CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Robert Liutprand Lashkari had started, in spite of himself, to enjoy his shifts at the Raven’s Attic.
They reminded him of his more raucous evenings in Kolldin, after work, gin in hand, conversing between booms of the trombones with women named Aleksa or Poppy or Winnifred.
They had been passing amusements to him, and he to them, and he had told himself, each time, that he was not meant for any kind of lasting love. His chance for that had come and gone.
Lio thought himself a tragic figure in three central ways.
First, as the abandoned child of a wealthy lineage so infatuated with prestige and profit that they had begged a coven of witches to take away their youngest son and teach him in secret.
His parents had been promised that he would be educated in sorcerous skills that would, for decades, pay dividends to the family.
They had meant to skirt the Prohibition, and the restrictions of the Royal Institute, and the draft for the war – instead, they simply skirted him, and he was raised in a strange faraway forest, and never truly came home.
Second, as the victim of a terrible act of violence, his first love slain, his opportunity for youthful folly gone and, with it, his desire to use magic.
Third, as the lonely foreign poet in his lavish apartment in Kolldin, funded in part by his father’s generous, consolatory contributions, whiling away year after year, in love with a ghost.
For there was no one who had ever loved him as Opal had.
The first woman he had kissed.
The first person in perhaps a decade who had hugged him.
She had made him laugh, made him cry, taught him about magic; they had discussed politics and music and the events of the day.
He had loved even her sharp-tongued friend, who was better than him at magic but, in her own way, was kind and listened to him and, although she mocked him, never really showed him malice.
He and Opal had planned to run away together. He wanted to marry her. To have three little children, each of them with iridescent eyes like hers, and dark hair, and clever little countenances.
She had loved him. Better than that, she had known him.
In the ten years since, Lio had taken to visiting his parents’ home in West Calléum once or twice per year and having dinner with his elder brother and going on dates with women and participating in empty conversation with strangers.
Yet, every interaction after Opal caused him to feel utterly misunderstood.
He wasn’t really misanthropic, snobby, irritable. He was heartbroken. He was grieving.
And Dot, who was enamoured with him for almost no reason at all, did not help.
And Theodora, with whom he had hoped to find friendship and share mutual grief, but who instead despised him, did not help.
Rupert – Rupert helped.
‘You going to do any real work, boss?’
They were in the Raven’s Attic. The red-haired boy poked him in the ribs, and Lio dropped his order book.
Rupert ducked away into the revelry of the club, laughing as he weaved through a crowd of spirits and politicians and magnates.
Earlier that day, the boy had gone with Dot and Theodora to telephone Dot’s grandfather.
Rupert had regaled Lio at length with an account of his helpfulness, his new friendship with Dot, his short conversation with Dot’s younger sister Celia, and his surprise at Theodora and Dot’s plan to visit the daemon the following morning.
Lio smiled as Rupert disappeared into the crowd. He had been that age, once.
The countess whose order Lio had been about to take looked at him with scathing eyes.
‘My apprentice,’ explained Lio, retrieving his order book from the ground. ‘He is spirited.’
‘So it seems,’ she said.
As Lio wiped glasses and fetched packet spells, he thought of the life he had built for himself – how he greatly looked forward to his magic lessons with Rupert, the small garden he tended in the courtyard and the meals he cooked with increasing joy for the inhabitants of the house.
And for the second time, Lio grieved Opal.
Again, he accepted her death. Each day after the revelation of the false letter, he felt a little less distraught, and he went about his business in the tea shop and the Raven’s Attic, cleaning tables, collecting packet spells, humouring austere faces who, through the smoke, eyed him with judgement or lust or intrigue.
That night, a set of these eyes fell upon Lio.
A man and a spirit sat in a corner of the Raven’s Attic. The man watched Lio with a strange, knowing look. That was the moment Rupert returned to Lio’s side with a fresh box of packet spells.
‘Why is Casimir staring at you?’
‘Who’s Casimir?’ asked Lio.
‘Ask Theodora,’ said Rupert. ‘She tells me something different every time. I don’t like how he looks at her.’ The boy was protective; Theodora was, to Rupert, family. ‘And the spirit next to him is the opposition minister of Sorcerie and Magic, Marcidus.’
The man named Casimir smirked at Lio across the club.
He had strange tattoos and dark hair and a look of utter arrogance as he tipped his glass at Lio and then muttered something to the spirit, Marcidus – a fellow who was large, round, and pinkish in hue.
There was something about Casimir’s gaze that made Lio uneasy.
It knew something vital that he did not.
And so Lio took it upon himself to eavesdrop on this Casimir.
Over the course of the hour, he subtly waded through the crowd and obscured himself not far from Casimir’s chair, beside a spirit who resembled a large carousel pony.
From this vantage, he could hear Casimir’s conversation with the amorphous spirit.
‘Marci, please,’ said Casimir.
‘Do not call me that, Mr Delané. Marcidus only.’
‘Whatever you wish, “Marcidusonly”.’
‘Careful lad,’ said Marcidus. ‘Salamander finds your cheek amusing, but I do not.’
‘Well, it’s a good thing he’s my boss,’ said Casimir, ‘and not you.’
‘Why invite me to this place again?’ demanded the spirit. ‘Why insist that we come here time after time?’
‘Where else would we be free to chat without the big boss overhearing?’ asked Casimir, swirling the liquor in his glass.
‘I have nothing to hide from our master,’ said the spirit. ‘Do you, Mr Delané?’
Casimir scoffed. ‘Let’s not play games. You know as well as I do that the factory output is dwindling. The spirits know what’s coming. They’ve heard rumblings, Marci. I think we ought to discuss it.’
The spirit Marcidus leaned toward Casimir. Lio, who was pretending to scribble into his order book, strained to peer through the crowd that jostled him.
‘Salamander has a new favourite, you know, and she is lobbying for your extinction,’ said Marcidus.
‘If you do not treat me with respect, maybe I will step in. Maybe I will tell Salamander that you bring me here where he can’t listen.
Maybe I should go and ask old Sal for your contract?
I’m sure he would not mind me keeping it safe. ’
And the spirit disappeared, leaving Casimir in his chair, gin in hand, glaring at the revelry before him. Lio peeked out from behind the pony-spirit.
‘Could you have made that any more obvious?’ called Casimir, standing and eyeing Lio. He downed his drink. ‘No wonder T pokes fun at you.’
‘T?’ asked Lio.
‘Some advice,’ said Casimir. He picked up his jacket and threw it over his shoulder. ‘From a fellow pawn in this chess match. Do not stick your nose where it need not be.’