(A Charm of Magpies 1)The Magpie Lord (20 page)

Stephen stood. “Lucien, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m wildly outmatched. You’ve nowhere to run to. We will go and face them and I’ll see what we can do but I will not make a deal with them. Not for my life or yours. If I do, they will own me, and I would rather be dead. If you choose to… Well, do what you must, but please, remember, to these people you’re cattle. Just be aware.”

“Understood. Is there any point in finding a weapon?”

“No. Let’s just go.”

They gripped hands for a second, silent, and strode together, feet ringing on the floorboards, through the Long Gallery and to the top of the Great Stair, and looked down to where a man and a woman waited. Crane heard Stephen’s soft hiss.

“Oh, a morning call,” said Crane, clearly and loudly. “How delightful.” He glared down. The two strangers stared back, unmoved. They looked intensely solid, radiated something that was not quite a glow, a disturbing sense of immanent power. “And who are you?”

“Sir Peter Bruton and Lady Bruton.” Stephen’s voice was toneless. Crane glanced at him and saw his lips were white.

“Day,” said Sir Peter. He was a tall, fleshy man, a little younger than Crane, large and physically powerful, with sunken blue eyes and a voice that drawled slightly. “I’m
so
glad it’s you.”

“I’m sure,” said Stephen. “Did you miss me?”

“I won’t miss you this time. I’m going to make you pay, you and the Jew bitch, and your whole band of self-righteous murderers, but I’ll start with you, you vicious little pansy. You’re going to scream before you die.”

“Not as much as Underhill screamed,” said Stephen venomously, and the air suddenly leapt between them as both men made violent motions. Crane jumped sideways as something he couldn’t see distorted the world briefly. The big man made an abrupt flinging gesture, lunged with the other hand, and there was a heaving crack of soundless disturbance in the air. Stephen dropped like a rag doll, body crumpling as he fell, and tumbled down the stairs, limbs loose and flailing. He hit the floor hard, head smacking against the flagstones, and lay still.

Crane stared down at him, then met Sir Peter Bruton’s eyes.

“You’re in my house,” he said. “Explain yourself, sir.”

Chapter Seventeen

Crane sat in an armchair in the parlour with Lady Bruton opposite him. She was elegantly clothed in a green morning gown, very slender, with a pointed chin, large green eyes and soft brown hair fashionably dressed. She was the kind of woman who probably got called ethereal, Crane thought.

It would have been like any other morning call if he could stop wondering what Sir Peter was doing to Stephen’s crumpled, helpless body, and if he had been able to move out of the chair.

Lady Bruton smiled at him. The sense of intensity came off her in waves.

“I’m so glad we can have this chat. I do want to see if we can find a happy solution. And I’m sure that horrid little man has told you all sorts of ghastly things about us.”

“Not by name,” Crane said. “He’s mentioned warlocks.”

“Warlock,” she said, with gentle distaste. “Such a ridiculous word. There’s no such thing, you know. There are just practitioners. Some of us choose to abide by a set of restrictive, outmoded laws. Some of us do not. And I’m afraid some people—nasty, small-minded, envious people—take pleasure in trying to bring everyone else down to their own petty level. A warlock, Lord Crane, is someone a justiciar doesn’t like. They accuse us of murder under laws we don’t accept, and they murder us and claim their law makes it right. It’s very easy when you make the laws, isn’t it?”

“Let me be sure I understand you,” Crane said. “Do you use other people as sources of power? Strip them, use their corpses?”

“Well, of course we
use
people,” said Lady Bruton, with a musical laugh. “We use the power granted to us as our birthright. Don’t you, my lord earl?”

“I’m at best an accidental earl, and a highly reluctant one,” Crane said. “And I believe I have your group to thank for my father’s and brother’s removal.”

She smiled. “Perhaps you do. But tell me, what are you, if not an earl?”

“A trader.”

“A trader. A good one? Successful?”

“Yes.”

“Because of your natural talents,” said Lady Bruton. “The fact that you are cleverer than the next man. Better at calculations. Luckier. More ruthless. Be honest: is not trading the art of exploiting those less gifted than yourself?”

“In part. It’s better to ensure they’ll trade with you again.”

She waved that aside. “The fact is, we all of us have our place in life. Some of us are the nobility, some are the people. The people exist for the nobility. They are—”

“Cattle?”

“Yes. Cattle. The cattle that you farm for rents now, the cattle that you farmed for your trading. The mass of tedious, unimportant little lives, who are there to be of use to those of us who are above the herd. You and I know that is the truth, Lord Crane, I trust you won’t pretend to be sentimental.”

“What’s sentimental is this claim to be justified by birthright. If you’re going to murder people for your own benefit, you might as well be honest about it.”

Lady Bruton’s face hardened for a second, smoothed again. “You’ve been listening to Stephen Day,” she said, with a note of lilting scorn. “You do understand it’s motivated by sheer envy? All the justiciars are like that. They hate us because they want to be us: noble, unafraid, proud of what we are—proud of, yes, our birthright. They want to make us as cowardly and placeless as themselves. They’re all contemptible: that common little queer Day, and his dreadful, graceless Jewess, and the rest.” Her voice was no longer quite so musical. “Of course that plebeian runt has attached himself to you. You’ve birth, breeding, you’re a fine figure of a man. Everything he isn’t. It would be funny if it wasn’t so revolting.”

Crane settled back in his chair, feeling the invisible bonds hold him close. “What do you want with me, Lady Bruton?”

She gathered herself, gave him another dazzling smile. “I want you to make a choice. You see, we have a purpose here. We had hoped to pursue it without inconveniencing you, but Day
had
to get in the way. So now, I’m afraid you will have to serve our purpose, one way or the other.”

“And the ways are—?”

“We’d like you to marry Helen Thwaite.”

Crane blinked. “Miss Thwaite.”

“Yes. She’s a very pretty girl, isn’t she? Perhaps a
little
difficult. Dear Muriel has struggled to find her a husband with her temperament, but that need not worry you. You need only give her, let us say, two sons, an heir and a spare, as they say, to ensure that the entail is fulfilled in the event of any mishap. We should hardly want your estate to descend to a distant cousin. But after that I dare say you could follow your own inclinations. Discreetly, of course. I should insist that you treat dear Muriel’s daughter with respect, she is my very great friend, but—” She gave a little laugh. “I do understand men, you know.”

“And how long would you anticipate I might live, once I’ve supplied you with the children you require to control my fortune?” enquired Crane.

“That depends very much on you, Lord Crane,” said Lady Bruton gently. “If you make your fortune available to us willingly, that will be most welcome. And I need not scruple to tell you that we have ambitions to take our rightful place in the governance of this country. If you take your place in the Lords, in the seat of power, as our voice, you might make yourself quite invaluable.”

“As your creature.”

Lady Bruton smiled. “There’s no need to be dramatic. After all, our servant will be everyone else’s master. And there will be many compensations for your service, believe me.”

Crane nodded. “And the alternative?”

She shook her head, smiling sadly. “You cannot leave this house except as our man, Lord Crane. Please understand that. Your death would serve our purpose really very nearly as well as your faithful life.”

Crane looked at the lovely woman opposite him. Memories crowded in: Merrick’s awful, imbecile rictus; the hair in his throat; the screams of the horses; the foul oiliness of the Judas jack. Stephen’s crumpled body.

He was alone and entirely helpless, and he knew that there would be no mercy and no escape, and he didn’t want to die.

He met her eyes. “I’m no stranger to compounding for my life, madam. Or to the awareness of death. I experienced, long ago, several months of degradation that I now find it astonishing I endured, but I welcomed it because the alternative was death. I know myself, my lady. I want to live.”

“I’m delighted to hear you are so wise,” said Lady Bruton warmly.

“So I can honestly say I would rather die than accept your offer.”

There was a short silence. Lady Bruton’s fixed smile suddenly had more teeth in it. “Really. And may I know the reason you choose not to join us?”

Crane took a deep breath, and told her.

Angry hands pushed hard, and Crane tumbled down the steps, unable to break his fall properly, landing heavily and painfully on the hard earth floor with his shoulder, a stone step gouging a long scrape into his arm as the shock jarred his brain. He took a harsh breath as the cellar door slammed shut, leaving him in darkness.

“Fuck.”

“Crane?” said a disbelieving voice.

“
Stephen?
Christ. Stephen. Are you all right?”

“So far.” Stephen sounded hoarse. “You?”

“Fine. Bruton roughed me up a bit. I annoyed his lady.”

“How?”

“I told the whey-faced bitch what she and her repulsive cohorts could do with their offer of servitude. And then I stopped being polite.”

Stephen chuckled weakly. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

“You may be alone in that sentiment.” Crane could still feel an echo of the shrieking agony that the enraged Lady Bruton had sent flaring through his bones. A bruise was swelling around his eye where Sir Peter had taken a more direct approach. “What happened to you?”

“Someone, presumably Bruton, gave me a reasonably savage beating. I made sure I was well out for it,” Stephen said. “I woke up in here. He’s cracked a couple of my ribs, I think.”

Crane got himself awkwardly to his knees, hampered by the iron cuffs and chain that pinioned his hands behind his back. “Hold on.” He moved over and tripped on a crate, falling to a knee. “Damn it. Can you make light?”

“I can’t do anything. I work with my hands, and I’ve got iron round my wrists. I think Bruton might have stamped on my hands, actually. They hurt.” Stephen’s voice was controlled, but there was a tremor in it.

“Shit.” Crane manoeuvred awkwardly until he bumped into Stephen’s small, slight body.

“Sit back to back. Let me see if I can do anything about getting you loose.”

“I’m in irons too,” Crane said unnecessarily, feeling Stephen’s fingers on his own, the other man’s little sag of defeat. “Why can’t you do iron?”

“It blocks the ether. You need to be strong as blazes to do anything with iron, and I’m very much not, right now.” Stephen carefully let his body rest against Crane’s, warm in the chill damp of the cellar, head heavy against Crane’s shoulders. Their fingers met and held, tangling together, Crane very cautious in his movements as he felt the damp stickiness of the other man’s hands, the flinching tension.

“What now?” said Crane eventually.

“We die, I expect. Sorry.”

“Oh, well. I never thought I’d reach forty.”

“You’re very…calm.”

“Well, I’ve been in a condemned cell before,” Crane pointed out. “The novelty wears off.”

Stephen actually laughed at that, a reluctant chuckle, and dropped his head back to rest against Crane’s shoulder again. “That’s aristocratic sang-froid, is it?”

“Certainly not,” Crane said. “Just common or garden bloody-mindedness, much like your own.” He gently stroked Stephen’s raw, wet fingers, still adorned with the useless ring, feeling blood run down from the cut on his arm, not wanting to let go. “Tell me, why do that pair of lunatics hate you so much?”

“Thomas Underhill.” Stephen sighed. “Third son of a duke. Very powerful, very influential, very clever. Bruton and he were old school chums, thick as thieves. Esther and I were after the pair of them for some time, but the world is full of idiots like Fairley who can’t imagine a well-born warlock, and it was hard to pin them down. But eventually we caught Underhill red handed.” He paused. “I do actually mean red handed. It was disgusting. Esther stayed to put the victims out of their misery, and I went after Underhill. I caught up with him on Romney Marshes.”

“Ah.”

“Esther came after me but she managed to break her ankle stepping in a rabbit hole, and when they found me I was half dead, and by the time she was able to identify Underhill’s workshop, it had been dismantled. By Bruton, I have no doubt. We made our accusations public, Bruton denied them, but our word is good, so Bruton and his lady are being seen for what they are now. They left London precipitately, two months ago. Esther and I were going to go after them when I recovered.” He took a long breath. “So, I killed his friend and I’ve made him known as a warlock. Bruton is not going to spare me. And he won’t spare you either.”