Page 74 of Seducing the Sorcerer
Fenn blinked. “Ah.”
“Yes. So, I could have gone with ‘Master Mauldeath’ but I thought ‘Morgrim’ was more approachable.”
Fenn couldn’t help smiling into his drink. “Friendlier. Aye.”
He glanced at Morgrim, who was hiding his own smile behind his tankard.
They were both silent, drinking their ale. The pub noise had reached more normal levels, though Fenn was very aware of being watched, and doubtless Morgrim felt the stares worse than he did. All the same, having Morgrim in the pub with him still felt unutterably precious.
And soon Morgrim would tell him the truth about whatever was going on at the tower.
A cold trickle of dread ran through Fenn. Because it must be something bad. Something very bad if today’s events were anything to go on.
Fenn stared at the rows of bottles behind the bar and found himself wishing that Morgrim was not the court sorcerer, all mixed up in politics and violence and dangerous magics. If only Morgrim could have been something ordinary—a fisherman or a crystal-fixer or something—and after a pint they could’ve gone home to an ordinary house and fucked in an ordinary bed, and then woken up tomorrow and gone to work and then met here and done it all again. And the days would’ve stretched ahead of them plain and good, glowing with ordinary delights.
He turned to Morgrim, taking in feel of him; the ink-dark sweep of his robe, the fall of his long black hair, the sharpness of his eyes. Ah, but Morgrim wouldn’t be Morgrim if he wasn’t hedged about with peril and magic and secrets. And, moreover, there’d likely be no room for a flying worple horse in that ordinary pleasant life. No, he wouldn’t want that.
Fenn drained his pint.
“Reckon you got some talking to do,” he said, gently.
Morgrim put his drink down. It was still half full. “I know. But not here. I can’t risk anyone overhearing. These really are state secrets.”
State secrets that made Morgrim look like a lad about to be beaten. In fact, he looked so haunted Fenn almost considered saying “forget it, changed my mind, don’t want to know.” But of course he didn’t.
“Aye, all right. The tower, then?”
***
Back at the tower, Morgrim led him first to the library and then to a staircase Fenn had never noticed before because the entrance to it was concealed behind a bookshelf. Fenn had expected the stairwells up here to be choked with rubble, but it was possible to scramble up. Morgrim opened a door on the third floor, shut it behind them and barred it.
They were in another dim, round, cavernous room. Swathes of dusty cobwebs hung from the high rafters that supported the floor of the room several yards above them. But the most noticeable feature was the mist, which had flowed in through a huge hole in the wall to the north. Rain had drifted in too and darkened the wooden floorboards beneath the hole.
But, as Morgrim had said, the tower was already repairing itself. Bits of mortar were rolling back into the hole’s edges. A big black stone nestled itself into place, and another was nosing in from the outside in an inquisitive way a stone didn’t ought to have.
It was handy all right, but it was blame uncanny.
Morgrim turned from the hole and led Fenn across to the southernmost curve of the room. Here, dwarfed by the room’s giant proportions, stood a four-poster bed that would have looked gigantic in any other setting. The bed was resplendent with black plumes and hangings of black silk. Toppling towers of books stood all about and nearly engulfed a tall, but overwhelmed, bookshelf. There was a fireplace set into the wall, an easy chair upholstered in more black silk, and a wardrobe and chest of drawers. Fang the kitten lay sprawled across a pair of Morgrim’s red boots on the hearth.
So, Fenn had been admitted to Morgrim’s bedroom.
Shame Fenn was too nervous to enjoy the fact.
Morgrim stopped by one of the narrow windows. It should have overlooked the town and the palace, but as it was, it showed only grey streaks of rain and a lot of thick cloud. Morgrim propped his staff against the stone sill. He crossed his arms and bowed his head as if steeling himself for a beating.
Fenn perched on the edge of the black silk easy chair, a sick feeling in his stomach. “Come on, then. What couldn’t you tell me in the pub?”
There was a pause. Fang stretched, then curled into a tighter ball.
“Fenn, for what it’s worth—I’m not proud of any of this. But it was...necessary.”
Fenn stiffened. There was something chilling about Morgrim’s tone and choice of words.
“Necessary. That right? Get on, then.”
There was another long pause. Eventually, in a small, quenched voice, Morgrim said, “The main thing you need to know is I...I have no magic. None at all.”
Chapter 15
