There’s a spell called sīphōnem that is used to defuse demon traps. Its key components are two formae – flue and conmove – which, along with a bunch of other modifiers and inflectentes, allows you to siphon away the power in the demon trap and disperse it harmlessly. Like letting the air out of a balloon without popping it.
Only considerably more dangerous.
If it worked on a demon trap, I wondered if a modified version might work on the power bleeding through a boundary. Like that which was, hopefully, creating a water balloon.
‘Is it working?’ asked Beverley.
I caught the hazy sense of streams running through fields, through culverts, of cars being washed on summer afternoons, net curtains and Sunday lunch. The sensations coalesced into a round shape above my head – the water balloon.
I tried the first couple of formae that composed the spell and felt them catch the edges of the balloon. But having proved that much of the theory, I wasn’t about to experiment further on Beverley.
‘Yes,’ I said, and I opened my eyes to find a wobbling globe of water hovering a couple of centimetres above my nose. ‘You can stop that if you like.’
‘OK,’ said Beverley.
I watched with relief as the globe floated to the ceiling and, without any fuss or lingering dampness, evaporated.
‘Will it help?’ she asked.
‘Let’s hope so,’ I said.
Tuesday Amongst our weapons …
16 Commitment
Since I couldn’t experiment on Beverley, I needed something primed with stored magic. We didn’t keep any demon traps at the Folly … but one thing I knew for a fact had stored magic in it was my staff.
I usually leave it in the Asbo, but I’d brought it into the Folly that morning and left it in the demonstration room. This lives at the back of the Folly, and was a small lecture theatre with raked seating where the amateur savants of the Society of the Wise could demonstrate their latest magic to their peers. There was even a segregated Ladies’ Gallery halfway up the north wall, so that the weaker sex could watch and admire their menfolk without getting underfoot. Toby was currently up there, grumpily wearing his lead, which was attached to the railing.
He’d thought he was going for a walk but actually he was a vital part of the experiment.
Another reason I was using the lecture theatre was that it was lined with two and a half centimetres of cork to act as magical shielding. Apparently, back in the day some of those public demonstrations could get quite explosive. Which explained why the top of the huge oak table on the podium was streaked and scarred with burns and scratches. There was even a patch where a hole had been burnt right through, with a matching crater on the floor underneath.
I mounted the staff above the table with a pair of lab stands and went through the spell forma by forma. Then I stood back from the bench, cleared my mind and lined up the formae and ran through them, saying each one out loud.
It didn’t work the first time, or the second, but the third time I felt the spell catch as if I’d turned a key in the ignition. Hugh Oswald’s staffs had spent years soaking up magic from his weird granddaughter’s beehives, and so the release came with the hum of thousands of wings and the sickly smell of raw honeycomb.
Toby started barking – a mad excited yapping.
I let go of the spell.
The air suddenly had a greasy feel and the smell of burnt copper.
I’d put a bit more magic into the environment than I meant to. Theoretically this should disperse naturally, but according to David Mellenby’s notes a high level of magical saturation was definitely a health hazard.
As insidious as carbon monoxide, only far more unpredictable in its effects, he’d written in his notes.
Toby obviously thought so. He’d stopped barking and was pulling frantically at his lead.
I began to worry – I needed to burn off some of the magic in a controlled fashion, but there was a ridiculously high chance of any spell, even the most basic, backfiring. Then I thought maybe I could put the sīphōnem spell into reverse and lock the magic into something. I should have brought something I could have used as a magic sink. Why is it you always think of these things when it’s too late …?
Toby stopped struggling and lay down with his head buried in his paws. He started to whine.
A red flower opened above the demonstration table. It started as a fist-sized globe, but unfurled petals of crimson light shot through with blue veins. It grew quickly and I jumped back to give it some room.
And then it evaporated, the petals dissolving into the air just like Beverley’s water balloon had.
‘I trust the rest of the experiment was a success,’ said Nightingale.
He was leaning over the railing in the Ladies’ Gallery and smiling sardonically. At his feet, Toby had perked right back up – although he paused in the adoration of his master long enough to give me an irritated snarl. Nightingale led him away, and as I waited for them to come downstairs I tidied up.
The staff was cold and inert beneath my hand now. I gave it a few experimental swings. I’ll say this for old-style wizardry – if the magic failed you could always beat someone to death with your staff.
Nightingale entered through the main door – Toby did not follow him.
‘Did it work?’ he asked.
‘Better than expected,’ I said. ‘It drained the staff completely.’
‘So I noticed,’ said Nightingale. ‘Perhaps the next such experiment should be conducted outside. In fact, some distance away from a populated area.’
‘If we try this on Francisca,’ I said, ‘you may have to follow up with whatever it was you just used. Does it have a name?’
‘Not as such,’ said Nightingale. ‘David developed it so I could clean up after his experiments. I have to note that I’m also worried that draining a staff will not be the same as drawing off power from another universe.’
‘It might not be another universe,’ I said. ‘It could be a different dimension or a tertiary subspace domain. And in any case I don’t think we have any choice.’
‘There’s always a choice,’ said Nightingale. ‘But often we don’t like either alternative.’ He took the staff from me and rested it on his shoulder as if he was on parade. ‘This was a heavy sacrifice,’ he said, ‘since we are still some way from fabricating our own staffs. And that’s not taking into account your upcoming leave.’
‘You forget,’ I said. ‘We’re back in bed with the Sons of Wayland. Grace will make us new staffs.’
‘What makes you think Grand Master Yutani will be so accommodating?’
‘For one thing, makers got to make,’ I said. ‘And once they’ve made, they want to see what they’ve made put to use. And secondly, we can give them and the Society of the Rose the thing that, deep in their hearts, they secretly crave.’
‘Which would be what?’
I gestured up at the Ladies Gallery.
‘Recognition and a seat at the table.’
Nightingale gave me a strange appraising look.
‘Sometimes, Peter,’ he said, ‘you quite terrify me.’
Somebody else who was currently terrified turned out to be Alastair McKay. At least, judging by how happy he was to see Guleed when she went over to the Hotel Russell to bring him in for another interview. She said that according to the reception desk Alastair hadn’t left his room since he checked in.