Small Magics

Chapter 7

Maybe I’m just tired, Thomas thought, automatically adjusting the bag on his shoulder to a more comfortable position. He thought better of it a moment later and let the bag fall to the floor. He was home, after all. He didn’t need to keep carrying it.

The conversation in the study went on for some time. Thomas tried to listen, but the heavy wood of the door muffled the words. His father spoke only occasionally, while the bishop went on at length. Thomas was half-tempted to put his ear to the door and listen, but the thought of getting caught was too mortifying. He stayed where he was, waiting.

At last the bell attached to the pull-cord in his father’s study rang twice, sharp and demanding. The study door opened a moment later and John Flarety stepped out. He glanced at his son briefly then turned to look down the hall. Almost immediately, Brian was there, coming up the stairs at a trot.

“The bishop wishes to speak with his men,” said John Flarety. “Escort him to them.”

The bishop stepped into the hallway, pausing to nod at Thomas. “We shall see you later, Thomas Flarety.”

“I look forward to it, your Grace,” lied Thomas, bowing low. Privately, he was wondering if there was any way to avoid the man entirely for the rest of his stay. Thomas doubted it. He sighed silently and straightened up.

The bishop was already walking away, and Randolf had taken his place. His eyes bored into Thomas, though he was smiling politely. Thomas returned the stare, feeling uncomfortably like a mouse before a large cat. Randolf inclined his head in a motion that felt far less respectful than it looked, then broke contact and turned away, following his master down the hall.

Thomas watched the two go, then picked up his bag and stepped into the office. His father was already sitting behind his desk, his face a shade of red that Thomas recognized at once. John Flarety was angry.

“I see what you meant about him,” said Thomas, putting his bag down. He smiled and started coming around the desk, his arms out. “It’s good to see you, Da.”

“I assumed that you knew I would have guests today.”

John Flarety’s chill tone made Thomas freeze in place. His father glared at him, waiting for an answer. Thomas pulled himself together enough to say, “I only learned when I arrived, Father.”

“Guests who expect that I maintain my house with decorum, that I clothe my children properly, and that I have raised them not to be hooligans.” John Flarety leaned forward in his chair. “Guests like the bishop.”

It took a moment for that to sink in. When it did, Thomas was stunned. “He’s our guest? I remember you said he would be in town—”

“Yes. Our houseguest, not the nunnery’s.” John slowly rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving Thomas’s. “Do you know how important that is to our family?”

Considering that the nunnery owned the land that Elmvale sat on, and that the abbess was in fact the true authority of the county, it was very important indeed. Thomas nodded. “Aye, it’s amazing—”

“And this,” John Flarety’s hand cut the air, taking in Thomas’s ragged state in a single wave, “This is his first impression of my youngest son! A young bravo who comes to my house, carrying a sword of all things, and looking as if he has stumbled on foot down the road from the Academy!” He glared at his son. “How did you get here, Thomas?”

Thomas braced himself, “I walked.”

His father’s face turned darker red. “There are a dozen boats going up and down the river every week, could you not have taken one?”

“I could have,” said Thomas. He reached into his bag, pulled out a small purse, and put it on the table. “I thought I’d save the money you sent instead.”

“Save the money?” John Flarety’s hand came down hard on the desk, making Thomas jump. “What about the money that I’ve been sending you every month? Where did you spend it all, that you come home looking like this? Fifteen silver pieces a month should have been more than sufficient to keep you in a manner fitting the son of one of the wealthiest trading houses in this part of the country!”

Thomas had no idea what his father wanted him to say. “The Academy is expensive, Father—”

“I dare say it is, if you spend your time brawling rather than studying. Tell me, how much of that money went to settle gambling debts? How much for wine? How much for keeping you out of jail?”

Thomas felt as though he’d been hit, hard, in the pit of the stomach. He stared at his father, unable to speak.

“Well?” John Flarety demanded.

“I do not brawl,” said Thomas, keeping his words slow and even. “I have drunk wine and I have gambled, but not enough to bring disgrace on myself or this house.”

“Then where is the money?” John Flarety’s hand hit the desk again. “What have you spent it on?”

“Books!” Thomas nearly shouted the word. With an effort he contained himself and started again. “There are so many books, Father. Most nights I can hardly sleep for reading. I feed off books the way my body feeds off food. Dr. Fauster—he teaches philosophy—talks about books written over a thousand years ago that have just now been rediscovered. And new books are being written all the time: commentaries on the old philosophies, writings about new philosophies.” Thomas could hear himself speeding up in his excitement. He picked up his bag and dug into it, coming up with two battered, leather-bound books, each only slightly bigger than his hand. “Look at these, Father. The first is a dictionary, translating the language of ancient Perthia. The second is a book of Perthian philosophy in the original language, with space in it for a student to write a translation.”

His father didn’t even look at the books. “This is what you waste your time on?”

“Waste?” Thomas was appalled. “It’s not a waste!”

“It is a waste,” John Flarety repeated. “It is a waste of your time and of my money.”

Thomas’s legs felt weak, like he’d been standing in the ocean, fighting the tide. Something was wrong. He tried again. “Father, you sent me to learn.”

“I sent you to be educated,” corrected his father. “I did not send you to waste your time studying philosophy—”

“I don’t just study—”

“And I certainly didn’t send you to spend your money on swords!”

Thomas looked down to the blade at his side. “Is that what this is about? This?” He grasped the scabbard and raised the sword up. “I wrote about this. I won it at a fencing tournament. It didn’t cost a thing.”

“And who gave you permission to study fencing?”

“Everyone at the Academy studies fencing.”

“We do not. We are merchants. Not soldiers, not ruffians, and not fops.” Thomas’s father started pacing the width of the room. “I should never have sent you there. The city is a corrupt place, filled with corrupt people. You were sent to develop your mind and to learn a trade, not to study swordplay and become a ruffian.”

“I’m not becoming a ruffian—”

“I will deal with your behaviour later,” said John, ignoring Thomas’s words entirely. “Now, we must solve the problem of what you shall wear in this house.”

“I have clothes in—”

“Silence!” The word thundered through the room. “Return to the village. The tailor will be open for several hours yet, and will measure you for clothes appropriate to your station. Tell him you will need them for tomorrow night.”

John picked up the purse from where Thomas had placed it on the desk. He opened it and eyed the contents a moment, then tossed it back to Thomas. “This should more than cover the cost of the clothes. Use the rest to buy your supper. I expect that the tailor will keep you long enough that you will not join us for dinner.”

Thomas stood where he was, mouth open, staring at his father. John Flarety frowned. “Well, boy?”

Thomas, stunned, could only say, “I’ll do as you wish.”

“And use the side entrance. I’ll not have our guests seeing my son like this.”

“No.” Thomas shouldered his bag and stumbled to the door. “No, of course not.”