Susan Spencer Paul - [Enchanter 01] (2 page)

He had tried to dress less conspicuously, but his manservant, Abercraf, had adamantly refused to let him out in public attired in anything less than perfection. Not that Niclas blamed him. The poor fellow had charge of him so infrequently these days that he had to make the most of every opportunity.

“What’d ’e say, Vess?” one of them asked in a bemused tone. “Is it a fight ’e’s askin’ for?”

“I dunno,” the other replied. “I think ’e’s drunk. Hey, mister,” he addressed Niclas’s turned back. “You drunk or some’at?”

Niclas sighed and briefly shut his eyes. God help him, he was weary of this.

Slowly, he turned to survey the men standing before him, and wasn’t in the least surprised by what he found. They were markedly similar to the hundreds he’d faced down in the past three years: tough, thin, dirty. Their emotions were the same, too. Hungry, nervous, hopeful, a little
giddy, and a good deal afraid. He gazed at them solemnly for a long moment, then said again, quietly, “Leave me in peace.”

The shorter man licked his lips and, making two fists, took a step forward.

“Give us your purse, m’lord, and we’ll do just that. There’s no need for any trouble, is there?”

“No,” Niclas agreed, “there isn’t. But that decision is in your hands. It would be best and wisest for all concerned if you’d simply go your way now.”

They stared at him.

“Stop gabbing and give us your purse,” said the taller—and meaner—of the two. “We aren’t ’ere to talk.”

“I know that well enough,” Niclas said with a small, unavoidable laugh. He didn’t mean to taunt them, but it did amuse him to think of anyone with even a small measure of intellect wishing to attempt conversation with such unschooled ruffians. Certainly not he, who had once been famed for his ability with words. The sudden memory filled him with another stab of that painful and so familiar longing for all that he’d lost.

But he didn’t have the luxury of wallowing in sorrow just now, for his would-be assailants were emanating far more fear than nerve, and that never boded well for wise decision-making.

“I am not going to give you my purse,” he told them, “or anything else. I also do not wish to harm you. Come now,” he said reasonably, “you’re tired and a little drunk. One of you is worried about a woman, perhaps your girl?” He looked from one to the other and saw the shorter man’s mouth drop open. “You’re both wondering whether you can truly best me, and afraid that you can’t. You’re thinking
of what you’ll do if your friend is hurt and can’t run away—and have decided to abandon him to his fate if that should be the case.”

Niclas wasn’t entirely certain of all the details, but he’d felt their emotions well enough to guess. It was sufficiently close to cause panic in both. That, at least, he felt quite fully.

“I don’t want to harm you,” he said once more. “But I promise that I can easily overpower you both. Go now,” he advised, “before you do anything foolish and regrettable.”

They almost did. Niclas could feel the indecision, especially in the taller one. Unfortunately, the shorter one possessed a great deal of pride and stubbornness. Niclas knew he’d made up his mind even before he pulled out the knife hidden beneath his ragged waistcoat.

“ ’E might have a gun, Vess,” the taller one warned.

Vess smiled, revealing gaps where teeth had once been. “Nah, ’e don’t. ’E would’ve pulled it already. Wouldn’t you, m’lord?”

Niclas was beginning to grow irate. Malachi would arrive at any moment, and dealing with him successfully would require every bit of mental acuity Niclas possessed. And God knew, it was far better for him to diffuse the situation than to let his cousin do so. If Earl Graymar stuck his nose into the matter one of these silly fools might inadvertently be harmed.

“I apologize,” he said, moving forward with that suddenness that always seemed to take mere mortals by surprise; it certainly took his would-be assailants by surprise, for the one named Vess nearly dropped his knife. “But I haven’t the time to entertain you any longer.”

It was done quickly, with no harm to either of the men. Vess lunged at him with the knife, but Niclas easily turned aside and, before the fellow could even lift his arm up for another attempt, had twisted the weapon from his hand and thrown it to the ground. The taller one moved as if to leap on Niclas’s back but, like his partner, couldn’t match either the speed of Niclas’s movements or his superior strength. Before either of them could divine what was happening he had them aloft, one in each hand, held by the front of their shirts. They struggled and shouted and cursed until Niclas gave each a hard, thorough shake, and then they fell still, more, he suspected, from shock than fear.

“You’re much lighter than I expected,” Niclas said, looking from one to the other. “Far easier to lift than the last few fellows who attempted to empty my pockets. I hope,” he added severely, “that you will appreciate how often I am forced to endure such nonsense.”

Vess attempted to curse at him again, but stuttered too much for the words to make sense. Still, Niclas understood his meaning very well and shook him again until his head wobbled on his short neck.

“Now, what shall I do with you?” Niclas turned about contemplatively, the men dangling from his hands. “Shall I toss you into the river? Take you to the nearest tavern and display you like shot pigeons to your fellows? Or should I simply knock your empty skulls together and be done with it?”

“My choice would be the river,” said a voice from the shadows. “Only think what an entertaining splash they would make. Much better than the stones we used to throw when we were boys.”

Niclas lowered his gaze to see his cousin, the earl of Graymar, walking slowly toward them.

“I do apologize,” said the earl in his most gentlemanly manner as he came nearer, his light-colored hair easily visible in the dark of night. “I hope I’m not interrupting something important. I only came because I thought you wanted to see me.”

Malachi Seymour was slender and tall, lithe and elegant as a cat, yet strong, too, in unsuspected ways, just as Niclas and other Seymours were. His long, silvery white hair was tied back in a neat tail at the nape of his neck, causing his sharp, elfin features to stand out even more starkly by contrast. Like Niclas, he was dressed in almost unrelieved black, tempered only by the white of linen shirts and cravats. Unlike Niclas’s, the earl’s clothes were exactingly neat and clean. Not that it mattered. Regardless of what Niclas might wear, or how tidy he might keep himself, he could never match his cousin’s perfection.

“I believe I’m the one who should apologize,” Niclas said, and lowered Vess and his gasping friend to the ground. “I should have dealt with these fellows more quickly, but my nights are long and I must fill them with such amusements as I find. Go on,” he said to his assailants, releasing them. “Console yourselves with the thought that as I’m no longer without aid, you necessarily had to leave me unmolested.”

Within moments he and Malachi were alone, the sound of Vess’s and his partner’s frantic footsteps quickly fading into the night’s mist.

“That,” said Malachi, “was most unwise. They’ll spend the rest of the night regaling their comrades with tales of
your supernatural powers. You seem determined to end your days on the gallows or, worse, burned upon the stake as some of our more unfortunate ancestors were. They couldn’t resist using their powers in public, either.”

He lifted one gloved hand palm up, upon which a small flame suddenly appeared. Moving closer, he surveyed Niclas’s attire with an expression of polite disdain. “You’re filthy,” he stated. “How long have you been out this time?”

“It’s good to know that you follow your own advice so well, cousin. For pity’s sake, put your blasted fire away. If the night watch should see—”

“Why? Is he coming?” Malachi asked. “Is
anyone
coming? I assume you’d give me warning far before any individual could make his—or her—way into view.”

Niclas scowled. “No. We’re quite alone as far as I can tell. Unless there’s a Seymour or Cadmaran or anyone of our ilk lurking about. But if there were,
you’d
know of it.”

The fire disappeared and Malachi tugged on his glove to rid it of creases. “We’re quite safe from intrusions of that sort, I promise you. There isn’t a Cadmaran anywhere near London, thank God. If there were, I’d be rather more occupied with them at the moment than with you. How long have you been out?”

Occupied. Aye, that he would be, Niclas thought. Malachi wasn’t only the head of the Seymour family, but the most powerful wizard in Europe, as well. More than that, he was the
Dewin Mawr
, the recognized leader of the Families. As such, Malachi’s life consisted of one burdensome responsibility after another. There had been a time when Niclas had helped him to shoulder those responsibilities, but that was before the curse, in those nearly forgotten
days when his mind had been strong and his thoughts clear, and when his own powers had been so readily controlled.

“How long?” Malachi prompted.

Niclas sighed and ran a hand through his thick, unkempt hair.

“I don’t know. Four days, perhaps.”

Malachi raised one slender blond eyebrow. “You’ve stopped keeping track?”

“There’s no reason to do so,” Niclas replied. “Time is all the same for me now.”

“You must
make
it different,” Malachi said sternly. “I’ve told you time and again how vital it is for you to continue to mark your days and nights. You risk insanity, otherwise.”

Niclas uttered a mirthless laugh and turned to pace back toward the water’s edge.

“Risk,” he repeated. “I believe we’re nearly beyond that, cousin.”

Earl Graymar followed him until they stood side by side at the dock’s railing. “Have you taken that potion I gave you?”

“It was as useless as the rest,” Niclas told him. “Everything is useless. Malachi,” he said more softly, staring down at the water. “I’m beginning to think that nothing will ever make a difference. Perhaps the curse can’t be lifted.”

Malachi set a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You mustn’t let yourself give way to despair,
cfender
. There is always a remedy for blood curses, even one so difficult as yours. We have only to find the way.”

“I used to believe that,” Niclas said. “I don’t anymore. But I’m desperate, and foolish.” He glanced into his
cousin’s face, so filled with concern. “I want to make one more try.”

“Niclas—”

“Only one, Malachi, and then I’ll stop. You’ve already divined what I’m going to ask of you.”

The earl of Graymar straightened, his expression troubled.

“I’m sorry, Niclas. I would allow almost anything to help you be rid of the curse, but I cannot let you use a complete innocent for your own purposes. Miss Linley trusts me to lend her my aid in solving a difficult problem, not to put her in company with a man who can scarce control his behavior from moment to moment.”

Niclas faced his powerful cousin head-on, all his weariness and desperation driving him.

“You think I’ll hurt her? Or cause her distress? You know very well I won’t. I realize that of late I’ve been, perhaps, rather erratic—”

“Perhaps?”

“Very well,” Niclas admitted, “I’ve not been entirely stable for some time. I understand your concerns. But I’d never harm a woman, certainly not one who might hold the key to my redemption. Only think a moment and consider. She’s his cousin—”

“Very distant,” Malachi put in. “It’s likely the relationship is far too minor to serve the purpose, even if you should shed blood on her behalf, which I pray won’t be the case.”

“The Linleys were Drew’s relatives, regardless how distant,” Niclas argued. “If I can avenge his death by performing a valuable service for them, I might end this torment. And,” he added, moving quickly to face Malachi as
he turned away, “our own uncle is the cause of their distress, which may add even greater weight to the deed in the eyes of the guardians. If I can be the instrument that will solve the trouble—only consider, cousin, the effort it would require to force Uncle Ffinian to give way—then it might suffice.”

Lord Graymar shook his head. “I can’t . . . Niclas, you know very well that I can’t take the risk. If you had followed my instructions and taken the potions or even performed the exercises I asked you to do—”

“Chants and meditations,” Niclas muttered dismissively. “They were useless.”

“If you had done them as I asked,” Malachi repeated, “they would have at least helped you maintain a more even temper. Instead, you choose to wander aimlessly for days on end, fighting and getting into all manner of trouble, creating the worst kind of rumors, which I’m forced to answer as best I can for those members of society who—”

“Society,” Niclas repeated tightly. “I hope you tell them all to go straight to—”

“Blazes, yes, I know,” said the earl. He closed his eyes and appeared to pray for patience, then looked at Niclas and sighed. “There was a time,
cfender
, when you understood what it means to our kind to keep the world from becoming too curious, and how vital it is for all of us to behave circumspectly. You even used to help me keep our wilder relatives in line. Do you remember?”

Niclas set fingers to his forehead and rubbed at the seemingly ever-present ache that throbbed behind his eyes, striving to put his exhausted thoughts in order.

“Of course I remember. If I didn’t, I’d not want to have that life back as much as I do. I apologize if I’ve been the cause of more trouble for you, cousin. God alone knows you have enough with the rest of our mad family. How you’ve kept your sanity all these years I’ll never know. But isn’t that all the more reason why you should give me this chance?”

Lord Graymar regarded him for a silent moment, a chill breeze causing his elegant greatcoat to flap about his slender figure. “Do you even remember Julia Linley from those days before you were cursed?”

Niclas hadn’t been expecting that. The question brought him up short.

“No,” he replied slowly, though he couldn’t be entirely certain that he spoke the truth, for his mind was so muddled, and his memory had failed him more than once in the past three years. “Did I know her? Were we introduced?”