Page 22 of The Magpie Lord
They paced on.
“What’s etheric flow?”
“The ether is...a kind of energy that runs through everything. Through the air, through living things, in greater or lesser quantities. It carries, well, magic.”
“Likech’i?”
“Like what?”
“Ch’i. Life force. A sort of energy flow that permeates everything and links the world together.”
“Yes! Exactly. Is that Chinese? Did you learn that from your shaman?”
“It’s a basic principle of Chinese culture.” Crane watched Day’s face with amusement. “Really. Children learn about it. It’s part of medicine. It’s completely normal, everyone knows it exists.”
“Really? So...” They had reached the other end of the Rose Walk, which opened up into an overgrown lawn with a statueless stone plinth at its centre. Day glanced down the passage. “That’s fascinating and I’d love to know more, but I think I need to go in if I’m to have a chance of seeing anything. You don’t have to.”
“We established that I do,” Crane said mildly. “Can we talk while we wait for visitations?”
“Let’s walk the ground,” Day suggested. “Speak up if you feel anything uncomfortable or strange. It’s entirely possible that nothing whatsoever will happen and we’ll just stay out here getting cold.”
Feet echoed on stone as they paced down the dark walk, Crane limiting his long stride to the shorter man’s, skin tingling as he listened for whatever there might be to hear. He felt a quiver of nerves as his sleeve snagged on something, and laughed at himself for a fool almost at once as he brushed away the tendrils of rose.
Day’s face was sharp and intent in the moonlight, hands out, fingers moving gently, like a pianist imagining music. Crane paced by his side, turned when he turned, and took a breath when he relaxed.
“Absolutely nothing,” Day said. “I’m becoming hopeful this was just Miss Brook’s imagination after all. If we sit on that bench, will it collapse under both our weight?”
“Probably.” Crane tested it. “Maybe not. So is that how it works, you draw on the flow, thech’i, to do magic?”
“More or less, yes.”
Crane contemplated that. The stone seat was cold under his legs, and there was a chilly breeze rustling the rose bushes. Day shifted on the bench, curling a leg underneath himself, stretching his hands reflexively. Crane could feel his warmth, very close.
“Can you, ah,stripother people?” he asked idly, and felt Day become suddenly still in the darkness.
“Why do you ask?”
“There was a...they called it a plague,” Crane said. “Bodies found looking like, well, Egyptian mummies. Dead. Someone I knew, and had seen two days previously in perfect health, turned up in his bed starved to death. The authorities claimed it was a sickness; the locals said it was achiang-shih, a...damn, what’s the word? Walking corpses that drink blood.”
“Vampire?”
“That’s it. But Yu Len insisted it waswugu. Harmful magic. A bad shaman. And from what you just said about stripping yourself...”
“Yes. Well, you’re right, or rather, your shaman knew his business. You can strip other people, or drain them in a number of ways. But it’s utterly illegal. Wrong. It’s more or less the definition of a warlock. Any idea what happened?”
“It stopped eventually. I heard someone had decapitated a corpse in the cemetery which was thought to be the culprit.” Crane looked round. “I’m now waiting for you to tell me there’s no such thing as walking corpses.”
“I’m sure you are.” Day gave his snag-toothed grin as Crane shot him a look. “Let’s just say you’re unlikely to meet one.”
The garden at the end of the long dark passage was a soft grey of waving grass in the moonlight, with the empty plinth squat in its centre, framed by the solid stone pillars of the pergola. Crane wondered what his companion saw.
“Since we could be here for a while, and you did say it was a long story, would you tell me about the tattoos?” Day said. “Specifically,about being forced to have one. I’ve been wondering about that for days.”
It was an involved story, veering between farcical and exciting, and Crane knew he told it well. He couldn’t see the smaller man’s face as clearly as he’d have liked, but the shaman was rocking with laughter in the darkness as Crane reached a height of absurdity, making the old stone bench wobble alarmingly. Crane straightened a long leg to brace a foot against the ground, glanced down the passageway, and sucked in a sharp breath that cut off Day’s laughter instantly as he whipped round to look.
The Rose Walk was completely dark, the thick overgrown brambles that wound over and around it cutting off the moonlight, but the figure walking up it was as visible as if it were day. He wasn’t glowing, he was simply there, easily seen, solid.
He was Hector Vaudrey.
