Fallen Magic

Traitors’ Hill is just to the north of the City, outside its walls. That makes it a good hour’s walk from the Academy. Edward spends most of it complaining about the restrictions on teleportation: you have to be a qualified magician to learn, and that’s the kind of rule that even a powerful father can’t get around.

The exercise does me good, though. I probably don’t get enough of it most days, climbing the Academy’s many stairs notwithstanding. And it’s nice to have another chance to see the City. We avoid the Market, but the streets are still busy: filled with people shopping, travelling, or just enjoying the unseasonably warm weather.

As we go further out, the buildings get noticeably less grand, the people less well-dressed. The streets are narrower and dirtier, and many of the houses are built from wood rather than stone. There are beggars on most corners now; Edward tosses each of them a silver piece. I can’t afford to do the same, and giving a handful of coppers when he’s giving much more seems wrong, so I keep my money to myself.

“Are you sure this is safe?” I ask Edward, flicking a nervous glance at a pair of burly men in tattered overcoats standing in the doorway of a boarded-up shop. He’s abandoned his magician’s robes in favour of a more casual outfit, but we’re still well-dressed enough to stand out. And not in a good way.

“It’s fine. Just keep walking and look straight ahead. See, there’s a police patrol ahead.”

So there is, though if anything the trio of officers marching towards us look more thuggish than the men in the doorway. There are police patrols in the Inner Ring too, of course, but there they wear neat, polished ceremonial uniforms and carry no visible weapons. These three haven’t polished their boots in a while, and their hands hover over the cudgels in their belts.

“Morning, kids,” says the man a step ahead of the others, who seems to be their leader, as we reach each other. “Where are you off to all alone?”

I tense, and try not to panic.

“Going to see the execution,” says Edward. As well as changing his outfit, he’s dispensed with his usual accent in favour of a rapid twang similar to the officer’s.

“Are you, now? Very young to be so morbid. You have the toll?”

“What toll?” Edward asks.

The officer looks us up and down as if calculating how much we can afford. “A Lord’s Silver each. To pass through the Northwest Wool District, since you’re disturbing business here.”

I’m reasonably sure there isn’t such a toll, but I reach into my purse anyway. I’d rather lose money than get into a fight with these men.

Edward, though, has other ideas. He puts a hand on my wrist to stop me and says “I happen to know there’s no such thing as a Northwest District Toll.” His accent is slipping back towards his normal way of speech.

“Seems to me you’re misinformed,” the officer growls. “That right, Johnson?”

“That’s right,” says one of the men behind him, letting a hand settle on his cudgel.

“Pippa,” Edward says, giving me a significant look. “You’re better informed about law than I am. Tell me, is what these officers are doing legal?”

I wonder who Pippa is for a second before realising Edward has decided to give me a false name. Okay. I can play along with this, even if I don’t know the minutiae of City law on tolls. And even if I think this is a terrible idea. “Well,” I say, “the City government does have the power to restrict or charge for entry into certain regions.”

The lead officer smirks and holds out his hand for our money. For a moment I consider giving it to him. It would be so much easier, and I’m not sure we can win without unleashing the full power of Malaina if this comes to a fight.

But I can’t abandon Edward. And besides: what these officers are doing is unjust, and I don’t believe in perpetuating injustice. “However,” I say, wondering how my voice remains level. “Those tolls are enforced when entering the relevant regions. People should be clearly informed of them before they enter such regions. And the police do not have the authority to enforce them. So… no. What these officers are doing is very much illegal.”

“Further,” Edward says, his accent fully returned to normal, “it is unjust. You are taking money from the City’s poor, those who can least afford it, to line your pockets or those of your employers. You are exploiting those you swore to protect, going against the fundamental principles of your office. You should be ashamed.”

It’s not a bad speech. I don’t think these men will be swayed by speeches, though, and I’d be surprised if Edward did. He must have a plan. I wish I knew what it was.

“You seem to be misunderstanding. Maybe in your fancy Inner Ring that’s true. But here? The only law that matters is strength.” He draws the cudgel from his belt and whacks it against his hand for emphasis. “We’re stronger than you. That means we can take your money.”

“I don’t know,” says Johnson, “they might complain to someone.”

“Yeah,” the third officer says. “If someone rich gets hurt, people might start caring about our little operation. Tell you what. We’ll waive the toll, just this once, since you didn’t know. And in exchange, you’ll keep your little mouths shut – “

“Excuse me,” the leader interrupts. “Who’s in charge here?” He smacks his hand against the cudgel again.

I’m tempted to take the officer’s deal. Not that I have any intention of keeping my word, of course; I just want to get out of here, and then Edward will tell his father, who will no doubt see these men out of their jobs.

Then it hits me: I’m no better than Lord Blackthorn if I do that. What’s the difference between me breaking my word to these officers and him breaking his word to Mildred?

That what the officers are doing is unjust. But wouldn’t it be unjust to let a traitor live, from the right point of view?

“We can’t trust them,” the leader says, now his subordinates are silent. “Rich brats’ promises are worthless. Only one way to make sure they don’t – “

It’s a still day, but a gust of wind still blows from behind us. It’s only strong enough to ruffle our hair, but it gains in strength until when it reaches the officers they stagger and fall to the ground like skittles.

“Don’t just stand there,” says Edward, “run!”

So we run, dodging the officers before they have a chance to climb to their feet and hurtling on. Edward is probably fast enough to leave me behind, but he matches my pace. I’m running faster than I knew I could run, gasping for breath but not slowing for a second. I don’t dare look back to see if we’re being followed; I just pump my legs ever harder.

We don’t stop until we reach the safety of the city’s North Gate.

I stagger to a halt at the end of the queue. It’s a long one; at some point while we were running we joined a crowd of people, all headed for Traitors’ Hill and the execution. Even if the police officers have followed us, they won’t dare attack us now. Not with this many witnesses.

I want to ask Edward what happened. Did he cast a spell to make that wind? He must have done, because it wasn’t me and I doubt there was another magician watching that confrontation. And is he going to tell his father?

I don’t ask any of those questions, because I know he won’t want to talk about the incident in public. Besides, I can guess the answers.

The queue moves forwards slowly. I’ve more or less recovered from the unplanned sprint by the time we reach the Gate itself. Edward has a token that allows him and his companions to enter and leave the City as they please; only its number is noted in the records.

“I’ll probably have to deal with my dad knowing I went to the execution before too long,” he says.

He gave me strict instructions beforehand not to say anything that could reveal exactly who his dad is, which rule out most of the replies I could make. It’s still a disturbing idea that Lord Blackthorn is using his powers as Minister for Intelligence to stalk his own son. I wish it surprised me.

The worst of the kingdom’s criminals have been executed on Traitors’ Hill for centuries. It first got its name from the brutal execution of the agents of a failed conspiracy against Charles the Ruthless here. Legend has it that the land where an execution was held is forever tainted, haunted by the spirits of those who died there and cannot rest until they have atoned for their sins; that’s why the Hill is safely outside the City walls.

There’s no real evidence of the curse, as far as I can work out, but that doesn’t stop rumours. The crowds don’t seem to have been put off by it though: hundreds, maybe even thousands of people are climbing the hill to witness yet another addition to the list of traitors who have died here.

Edward and I join them. The hill is fairly steep, so the climb is not a fun one. Especially when he seems to barely notice it. Elsie was right that day we fled the courthouse: it is unfair.

The slopes are filled with trees, mostly oaks from what little I know of botany. The path upwards is narrow and crossed by roots, and leaves of all different shades of orange and brown carpet the ground. It’s a surprise when we crest a rise and emerge into the open.

The clearing is maybe a few hundred metres across, though it’s hard to tell when we’re not quite at the top of the hill. The flat area at the summit, when we reach it, is half that and already thronged with people, so much so that I can barely see the wooden platform that’s been raised above the crowd or make out the people seated there. It’s ringed with cobbled-together stalls; most of them are selling food or drink, though there’s one running a ball game of some sort and a couple with clothes of some sort.

A fun day out for all the family.

“Overpriced rubbish,” Edward says. “Captive audience.” But he joins the back of a queue for sausage rolls anyway.

I shoot him a questioning glance.

“We need food. And I can afford it. Speaking of that, keep an eye on your purse. I’d be surprised if there weren’t pickpockets at work here.”

I press a hand protectively to my pocket.

“Not like that! That just tells them where your valuables are. Be subtle about it.”

I give him a playful glare and remove my hand. It is helpful advice, even if the delivery could use work.

Sausage rolls bought, we try to find a good spot. Close enough to the front that we can see properly, but not so close that we can be seen by those on the platform. Now that we’re closer I can see them well enough to identify.

There’s two rows of half a dozen chairs set out on each side of the platform. Closest to us on the left side is a man who isn’t hard to recognise, since his face is on all the coins. King Robert is twisted round into his seat, talking to the woman next to him, his daughter.

High Princess Alexandra takes after her father: her hair is exactly the same shade of dark brown as his. She’s not as pretty as I imagined a princess should be, but there’s still something about her that draws my attention. The man sitting next to her must be her husband, Prince Tomas; he has the pale skin and red hair typical of his home country, Thalia. And beside him are the King’s other two adult children. Stephen and Miranda both look more bored than anything.

I don’t recognise the woman at the end of the row, though her outfit is much less extravagant than the Royal Family’s: she wears a simple but stylish black hat.

It’s not too hard to work out who the quintet taking up the second row are. The Royal Magicians are easy to recognise from their formal robes of office: blue for Malaina, silvery-grey for Arsinth, green for Latira, brown for Rittome and of course scarlet for Siaril.

Lord Blackthorn looks just as much at home in that robe as he did in the nondescript suit he was wearing when we met, but it instantly gives him a much more commanding presence. I get the sense his neighbour, the young and freshly appointed Rittome Royal, is scared of him: she’s leaning away from him and occasionally flicking nervous glances in his direction.

All five Royal Magicians and the King’s entire family (except the nine-year-old) are present, then. There’s no doubt that is a deliberate political statement.

The other side of the platform is reserved for the family and friends of the condemned. There are only two people there. One is Mildred, who’s dressed in a plain black dress rather than her magician’s robes; the other, clinging to her hand, seems like a slightly younger version of her. That must be her little sister. Even her mother isn’t there, though I remember reading somewhere that she was ill and often not strong enough to attend events.

There’s a single chair in the centre of the platform, currently empty.

I already feel like I’m intruding. This shouldn’t be a public spectacle. Bad enough he has to die at all without making it like this.

It has to be a spectacle, though. I know enough history to realise why this happens. It’s to tell the whole City and country in the clearest possible terms that this is the fate that awaits traitors. That justice will be served and punishment carried out.

I swallow the last of my sausage roll – surprisingly good-tasting for overpriced rubbish – and brush crumbs off my clothes. “No block?” I ask Edward.

He shakes his head and replies, but I can’t hear him over the chatter of the crowd.

“Say that again,” I tell him, raising my own voice.

“He’s drinking poison.”

It’s an ancient tradition that all traitors can choose their own method of death. Some choose a manner they feel is fitting to their crime, and others choose a way that will be as inconvenient as possible to carry out, a last petty blow against the establishment they fought against. Most, though, opt simply to make their end quick and painless. Poison is a popular choice for those purposes.

I’m relieved, not that I’d admit it: I’ve never had much of a stomach for violence.

“’Scuse me,” says a woman, nearly knocking Edward over. “Got to get a good spot.”

She should have shown up earlier, then. Neither Edward or I say that, though. What’s the point? Strange woman: it’s not nearly cold enough for the thick overcoat she’s wearing.

We wait for a few more minutes, thankfully not without being hit by anyone else. Then the woman on the front row rises to her feet, and silence falls instantly.