Free The Milkweed Triptych 01 - Bitter Seeds by Ian Tregillis Page A

deliberately?”
    “I dislike the direction this conversation has taken.”
    “I’m not asking how. Just if.”
    “In the strictest sense? Yes, it’s possible. But nobody would ever
do
it. Regardless of the circumstances.” In response to Marsh’s quizzical expression, Will elaborated. “There are rules about this sort of thing. It’s rather complicated. Suffice it to say that invoking the Eidolons to kill a human being would be unwise to a degree I cannot express. Taboo does not begin to cover it.”
    Marsh’s fingertip spiraled through the beads of condensation on his glass, pulling them together into a single droplet that slithered down to the coaster. He pressed one hand to his jaw, cracked his knuckles, then did the same with the other hand. It meant he was thinking.
    “You must forgive my directness, Pip, but just what are you dancing around?”
    Marsh nursed his beer. He set it down, centering it on a little cork circle with great attention. Will concentrated to pull Marsh’s voice from the pub din.
    “You understand this can’t go beyond the two of us.”
    In spite of his better judgment, Will was intrigued. He agreed with a solemn dip of the head.
    “What would you say if you heard tell of a man bursting into flames? Spontaneously. No warning.”
    Will stared at him for a long moment. He refilled his cup. He took a long sip, thinking. The tea had gone tepid.
    “Fire, you say?”
    “Like a Roman candle.”
    Now this
was
fascinating. Macabre, but fascinating. Will felt like a character in a penny dreadful. “How extraordinary. This is the strange thing you witnessed?”
    Marsh said nothing, his face blank.
    “I know what you’re thinking,” said Will, “but it’s rather baroque, don’t you think? If I wanted someone dead, there are many easier ways to go about it.” He took a sip of cold tea before continuing. “Besides which, it’s irrelevant. The fact that we’re still here tells me it wasn’t done by a, ah, hobbyist.” Will disliked using the proper term,
warlock
, in casual conversation.
    Marsh looked intrigued by this, but Will didn’t elaborate. “That’s a no, then.”
    “If you’re asking whether I could be wrong, then yes. But that’s my opinion.” Will shrugged. “Such as it is.”
    A melancholy half smile creased Marsh’s face. “It’s top-drawer, Will. Cheers, mate.”
    “Very good, then.” Will tapped his teacup to Marsh’s pint. They drank in companionable silence.
    Marsh’s eyes fixed on the amber depths of his half-empty pint as though scrying. He doodled on the table in streaks of condensation and spilled tea. Will recognized the posture of a man grappling with an unsolved riddle.
    He’d had a bad tooth once. The ache swelled until it followed him everywhere, intruded on every facet of his waking life, ceaselessly demanded his attention until he solved the problem and had theaccursed thing removed. Unanswered questions rankled Marsh in the same way.
    “Mmm.” Marsh set his glass down quickly, foam trickling down his chin. “One last thing, before I forget.”
    “Another mystery? Aren’t you quite the sphinx to night. I may come to regret it later, but I confess I can hardly (no worries, love)—” The frumpier shopgirl knocked Will’s chair when she stood to make her way to the ladies’ convenience. “—contain my curiosity. Do tell.”
    “It may be a while, but I might have something in a few months. Would you be willing to take a look at something, provide your expert opinion on it?”
    “That depends, Pip. Look at what, exactly?”
    “Better if I don’t say right now.” Marsh shrugged. “It may turn out to be nothing. Are you interested?”
    Part of Will wanted to recoil from the offer. The old training, the indoctrination, rose to the fore. Discussing these matters with outsiders was never done, under any circumstances. But he was torn. It would be a welcome respite from working for Aubrey. And he’d already broken ranks, back at Oxford;