Read A College of Magics Online
Authors: Caroline Stevermer
A College of Magics (20 page)
Tyrian inspected the other diners as he shook out his napkin. “No one here we know, unless someone has taken the trouble to shape-shift.”
Jane, wearing her elderly appearance, though not her veil, closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. After a moment, she let it out and opened her eyes. “Not here. Not now.”
Coffee and pastry arrived. When they were served and the waiters had withdrawn, Jane helped herself to a lavish amount of whipped cream and fixed Tyrian with a steady, interested gaze. “I've asked you once before,” she said, “who
are
you?”
are
you?”
Faris glanced warily at her but did not intervene. The pastry was still warm from the ovens of Vienna, now dwindling in the distance behind them. She concentrated on the crumbs she was scattering across the starched linen tablecloth.
Serenely, Tyrian sipped his coffee. “You asked. As I recall, I answered.”
“You said you worked for dear old Uncle Brinker,” Jane replied. “But now we know you worked for Hilarion first. You have no notion how hard it is to resist a figure of mystery. Tell all, do.”
“If I did, I wouldn't be a figure of mystery any longer.” Tyrian took a neat bite of pastry. Hardly a crumb fell.
“How do you do that?” Faris asked.
Tyrian looked blank. “Do what?”
Jane took Faris's meaning and spoke before she could explain. “Everything. You're good at everything. How do you do it? Where did you study?”
“Nowhere. I have only the education my poor teachers struggled to cram into me when I was a boy.”
“Go on,” Jane prompted. “What did you do when you left your poor teachers?”
“I married.” Tyrian's voice was without expression. He looked composed, perhaps a little bored.
Faris studied her coffee cup. It had a pleasing shape and a delicate gold band around the rim. It was not interesting enough to hold her interest during the remainder of the conversation, but she intended to look as if it did.
Jane was not the least discomfited. “Dear me, wouldn't you have been rather young?”
Tyrian looked directly at Jane for a moment. Beneath his civil exterior, something that might have been impatience or annoyance gleamed and was gone. “I was fifteen. She was older. I married her for her money.”
“Go on.”
Tyrian drank his coffee.
Faris regarded Jane reproachfully. “Paris is full of sensational
literature. If you thought the journey would bore you, why didn't you bring along a novel or something?”
literature. If you thought the journey would bore you, why didn't you bring along a novel or something?”
“If it's sensational, it isn't literature,” said Jane. “I'm tired of looking at the newspapers. They never get anything right. Do you know, I found a reference to our beloved schoolmate Menary?
Figaro
says she's registered for the next term at the Sorbonneââafter the culmination of her studies at Greenlaw.' That's one way to put it, I suppose. This is far more interesting. What happened then?”
Figaro
says she's registered for the next term at the Sorbonneââafter the culmination of her studies at Greenlaw.' That's one way to put it, I suppose. This is far more interesting. What happened then?”
Tyrian looked resigned. “If I manage to shock you, will you let me change the subject? I put all her money into my family's green-grocery business, which was what my family had in mind when they arranged the marriage. When the money was all gone, she left me.”
“How long did that take?”
“I was eighteen.”
Jane shook her head slightly. “Where did she go, with no money?”
Tyrian's smile was slightly twisted. “Where could she go? She took up with a young aristocrat. He treated her well. His father got a look at her, and he treated her even better. Before a month was out, she was the toast of the town.”
“That must have been rather awkward for you.”
“I was never very interested in the green-grocery business. I decided to go far away and find something else to do.”
“And what was that?”
“My first job was as butler, valet, and general factotum
to a fortune-teller who flattered the socially ambitious. I made up for my lack of experience with initiative and enthusiasm.”
to a fortune-teller who flattered the socially ambitious. I made up for my lack of experience with initiative and enthusiasm.”
“What sort of fortune-telling?” Jane inquired. “Crystal-gazing? Tarot cards? Or communication with The Spirits Beyond?”
“The props varied. For the fortunes, we relied largely on gossip and guesswork. If the pigeon was skeptical, and rich enough to make the effort worthwhile, I did a little research. It's the details that are so convincing in that line of work.”
“Did you use any magic?”
“Genuine magic would have been far too expensive for the likes of us. Anyway, my employer liked to keep her clients coming back for more. True magic seems to contain an uncomfortable amount of truth. Hard to develop much return custom when you dispense the entire unvarnished truth.”
Jane studied him closely. “
Her
clients. And you were butler, valet, and general factotum.” She laid a little extra stress on the word valet.
Her
clients. And you were butler, valet, and general factotum.” She laid a little extra stress on the word valet.
Tyrian finished his pastry as he returned her regard with unimpaired calm. “I made up for my lack of experience with initiative and enthusiasm.”
“So that's where you learned to be cynical. Some people never manage it.”
“Oh, I mastered cynicism early. But that's where I learned that I liked surprising people. That's where I learned that people who want to be fooled are easy to fool.
But I learned a few practical skills as well. The basics, no more. And I learned two important principles. First, very few people do things properly. I learned there will always be a need for someone who does things right the first time. There's no teaching that. Either one has the flair or one doesn't.”
But I learned a few practical skills as well. The basics, no more. And I learned two important principles. First, very few people do things properly. I learned there will always be a need for someone who does things right the first time. There's no teaching that. Either one has the flair or one doesn't.”
“And you do.”
“I believe I do.” Tyrian glanced at Faris. “The second principle I learned is that the first art of being a good henchman is choosing the right employer.”
Faris looked up. “Am I the right employer?”
“Do you wish this interrogation to continue? Would you like to hear more tales of my misspent adulthood?”
“Certainly not. Unless you think I should. Is there something I ought to know?”
Tyrian shook his head. “No. And that explains why you are the right employer.” He turned back to Jane. “I won't bore you with any more tales. Eventually, I became the jack-of-all-trades and figure of mystery that you see before you today. Are you quite satisfied?”
“What became of your wife?”
“She endowed a school for orphaned girls three years ago, so I believe she is doing well.”
Jane looked puzzled. “Don't you mind?”
Tyrian smiled at her with honest amusement. “When I was eighteen, I minded desperately. Now, when I remember to think of her at all, I can only feel grateful that I avoided spending my life as a green-grocer.”
Jane's eyes narrowed. “Wait a moment.” She paused,
head bent as if she was studying her strudel crumbs. “Someone just came in the door behind me.”
head bent as if she was studying her strudel crumbs. “Someone just came in the door behind me.”
Faris looked over Jane's shoulder. “A waiter. Not ours, though.”
“He certainly looks like ours,” said Tyrian.
Jane tilted her butter knife and studied the reflection. “It looks like him, but it isn't.”
Faris looked at her askance. “Ours is stocky and dark, this one is fair and his cheeks are wind-burnt.”
The waiter arrived at their table, offered them coffee, and when Faris, at a glance from Tyrian, nodded her acceptance, refilled her cup with a flourish. Without troubling to visit any of the other tables, the waiter continued along the dining car and vanished through the doorway at the far end.
Tyrian picked up Faris's cup, sniffed at the contents, and offered it to Jane. “Unless they've changed the blend from Viennese roast to almond in the past few minutes, I think it's been laced with hydrogen cyanide.”
“Poison?” asked Faris.
Jane took the cup and sniffed delicately. “Yes, indeed. Nasty stuff.”
Tyrian rose. “Stay here,” he told them. Hand slipping inside his coat, he left the dining car through the far doorway.
Jane put the cup down and folded her hands. “Well, I suppose if one troubles to employ an expert, one must allow him to do his job.”
Faris eyed her poisoned cup warily. “Why did he
look like our waiter to you and Tyrian, but not to me?”
look like our waiter to you and Tyrian, but not to me?”
Jane arched her brows. “That's interesting, isn't it? Tell me, how old do I look today?”
“At least eighty.”
“You're exaggerating. Even so, you can't see through my magic. But you can see through his magicâalways supposing it is his own and not something he borrowed from his auntie.”
“Or uncle,” said Faris darkly.
Jane studied her, ancient eyebrows raised. “Sits the wind in that quarter?”
Tyrian reappeared. He paused at their table long enough to hand Jane a peaked cap of the kind the dining car waiters wore. “I've left him in the baggage car for the moment. Study that while I fetch Reed. I think he was reluctant to lose it.”
“You've left him unguarded?” Jane asked.
Tyrian looked pleased with himself. “I think he'll still be waiting for us when we return to interview him.” To Faris, he added, “Don't let them clear away your coffee. It might prove useful.”
Jane scrutinized the cap, then picked it up and stroked the dark fabric gently. “There's something here.” She ran a fingertip inside the band. “Oh, yes.” She drew forth a single strand of black horsehair nearly a yard long. “This is it.” She put the cap aside and smoothed the strand on the tablecloth before her. “Foreign, definitely. Turkish, possibly.” She paused and inspected the fingertips of her left hand, rubbing them with her thumb as if they had touched something hot.
“Well?” Faris bent close to examine the strand. “What is it?”
“Perhaps Russian. There's something about it I don't recognize at all.” Jane sniffed her fingers. “It's only a guess, of course, but I've a notion what it's for. It helps that I saw it working. I think it's a charm to help the owner resemble whoever wore the cap last. It probably works in any article of clothing. I can't be sure without taking it apart. Perhaps not even then.”
Faris picked up the cap. “This certainly looks like the genuine article. Do you suppose it belonged to our real waiter?”
Tyrian and Reed joined them. Reed paid for their meal while Tyrian took charge of the peaked cap. “Someone knocked our waiter down and locked him in a cupboard. He didn't get a look at the youthful prankster who did it. He assumes there must have been one, though, because all the prankster took was his cap.” He glanced toward the baggage car and added, “Our prankster isn't going to want to talk to us, is he?”
Tyrian looked stern. “He isn't going to have any choice in the matter.”
“Can you force him to talk to us?” Faris asked Jane.
Jane shook her head. “Not against his will. But if he can be distracted enough for me to work on him, and if he can be made to concentrate on what we want to know, I
may
be able to make him think out loud. I've never tried it, but I know the theory. That is, if he's what he appears to be. If he designed this charm, he's too good for me. I'll never be able to get near his mind.”
may
be able to make him think out loud. I've never tried it, but I know the theory. That is, if he's what he appears to be. If he designed this charm, he's too good for me. I'll never be able to get near his mind.”
“Don't worry.” Faris picked up her cup and followed the others. “I'll distract him for you.”
In the baggage car, Tyrian led them between piles of trunks and valises to the far corner. There, he paused before a stack of wicker laundry crates, where the railway packed its soiled linens in readiness for the laundry at the end of the line. The bottom crate, once its buckled straps were undone, opened to reveal the neatly trussed figure of Faris's assailant. Reed trained his pistol on the helpless prisoner.
He was the young man Faris had seen with the coffeepot, compactly built, with broad shoulders and closely set blue eyes. His complexion was naturally ruddy, and, above the white linen hand towel Tyrian had used for a gag, his face was scarlet, a striking contrast to his fair hair.
When Tyrian loosened the gag, he spat it out immediately. “This is an outrage. I wish to speak to the
chef de train
immediately.” He struggled against his bonds until the wicker creaked.
chef de train
immediately.” He struggled against his bonds until the wicker creaked.
Tyrian's sneer was a sinister masterpiece.
The red-faced man looked beyond Tyrian to Faris and Jane. “Madame, Mademoiselle, I implore you! This man is mad. He attacked me, stole my papers, and concealed me in this place. Now they hold me at gunpoint. Help me, I beg of you.”
Tyrian produced a packet of official-looking documents. “According to these papers, we see before us James Haverford, British subject, who is traveling across the continent on behalf of a firm with its headquarters in Amsterdam.
They deal in spices, and he's come to bid on paprika for them.” He crumpled the papers and let them fall. “Faked, of course.”
They deal in spices, and he's come to bid on paprika for them.” He crumpled the papers and let them fall. “Faked, of course.”
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