The Virtu (49 page)

“It ain’t Felix.”

“Don’t think I’m stupid, either. Of
course
it’s Felix.”

“No. It’s just…” And it kind of fell out of my mouth, without me meaning to say it or wanting to say it or even knowing I was going to say it. “I’m lonely.”

And if the floor had opened up and swallowed me just then, I would have said thank you.

“I’m not at all surprised,” Mehitabel said.

I stared at her. Couldn’t help it.

“I’ve been thinking since I met you that you’re one of the loneliest people I’ve ever known.”

Well, powers, what the fuck do you say to something like that? I stared down at my hands, all scarred and lumpy-knuckled, and it didn’t matter how long I was in the Mirador, I’d never be able to pass for flash, not with hands like mine. “I just wanted to go see if a friend of mine is okay,” I said, only it came out slurred and jumbled, the way things do if I try to talk too fast, or if I try to say much of anything when I’m upset. But the third time I repeated myself, she got it.

“So why don’t you?”

“Felix won’t let me.” And, Kethe, I hadn’t meant
that
to get out, either. Not like that. But it was true, and once I’d said it, you know, I couldn’t really try and take it back. Mehitabel wouldn’t‘ve believed me.

“Felix won’t
let
you?”

“Says it’s too dangerous. And, I mean, I guess it is. Kind of. But I just…” This was getting me fucking nowhere. I got up, moved away before she could grab me again. “I’m sorry, Mehitabel. It’s nothing, and there ain’t nothing to be done, anyways. I’ll see you ‘round.”

“Mildmay—”

But I didn’t let her say it. It would’ve been too much like betraying Felix, to let her trash him to my face when I couldn’t even get up the guts to disagree with her. I left, and I wasn’t running, but I was moving as fast as I could.

:And what, pray tell,: Gideon said presently, :is a cade-skiff?:

I put my pen down and straightened my back, wincing at the stiffness in my neck. “The Cade-skiffs’ Guild is an institution unique to the Lower City of Mélusine.” But I didn’t have the heart for the grave and rotund oratory of a guidebook. I stretched my neck, first to one side, then to the other, listening to my vertebrae shift and complain, and said, “They drag bodies out of the Sim.”

:Ah. ‘Cade’ then being from Cade-Cholera.:

“Yes. They’re very touchy about their mysteries. I’ve never talked to anyone who knows whether they understand their principal function as the honoring of the drowned dead or simply keeping the Sim clear.”

:It is a dark river,: Gideon said, and I knew he wasn’t talking merely about its color.

“Yes.” And the less I had to think about the Sim, the better. “Are you getting anywhere?”

:Define ‘anywhere.’:

I gave him a mock-glower, and although he didn’t smile back, I could see the laughter lurking in his eyes. :I do not yet know substantially more about necromancy than I did before raiding your bookshelves.:

“And I didn’t imagine you would. How about the other end of the problem?”

He shook his head. :I wish your most illustrious Cabal had kept better notes.:

“And I wish you wouldn’t call them
my
Cabal. They aren’t.”

He nodded acknowledgment and said, :But I am beginning to acquire a better grasp of the principles of thaumaturgie architecture, and that, I think, may help us.:

“It’s most phenomenally boring,” I said doubtfully.

:Then you were taught it badly. It’s what the Virtu
is
, a coalescence of the thaumaturgie architecture the Cabal raised in the Mirador.:

“I surrender,” I said, raising my hands in token. “Will you explain it again for a backward child of five?”

He tilted his head, giving me a thoughtful, unnerving look. :Malkar Gennadion must have had very narrow views of the usefulness of magic:

“I beg your pardon.”

:Don’t bridle at me. He didn’t teach you thaumaturgie architecture, did he?:

“He said it was a waste of time, fit only for old ladies and bean counters.”

:And of course you follow wherever Malkar leads.:

“I do not!”

He just looked at me, one eyebrow raised. I felt my face heat and dropped my gaze, pushing my hair back with both hands. “I
did
ask you to explain it to me,” I said, hearing and hating the sullenness in my voice.

:You did,: Gideon agreed, and had the decency to keep whatever amusement he was feeling to himself. He considered me for a moment, then said, :Probably the example you will find easiest to grasp is that of the labyrinth. I recall that we have talked about them before, in Hermione.:

I did my best to hide my flinch, although probably I was not entirely successful. “I’m afraid I wasn’t at my intellectual best in Hermione,” I said, with a carefully wry smile, and did not mention the fact that I did not remember that conversation, nor indeed, much of anything that had happened in Hermione.

:No, but you listened well,: Gideon said tartly. He lifted his chin, folded his hands before him on the table, and said, :The doctrine of labyrinths proposed by Ephreal Sand states that the windings of a labyrinth may be used to weaken the boundaries between the material world and the world of the spirit.:

“The world of the spirit?”

:The phrase doesn’t translate well. Sand calls it
manar
, which is a word he picked up from reading the Cymellunar mystics. He had no more idea what it properly means than I do.:

“Well, you must mean
something
by it.”

He made an impatient double-handed gesture. :Magic exists in two worlds. It is a force of the spirit, which wizards are able to use upon the material world. Cabaline wizards have historically denied that magic is anything
except
a force of the spirit, and that is where their teaching goes grievously astray.:

“I don’t…”

:You are shockingly ill educated,: he said, but smiled to take the sting out of it. :What Cabaline doctrine fails to acknowledge is the
manar
, the world of the spirit. The world of dreams, of ghosts. The world that diviners, sibyls, and oracles walk into when they go looking for the future. The world you were born with one foot in, as all wizards are. The world that rests upon the material world like the iridescent sheen upon a soap bubble.:

“How very poetic,” I said, and he glared at me.

:Thaumaturgic architecture is the art of making the world of the spirit conform to the material world, and architectural thaumaturgy is the reverse, although the distinction is so fine I doubt many wizards notice it.: He acknowledged the confusion I could feel on my face with a nod, and said, :Think of it this way—thaumaturgie architecture makes structures of magic, and architectural thaumaturgy channels magic into material structures. Does that help?:

“A little,” I said. “But if the Virtu is a working of thaumaturgie architecture—”

:It’s both. That is, the physical object you call the Virtu is the representation in architectural thaumaturgy of a massive working of thaumaturgie architecture. Architectural thaumaturgy is what allows workings to
hold
—it’s what anchors them. It is what enabled the Cabal to create a reservoir of magic within the physical object of the Virtu. It is what enabled the Grevillian wizards of Caloxa to create a labyrinth that would collect magic and channel it into an engine.:

“An engine? Gideon, you’re making that up.”

He shook his head, but the slight smile he gave me did not inspire confidence, insofar as I understand the more esoteric reaches of Cabaline philosophy, you are taught that magic working through physical objects is the only way for the world of the spirit to touch the material world.:

“Isn’t it?”

:Most decidedly not. It is
one
way, but it is far from the
only
way.

Necromancy chooses a different path, as does divination, and likewise oneiromancy. And there are others.:

“What about the Eusebians?”

His turn to flinch, although he smoothed it out. :Eusebian wizardry tends toward the eclectic. A stance that is epistemologically neither sounder nor safer than the blinkered vision of the Cabalines. Blood-wizardry should be banned, not merely discouraged.:

The grimness in his face showed that he spoke from personal experience; I did not ask for details. I did not need to. Malkar had taught me a great deal about blood-wizardry—even if I had not known that was what it was until years later.

:In any event,: Gideon said with determined briskness, :my point is that what the Cabal seems to have done in creating the Virtu is to combine thaumaturgie architecture with necromancy. Clever and difficult and truly a very bad idea.:

“Not that I would argue with you, but why? Aside from the obvious, I mean.”

Gideon made a brief, expressive grimace. :They feed on each other.:

“That was… vivid. If a little cryptic.”

:Look,: he said exasperatedly, then stopped. Started again. :The problem is containment.:

“Oh.” That, I did understand. Even Malkar, blasé about so many things, had not cut corners when he was teaching me the principles of containment.

:Yes,: Gideon said, with a certain amount of satisfaction. :With something like Messire von Heber’s cards, the thaumaturgie architecture—the symbols of the Sibylline—contains the magic at the same time that it uses it. But it’s a tricky thing to balance. Divination and oneiromancy are simpler, from what I’ve read, because as disciplines they don’t interact with the material world. Necromancy does.:

“Are you saying that the Virtu wasn’t containing—”

:I’m saying it wasn’t
balanced
. At least, that would be my theory as to what happened when certain of the Virtu’s spells were broken.: My incomprehension must have shown on my face, for he continued. :The proper image for the interaction of thaumaturgie architecture and any other praxis is a canal. But the Cabal didn’t build a canal. They built a dam.:

That image was also vivid, uncomfortably so. “Then it’s a good thing I wasn’t planning on rebuilding it,” I said after a moment.

:Yes,: Gideon said. :What worries me is what you’re going to build to put in its place.:

And to that I did not have an answer.

When Mildmay returned, there was the vertical pin-scratch line of a frown between his eyebrows. For a moment, I thought he was still angry at me, but he limped across to the table and said, “Ran into Lord Thaddeus,” and his voice was rather dry, but not hostile. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to me, then sat down next to Gideon.

My eyebrows went up as I looked at the elaborate monogram stamped into the wax. “I see I rated his signet ring. How alarming. I wonder what Thaddeus de Lalage has to say to me that he cannot say to my face.”

Mildmay muttered something that sounded like, “Wondered that, too.” Gideon looked up from the six different books he was consulting, eyes bright and wary.

I broke the seal, unfolded the paper. “I must ask Thaddeus the name of his stationer.” His square, jagged Kekropian hand was unexpectedly, hurt-fully familiar. The thought of him was dark in my head, shrouded with fear and shame and pain. But my
memories
of him, memories that were now seven or eight years old, were memories of a close friend. The disjunct disturbed me, the more so because I knew I should have memories to go with the feelings of fear and misery, and I knew the absence in my head where they belonged.

Mildmay can tell you, a treacherous voice whispered. And if Mildmay can’t, Gideon can.

I silenced that voice and began to read Thaddeus’s letter.

My friend,

Although I am of course deeply gratified to see you restored to your right mind, and returned to us, I am most distressed that you are continuing to associate with Gideon Thraxios. I must tell you that he is not what he may seem to you to be. I have the gravest doubts of his sincerity in this ostensible “divorce” from the Bastion. He was the longtime confederate and catamite of Major Louis Goliath, the spymaster of the Bastion. Moreover, he is an initiate of a particularly pernicious mystery cult that the government of Kekropia has been trying to eradicate for centuries
. He is not to be trusted.

Please believe me: I have nothing but your best interests in mind. I do not want to see you hurt again.

And he signed himself, as most wizards did, with an intricately involved sigil instead of his name.

I stared at Thaddeus’s letter for what felt like a very long time, trying to parse what he knew from what he merely believed. And all the while there was a nauseous pounding in my head, not quite physical, as I struggled with the contradiction between my memories and my feelings, struggled to find some basis for my fear of Thaddeus, some reason for this terrible belief that, no matter what he said, he was not my friend.

:Felix?:

I looked up; both Gideon and Mildmay were staring at me anxiously, although I could read my brother’s anxiety only by the fact that he was staring at all.

“Thaddeus has some extremely intriguing things to impart about your past,” I said to Gideon and passed him the letter.