Fiona McIntosh - Scrivener’s Tale

‘You mean it is an inherent part of him.’

‘Exactly. He alone owns it, wields it, but I know not when or how. He has only admitted once to me of its existence, when he was a child, and even then he could barely explain it. I suspect he’s forgotten ever mentioning it.’

He watched Fynch’s eyes blaze now. ‘Magic?’

Josse felt genuinely uncomfortable. He cleared his throat, sipped his gleam. ‘There is no other explanation, I suppose.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Me? I haven’t seen Cassien for a decade. Our man, Loup, visits him each new moon to put him through various, shall we say, tests. And he is certainly rigorous, Master Fynch.’

‘And?’

‘He is astonishing. Two moons ago Cassien bested Loup for the first time. Loup tells me he now believes our charge to be near enough invincible in a one-on-one fight. We believe he could do a lot of damage to any enemy if he was sent in alone. One of his strengths is his quiet presence. Loup says there are times when …’ Josse trailed off, unsure how to say it, for it sounded so far-fetched.

Fynch’s head snapped up from where he had been staring thoughtfully at the fire. ‘When what?’

‘Er … well, when he believes Cassien is somehow not entirely of this world.’

He watched Fynch straighten, his chest swell as though it was being filled with anticipation and excitement. ‘This is very good news, Brother Josse.’

‘Is it? Frankly, it frightens me, this talk of magic.’

‘One must not fear magic, Brother Josse.’ His guest stood, contemplating. ‘Good …’ Fynch murmured. ‘Very good.’

‘So, this mission you mention suggests the Crown has a specific use for him, Master Fynch?’

‘It does.’

‘Then by all means ask the palace to —’

‘No. This is the most secret mission that any of your men will ever undertake because they will do so without the knowledge of the Crown.’

Josse shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You don’t have to. I promise you, he will be working for the good of the realm, for the empire it is part of and for the young royal who presides over it.’

Josse blinked.

‘You trust me, Brother Josse?’

‘I do,’ he replied without hesitation.

‘Thank you. I will personally brief Cassien.’

‘Of course. You will need a guide. Loup will take you.’ There was a soft knock at the door. ‘Ah, perfect timing. We can offer a hearty vegetable stew with chesil manchets baked here in our own bakery. We prefer the grainiest of bread … I hope it suits.’

Fynch smiled. ‘Bread is a rare treat in whichever form it is given to me. Thank you.’

Josse pointed to a basin nearby and heard the sound of Fynch washing his hands as he opened the door to young Turc, who brought in two bowls of stew, vapour rising enthusiastically from the brew, and bread still so warm he could smell its escaping steam. A chunk of butter he knew had been churned only the previous day was scattered with salt flakes.

His guest was taking an inordinately long time to dry his hands and Josse realised Fynch did not want to be seen.

‘Leave the tray, Turc. Thank you, lad. I can take it from here.’

Gabe had half an hour to kill before Reynard arrived. He paused at the sideboard where the swan quill sat in its box and traced a finger over the feather, watching the individual spines part and then flick back into a soldierly line.

He remembered that Angelina had a sweet tooth and realised he had time to nip out and grab some simple fruit pastries drizzled with white icing, plus a new bag of his favourite coffee beans. He liked a strong roast that hinted of chocolate and licorice, and having invested in a 15bar Italian coffee machine, he enjoyed the ritual of making his coffee to order.

He thought again about Angelina and Reynard’s peculiar possessiveness about her. And then he remembered the note. Hell! He’d left the café yesterday and hurried back to the shop, only to get sucked into a black hole of new stock and paperwork, and had forgotten about Angelina’s piece of paper, which she’d pushed into his hand surreptitiously.

As soon as he was back at the apartment he threw down his packets from the bakery and dipped into the pocket where the note had been stuffed. He smoothed it out on the kitchen table and read it.

Don’t trust him! He is lying to you! Trust only me and what I say!

The three exclamations made her warning look desperate. So her fear was about the physician. He is lying to you! Why would Reynard lie? Lying about what? He presumed he was soon to find out more.

He set out the pastries and put some background music on very softly. It was melodic guitar music, nothing too Latin and upbeat but nothing melancholy either.

At just a minute or so to eleven he heard the security buzzer sound.

‘Reynard … Angelina?’

‘Good morning, Gabriel,’ Reynard’s disconnected voice said through the loudspeaker. ‘Thank you for your emailed directions.’

‘Just push the door,’ Gabe replied and hit the button to let them enter. He walked outside his flat to the landing, where he’d put a chair for Reynard. It was cold and, even though it felt churlish, he didn’t care. He was not permitting the physician inside while he was assessing Angelina. He leaned over the elegant wrought-iron railing that twisted serpentine-like around the shallow white marble stairs between floors and heard the lift crank into use. The lift took its time in its creaky ascent but finally it opened and there they were, the oddest couple.

Reynard was dressed in his habitual pinstripe suit while Angelina looked wan in a short skirt, ankle boots, thick tights, a duffel coat, scarf, gloves, beanie … it was as though she was a child being dressed by a protective grandmother against the elements.

‘Hello again, Monsieur Reynard, Angelina,’ he said warmly to both, but looking at her.

They stepped out of the lift.

‘So how do we do this?’ Reynard asked. He looked nervous.

‘I’ve put a chair here,’ Gabe said, gesturing toward the landing’s window. ‘It’s cold but you’re well wrapped up, I see. Did you bring a book?’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Reynard replied. ‘How long?’

‘I’d say we need at least forty-five minutes undisturbed.’ He gave a sympathetic grin but his tone was firm. ‘I can offer you coffee?’

‘I understand. And no, but thank you. I’ve recently had one,’ Reynard said.

‘Angelina, will you follow me, please?’ Gabe offered. She nodded.

Reynard touched his arm. ‘Be careful, Gabriel. Remember my warning,’ he whispered.

Gabe looked over his shoulder with a quizzical frown. ‘We’ll be fine,’ he assured Reynard. He closed the door on the physician and turned to the young woman. ‘It’s warm in here so feel free to take off your coat and put it down over there,’ he said, pointing to the sofa. He left it entirely to her. But it pleased him to see that she began peeling off her heavy garments. It was a good start. He turned away. ‘Now, how about a decent coffee?’

She shook her head, dark eyes regarding him far from suspiciously. In fact, he’d describe her look as hungry but not for food. He convinced himself he was imagining it and decided that she was probably relieved to be away from Reynard’s supervision.

‘This is not jar coffee,’ he insisted, mock offended.

Angelina’s face broke momentarily into a grin. She pulled off her beanie and shook out her hair; again, he had the desire to touch it. Without her bulky coat on she looked so vulnerable.

Helena, a female colleague at university during his PhD, was doing her thesis on personality types with regard to romance and/or sex. She had used Gabe as one of her test subjects and had surprised him with a summary of the sort of woman he was most attracted to. He’d argued it, of course, and he’d seen many women since who didn’t fit that bill, but, curiously, Angelina ticked many of the boxes: small, dark, not a chatterbox, someone who seemed slightly remote from the mainstream. She would have to be very pretty, Helena had assured him with a wry smile, but not traditionally so. How thoroughly annoying, he thought now, as he looked at Angelina, that Helena could have been so accurate … or more to the point, that he could be so predictable. He cleared his throat as Angelina stepped closer.