The Midnight Queen (19 page)

“We have accused him already of plotting murder, regicide, and treason, sir,” Gray reminded him.

“What barbarity do you mean?” Sophie demanded.

They looked at her, and then at each other; neither spoke. “The man has been my father—well, stepfather—these sixteen years,” Sophie said caustically. “I should like to believe I know the worst of him already. Tell me: What does that word mean?”

There was silence for some moments; and at last Gray said, very softly, “It is Old Cymric. It means ‘beating heart.'”

In Which Several Persons Are Unpleasantly Surprised

Sophie regarded the
two pallid, green-tinged countenances before her, and her outrage at their secretiveness vanished in the face of this new horror. “‘Beating heart,'” she repeated, in an appalled whisper. “Does this mean . . . must it be . . .” She could not quite bring herself to speak the word
human
.

The little leather-bound codex was still in her hand. Abruptly horrified by the very sight of it, she flung it across the desk and stood up, backing away and scrubbing her hands against her trousers like a child.

“Taylor had it,” Gray said, in the same low, despairing tone. “The night the Professor sent us into the town. Taylor and Woodville were the only ones trusted to go into the place; the rest of us stood watch, outside the door and in the street below. I believe they had a great deal of coin with them, and so they must have done, if I am right, and there was murder done that night . . . When they came out again, Taylor was carrying something else”—here his long fingers mimed carrying something small and delicate—“and he told us we must make haste. It was abuzz with magick . . . spelled, I suppose, to keep it . . . beating.” They all shuddered. “Did Taylor and Woodville . . . ?” His throat worked; he wet his lips. “They
must
have known—may the gods all curse them! If only I had asked—
demanded
—but we were set upon in the street almost at once . . .”

Sophie had sat down again, feeling as ill as the others looked. Gray gave her a grim sort of half smile. “I remember now that I heard one of them say we must be up to ‘nasty magicks.' It was truer than I should ever have thought. Apollo, Pan, and Hecate!” he exclaimed suddenly, both fists striking the desk with a deafening crash. “Taylor dared lay Gautier's death to my account. Yet he
knew
what we were after doing, all the time he knew . . . I wonder all the rest of us did not die that night, once we had served our purpose.”

Sophie stared at him, seeing but not quite crediting the gleam of tears in his eyes.

“We must go back again and warn him,” she said after a moment. “Lord Halifax, I mean. But what if he still will not listen?”

Master Alcuin sighed. “Then we shall at least have done our best,” he said grimly.

Gray drew one shirtsleeve across his eyes and sat back in his chair to look at both of them. “I shall go alone, then,” he said. “Sophie, Master Alcuin will see you safely back to the inn, and I shall join you—”

“No.” Sophie cut him off. “We go together, or not at all.”

He began to protest but was again interrupted: “She is quite right, Marshall,” said Master Alcuin. “Whatever shielding-charm you carry may be ample protection against the general run of mankind, but Merlin College is full of powerfully talented mages. It is only Miss Sophie's concealing magick that protects you here. To leave these rooms without her would be slow suicide.”

Sophie stared; he gave her a half smile and an apologetic shrug. “Seeing magick is a gift of mine,” he explained. “And yours, young lady, is astonishingly strong. At another time, I hope you will permit me to—”

“
Tempus fugit
, Magister,” said Gray.

“Of course,” said Sophie. “Time does fly, indeed, and we ought to get on. We ought to take all of this, I think,” she added, picking up the Brezhoneg book again with considerable reluctance and gathering up the ciphered documents and their transcriptions. “It is not exactly proof, but . . .”

Silently Gray took the book and the papers from her and stowed them all in some hidden pocket, or pockets, of his coat.

“Magister,” he said, “do you come or stay?”

*   *   *

In the moonlight, Sophie and Gray parted from Master Alcuin under the archway nearest his rooms, all of them hoping that their nearly silent, nearly invisible shadow would choose to follow him on his innocent errand to the Porter's Lodge, and not the two of them on their more delicate quest. He would go and return, he assured them, lingering only long enough to present a plausible appearance, and on returning would continue to search his books for anything that might counter the poison's effects.

More quickly even than before they crossed the College grounds, spurred by an inarticulable urgency.

They had been debating how best to approach the doorkeeper when they reached what ought to have been his domain and found his post deserted, the door completely unguarded. Sophie shivered and scratched her nose, which had suddenly begun to itch furiously. “There's magick about,” she murmured, and Gray nodded; he was shivering, too, and rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.

The Master's Lodge was silent and dark—a darkness more profound than ought to have been possible on such a moonlit night. In the corridor, Sophie collided with Gray when he suddenly stopped; both of them pitched forward, and they tumbled together onto the floor.

They picked themselves up, knocking against one another in the gloom. Two voices murmured, one after the other, “
Adeste luces!
”; two small, soft globes of light spurted upwards, illuminating the cause of their difficulty: Lord Halifax's manservant, asleep in a high-backed chair, his legs outstretched across the corridor between them and the door by which they had entered. One of the lights vanished; Sophie looked up and her eyes met Gray's, wide with fright. “Put out your light, for the gods' sake,” he hissed, and hastily she obeyed, plunging the corridor back into utter blackness.

The servant gave a gentle snore.

Gray clasped her hand and pulled her to her feet. Clinging together, they felt their way cautiously along the corridor. At length Sophie saw a gleam of unsteady light; as they stumbled towards it, it seemed to stretch and lengthen, until she recognised it as a line of firelight under a closed door.

It was perhaps foolish, she thought afterward, to have opened the door, but open it Gray did, before either of them had given any thought to what might lie on the other side.

They were in the Master's study.

And there he sat, in the same large, velvety armchair by the fire which he had occupied that afternoon, with an empty plate and wineglass on the little table at his elbow. For a moment Sophie thought that, like his man, he only slept; the hawklike face was relaxed, the drooping lids closed over the penetrating brown eyes, and one hand hung limp over the arm of the chair. But it was all very still, too still, too silent; a growing unease propelled her across the too-warm room to Lord Halifax's side.

Gray was there before her, his longer legs covering the distance in a mere three strides; he touched the Master's arm, his shoulder, and held a hand briefly before his face. The slight motion disturbed the tableau of peaceful sleep, and the man's head lolled horribly sideways, his mouth falling open.

Sophie sprang back in horror just as Gray said, quite unnecessarily, “He is dead.”

The cold iron fingers of panic closed about her heart. “We must not stay here,” she whispered urgently. “Come away, Gray, please. We can do nothing for him now.”

But he did not move; he seemed rooted to the spot, staring fixedly at what remained of the man whose life they had tried to save.

*   *   *

By turns cajoling and commanding, Sophie did her best to shift Gray from his paralysis. Her words seemed to wash over him, utterly without effect, and she grew increasingly anxious, dread chilling her from the inside out.

“
Think
, Gray,” she pleaded, tugging at his arm. “Here we are, alone with a new-made corpse—and a book of poisons in your coat-pocket. How will it look—”

He turned at last and looked down at her, torment written on his face. “We might have saved him,” he whispered raggedly. “
I
might have saved him. But he thought it all a great jest, and now . . .”

Frantic now, Sophie tightened her hold on his arm and leant back with all her weight, trying to drag him bodily towards the door. Desperation must have lent her strength, for she succeeded somehow in conveying herself and him across the room and nearly over the threshold.

But as her boot-heel struck the stone door-sill, there was a soft hiss, and a . . .
something
 . . . descended on them both.

Sophie found to her dismay that she could scarcely move; she was weighed down by an overpowering lethargy, and all her limbs felt profoundly heavy and slow, as though she moved through deep water—or perhaps through treacle. Her nose itched more furiously than ever, but she could not seem to lift her hand to scratch it. The sensation of weight was not unpleasant, exactly; or it would not have been, had she not been so thoroughly terrified.

Turning her head, with considerable effort, to the right, she saw that Gray was similarly afflicted. He had closed his eyes and seemed to be murmuring something under his breath—whether spell or prayer or a string of curses, Sophie could scarcely guess.

“Well,” said a familiar voice behind them. Sophie's heart seemed to miss a beat, before a surge of anger set it pounding harder than ever. “As well we thought to provide ourselves some insurance.”

Heavy footsteps approached, then stopped. In the next instant, with a sound like the tearing of silk, whatever spell had been holding them in thrall evaporated; there was a sharp intake of breath, and Sophie spun round, her left hand reaching for Gray's, to face the intruders.

“
You!
” gasped her father.

But he was not looking at her.

*   *   *

“I.” Gray surprised himself by speaking the monosyllable with perfect clarity. He let go Sophie's hand and tried to push her behind him, to have his height and bulk between her and this new danger. She edged away, back and to the left, until he could not see her even from the corner of his eye. Willing her to conceal herself somewhere safe—and certain that she would not do so, whatever he said to her—he folded his arms and stared down at their would-be captors: Professor Callender and another red-robed Senior Fellow, as pale and gaunt as the Professor was ruddy and stout.

Almost before Gray spoke, however, the flash of outraged recognition on the Professor's face had given way to a puzzled frown; both he and his companion looked at Gray in apparent confusion. “But it is not he—not Marshall after all,” the Professor muttered. “Yet he looked so very like . . . Then who in Hades
is
this fellow?”

Puzzled for a moment himself, Gray nearly laughed aloud as recognition dawned.
Well played, Sophie!
He silently exulted.

But it quickly became clear that, in the circumstances, going unrecognised was of only limited use.

If Professor Callender was discomposed, his friend was not. “Who are you?” he demanded of Gray. “And what do you do here, at such an hour?”

Another link in the chain,
thought Gray, recognising the basso voice.
Now, if only I knew who he was!

“I might ask the same of you, Doctor . . .”

About to fall into the trap, the thin man stopped himself just in time. “An undergraduate,” he snapped, “dares question a Senior Fellow? Answer, boy! Who are you, and what do you here?”

“Dunstan,” said Gray, “of Marlowe College. As for my business here, it is none of yours, sir.” Who would have supposed him capable of such exhilarating insolence?

The Professor had by now contrived to insinuate himself through the doorway and around Gray; from beside Lord Halifax's armchair, he produced a gasp of assumed surprise that would not have taken in a child: “The Master! The Master has been taken ill!”

“He is
dead
,” said Gray bitterly, turning round, “as you must know, sir, if you have looked at all.”

Perhaps Sophie's concentration had faltered for a moment; perhaps her magick could not disguise a voice so easily as a face. Whatever the event, the Professor's next words made it clear that he would no longer mistake his target. “So it is Marshall, indeed; I might have known it. Is there nothing you will not poke your ugly nose into, boy?”

He raised one hand, drew a gout of flame out of the air, and flung it at Gray.

*   *   *

Sophie had crept nearly all round the walls of the Master's study, frantically seeking any sort of egress; but the room's bow-window had no visible latch, and there was only that single door, with their adversaries between themselves and it.
We shall have to slink past them, somehow—or
make
them let us go . . .

The fire-bolt aimed at Gray took her by surprise; she had had no notion that her father knew any battle magicks. Even if he knew only this one, it was one more than either Gray or herself.

Gray dodged out of the way, and the flame struck the door-jamb and set it smouldering. But another followed it, and another, and almost at once the Professor's friend joined the fray. Though managing to dodge many of the flames, hailstones, and small lightning-bolts that came at him, or to deflect them with some small shielding-spell of his own, Gray was visibly losing ground to his opponents.

Sophie crouched behind the sofa, clutching the damp handkerchief in her pocket like some talisman, and tried to shield him. She had only the vaguest idea how such protection might be accomplished—the library at Callender Hall being long on theory but short on practicalities—and little time to consider the problem; she did know how to conceal things, however, and this she tried with all her might to do. In the present case, however, it did not answer; though some missiles missed their target, more did not.

Something struck Gray's left shoulder, and he staggered; Sophie winced.
If only we had something to fling back at them . . . !

Then, of a sudden, she remembered what she had seen on the walls above the bookcases—now but half visible in the increasing haze.