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Authors: Caroline Stevermer

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BOOK: A Scholar of Magics
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“It's Robert's map case. I thought it seemed a bit heavy. Why, what's in there?”
Lambert went through them in order. “An ordnance survey map of the Welsh marches with something marked in scarlet. Roman ruins, the key says. The Romans didn't get very far with the Welsh, did they? A map of the entire United Kingdom with geologic substrata marked in grease pencil. Which smears when you touch it, so be careful. Here's one that might actually be some use—another ordnance survey map, this one six inches to the mile, of the immediate Glasscastle area.” Lambert unfolded it. “I think we drove off the edge of this one about five miles ago.” He folded it up and put it back. “Here's the Southwest of England with most of the rivers marked in black. Your brother likes that grease pencil far too much.”
“Try that one for now,” said Jane
“Rivers it is. Are you expecting the radiator to overheat?” asked Lambert.
“No. It is possible that our excursion may attract a modicum of attention. Running water would help us avoid unwelcome notice.”
“Sometimes it works on bears.” Lambert thought it over. “Does this have anything to do with why witches float or why people who work magic are supposed to have a hard time crossing water?”
“Witches don't float. They do have a hard time crossing water,” Jane replied. “A location spell works by finding changes in energy between the seeker and the sought. You match your perception of the changes with your perception of the world around you until you've found what you are looking for. Does that seem clear so far?”
“So far.”
“Running water doesn't just change the energy. It renews it completely. If I were seeking you with a location spell, you could elude me each time you crossed running water. If you were on the water, say in a punt or a rowing boat, I'd never find you at all.”
“So if we stay close to a river,” Lambert said slowly, “we could cross it every time you think we're being sought by a location spell.”
“That's it.” Jane sounded pleased.
Lambert frowned. “What makes you think we're being sought by a location spell?”
“At the moment, I don't think we are. Even if I'm wrong about that, we're probably in the clear until we cross the Severn. But I'd like to know where the rivers are just the same.”
Lambert consulted the map. “I found your Wells road. On to Bristol from there?”
“That would be best.”
“The road to Wells is fairly straight. Are you planning another speed trial?” Lambert overplayed his suspicion and was glad to see it made Jane laugh. “You would warn me, wouldn't you? Though, come to think of it, it might not seem quite so bad if I can sit up here with you.”
“Don't worry. No speeding today.” Jane slowed the Minotaur as they topped a rise. “I promise.”
As they left Wells behind, the land rose steeply. The road veered a little to avoid the worst of it, but kept more or less straight on northeast. Lambert knew they would have to pick up a road heading north to get to Bristol, but he wasn't sure which would be best. Reading the network of fine lines representing
roads and railways was like reading a spiderweb, a task made more difficult if Jane happened to be changing gears at the time. “Farrington Gummy, I think we want. How long until we reach Bristol?”
“Not very long. Why?” Jane was intent on the Minotaur's climb.
Lambert folded the map down to a size he could read without the wind getting at it. “I missed breakfast. Come to think of it, I missed dinner too. If we find a pub, we can eat something.”
“No need to suffer. There's a luncheon hamper back there somewhere. I thought we could have a picnic rather than put ourselves at the mercy of whatever pub we find.”
“Thanks for reminding me. As I'm off the Agincourt Project and can do what I please for the first time in six months, we will definitely stop at a pub. I haven't had beer in so long, I've forgotten what it tastes like.”
Jane kept her eyes on the road but it was clear from the slackening of her speed that her attention was focused entirely on Lambert. “You're off the project? You quit?”
“The project has concluded. My services are no longer needed.” Lambert didn't try to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I was officially informed last night. No one thought to mention it to me until then.”
“The project has concluded? I can't believe it. The Agincourt Project is over?”
“Those ministers Robert was trying so hard to impress decided to give the funding to the aviators at Farnborough instead. There must be some details left to finish up on the Agincourt Project, or Voysey wouldn't have had me shooting
a Baker rifle yesterday while Meredith was off in London. Voysey knew the project had concluded before anyone else did. Stowe told me.”
“Stowe. Provost of St. Joseph's, isn't he? I haven't met him. What's he like? As oblivious as our friend Porteous?”
“I don't think he's
that
oblivious. Is anyone? Stowe seemed mildly embarrassed that I didn't already know I was fired. He was quite polite about breaking the news to me.”
“I should think he would be. What did Voysey say?”
“Voysey wasn't there. Nor Stewart. It was all Stowe, concerned that I see someone in the Bursar's office to collect my pay.”
“Oh, dear.” Jane's concern showed despite her goggles. “The Bursar's office probably doesn't open for hours yet and here I've rushed off with you on my crupper.”
“That's all right. I'll make the Bursar pay up when I go back for the rest of my clean socks. Don't worry.”
“You sound a bit grim about it.”
“I wasn't expecting a medal or anything. But the lack of efficiency irritates me. Why call me back for more shooting if the project had already concluded? It was stupid. The whole thing was stupid.”
“Odd, to say the least.” Jane picked up her speed again. “I wonder why Voysey was still recruiting Fell to the project if he knew it had concluded.”
“Do you think Stowe knows something about the project Voysey doesn't?” Lambert folded the map into a new and better accordion. “I don't.”
“It would be more likely—” Jane began, but she did not finish her thought, for at that moment the motor car swerved
toward the hedge at the side of the road. Jane braked and brought the Minotaur to a halt. “Drat! Puncture.”
“what?” Lambert was still recovering from the alarm their swerve had caused him. Things had been exciting there for a moment.
“Help me with the jack?” Jane clambered down from the driving seat and found the tool kit. “Please? It won't take a moment.”
Of course it took far more than a moment to place the jack and get the wheel off the ground. By the time the damaged wheel had been removed and replaced with the spare, almost two hours were gone, along with quite a lot of the skin from Lambert's knuckles.
“I should have let you use the wrench,” Lambert told Jane, once they were on their way again. “You have the gauntlets for it, after all.”
“I'll do the honors next time,” said Jane. “I don't think I would have taken any longer than you did.”
Lambert let Jane's criticism pass. “Let's hope next time holds off until we have the first puncture mended.”
“Let's hope next time doesn't happen at all.”
 
I
n Bristol, at midmorning, Jane stopped to buy more petrol and have the tire mended. While they were waiting, Lambert persuaded her to try a pub nearby, the Blue Boar. It was too early in the day to order food, but despite the hour, Lambert could not resist trying the beer.
Jane took no spirits, declaring that behind the wheel she needed her wits about her at all times. Lambert could not argue with that. He drank two pints of lager, one quickly and
one slowly, and wished he had a plate of toasted cheese to wash down with it. Beer tasted even better than he remembered. On a sticky August day devoted to the accumulation of road dust, the cellar-cool tang of the beer made him feel life might not be so bad after all. The strange lightness he felt afterward warned him that his capacity for liquor had dropped alarmingly. There had been a time when he wouldn't have noticed a gallon of beer, let alone a quart, even on an empty stomach. After his months of abstinence, the lager made the whole world lift a few degrees and take on extra color and mild spin. Lambert considered what such indulgence was likely to do to his aim and concluded with regret that he was better off without strong drink until Fell was safely home again.
Refueled, repaired, and restored, Jane and Lambert left Bristol behind. With the map half-unfurled in his lap, Lambert directed Jane through the city traffic and the maze of streets until they emerged on the northern edge of the city and meandered toward the estuary in the direction of Aust.
Jane was dubious. “Are you certain this is the right road?”
Lambert checked the map. “I'm certain this is the right road for Aust.”
Jane slowed the motor car. “Why are we going to Aust?”
“Because that is where the map says we catch the Chepstow ferry.”
Jane said nothing but she halted the Minotaur and let it purr to itself by the side of the road, to the great disgruntlement of a bicyclist close behind them. She stared at Lambert, but with the goggles it was hard to read her expression.
Lambert said, “We have to cross the Severn somewhere. You said so.”
Jane spoke very slowly, as if she were dealing with a child. “We can't cross here. We're barely out of Bristol. There can't be a bridge within forty miles.”
A gloomy thought struck Lambert. “Won't they take a motor car on the ferry? Even as freight?”
“I don't care if they take motor cars or not. I'm not crossing the Severn on a ferry.”
“What's the matter with the ferry?”
“Nothing's the matter with it.” Jane put the Minotaur back into gear and began to drive again. From the way she craned her neck, it was clear she was looking for a spot to turn the motor car around. “Nothing is the matter with the Channel ferry, but every time I use it, I feel sick for three days. I'm not going on any ferry if I can avoid it. And in this case, I can avoid it. We're driving upstream until we find a bridge.”
“Is this something to do with that theory about crossing water?” Lambert asked.
“In my experience, it isn't a theory.” Jane's tone was crisp.
“Ah. In that case.” Lambert studied the map. “Watch out for signs to Alveston. We'll head in the general direction of Gloucester. Looks like we won't be able to cross the river until we get to the bridge at Over.”
“Over it is,” said Jane, and drove on.
It wasn't as easy to pick up the road to Gloucester as the map made it look. At times the hedgerows on either side brushed against the Minotaur as Jane negotiated the tight space, wincing and muttering over the probable damage to
the motor car's paint. At times, their road met what looked like the road they wanted, but after a hundred dwindling yards, it became clear Lambert had directed them down some farm track.
Lambert kept the Severn on his left. Eventually, they found a road of respectable size that seemed to be going their way. By the time they crossed the bridge at Over, it was past two in the afternoon. “Only fifteen miles to Ross-on-Wye.” Lambert held out the map to Jane. “If you're tired of driving, we could probably find a place to stop for the night there.”
“It will be light for hours and hours.” Jane ignored the map. “Why would we stop for the night?”
Lambert winced. The beer in Bristol had been a bad idea. Drinking it had helped to pass the time until the Minotaur was ready, but it had given him a headache. Even if it hadn't, Lambert had already had enough of wind in his face and dust in his eyes and mouth for one day. Possibly for a month. “Sorry. I thought you might be tired by the time we get there, that's all.”
“We aren't stopping for the night.” After almost perfect silence for more than an hour, Jane was as forceful as if they'd been having an argument for miles. “There's no need. We have acetylene lamps. There's even a smaller one to illuminate the back number plate. We would be perfectly safe and perfectly legal even if we drove the night through. We aren't stopping.”
Jane's words were so clipped, Lambert wondered if she had a headache too. He considered and discarded several responses,
finally settling for mildness. “Not even when we get there?”
“We should be there by now.” Jane braked to avoid an ewe that had wandered out into the road ahead.
“We should,” Lambert conceded. Discarding mildness, he yielded to temptation, and added, “If you had bothered to mention that you don't believe in ferries, or if you'd spent less time packing a picnic and more time planning a sensible route, we probably
would
be there.”
BOOK: A Scholar of Magics
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