Balthasar

Bal found Ishmael di Studier’s lawyers a study in contrasts, when Lorcas showed them into his bedroom. The senior was small and rotund, with a shrewd, complacent face. His clothing was well tailored though plain and well-worn, the clothing of a man confident in his station and frugal by habit. His junior was taller even than young Guillaume di Maurier and much healthier-seeming, with a sharp-planed, handsome face, and the broad shoulders and lean hips of an athlete beneath an elegantly cut frock coat. Whoever he was, he was not subsisting on a junior’s stipend.

“Thank you,” said Balthasar. “Thank you for coming so near to sunrise. I am Balthasar Hearne.”

“I am Preston di Brennan,” said the senior lawyer, his name and faint accent betraying origins in the interior, “and my junior is Ingmar Myerling.” The tall youth bowed his head very slightly.

“Archipelagean,” Bal said; that explained the distinctive cast of face and athleticism; the Archipelago valued physical prowess. “You share the name of the dukes of the Scallon Isles.”

“I am the youngest son of that family, sir.” He spoke with precision, forming his vowels to match those of the city, as he had no doubt learned he had to do to carry authority in court. The passionate, unruly Scallon Islanders were the butt of many jokes, particularly now. Bal, hearing the diction, hearing the resonant voice—surely he was a singer, like many of the islanders—appreciating the physique, doubted that they would mock him long.

“Have you been able to speak to Baron Strumheller?”

“We have inquired for him, but were told he had not recovered his senses. There seems no reason for concern; he has long been prone to sudden bouts of extreme lassitude, from which he recovers completely.”

“You know him, then,” Bal probed.

The lawyer replied blandly, “I have represented his family’s interests in the city since I was a young solicitor; I expect to continue doing so until I retire. I have known the baron all his adult life. Tell me, sir, what is it you believe you can add to the case?”

“What is the case?” Bal said. “What I have heard has come to me secondhand.”

The lawyer considered a moment. “The case, sir, is that Baron Strumheller is charged with the murder of a lady in the Lagerhans district, and with malignant sorcery against Lord Vladimer, who lies mysteriously stricken in the ducal summer house. There is a witness to the murder, who has testified to having been elsewhere in the house when the murder was committed, and to having heard Baron Strumheller’s voice raised in argument with the lady, on behalf of a child who had disappeared. Shortly afterward the lady screamed, and when her staff entered the room the baron shot one, though that is not part of the charge as yet, and fled. The lady was newly dead. There are, however, some irregularities about the charges laid that make one wonder, and I expect an interview with my client to be illuminating.”

“Perhaps I can help you, too,” Bal said. “I know who the lady was, and the missing child is my daughter.”

Preston di Brennan’s sonn washed over him. He had a touch that was almost feminine in its lightness. “Pray continue.”

“You may have to decide what of this to use,” Bal cautioned, “because it may come to touch on affairs of state.” He laid out events for the lawyers, starting with the arrival of Tercelle Amberley on his doorstep and the birth of the children, omitting, once more, the mention of their sightedness, and not naming the midwife he had called to attend her. As a respectable physician and a man, he would take responsibility before the law, and the case was not one of malpractice. He described Tercelle’s attempt to drug him and expose the newborns, and her flight, and the assault on himself two days later. With great care, he qualified his impressions of the next day, emphasizing his own pain, weakness, and disorientation, and therefore his unreliability, and taking up the narrative with authority only with the return of Baron Strumheller from the burning Rivermarch and his evacuation of Bal and his family.

“Mm, interesting,” said di Brennan. “Most interesting. And with Lord Ferdenzil himself arriving, there will be much pressure to resolve the murder of his intended in a way least embarrassing to him. Though I cannot understand how the trial of a fellow peer would achieve that.” To his junior he said, “Do you know anything of this, Ingmar? Your circle has an interest in Ferdenzil Mycene’s doings.”

The young man stiffened. It was, after all, his home and inheritance that Ferdenzil Mycene’s ambitions threatened, and there was a growing clique of islanders in the city agitating for support against them.

“Think on your answer, and give me your best,” said the older lawyer in a mellow tone. “If you feel you have a conflict of interest, you must tell me. And you will hold this information in confidence until it is brought forward in court.”

“I will, sir,” said the young man, bridling at the suggestion against his honor, for all the meek acquiescence of his words. The older man leaned over and patted his arm. “Forgive me lad,” he said. “I do trust you, but it must be said so that this gentlemen knows he can trust us. He means well toward Baron Strumheller, and has valuable information for us. Sir, you are prepared to testify to this?”

“Yes,” Bal said.

“Well, if the lady were indiscreet, then it will be worth inquiry as to who else may have an interest. It is most unfortunate that the infants cannot presently be traced, although examination of the lady’s body will confirm that she bore a child very shortly before her death. Still, we must move along; I judge we have half an hour before we must leave, or have to impose upon the archduke’s hospitality for the day. And then there is the second charge,” he said in a more delicate tone.

“There are,” Bal said quietly, “many reasons for a man to fall unconscious that have nothing to do with sorcery, many of which, again, we would consider natural. A cerebral stroke, for instance, can produce sudden and profound unconsciousness.”

“We will, of course, produce witnesses to that effect,” the lawyer said, his tone once more bland.

“I did not mention until now how Baron Strumheller came to be at my door,” Bal said after a moment. “It was a very fortunate circumstance for myself, since his timely arrival prevented my assailants from returning and may have saved my life. But I understand from my wife that Lord Vladimer had in fact sent him to me. I can only surmise why at this moment, but you may not be aware that I specialize in the care of people with disorders of thought: addictions, compulsions, and delusions. The delusion that one possesses magic is not a common one, but it is not entirely unknown, either.”

The delicate sonn washed over him once more. “Again, sir, this conversation is proving surprisingly interesting; do go on.”

“It is widely rumored, I believe, that Baron Strumheller is a mage,” Bal said carefully. “Indeed, he seems to believe so himself. However, the archduke’s physicians, upon examining me, asserted their opinions that, although my injuries were painful and debilitating, I must not have been as badly injured as my wife and I believed. They do not recognize the efficacy of magical healing, you realize.”

“And why should a man choose to believe himself a mage?” probed the lawyer.

“There is little choice in delusion. Again, I have not spoken to Baron Strumheller, but in such cases it can arise out of a great loss in his early life, a sense of powerlessness or insignificance, or perhaps neglect and a need for attention, even negative attention.”

“His mother, to whom the family was much devoted, died when he was sixteen, bearing a premature child. He claimed to have healed the child, his sister.”

Bal nodded. “That might indeed have been it. I suppose the family did not receive the claim particularly well.”

“His father threw him out of the house. Disinherited him completely. He spent the next nine years a vagabond, and took to the trade, such as it is, of Shadowhunter.”

“But not magic?” Balthasar said.

“Not magic, not then. He returned to the family when he did the barony the service of ridding them of a glazen, and the old baron’s friends persuaded his father to reinstate him. The scars on his face—he got them then.”

“That he carries them still argues against him having much in the way of power,” Bal remarked.

“He didn’t stay in the Borders: There’d been a woman killed by the glazen, whom he’d loved as a girl. He came into the city and made contact with the mages.”

“A similar impetus as before, the death of someone dear to him,” Bal murmured, nodding slightly.

“Supposedly, he trained his magic then. Lord Vladimer took him on somewhat later, and for the next few years he went hither and yon on Lord Vladimer’s account, up and down the coast, into and out of the Shadowlands, Shadowhunting when there was need. Then, when his father died, he returned to the barony. He’s done well there; he’s well regarded by his tenants and his peers, and he has organized and built up the Borders defense against Shadowborn so well that the number of deaths from incursions has steadily declined. This year, there were none.”

“And once again, the claim to magic is in abeyance,” Bal noted.

“He wears gloves all the time,” the lawyer said, testing.

Bal said, “My wife wears gloves in public. It is, in her case, a harmless phobia about infection.”

“He claims these collapses of his are exhaustion of his magic.”

“Neurasthenic collapses,” Bal said. “Not at all uncommon, either, though he should be examined by a physician to rule out a physical cause.”

“And you believe Lord Vladimer might have sent him to you for the treatment of this delusion.”

“I am aware that professional discretion should have imposed silence on me, except that Baron Strumheller’s life could be in far greater danger from this charge than from a relatively mild delusion—I would not say benign, because it has obviously had great consequences in his personal life—that he possesses magic.”

There was a silence. Bal did not dare sonn the lawyer, shrewd as he was.

“You are a clever young man,” di Brennan observed, by way of acknowledging the question evaded. “Were you to go onto the stand, you could testify to all this?”

“I could testify to all this.”

“Even though you yourself were ostensibly a recipient of Baron Strumheller’s healing.”

“Sir, I was injured and in great pain. Indeed, I believed I was dying, and so I must qualify my own reliability.”

“Yes, I noted that. And what of his menservants?” he asked, with a cast of sonn toward Lorcas, who had been standing quiet and tense throughout.

“They must tell the truth of what they have witnessed, of course,” Bal said. “It is for the defense to frame their testimony as suits their case. Baron Strumheller, I understand, has never claimed to be a mage of great power.”

“And is that characteristic of such a delusion?”

“It depends,” Bal said carefully, “upon the nature and severity of the delusion. Baron Strumheller’s condition seems to me mild, though of long duration, and potentially curable, should he so choose. Lord Vladimer’s wish may well have been enough for him to consider treatment, and Lord Vladimer’s trust—and the relationships he now has—could prove most helpful.”

There was another silence, and then the rustle of clothing. Bal sonned the two lawyers in the act of rising. “A most interesting discussion, Dr. Hearne, but we must go now; the sunrise bell will be tolling soon. You will be available for further consultation, I trust.”

“I will be, certainly.”

“Then we will bid you good day, with our best wishes for your recovery.”

Bal lay back on his pillows, limp and aching, and did not sonn around him when he heard Lorcas approach.

“You realize why?” he said.

“To undermine the charge,” Lorcas said, “but sir, we cannot go on the stand. Our experience—” He stopped, unhappily.

“As I said, you must testify according to what you yourself have witnessed and believe, and let the legal gentlemen frame your testimony. I am afraid that you may come off seeming credulous—though they will have to be careful, because we cannot insult the whole of society, which ostracized him because of this claim of magic, because we cannot risk their turning on him. High society’s attitude to the Borders will help, I fear. It will be delicate maneuvering, but I do believe Mr. di Brennan can do it. You realize that I still have no idea whether or not he himself knows or believes that Baron Strumheller is a mage. But it does not matter; he can guide us through the pitfalls without our perjuring ourselves.”

“It is clever,” Lorcas said. Bal’s sonn showed his tight, unhappy face.

“It troubles you,” Bal said quietly, “because it does a disservice to your master, who is a man who lives with courage and integrity and who faces complex and painful realities squarely. The very last man, I would suspect, to succumb to a delusion.”

“Yes,” Lorcas said. “You . . . know him very well, it seems, already.”

“And hold him in high regard,” Bal said quietly. “Tell me, has your son returned or sent word? It’s very close to sunrise, as di Brennan said.”

“Not yet,” Lorcas said. “Best you do not worry yourself over it, sir. He’ll not leave your sister until he’s assured of her safety.”