“Some kind of magic,” the anarchist muttered.

“No,” Justinian said. “He was killed by the complete absence of magic.”

“I beg your pardon?” the duke said.

“We already know the castle warding spell has been… temperamental,” Justinian said. “Have you noticed problems with any other spells? Food preservation spells wearing off prematurely? Healing potions not working as designed? Cosmetic spells not performing reliably?”

The duke nodded and narrowed his eyes. From the murmurs Gwynn could hear from several other people nearby, she suspected that there had, indeed, been many magical malfunctions recently-probably more than the duke ever dreamed.

“The light globes haven’t worked for weeks,” the castle mage said, glancing up at a flickering torch.

“It’s him,” Justinian said, pointing at Reg.

“Me?” Reg exclaimed. “I’m no bloody mage.”

“We’ll see about that,” the duke said, gesturing to his guards to seize Reg.

“No, Reg is right, your grace,” Justinian said, waving the guards back. “He’s no mage. He has no magic whatsoever. Probably born that way. He’s what we call a magic null.”

“A what?” the duke said.

“A null-he cancels out magic by his very presence. Like water and fire. Pour water on a fire, and it fizzles out. Pour water on gunpowder, and you can’t even light it. That’s what he does to magic. Snuffs it out like a candle.”

“Explains why the warding spell wasn’t working, but not how he killed my prisoner,” the duke said. “Unless you’re trying to tell me that anarchist was a mage. Which doesn’t make sense; they hate mages. Besides, you aren’t harmed by him.”

“It goes back to that wound your prisoner got five years ago,” the Maestro said. “The one his confederate here says their captured mage healed. They probably had a knife to his throat, poor man. But he was clever. He didn’t perform a healing spell at all.”

“That’s rot,” the remaining anarchist said. “I saw it. One minute he had a great bleeding wound, and the next he looked perfectly fine.”