A Matter of Magic by Patricia Wrede

two years, talking brought back memories of the skinny old woman’s terrified howls as the constables hauled her off to prison, and of the hangman’s steadytread and the sickening thud as the trapdoors dropped away beneath the feet of his line of victims. Kim preferred to remember the dubious safety and fleeting camaraderie of the earlier years, when she thought of Mother Tibb at all.
    “I’m sorry,” Mairelon said gently. He paused. “About Laverham—” He made her describe her brief encounter in as much detail as she could remember. At last he paused and said, “All right, I’ll agree that he seems to have been after you. But if anything else like that happens, or if you run into Laverham or any of his men again, tell me.”
    Kim nodded. Mairelon turned to the still-glowing silver bowl and moved both hands in a swift, complicated gesture above it. The light gathered around the rim of the bowl, as though something were sucking it upward. Then, with a faint popping noise, the lamp flared into life and the glow of the bowl vanished.
    Mairelon smiled in satisfaction and began setting the wagon to rights. The extended lamp hook folded neatly and invisibly back into the wall beside the door, the ashes of the herbs were thrown outside, and the Saltash Bowl was wiped and wrapped in velvet once more. Kim watched for a few minutes in silence before reminding Mairelon that he had promised to explain to her what was really going on.
    “So I did. The story really starts about fifteen years ago, when old Lord Saltash died. He left a rather large bequest to the Royal College of Wizards. You’ve heard of the Royal College, I trust?”
    “As much as anybody.”
    “Mmmm. Well, Saltash fancied himself a magician, and he’d collected a tremendous number of odds and ends of things that he thought ought to be properly investigated. He dumped the lot on the College. Most of them turned out to be quite worthless, but—”
    “That’s why you called it the Saltash Bowl!” Kim said. “It was part of the rum cull’s collection!”
    “Yes, though I wouldn’t call Saltash a rum cull. The bowl is only part of the grouping; there’s a silver platter that matches it, and four carved balls of different sizes. Together, they’re the key to a very interesting spell.”
    “Making people tell the truth,” Kim said, nodding.
    “I don’t think you realize what that means,” Mairelon said testily. “It’seasy enough to bind someone
not
to do things, but a spell to force a person to
speak
, and to speak only the truth, without interfering with the ability to answer intelligently—well, it’s remarkable. Most control spells are obvious; they make the people they’re used on act like sleepwalkers. But the Saltash group—”
    “All right!” Kim said hastily. “It’s bang-up. What next?”
    “The Royal College spent a good deal of time, here and there, trying to duplicate the spell on the grouping. No one ever succeeded, and the Saltash group became a curiosity. And then, four years ago, it was stolen.”
    Mairelon paused. “It was stolen,” he repeated, “in such a way that it appeared that I was the thief.”
    “You were in the Royal College?” Kim asked.
    Mairelon blinked, as if he had expected some other response. Then he smiled slightly. “Yes, I was. Under another name, you understand.”
    “Richard Merrill?”
    “You
are
a shrewd one. Yes, that is my name.”
    “But you ain’t the sharper who nicked the bowl.”
    “No. If I hadn’t been lucky enough to run into Edward, though, I’d have no way of proving it. The evidence was overwhelming. Even my brother Andrew believed it.”
    Kim snorted. “He’s a noodle, then.”
    Mairelon’s face lost its set look, and he laughed. “A surprisingly apt description, I’m afraid.”
    “So why didn’t this Edward cove tell anybody that you ain’t the one who lifted them things?”
    “Those things, Kim, not them things. At the time, it was . . . convenient to have