The Red Knight

The captain felt as if the floor had dropped from under his feet, and all he wanted to do was jump into the hole and hide. ‘Fine,’ he said. He remembered that Gawin Murien was lying in the hospital, almost exactly over his head. Four in a secret, and one my enemy, he thought. My lovely brother.

‘I so swear, by my power,’ the Magus said.

The captain forced himself to raise his head. ‘At ease, Jacques,’ he said. ‘He’s just sworn an oath that binds – if he breaks it, his own power will be crippled.’ He turned back to the Magus. ‘You saved my life,’ he said.

‘Ah – some shred of courtesy survives in you. Yes, boy, I saved you from a grisly death – he wanted your power for his own.’ The horrible old man grinned. ‘He was going to eat your soul.’

The captain nodded. ‘I feel as if he did. Or perhaps he didn’t like the taste?’ he tried to grin and gave it up. ‘A cup of water, Jacques.’

Jacques backed up a step, took the bolt from the action and used the goat’s foot at his belt to slowly unlever the string. ‘Loons,’ he muttered, as he left the room.

When he was gone, the Magus leaned forward. ‘How powerful are you, boy? Your mother never said a word.’

The captain’s heart beat faster at the word mother, and flashed on his beautiful mother, drunk and violent and hitting him-

‘Don’t mention my mother again.’ He sounded childish, even to himself.

Harmodius hooked a stool over with his staff and sat. ‘All right, boy, sod your mother. She was never any friend of mine. How powerful are you?’

The captain sat back, trying to recover his – his sense of himself. His poise. His captainness.

‘I have a good deal of raw power, and I had a good tutor until-’ He paused.

‘Until you ran away and faked your death,’ the Magus concluded. ‘Which of course you did with a phantasm. Of course you did.’ He shook his head.

‘I didn’t mean to fake it,’ the captain said.

The Magus smiled. ‘I was young and angry and hurt once, too, lad,’ he said. ‘Despite appearances. Never mind – cold comfort. I glimpsed your memory palace – magnificent. The entity within it – who is she?’

‘My tutor,’ the captain said.

There was a long pause. Harmodius cleared his throat. ‘You- ?’

The captain shrugged. ‘No I didn’t kill her. She was dying – my mother and my brothers, they . . . never mind. I saved what I could.’

The Magus narrowed his eyes. ‘That’s a human woman bound to a statue in a memory palace?’ he asked. ‘Inside your head.’

The captain sighed. ‘Yes.’

‘Heresy, thaumaturgy, necromancy, gross impiety, and perhaps kidnapping too,’ Harmodius said. ‘I don’t know whether to arrest you or ask how you did it.’

‘She helped me. She still does,’ the captain said.

‘How many of the hundred workings do you know?’ the Magus asked.

‘The hundred workings, of which there are at least a hundred and forty-four, and perhaps as many as four hundred?’ the captain asked.

Jacques came in with a tray – apple cider, water, wine.

‘No one comes in,’ the captain said.

Jacques made a face that suggested that he was no fool – but perhaps his master was – and left.

The Magus fingered his beard. ‘Hmmm,’ he said noncommittally.

‘I can work more than a hundred and fifty of them,’ the captain said. He shrugged.

‘It was a splendid memory machine,’ the Magus replied. ‘Why – if I may ask – aren’t you the shining light of Hermeticism?’

The captain picked up his cup of water and drained it. ‘It is not what I want.’

The Magus shocked him by nodding.

The captain leaned forward. ‘That’s it? You nod?’

The Magus spread his hands. ‘I’m keep saying I’m no fool, lad. So your mother trained you all your life to be a magus, I’ll guess. Brilliant tutor, special powers. It all but drips off you – you know that?’

The captain laughed. It was a laugh full of anger, self-pity, brutal pain. A very young, horrible laugh he’d hoped he’d left behind him. ‘She-’ He paused. ‘Fuck it, I’m not in a revealing mood, old man.’

The old Magus sat still. Then he took the wine flagon, poured a cup, and drank it off. ‘The thing is,’ he began carefully, ‘the thing is, you are like a vault full of grain, or armour, or naphtha – waiting to be used in the defence of this fortress, and I’m not sure I can let you stay locked.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve discovered something. Something so very important that I’m afraid I’m not very interested in what men call morality right now. So I’m sorry for the hurt your bitch mother caused you – but your wallowing in self-pity is not going to save lives, especially mine.’

Their eyes locked.

‘A vault full of naphtha,’ the captain said, dreamily. ‘I have a vault full of naphtha.’