The decorations appeared first at the edges of things. The shapes crept and spread, turning into vines and leaves carved of polished rosewood and dark marble, then moving like real, living vegetation, growing and unfurling, putting out wooden leaves and resplendent flowers that were quickly dyed with inks of red and gold. Mosaic patterns unfolded in azure and purple wherever a surface would support them. Waterlily carvings appeared on the floor. Wondrous, white-feathered egrets stalked out of carven reeds and took up position along the walls, intently watchful for stone carvings of fish and frogs.
Samakarantha walked to the window as a scenery of wetland and humid forests unfolded around him in the room. The windows reshaped themselves into elegant arches, and doors appeared, then opened outwards. A balcony unfolded itself and sprouted railings of dark glistening wood, cut into curls and twists and leaves. So the magician took himself out onto the balcony at a stride. A thought occurred to him then: it was perhaps arguable that his Biloko were overdoing the magic. He frowned. He had wanted to put on a show–draw attention even–but this was turning into a spectacle. Folks were gathering in the square down below, their upturned, frightened faces gawking and open-mouthed.
The house grew. Towers sprouted. Windows geminated. Brilliant tiles of malachite green spread over every rooftop like a lawn on dead earth. The walls that had been drab and stained were washed over with a whiteness as bright and bold as alabaster. Thick living foliage grew from every available inch of soil, and crowded up the walls of the old manor house. And then, the magic spread. Evidently, the power of the charm was so great that ripples had spread outwards and these wavelets of magic were lapping themselves upon the surrounding houses. Windows were repaired or replaced. Walls were painted. Holes in walls were bricked up and roofs were fixed. Many of the nearer houses grew decorative embellishments too, and a good number also sprouted little garrets and additional sunrooms out the sides of their walls, like mushrooms of glass and polished oak. The roads were swept clean. Samakarantha could see the carcass of the dog he had noticed earlier lift off the ground and waft away, carried to whatever place old dead dogs are wont to arrive at in this town.
He did his best not to look startled by all of this.
People below were whispering and pointing. But once they realised that the strange magician had seemingly repaired, rebuilt and enlarged every house in the slums by the bay, more than a few of them started to cheer and whistle too.
He gave them a slight bow of the head, something of a smile, and he turned with a sweep of his robes, then returned to the house.
“Biloko! Biloko!” he cried out.
A stillness entered the air. It was not an empty stillness, and Samakarantha knew that he was being watched by attentive eyes.
“Amur ifi athamura?”
The voices of the biloko came back to him in hissing whispers, darting here and there in their syllables, and leaving an impression of weird visions in his head. “Isker atha sisstha ifa,” they said.
He shook his head.
“Imtafo?”
“”Sissatha ifam bilifu.”
“Tasu,” said Samakarantha. He looked around, now curious. There was old magic in the house. The charms of the biloko had run amok–or so they claimed–because they had not expected such a well of power to sit at the heart of the residence. “Hmm,” he said, more or less to himself. “It appears that the House of Hissocking Sprent may have some stories in its foundations.”
His thoughts were interrupted by a wavering,”M’laird?” directed at him from the shadows of the doorway.”
He did not turn, but allowed a half-glance that way and replied. “Yes?”
Scrimminger emerged into the light, gold and shadow chasing over his wrinkles. “We can’t help but notice, good magery-laird…” and he licked his lower lip, nervously, “that is good sir, the house appears to have thoroughly repaired and replenished itself. Is this you doing?”
“It is.”
“I see,” said Scimminger, visibly taken aback. Whereas his expression had previously been flat, and his voice empty of any emotions beyond boredom and weariness, now he looked as if his mind was just comprehending that this magus from over the oceans was perhaps a far cry from being some mere hexpeddler.
“Well?” said the magus.
“Well, uh, only, m’laird, if you plan to do anything quite so drastic, please give us warning. It gave me and me missus quite a fright, and my poor lad was in the wood cellar fetching wood, and he thought the world was falling down on him. When the dark little room sprouted blazing oil lamps from its walls–well–when that happened, he thought he was dead and gone to the land of ghaists. He came running out in a freetin state, quite drained of blood.”
“I see. Yes. You are quite right. I ought have given warning. I will be more forthcoming with my plans in future. Thank you.”
“No, thank you, m’laird.” He paused and then said, “And sir?”
“Hm?”
“If I may, thank you also for extending the enchantment to the poorer folks who live hereabouts. Many of them are already at the door, saying their thanks. There’s many good folks here. Hard working, but fallen on hard times, or born into a bad place, or under the roof of an ill father or mother. It’s tough to raise your childerings in a house full of holes that lets in the snow and the rats and the biting winds. And thank you for filling their larders too. Some of the mothers have come to the doorstep weeping, and offering their prayers up for your kind soul. There’s many little ones who have lived all their life hungry, who will eat well for a good while, on cause of your generosity.”
Samakarantha was unaware that the magic had filled everyone’s pantries with food. This worried him. Common magic had not the power to create real food out of nothing. It could not nourish in that way, but make only illusions and half-seemings. “And our larders are filled too?”
“Quite to brimming, M’laird magus.”
“Hm. Might you bring me a charmed loaf of bread from the larder? I am not hungry, but I wish to inspect it. As a matter of inspecting my workmanship, you see.”
“Ah, yes. Of course. Workmanship.” He did not sound wholly convinced, but hurried away anyway, and was soon back on his uneasy joints, but now carrying a thick-crusted cob under one arm.
Samakarantha looked at the bread, turned it over, smelled it and worked some small, quiet spells upon it, testing it. This was real. It was no illusion. A cold worry crept in him now. It was well beyond what he had intended, and even well beyond what he thought he was capable of. The Biloko had not mentioned the making of food either. It seemed to him that the food had been conjured at the will of something else–a power that was not his own–and was not in his control. He looked about, studying the walls. He wondered. There might be something sentient and wilful in the timbers, and more powerful than he had earlier guessed. Much, much more powerful.
“Is the bread to your satisfaction?” asked Scrimminger, clutching and unclutching his fingers before him.
“It is,” answered Samakarantha, handing back the loaf. However, he kept his expression impassive, allowing only a faint smile. “You may go.”
Scimminger backed out at his elderly limping pace whilst holding the loaf in his fingers, clamped together.
“Well,” said the magus, looking about once he was alone. “I wonder what I have wandered myself into?”