Free Cold Magics by Erik Buchanan Page B

“Tell them they are under arrest. Tell them to drop their weapons in the name of the king. When they refuse, blow your whistles and summon the rest of the watch.”
    “You lot will be on the ground before that happens,” growled one of the church guards.
    Thomas turned to the one who spoke. “And while they do that, I’ll be climbing up that stair there—” he gestured to the building opposite his own, “and ringing the bell on the top floor, which will bring about a hundred students here. All of whom no doubt remember the beginning of the summer when you lot attacked us in our apartments.”
    “It wasn’t us,” said the guard. “Those were Bishop Malloy’s own.”
    “A distinction I don’t think the students will make,” said Thomas.
    The guards looked to one another, clearly nervous. Still, they held their ground. “We don’t move without orders from the commander,” said the same guard.
    “And where is he?” asked Thomas.
    “Upstairs.”
    “Then get out of our way while we talk to him,” said Thomas. He turned to Captain Fergus. “If you would join me?”
    The watchman took a long look at the guards on the stairs, then back at his own men. “If there’s any trouble, summon help,” he said to his men. “And one of you get up there and ring that bell.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The watchman turned back to Thomas. “Let’s go, then.”
    “If you’ll join us?” said Thomas to the healer. The man was not looking at all pleased, no doubt sensing that he was going to be in for more business in the very near future if things did not go well. Nonetheless, he followed as Thomas started walking forward. The church guards gave way grudgingly.
    “The captain will have words with you,” said the one who’d spoke before. “Find out how you started this trouble in the first place.”
    Why do people always assume I start the trouble? Thomas led the healer up the stairs. George, Lionel and Eileen were all still on the balcony. George had his hands on his father’s back, applying pressure to keep the wound from bleeding. He was glaring into the apartment. Lionel looked slightly more pale, but no more the worse for all that, and was staring through the doorway in confusion. Eileen had wrapped a cloth around her arm, and was pressing another against her breast. She looked as angry as her brother, and Thomas could see her hand twitching towards the grip of her rapier.
    Thomas stepped over the trampled remains of his and Eileen’s lunch, and into the apartment. Inside, three men were systematically opening every cupboard and tossing the contents to the ground. Another was going through the bookshelves, opening up books and tossing them on the floor. The bodies laid where they had been left, ignored. As Thomas watched, the man at the bookshelves tossed a book over his shoulder. It landed in the pool of blood beside the man Lionel had clubbed to death.
    “Who are you and what do you think you’re doing?” Thomas demanded.
    All four men looked up in surprise. Three of them turned to the one who had been looking at the books. He was built square, like the Academy fencing master, with a thin moustache and goatee. He looked Thomas up and down before he settled his eyes on Thomas’s face. “Captain Dillman. And who are you?”
    “Thomas Flarety,” said Thomas. “Those are my books you’re throwing on the floor.”
    “Are they?” The man looked at the book in his hand. “Quite the eclectic collection.”
    “Captain Dillman,” said Thomas, doing his best to imitate tone the Master of Laws took when he challenged students on their answers. “Why are your men preventing the watch from coming up?”
    “I don’t want them interfering with our investigation,” said Captain Dillman.
    “And what are you investigating that takes precedence over murder?” asked Captain Fergus.
    “Witchcraft.”
    Thomas felt his stomach sink. Behind him, he heard Eileen swear softly.
    “Witchcraft?” repeated Captain Fergus.