PROLOGUE
THE
MEETING OF the Royal Society of Unnatural Philosophers was well under
way, and the entrance hall was almost empty. Only the occasional tardy
magician passed through, scarcely sparing a glance for the child waiting
there.
Boy children
of his type were not an uncommon sight in the Society’s rooms. The child
was unusual less for his complexion than for his apparent idleness.
Unlike the Society’s splendidly liveried pages, he was soberly dressed,
and he was young for a page boy, having just attained his sixth summer.
In
fact, Zacharias held no particular employment, and he had never seen
the Society before that morning, when he had been conducted there by the
Sorcerer Royal himself. Sir Stephen had adjured him to wait, then
vanished into the mysterious depths of the Great Hall.
Zacharias
was awed by the stately building, with its sombre wood-panelled walls
and imposing paintings, and he was a little frightened of the grave
thaumaturges hurrying past in their midnight blue coats. Most of all he
was rendered solemn by the seriousness of his task. He sat, swollen with
purpose, gazing at the doors to the Great Hall, as though by an effort
of will he might compel them to open and disgorge his guardian.
Finally, the moment came: the doors opened, and Sir Stephen beckoned to him.
Zacharias
entered the Great Hall under the penetrating gaze of what seemed to be a
thousand gentlemen, most of them old, and none friendly. Sir Stephen
was the only person he knew, for one could not count Sir Stephen’s
familiar Leofric, who slept curled in reptilian coils at the back of the
room, smoke rising from his snout.
The
thickest-skinned child might have been cowed by such an assembly, and
Zacharias was sensitive. But Sir Stephen put a reassuring hand on his
back, and Zacharias remembered the morning, so long ago now—home,
safety, warmth, and Lady Wythe’s face bending over him:
“Never
be afraid, Zacharias, but do your best. That will be quite enough, for
you have been taught by the finest sorcerer in the realm. If the
attention of so many gentlemen should make you nervous, simply pretend
to yourself that they are so many heads of cabbages. That always assists
me on such occasions.”
Zacharias
was pretending as hard as he could as he was propelled to the front of
the room, but the cabbages did not seem to help. To be sure, Lady Wythe
had never been called upon to prove the magical capacities of her race
before the finest thaumaturgical minds in England. It was a grave
responsibility, and one anyone would find daunting, thought Zacharias,
even if he were a great boy of six.
“What
do you wish to bring alive, Zacharias?” said Sir Stephen. He gestured
at a small wooden box on a table. “In the course of his travels Mr.
Midsomer acquired this box, carved with birds and fruit and outlandish
animals. You may have your pick.”
Zacharias
had rehearsed the enchantment he was to perform many times under Sir
Stephen’s patient tutelage. The night before, he had fallen asleep
reciting the formula to himself. Yet now, as he was surrounded by a
crowd of strange faces, oppressed by the consciousness of being the
focus of their attention, memory deserted him.
His
terrified gaze swung from Sir Stephen’s kind face, skipped over the
audience, and roamed over the Great Hall, as if he might find the words
of the spell waiting for him in some dusty corner. It was the oldest
room in the Society, and boasted several interesting features, chief of
which were the ancient carved bosses on the ceiling. These represented
lambs, lions and unicorns; faces of long-dead sorcerers; and Green Men
with sour expressions and vines sprouting from their nostrils. At any
other time they would have captivated Zacharias, but right now they
could give him no pleasure.
“I have forgotten the spell,” he whispered.
“What
is that?” said Sir Stephen. He had been speaking in clear ringing tones
before, addressing his audience, but now he lowered his voice and
leaned closer.
“No helping the boy, if you please,” cried a voice. “That will prove nothing of what you promised.”
The audience had been growing restless with Zacharias’s stupefaction. Other voices followed the first, hectoring, displeased:
“Is the child an idiot?”
“A poll parrot would offer better amusement.”
“Can
you conceive anything more absurd?” said a thaumaturge to a friend, in a
carrying whisper. “He might as well seek to persuade us that a pig can
fly—or a woman do magic!”
The friend observed that so could pigs fly, if one could be troubled to make them.
“Oh
certainly!” replied the first. “And one could teach a woman to do
magic, I suppose, but what earthly good would a flying pig or a magical
female be to anyone?”
“This
is a great gift to the press,” cried a gentleman with red whiskers and a
supercilious expression. “What fine material we have furnished today
for the caricaturists—a meeting of the first magicians of our age,
summoned to watch a piccaninny stutter! Has English thaumaturgy indeed
been so reduced by the waning of England’s magic that Sir Stephen
believes we have nothing better to do?”
Unease
rippled through the crowd, as though what the gentleman had said sat
ill with his peers. Zacharias said anxiously: “Perhaps there is not
enough magic.”
“Tush!”
said Sir Stephen. To Zacharias’s embarrassment, he spoke loud enough
for the entire room to hear. “Pray do not let that worry you. It pleases
Mr. Midsomer to enlarge upon the issue, but I believe England is still
furnished with sufficient magic to quicken any tolerable magician’s
spells.”
The
red-whiskered gentleman shouted an indistinct riposte, but he was not
allowed to finish, for three other thaumaturges spoke over him,
disagreeing vociferously. Six more magicians took up Mr. Midsomer’s
defence, alternating insults to their peers with condemnation of Sir
Stephen and mockery of his protégé. A poor sort of performing animal it
was, they said, that would not perform!
“What
an edifying sight for a child—a room full of men several times his
size, calling him names,” said one gentleman, who had the sorcerer’s
silver star pinned to his coat. He did not trouble to raise his voice,
but his cool accents seemed to cut through the tumult. “It is all of a
piece with the most ancient traditions of our honourable Society, I am
sure, and evidence of how well we deserve our position in the world.”
Mr. Midsomer flushed with anger.
“Mr.
Damerell may say what he likes, but I see no reason why we should
restrain our criticism of this absurd spectacle, child or no child,” he
snapped.
“I am sure you
do not, Midsomer,” said Damerell gently. “I have always admired your
refusal, in the pursuit of your convictions, ever to be constrained by
considerations of humanity—much less of ordinary good manners.”
The
room erupted into more argument than ever. The clamour mounted till it
seemed it must wake the carvings on the box, and even the slumbering
bosses on the ceiling, without Zacharias’s needing to lift a finger.
Zacharias looked around, but everyone had ceased to pay attention to him. For the moment he was reprieved.
He
let out a small sigh of relief. As if that tiny breath were the key to
his locked memory, his mind opened, and the spell fell into it, fully
formed. The words were so clear and obvious, their logic so immaculate,
that Zacharias wondered that he had ever lost them.
He
spoke the spell under his breath, still a little uncertain after the
agonies he had endured. But magic came, ever his friend—magic answered
his call. The birds carved upon the box blushed red, green, blue and
yellow, and he knew that the spell had caught.
The
birds peeled away from the box as they took on substance and being,
their wings springing away from their bodies, feathers sprouting upon
their flesh. They flew up to the ceiling, squawking. The breeze from
their wings brushed Zacharias’s face, and he laughed.
One
by one the carved bosses sprang to life, and the dead sorcerers and the
sour old Green Men and the lions and the lambs and the birds opened
their mouths, all of them singing, singing lustily Zacharias’s favourite
song, drowning out the angry voices of the men below, and filling the
room with glorious sound.
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