Modern Magick

The Fifth Britain: 13

I had paid a visit to Ashdown Castle before, only a few weeks past. On that occasion, the place had been half a ruin, with parts of its roofs fallen in, glass missing from the windows, walls tumbling down — a wreck, in short. What a pity, too, for it was a large, rambling old place, five centuries old, with appealing higgledy-piggledy architecture all built from unusual brown brick.

The several sloping roofs were all intact, now. The windows glittered with bright, new glass, every rickety wall had been rebuilt or stabilised, and there had even been some cleaning done to its decorative stone embellishments. How they had achieved so much in so short a space of time was beyond me to imagine; I could only gape in astonishment, and marvel again at just how much money these people had to throw around.

'I really, really want to know who's funding this lot,' I muttered to the Baron.

'Yes,' he replied, grimly. 'We were thinking the same thing.'

By we I supposed he meant himself and Their Majesties. It wasn't just the money, either. They behaved with the splendid insouciance of people who think that laws are beneath them, and are confident of there being no conceivable way any unpleasant consequences could ever be brought to bear for breaking them. I'd wondered before how many connections they had in advantageous places, especially since Lord Garrogin's duplicity had come to light.

Probably that had occurred to Their Majesties, too.

Our invitations were accepted at the door by a pair of young women in blue uniform robes — or mine was, anyway. The Baron needed no invitation. He had only to announce himself and his eminence did all the work (with a little help from his best and most charming smile, perhaps). The girls on the door looked thrilled as they waved him in. Was it because he was handsome, or because his presence here was another coup for Ancestria Magicka?

In the great hall — whitewashed walls inside, high ceiling, remarkable painted murals depicting forest scenes — we found a large number of our fellow guests already milling about, many of them with champagne glasses in hand.

We also found Zareen, loitering near the door, with George Mercer in tow. He wore a black tuxedo; she was devastating in a slim column of a black dress, her eye make-up dramatic.

'Half the Society's coming,' she hissed as she drew us aside. 'They've invited everyone.'

'So I learned from Val. You wouldn't happen to know why, would you?'

We both looked at George Mercer, who had the grace to look uncomfortable.

'They're looking to expand,' said Zareen in disgust. 'At our expense, obviously.'

The same conclusion Milady and I had reached in our separate deliberations, but I was no longer certain that was all that was going on. There was too much show, the party was too big, the guests too varied. What Zareen had said was probably true enough, but what other motive lurked behind all this effort and expense?

'I'd like to know where Jay is,' I said to George, as pleasantly as I could manage considering that I wanted to choke the information out of him with my bare hands.

He grunted. 'You'll find out.'

'Once we've given you the information you want, you mean?' I was ready to do that if it meant getting Jay back.

But Mercer rolled his eyes. 'No.'

I thought Zareen was looking a bit shame-faced. Had she already spilled everything?

She caught my look, and sighed. 'They know all about that bloody island already, all right?'

'They do?' That shed some interesting new light on things. 'All about it?'