deeply and kissed it. She waved him off, laughing, and gave him another hug. “Now get going!” she said, picking up her basket. “And be ready to tell all when I get back!”

She headed down the path to the gate. Neal gave Thomas another slap on the back, then followed their mother. Thomas turned to go inside but was stopped by Brian’s hand on his shoulder. “Your father suggested that it would be better for you to use the side door in your present condition,” said Brian. “I believe he is worried your appearance might cause some disturbance among the guests.”

Thomas had a sudden image of a dozen or so merchants thinking they had been set on by bandits. He laughed. “He may be right.”

Thomas gave a wave to his mother and brother and another up to his father, then headed to the side of the house. Brian opened the servant’s door and led him up the narrow back stairs and into the hallway on the second floor. The changes in the place were remarkable. When he had left, the floor had still been plain, darkly-stained wood and the plaster on the walls was beginning to yellow with age. Now a thick carpet ran the length of the hall, the walls were smooth and gleaming white, and even the spots behind the candle sconces were clean of dirt or soot. The wood of the doors was newly-oiled and shone. The handles were brightly polished brass.

Thomas, used to the dust of libraries and the dirt of the city, found himself suddenly uncomfortable in his own home. He wished he’d had time to bathe and change into the clean clothes he had in his bag, but it was too late. They were already before his father’s study.

Brian knocked firmly on the door, and John Flarety’s deep voice called for Thomas to enter. Brian pushed the door open and stepped aside. Thomas started to go in, but found his feet had stuck themselves to the floor of their own accord.

Nervous,
thought Thomas.
Of all the silly things.

“Your father is waiting,” Brian reminded him, his voice gentle. Thomas guessed his nervousness was showing on his face and felt heartily embarrassed. Brian bowed once more. “Welcome home, Master Thomas. It is good to see you again.”

“Thank you, Brian,” said Thomas. He straightened himself up, hitched his bag to a more comfortable place on his shoulder, and stepped through the door.

His father was glaring out the window when Thomas came in. At least, Thomas assumed that he was glaring because the expression on his face was too annoyed to be used for much else. John Flarety was a tall, broad man who had passed his shape onto his eldest son rather than his youngest. Thomas waited a long moment, then said, “Hello, Father.”

John turned his glare from the window and onto his son, taking in the scuffed and worn boots, the tattered clothes, and the rapier. John’s eyes lingered on the sword for a good length of time before returning to his son’s face.

“So,” said someone from the corner, “this is your youngest son.”

Thomas jumped in surprise and spun. He had not even noticed the two men standing beside the door when he’d come in. The first was both taller and heavier than Thomas’s father, and wore his size with an air of authority that made him a very imposing figure. He was dressed in the green robes of a high-ranking priest of the High Father. The man behind him was pale and blond and dressed in black from head to foot. A rapier hung at his side, and Thomas’s eyes went to it of their own volition. It was much higher in quality than Thomas’s blade, and the man wore it as if it were an extension of his body.

Thomas switched his attention back to the clergyman, who was watching Thomas with a slight smile on his lips. “Well, young man,” he said. “Who am I?”

Thomas was pretty sure he knew, but looked down to the man’s hands anyway. The thick gold ring with the large ruby in the middle, symbol of the man’s office, confirmed what he’d thought. “Bishop Malloy,” Thomas said. “First of the servants of the High Father. Your Grace honours our household.”

“Thank you.” The bishop extended his hand and Thomas bowed to kiss his ring.

“I knew that there was company in the house,” Thomas said as he straightened, “but I had not expected my father to be in a meeting.”

“Indeed.” The bishop’s voice was light, surprising in a man of his size, but with a smooth tone that insinuated its way through the air. “I had thought as much. Or, at least I had assumed that you would not normally appear before your father’s guests in this condition.”

Thomas felt a sudden need to straighten his ragged clothes. He suppressed the urge, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. “I have been travelling, your Grace—”

“And sleeping in ditches, I should say.” The bishop turned his attention to Thomas’s father. “If this is where your money is going, I would say it is not well spent.”

“I am certain that my money went to the lad’s schooling, rather than his wardrobe,” said John Flarety, his voice flat. Thomas recognized the tone and guessed that whatever business his father had with the bishop, it was not going well.

The bishop raised an eyebrow. “A young man who dresses in tatters and carries a sword hardly seems the type to do much studying, though I suppose one shouldn’t judge a man by his weapons.”

He certainly is a pompous creature,
Thomas thought. With a deliberate motion of his head he took his gaze from the bishop to the man standing behind him with the rapier at his side. “No, one shouldn’t.”

The bishop followed Thomas’s gaze and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Randolf is my familiar; my personal servant. He has chosen to give himself and his blades to the church.”

Randolf bowed to the bishop, and when he straightened, his eyes were on Thomas. They were as grey as Thomas’s own, and as cold and dead as the sea under a winter sky. “It is my pleasure to serve,” he said, his voice as cold as his eyes, “in
whatever
capacity his Grace requires.”

Including running me through on the spot,
Thomas thought. A shiver started to work its way up Thomas’s spine. He suppressed it and turned to the bishop. “Perhaps your Grace should permit me to withdraw, so I may change into something more presentable.”

“No, no,” said Bishop Malloy. “After all, if you consider this the proper clothing to see your father in, why should it not be fit enough for me as well?”

Thomas risked a glance to his father, who was looking less and less pleased. “Still, I should hate to interrupt your conversation—”

“Your father and I were merely discussing business.” The bishop turned to John Flarety. “He is attempting to convince me that the price he offers for his cloth is the best he can give.”

“It is, your Grace,” said John Flarety, his tone still flat. “In fact, it is the best price you will find in the county.” “I am afraid your father is finding me harder to convince than most,” the

bishop said, smiling. “What do you think, Thomas?”

“I’m no merchant,” hedged Thomas. “That is why I was sent to study.”

“You must have an opinion,” said the bishop, his eyes still on Thomas’s father. “All the Royal Academy’s scholars have opinions, no matter their knowledge of the subject.”

Thomas took a moment to swallow the first, very succinct reply that leapt to his mind and measured out a response. “My father is an honest merchant and a good man. If he says that the price he is offering is the best he can give, then that is the truth.”

“I think you can do better, John Flarety,” said the bishop.
“I think the price can come down a little more, don’t you?”

Thomas started. The motion caught Bishop Malloy’s eye. He turned, and for a second Thomas thought he saw fear, then excitement in the bishop’s face. Both vanished, and the man’s voice sounded perfectly normal when he said, “Is there something the matter, young Thomas?”

“Your voice…” Thomas stopped, not sure how to explain it, or if he really wanted to do so.

The bishop schooled his features and waited. When Thomas didn’t say anything more, he repeated. “My voice? What about my voice?”

“It was…” Thomas couldn’t find words, and the bishop was staring at him. “I don’t know.”

Bishop Malloy moved closer to Thomas. “Do you not like my tone?”

“No, your Grace, I just…”

“You just what?” The bishop was too close now. “Did you hear something unusual?”

Thomas felt the sudden urge to back away, and forced himself to stay where he was. “I just… I’m very tired from the road.”

The bishop stopped moving for a moment, then took a step back. “Indeed.” The bishop’s expression was smooth again, his tone unreadable. He held out his ring. “Why don’t you wait outside the door until your father and I are done talking?”

Thomas looked to his father. The man nodded, shortly and abruptly. Thomas nodded back, then bent and kissed the ring. “Yes, your Grace.”

He backed out, keeping his eyes on the bishop until he had pulled the door shut behind him. The silence of the hallway was a relief. Thomas leaned against the wall, willing the tension out of his body.

What did I hear?
Thomas wasn’t sure. It sounded as if the bishop’s voice had dropped an octave and doubled in volume, though Thomas was sure neither of those things had happened. But
something
had. The bishop knew how to use his voice, certainly, but training couldn’t account for the sudden surge of power Thomas had felt coming from the man.

Maybe I’m just tired,
Thomas thought, automatically adjusting the bag on his shoulder to a more comfortable position. He thought better of it a moment later and let the bag fall to the floor. He was home, after all. He didn’t need to keep carrying it.

The conversation in the study went on for some time. Thomas tried to listen, but the heavy wood of the door muffled the words. His father spoke only occasionally, while the bishop went on at length. Thomas was half-tempted to put his ear to the door and listen, but the thought of getting caught was too mortifying. He stayed where he was, waiting.

At last the bell attached to the pull-cord in his father’s study rang twice, sharp and demanding. The study door opened a moment later and John Flarety stepped out. He glanced at his son briefly then turned to look down the hall. Almost immediately, Brian was there, coming up the stairs at a trot.

“The bishop wishes to speak with his men,” said John Flarety. “Escort him to them.”

The bishop stepped into the hallway, pausing to nod at Thomas. “We shall see you later, Thomas Flarety.”

“I look forward to it, your Grace,” lied Thomas, bowing low. Privately, he was wondering if there was any way to avoid the man entirely for the rest of his stay. Thomas doubted it. He sighed silently and straightened up.

The bishop was already walking away, and Randolf had taken his place. His eyes bored into Thomas, though he was smiling politely. Thomas returned the stare, feeling uncomfortably like a mouse before a large cat. Randolf inclined his head in a motion that felt far less respectful than it looked, then broke contact and turned away, following his master down the hall.

Thomas watched the two go, then picked up his bag and stepped into the office. His father was already sitting behind his desk, his face a shade of red that Thomas recognized at once. John Flarety was angry.

“I see what you meant about him,” said Thomas, putting his bag down. He smiled and started coming around the desk, his arms out. “It’s good to see you, Da.”

“I assumed that you knew I would have guests today.”

John Flarety’s chill tone made Thomas freeze in place. His father glared at him, waiting for an answer. Thomas pulled himself together enough to say, “I only learned when I arrived, Father.”

“Guests who expect that I maintain my house with decorum, that I clothe my children properly, and that I have raised them not to be hooligans.” John Flarety leaned forward in his chair. “Guests like the bishop.”

It took a moment for that to sink in. When it did, Thomas was stunned. “He’s our guest? I remember you said he would be in town—”

“Yes.
Our
houseguest, not the nunnery’s.” John slowly rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving Thomas’s. “Do you know how important that is to our family?”

Considering that the nunnery owned the land that Elmvale sat on, and that the abbess was in fact the true authority of the county, it was very important indeed. Thomas nodded. “Aye, it’s amazing—”

“And
this
,” John Flarety’s hand cut the air, taking in Thomas’s ragged state in a single wave, “
This
is his first impression of my youngest son! A young bravo who comes to my house, carrying a
sword
of all things, and looking as if he has stumbled on foot down the road from the Academy!” He glared at his son. “How
did
you get here, Thomas?”

BOOK: Small Magics
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ads

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