Free Cold Magics by Erik Buchanan Page A

open, and Thomas could see the healer—an average-sized man, his skin darker than most, with a shock of curly grey-streaked brown hair that stood around his head—lecturing his patient.
    “And you a butcher, John!” the healer was saying. “Really! Careless, that’s what it is. Now hold still, we’re nearly done.”
    The fat man, sitting in a chair beside the healer, grimaced but said nothing. The thin man crossed the room and whispered in the healer’s ear. The healer nodded distractedly at first, and then stopped what he was doing and looked toward Thomas. “Her father? Really?”
    “Yes,” said Thomas.
    “Unlucky,” said the man. “Is his life in danger?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
    “Was he conscious when you left him?”
    “Aye.”
    “Then he’ll wait a bit longer.” The man turned back to what he was doing, saying over his shoulder, “Robert, pack a bag.”
    The thin man turned away and disappeared from sight. Thomas stood in the antechamber, trying not to hop from one foot to the other in impatience. The healer continued his stitching, moving at a steady, unhurried pace. At last, he tied off the final knot, turned, accepted the waiting bag from Robert, and stepped out of the surgery.
    “Right, then, lead on.”
    Thomas led on, the healer easily matching Thomas’s quick pace. When they turned the corner into the student quarter, the healer snorted. “Should have known you were a student. If it wasn’t for you lot, I wouldn’t have half the suturing practice I’ve had.”
    Thomas didn’t bother replying. He led the healer into the courtyard of the apartments, and found it full of men. Some eight were dressed in the green and red of the guards of the Church of the High Father. Another six were wearing the brown of the city watch. The church guards were blocking the watchmen from going up the stairs, from the look of it, and the watch were none too pleased. Thomas sized up both groups while crossing the courtyard.
    “Stop there,” said one of the church guards. “There’s been murder above.”
    “I know,” said Thomas. “It was in my apartment. I’ve brought this healer to see to the wounded. Let us through, please.”
    “Not unless you surrender your blades,” said the church guard. “Now.”
    “No,” said Thomas. “Sir Michael will vouch for me.”
    “Sir Michael did not come with us,” said one of the watch. “He told us what happened, and then rode off to speak to his lord. Are you Thomas?”
    “I am.”
    “Then you are to wait for Lord Henry’s arrival before doing anything more,” said the guard.
    “I’ll not wait for Henry to get here before I get Lionel seen to,” said Thomas.
    “And you’ll not do that until you surrender your blade.”
    Thomas turned to the church guard. “Did Sir Michael summon you as well?”
    “No,” said the guard. “Surrender your weapon or you won’t be allowed up.”
    Thomas thought very quickly about who would have mentioned the murder to the church guards, and why. They had no jurisdiction over a civil matter—especially over the students, who were specifically answerable only to the king’s laws and not those of the Church of the High Father. Of course, if someone mentioned witchcraft…
    As a student of the Royal Academy, Thomas was subject only to the laws of the king. The church guards had no authority over him—nor did the watch, for that matter. He turned to the watchmen. “Who is in charge?”
    “I am,” said a thin man with a straggled moustache. “Captain Fergus.”
    “These men have no jurisdiction here,” said Thomas. “They are blocking you from investigating a crime, and possibly destroying evidence of that crime while they do. Arrest them.”
    Captain Fergus looked to the church guards, then back to Thomas. “There’s these eight and four more up above. We’ll not do well in a fight against them.”
    “Oh, there’s no need to fight them,” said Thomas, looking at the church guards.