Countess Niebow

 The King stood behind the square altar in St. Anne’s Chapel.  There was a simple green cloth spread over the masonry block that served as an altar and a small bronze bowl, half-filled with water, had been set a little carelessly near one edge.  The seats intended for the Lords Martial and Theological were empty, all six, and the three intended for the Lords Thaumaturgical held only one occupant.  Lord Derby, who had been expecting to see Lord Vileburn sitting there, was a little startled to see his assistant Elizabeth instead.

“Derby,” said the King.  His voice was low but the chapel was tiny — when it was still in use barely twelve people could have gathered in there — and the acoustics caused his voice to resonate slightly.  “Thank-you for attending at short notice.”

“I am your servant, your Majesty,” said Derby bowing his head.  He knew the King well and had been a King’s Investigator for over a decade.  Had Lord Vileburn been present instead of Elizabeth he might have called the King John instead, but Elizabeth’s presence made him wonder how formal this occasion might be.  The King didn’t leave him wondering for long however.

“I have asked Elizabeth to be present as a Witness,” said the King.  “Please place your hands on the altar, Derby.”

This made it a state occasion in effect.  The Chapel of St. Anne was closed off and officially disused and most people could not gain access to it as it required a particular key that the King gave out only to trusted advisors.  Part of that trust was validated by the Witnessing: a magic imbued into the altar by the Lords Thaumaturgical several centuries ago that ensured the truth of what was said while it was being touched.  Lord Derby placed both hands on the altar, unbothered by the request.  He had done this many times in this place already.

“State your name, position, and reason for being here, please,” said the King.  Lord Derby noted the ‘please’, a nicety that wasn’t usually forthcoming.

“I am Lord Ernest Derby, King’s Investigator, and I am here at the request of King John II, Defender of the Faith, Monarch of the Seven Seas and Imperator Rex.”

The altar did absolutely nothing, and after a couple of seconds Elizabeth let out her breath.  She stood up and placed her hands on the altar.  “He speaks the truth,” she said, and again the altar did nothing.

Lord Derby removed his hands and found a handkerchief in a pocket to wipe them with.  “You know, your Majesty,” he said casually, “I’ll never forget that occasion when we had an actual traitor in our midst.”

“There have been several, Derby,” said the King with mild rebuke in his tone.  “But I know the one you mean.  It was… messy.”

Elizabeth returned to her seat but her face was contorted as someone who very much wants to know what’s being talked about and doesn’t feel that they have the right to ask.  She sat down, crossing her ankles and then her hands in her lap, and adjusted her face to one of placid disinterest.

“How well informed are you on the situation in Belgium?” asked the King while Derby put his handkerchief away.

“Moderately, your Majesty,” said Lord Derby.  “I was there a couple of months ago in a diplomatic capacity; you might recall that there was an incident with the murder of two women working in our Embassy there.”

“I recall,” said the King.  “A regrettable situation, made worse by you discerning the culprit before they could make good their escape.”

“Some might feel that knowing the full facts of the matter are important.”

“And others might feel that when ones hands are tied, getting the facts at the right moment is important.”

Elizabeth’s face twitched as again she heard enough to be of interest and too little to be of practical use.

“I believe you handled the situation with diplomatic finesse,” said Lord Derby.  Elizabeth scrutinized his face: was that a hint of a smile?  Lord Derby’s face was thin and generally friendly; his bright green eyes seemed to hint at a permanent good mood though she was sure that was impossible.  His moustache, a black, narrow line below his nose that ended in waxed points, reminded her of her favourite uncle from when she was still a child.

“I believe you left me no choice.  Nonetheless, are you aware of the current monarcho-political situation.”

“That the Belgian Throne is empty and it looks like the attempts to establish a republic are going to fail?  Yes, and I am in agreement with the Lords Martial in this regard: if the republic does not establish itself, there will be war.  Belgium’s neighbours would consume it in a heartbeat if they had the strength and they will not tolerate a restoration of the old royal family.  No other noble family there has the political capital or sufficient men under arms to make a bid for the throne either.  It looks like war, your Majesty.”  Lord Derby met the King’s gaze and they stared at one another for a couple of seconds.  Elizabeth, who was aware of Europe only peripherally — her research was primarily in demonology — frowned as she tried to understand the undercurrents of meaning.

“The Lords Martial are convinced of it,” said the King.  “At their behest, and with the support of the Lords Theological, I have been persuaded to grant a title: an elevation, if you will.  Catherine Niemow will be made Countess on Friday.”

Lord Derby placed both his hands back on the altar.  “I believe that is a mistake, your Majesty,” he said firmly.  Elizabeth controlled herself, though she’d wanted to gasp at Lord Derby’s audacity.  She suddenly realised that the King wasn’t speaking and when she looked at him, he was staring directly at her.  It still took her another moment to realise that Lord Derby’s hands were still on the altar.

“He speaks the truth, your Majesty,” she said.  Mentally she chided herself: the spell on the altar required that the truth be acknowledged when it was spoken or the speaker would find themselves unable to remove their hands.  Lord Derby pulled his hands away and hunted for his handkerchief again.

“I know he does,” said the King.  He rubbed his forehead as though feeling the onset of a headache.  “I agree with you, Ernest, I honestly do.  But essentially the Privy Council has given me instructions and I have to follow them.”

Lord Derby shrugged.  “I know,” he said.  “But you do expect the truth from me so there’s little else I can say.”

Elizabeth noted the gentle shift away from formality and wondered just how well the men knew each other, and if they’d forgotten she was there.

“I want you to minimise the problems this will cause,” said the King.  “That’s why you’re here today.  This will cause problems, and they will spread, and I want you to contain them as much as you are able.  And if you can bring me evidence, something to put before the Privy Council to show that they are wrong, do so with all haste.”

“Can you take a Countesship away after it’s been granted?” asked Elizabeth.  Both men looked over at her and she started.  “I’m sorry!  I was thinking out loud; I’m used to working alone, your Majesty and I didn’t think!  I’m so sorry!  Sorry!”

The King grinned.  “Talking to yourself is a habit all the Lords Thaumaturgical seem to develop,” he said. “Consider it a hazard of your chosen profession.  The answer to your question, though it will not be helpful, is yes.”

Of exams and otters

"David Suture."  The name was called by a thin man with a long neck and a reedy voice.  He was wearing a dark suit and white shirt with no tie, possibly because it would have emphasized the length of his neck even more.  He stood in the doorway of the Practicum holding the door open with his arm and looked out into the hallway where three students were standing.  David put a book back into his bag, took a deep breath, and stepped forward.
"Come along," said the thin man.  "Lady Arabella is unforgiving when it comes to timekeeping."
All three students reacted with dismay: until this moment they had known that Lady Arabella was a possibility for an examiner but not that she was actually here today.  David let his breath out, and then took another deep one, trying to control the shakes.  His nerves were never good at exam time, and this had just made everything ten times worse.
"Come on," said the thin man.  He extended his hand, which stretched out unnaturally far until it grasped David's arm, and pulled him to the doorway.  "When you get inside place your bag on the table to your left.  You may take out your wand and any foci that you want to have available to you during the test.  Books, notes and prepared items must remain in your bag, and there will be a watch on it and you to ensure you are not cheating.  And remember your manners."
The Practicum was a medium-sized room that was almost oval: at one end it squared off and doors led out to storage areas and a preparation room.  Usually the room would have twenty desks laid out in it and a long demonstration bench at the front, but for the exams the desks had all been moved into the storage rooms and the long bench pushed back against the wall.  Lady Arabella was sitting on a laboratory stool in front of the bench with an otter curled up on her lap.  Its nose twitched as David came in, and it opened bright blue eyes and watched him.  He set his bag down on a small table and hesitated for a moment.  Then he left the bag behind, his hand checking that his wand was in his jacket pocket, and walked out into the cleared space in the Practicum.  As he walked he noticed that the floor was covered with a fine white sand and that the walls were shimmering faintly, as though there were a heat haze in front of them.  He guessed that they were wards around the room in case anything went wrong in the exam; it made perfect sense that the school wouldn't want to risk a nervous student setting it all on fire or summoning Ilkelb-ilkbir ta'qamar.  He stopped in the middle of the room, turned to face Lady Arabella, and bowed.
Lady Arabella was old but still beautiful: she had the timeless looks of a film-actress and eyes that were so deep men were said to have drowned their souls in them.  Her skin was like the finest vellum, pale and soft, with a radiance like sunlight trapped in diamonds.  One hand rested on the otter's back, her fingers lightly stroking it, and the other was resting on the bench.  Just behind her was a sheet of paper and David wondered if it was the exam questions or just for her to make notes on regarding his performance.
"Suture," she said, her words curt and precise.  "Your father is an Alchemist, isn't he?"
"Yes ma'am," said David, a little startled by the familiarity of the conversation.
"I visited him yesterday. I asked him what his expectations were of you."
"I... believe they're high, ma'am."
"Do you."  It wasn't a question, just a dismissal.  David felt his face flush and he sought for the right and polite words for a reply, but before anything came into his mind Lady Arabella had picked the sheet of paper up off the bench and was staring at him with a directness that made him start shaking again.
"Start with a demonstration of the five elements, please," she said.
The first four questions were little more than canonical exercises, things David had practiced almost every day since entering the school, and as he ran through familiar motions and extended his will in ways that were nearly engrained in him he found himself losing his nervousness.  His mind relaxed a little and his muscles stopped tensing everytime Lady Arabella spoke and he found a central point, a sense of timelessness than in athletes would be called 'flow'.
"Thank-you," said Lady Arabella as he released his will and a pretty illusion of flowers broke apart into a whirl of colours and evaporated.  "The basic technique is acceptable.  For the first demonstration of power, please demonstrate how the Laws of Contagion and Symmetry may be combined."
He stared, his mind struggling to understand what was being asked for.  Instead of telling him what to do, she'd left the task undefined, asking only that he put together two of the Laws of Magic and demonstrate that he'd used them.  He considered the Law of Symmetry, wondering how on earth it could be combined with the Law of Contagion, and felt his stomach turn.  He felt just a little dizzy.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Suture?"  He was sure that she was glaring at him now, angry that he wasn't reacting.
"No," he said reflexively.  He tried to make himself believe it.  "No."
"Then proceed," she said.  Her hand caressed the otter, and a mad idea crossed his mind.
"Might I have a hair from your pet, please?" he said.  His feet were taking steps towards her without him willing them to.  She raised an eyebrow, but turned her hand over.  There were two silvery-grey hairs adhering to her fingers.
"It would seem so," she said.  There was a sensation of a strong will around him and he stopped.  One of the hairs from her hand lifted up and drifted over to him as though carried by an invisible servant, and he held his own hand out to accept it.  It drifted down and settled in his palm.
He concentrated, applying his will to the hair and then invoking the law of Contagion.  The hair, being from an otter, remembered what it was to be an otter, and in a bright coruscation an otter made from starlight formed.  Instinctively he reached out his other hand: an otter was too big to hold in just one.  As the shape firmed up he reached again, shaping his will like a potter shapes clay on a wheel, holding the Law of Contagion firmly in place and now reaching for the Law of Symmetry.
As within, so without, he said.  Language wasn't important for magic, only intent.  The otter made of starlight turned its head and looked at him, and with an instant of shock he recognised its eyes as his own: he had intended to create an exact duplicate of Lady Arabella's otter, but instead the Law of Symmetry had taken the nearest living creature for its model and he had created a simulacrum of himself in an otter.
The starlight otter leaped gracefully from his hands to the floor, and the real otter sat up on Lady Arabella's lap, eyes bright and nose twitching, considering the newcomer.
"You are the only student today to pass that test, Mr. Suture," said Lady Arabella.  Her otter cocked its head, and then decided to jump down from her lap and go and greet the starlight otter.  "And you have made a most interesting choice."
"Thank-you," said David.  As Lady Arabella's otter touched noses with his own there was a wrenching sensation as though a much greater will was imposed and he struggled to hold his spell together.  For a few moments he succeeded, and then something unravelled too fast for him to catch and the otter disappeared in a scintillating helix that writhed its way to the ceiling.
"You will need to know yourself better, Mr. Suture," said Lady Arabella, but for the first time since he'd entered the room she was smiling.