Page 58 of The Magpie Lord
“Sir Peter Bruton and Lady Bruton.” Stephen’s voice was toneless. Crane glanced at him and saw his lips were white.
“Day,” said Sir Peter. He was a tall, fleshy man, a little younger than Crane, large and physically powerful, with sunken blue eyes and a voice that drawled slightly. “I’msoglad it’s you.”
“I’m sure,” said Stephen. “Did you miss me?”
“I won’t miss you this time. I’m going to make you pay, you and the Jew bitch, and your whole band of self-righteous murderers, but I’ll start with you, you vicious little pansy. You’re going to scream before you die.”
“Not as much as Underhill screamed,” said Stephen venomously, and the air suddenly leapt between them as both men made violent motions. Crane jumped sideways as something he couldn’t see distorted the world briefly. The big man made an abrupt flinging gesture, lunged with the other hand, and there was a heaving crack of soundless disturbance in the air. Stephen dropped like a rag doll, body crumpling as he fell, and tumbled down the stairs, limbs loose and flailing. He hit the floor hard, head smacking against the flagstones, and lay still.
Crane stared down at him, then met Sir Peter Bruton’s eyes.
“You’re in my house,” he said. “Explain yourself.”
Chapter Seventeen
Crane sat in an armchair in the parlour with Lady Bruton opposite him. She was elegantly clothed in a green morning gown, very slender, with a pointed chin, large green eyes and soft brown hair fashionably dressed. She was the kind of woman who probably got called ethereal, Crane thought.
It would have been like any other morning call if he could stop wondering what Sir Peter was doing to Stephen’s crumpled, helpless body, and if he had been able to move out of the chair.
Lady Bruton smiled at him. The sense of intensity came off her in waves.
“I’m so glad we can have this chat. I do want to see if we can find a happy solution. And I’m sure that horrid little man has told you all sorts of ghastly things about us.”
“Not by name,” Crane said. “He’s mentioned warlocks.”
“Warlock,” she said, with gentle distaste. “Such a ridiculous word. There’s no such thing, you know. There are just practitioners. Some of us choose to abide by a set of restrictive, outmoded laws. Some of us do not. And I’m afraid some people—nasty, small-minded, envious people—take pleasure in trying to bring everyone else down to their own petty level. A warlock, Lord Crane, is someone a justiciar doesn’t like. They accuse us of murder under laws we don’t accept, and they murder us and claim their law makes it right. It’s very easy when you make the laws, isn’t it?”
“Let me be sure I understand you,” Crane said. “Do you use other people as sources of power? Strip them, use their corpses?”
“Well, of course weusepeople.” Lady Bruton gave a musical laugh. “We use the power granted to us as our birthright. Don’t you, my lord earl?”
“I’m at best an accidental earl, and a highly reluctant one. And I believe I have your group to thank for my father’s and brother’s removal.”
She smiled. “Perhaps you do. But tell me, what are you, if not an earl?”
“A trader.”
“A trader. A good one? Successful?”
“Yes.”
“Because of your natural talents,” said Lady Bruton. “The fact that you are cleverer than the next man. Better at calculations. Luckier. More ruthless. Be honest: is not trading the art of exploiting those less gifted than yourself?”
“In part. It’s better to ensure they’ll trade with you again.”
She waved that aside. “The fact is, we all of us have our place in life. Some of us are the nobility, some are the people. The people exist for the nobility. They are—”
“Cattle?”
“Yes. Cattle. The cattle that you farm for rents now, the cattle that you farmed for your trading. The mass of tedious, unimportant little lives, who are there to be of use to those of us who are above the herd. You and I know that is the truth, Lord Crane, I trust you won’t pretend to be sentimental.”
“What’s sentimental is this claim to be justified by birthright. If you’re going to murder people for your own benefit, you might as well be honest about it.”
Lady Bruton’s face hardened for a second, smoothed again. “You’ve been listening to Stephen Day,” she said, with a note of liltingscorn. “You do understand it’s motivated by sheer envy? All the justiciars are like that. They hate us because they want to be us: noble, unafraid, proud of what we are—proud of, yes, our birthright. They want to make us as cowardly and placeless as themselves. They’re all contemptible: that common little queer Day, and his dreadful, graceless Jewess, and the rest.” Her voice was no longer quite so musical. “Of course that plebeian runt has attached himself to you. You’ve birth, breeding, you’re a fine figure of a man. Everything he isn’t. It would be funny if it wasn’t so revolting.”
Crane settled back in his chair as best he could. The invisible bonds held him close. “What do you want with me, Lady Bruton?”
She gathered herself, gave him another dazzling smile. “I want you to make a choice. You see, we have a purpose here. We had hoped to pursue it without inconveniencing you, but Dayhadto get in the way. So now, I’m afraid you will have to serve our purpose, one way or the other.”
