Clariel

by Garth Nix

  ‘Everything isn’t always what it seems,’ said Roban quietly, watching her with wary eyes. ‘I didn’t know you had a knife. Or that you could use it.’

  ‘I’m a hunter!’ spat Clariel, too loudly, the force of her words helping rekindle the anger she had tamped back down. She took a breath, slowly releasing it, expelling the rage as her lungs emptied. This anger came upon her rarely, but she knew she had to be careful of its consequences. She had kept it suppressed since she was old enough to realise what it could lead her to. In the rage, Clariel was not herself.

  ‘I see,’ muttered Roban. ‘Are you all right?’

  Clariel knew what he really meant was ‘Have you got yourself under control?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, sheathing her knife back in its special place inside her boot. Her hand was trembling, and she felt strangely weak, as if her knees might fold and she would tumble to the ground. She took a deep breath and managed to stand fully upright, but she was very wobbly on her feet.

  Only then did Roban come closer. He put his hand under her elbow to steady her and leaned close to whisper.

  ‘Just go along with this for the moment. All right?’

  ‘Only if you explain why you stopped me.’

  ‘Later,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Not safe here.’

  ‘Oh, milady,’ cried Valannie, hurrying over. She was the only one heading towards Clariel. The previously crowded street was emptying fast. People were disappearing into shops and houses, or retreating back up the street, a tide of humanity most definitely on the ebb.

  Valannie looked at Roban, who gave a slight nod, filled his lungs and shouted.

  ‘Goldsmiths! Goldsmiths! To me! A guard! A guard!’

  His cry was answered swiftly. Far more swiftly than would usually be the case, suspected Clariel. Shouts came from several directions, repeating his words, and within a few minutes the heavy tramp of many boots upon the paved street could be heard, accompanied by the clatter and jangle of arms and armour.

  ‘What is going on?’ asked Clariel. She could feel her strength returning, and stepped away from Roban’s supporting hand.

  ‘A vicious attack upon a goldsmith’s daughter,’ said Valannie. ‘Terrible it is. You were lucky not to be killed.’

  ‘No I wasn’t,’ protested Clariel. ‘It was –’

  ‘Shock,’ interrupted Roban urgently. His right eye half closed in a desperate, slow wink. ‘You’ve had a nasty shock. But you’re safe now. Look, here come the Guard.’

  ‘Faked,’ whispered Clariel, low and to herself. The cut had missed her by a body’s width at least. If the young man had really wanted to hit her, he would have stabbed her in the back. And if Roban had really thought he was an assassin, he would have had his sword drawn and through the man in an instant, instead of punching and throwing him, and he certainly wouldn’t have blocked Clariel’s own attack.

  She was wondering what this was all about as two score or more of armed soldiery came around the corner, marching in step. Though all wore hauberks of mail or gethre plates, their surcoats varied, showing different Guild insignia. There were gold coins for the Goldsmiths, stylised ships for the Merchant Adventurers, bright blue drops for the Dyers, upright swords for the Weaponsmiths, and other blazons Clariel did not immediately recognise.

  They were led by a tall and imposing man of middle age, who wore a long, very white surcoat over a hauberk of gilded mail, not gethre plates. The surcoat was embroidered with the tower and aqueduct symbol of the city of Belisaere, with a smaller badge above his heart, the coins of the Goldsmiths again. It was cinched tightly at the waist by a very shiny belt of gold, supporting a gold scabbard that held a rather impractical-looking but very decorative sword with swan-wing quillons and a jewel in the pommel. He looked to be forty or thereabouts, and no doubt had been very handsome when younger, as much of it still remained in his even features and thick, dark hair. But as he drew closer, Clariel noted his eyes were narrow, sharp and distrustful, the eyes not of a hunter, but of a vicious predator. He reminded her somewhat of a stoat. A sleek and powerful stoat.

  ‘Guildmaster Kilp,’ whispered Valannie in Clariel’s ear. ‘A middle bow to him usually, Guild relative to Guildmaster, but as he’s Governor of the city as well, a full bow please, milady.’

  Clariel bowed low as the Governor approached. She kept her face impassive, but inside she was trying to figure all this out. The attack on her had been staged, but for what purpose? Clearly something organised by Kilp, because why would he be so close by otherwise?

  ‘Ah, the young lady Clariel, daughter of my most gifted colleague Jaciel,’ said Kilp, returning her bow with a slight inclination of his head. As he straightened up, she saw he had no baptismal Charter mark on his forehead, or if he did, it had been very cleverly hidden with powder and paint. He smiled as he spoke, but though his lips curled, she felt no warmth or kindness in his smile. ‘I trust you have taken no harm?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Clariel shortly. She almost said something else, but Roban had edged into her vision and his eyes, at least, were alive with an emotion, one she recognised as apprehension, perhaps even fear. She shut her mouth, and saw Roban’s throat move slightly, a barely noticeable gulp of relief.

  ‘I am pleased to hear it,’ said Kilp. He lifted his head and raised his voice, speaking not to Clariel, but to the few people still around, and no doubt to the others listening behind shutters and doors in the shops and houses nearby. ‘If you had been injured or, Charter forbid, killed, then we would not rest to bring the assassin to justice. Indeed, should any of my Guildmembers suffer such an attack again, we would be forced to close off the location, forbid all business, search all within and take any further action that might be warranted.’

  He looked at Clariel and smiled again. She smiled back, the smile she used for customers who were trying to sneak bad coins in payment, pass an alloy as pure gold, or otherwise cheat her parents’ business.

  ‘Perhaps I can escort you home, Lady Clariel?’ he asked. ‘To be certain of your safety.’

  Clariel shook her head. She didn’t know what was going on, but she was certain she didn’t want to spend any more time in Kilp’s company than was absolutely necessary.

  ‘No thank you, Guildmaster. We have not yet completed our purchases. Valannie, please, let us continue.’

  Valannie looked frightened now, more fearful than Roban had done a few moments before, as if declining Kilp’s invitation was akin to putting Clariel’s head on the block. Or maybe Valannie’s head, since Clariel doubted the maid was at heart concerned with anyone other than herself.

  ‘Oh, milady! After such a terrible ordeal, surely you should accept the Governor’s kind offer and go straight home? I can buy everything you need, I have your sizes and –’

  ‘I prefer to do it myself,’ said Clariel. ‘By your leave, sir?’

  She bowed to Kilp again, and took a step backwards.

  ‘You are brave,’ said the Guildmaster. ‘If perhaps a little headstrong. We must take care nothing happens to you. Roban, take two of my guards. Whomsoever you please. Lady Clariel, till we meet again …’

  He inclined his head, and strode past, a couple of his men running ahead, while most of them fell in behind. As they passed, Roban gestured to a tall man with a scarlet-dyed beard, who stepped out and waited, and then again to a woman with a scar across her chin that drew the corner of her mouth down, who also left the marchers.

  ‘Heyren and Linel,’ Roban said shortly. ‘Used to be Royal Guards, like me.’

  ‘Milady,’ said Heyren, the red-bearded guard. Scar-faced Linel simply bobbed her head.

  ‘What was that all …’ Clariel started to ask, but Roban shook his head again, and looked meaningfully at Valannie, who was staring after the departing Governor. Perhaps sensing Clariel’s attention, she turned, and cocked her head in the attitude of a faithful servant agog to hear the next command.

  ‘Such a wonderful man,’ she said, following it up with an annoying laugh.
‘He’s quite revitalised the city government, the Guild … everything! Now, where shall we … yes, Parillin’s first. There is much to do!’

  She bustled away. Clariel, flanked by her three guards, followed thoughtfully. Only a few houses along, Valannie turned into an open doorway hung with curtains of a rich velvet, tied back with broad bands of a saffron-coloured cloth. Evidently this was the house and shop of Parillin the cloth merchant.

  As Valannie entered, Clariel pretended to slip on the paved street. Catching Roban’s arm for support, she whispered close to his ear.

  ‘I want to know what is going on.’

  ‘Soon as I can, milady,’ replied Roban, out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Can’t talk just anywhere.’

  chapter three

  plots and machinations

  When Clariel joined her father at the head table for dinner, above the mass of apprentices and servants on the longer table below, he didn’t mention the attack on her. She chose not to bring it up for the time being, because she didn’t know what was behind it, or the complications it might lead to, when she wanted to keep everything as simple as possible before she could escape the city. Jaciel, as was not unusual, was absent from dinner, no doubt working on something she did not want to leave.

  In any case, there wasn’t much opportunity to talk, with the apprentices becoming rowdy and needing quelling, and Harven’s very vocal dissatisfaction with some of the courses, most notably the grilled eels that were served poking out of a giant pastry shaped as sea coral. Everyone else ate them with relish, while Harven summoned the cook to complain about the spices used, or not used. Clariel didn’t bother to listen, and ate steadily, her thoughts far away as usual, imagining a life in the Forest.

  After dinner, Clariel went to the roof garden, to watch the sun set and get away from the organisation of her new wardrobe, which Valannie had entered into with considerable fervour. It had taken all afternoon to buy a vast array of cloth, get tediously measured numerous times, and order what seemed like dozens of items of clothing, in addition to picking up ready-made clothes that Valannie thought would just serve until the new clothes could be made. It all cost a huge amount, more than forty gold bezants, a sum Clariel thought she could have lived on for a year or more in the Forest and so in her opinion was a ghastly waste of money.

  ‘Milady.’

  The whisper came from the top of the stairs. Clariel turned quickly, ready to draw her knife. But it was Roban. He was obviously ill at ease and would not climb the last few steps to the roof garden. He remained in shadow, only his face illuminated by the light from the ancient Charter-spelled lantern of filigreed silver that hung on a tall pole at the stairhead.

  ‘Only got a minute,’ he said. ‘Watch change in a moment, I’ll be off home. And I can’t tell you much, milady. It’s all politics and plots, beyond my ken. All I know is I was ordered to take part in the mummery with Aronzo –’

  ‘Aronzo? Is that the name of the young man who attacked me?’

  ‘Yes, and on no account to hurt him, not that I needed to be told twice, him being Guildmaster Kilp’s son –’

  ‘His son!’

  ‘The older one. The younger brother’s an ox, good-natured and not like his father, whereas Aronzo is too much like – fair-looking he is, but as cold and vicious as an eel, and as quick to strike.’

  ‘I don’t understand this at all,’ protested Clariel. She frowned. As far as she could tell, Roban was speaking truthfully. There was a Charter spell to compel plain-speaking, but she didn’t know it. In fact, she knew very few Charter Magic spells and hadn’t cast even the ones she did know for months. Besides, Roban doubtless would be offended to have his veracity questioned.

  ‘Kilp has staged similar “attacks” before, making excuses to intervene in the business and territories of other Guilds. I think that’s what it was about … but there might be more …’

  He hesitated, and shifted on the step, clearing his throat as if it had suddenly gone dry.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m only guessing,’ muttered Roban, ‘and smarter folk than I might guess otherwise. But Kilp is Governor because he is Guildmaster of the Goldsmiths, and it is the middle of the Goldsmiths’ turn, with three years to go. But the Goldsmiths have an election coming up this year, and Kilp could be unseated, say by the most famous Goldsmith in the Kingdom. No longer Guildmaster, no longer Governor.’

  ‘You mean Mother?’ asked Clariel. ‘But she doesn’t give a … a grain of copper … for politics!’

  ‘Your mother is also the King’s cousin,’ said Roban. ‘In a Kingdom where the King does not care to rule, and none know where his heir has got to, maybe not even the King himself –’

  ‘Princess Tathiel? I thought she was dead. Years ago.’

  ‘She may be. Who knows? The King cannot or will not say.’

  ‘You think Mother wants to be Guildmaster, and Governor, and … and Queen?’

  ‘I don’t know, milady. But perhaps Kilp thinks she does, and that attack on you was a warning: unless she limits her ambitions, harm will come to those she holds dear.’

  ‘Holds dear? Me?’ asked Clariel. ‘Mother wouldn’t even notice!’

  ‘I think you’ll find she would,’ said Roban. ‘Any mother would.’

  Not my mother, thought Clariel. She has been lost in her craft my entire life.

  ‘There is one … other matter … milady,’ said Roban hesitantly. He was watching her carefully now, no longer looking down.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Begging your pardon, but I’ve seen berserks before, and …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think you might have the fury, milady. It is oft found in the royal blood, and you’re a cousin …’

  ‘The fury? Me, a berserk? I’m not old enough to be anything!’

  ‘Age is of no import,’ said Roban carefully. ‘May I suggest you talk to Gullaine, the Captain of the Guard. The rage can be shepherded, kept in check, and she knows about such things.’

  Clariel wrinkled her forehead. ‘I do get angry sometimes, but I’ve never … almost never … completely lost my temper. I’m sure I’m not a berserk.’

  ‘As you say, milady,’ said Roban. ‘By your leave, I’ll be away to my bed.’

  Roban quietly slipped away down the stairs, leaving Clariel to think about many things. She wanted to dismiss the suggestion she was a berserk. They were rare fighters, almost monstrous in their rage, which fuelled them to great feats of arms, shrugging off blows and wounds, exhibiting the strength of several men and the like. And they were always men, as far as she could remember, from the tales she’d heard or read. Clariel had never seen an actual berserk.

  But she had experienced a similar feeling of uncontrollable anger years before, when she had been surprised and attacked by a wild sow. It had slashed her leg through her leathers and got her on the ground, which was the worst place to be. Clariel remembered the sudden onset of the fury, starting from a moment of intolerable exasperation at letting herself get in such a predicament. Then the anger blew up like a forest fire. The sow had swung around to come back and attack again, and the next thing Clariel knew she was standing over its dead body, gripping a trotter in each hand, having literally torn it apart. And she’d still been so angry she’d thrown the pieces down, ripped up a sapling and whipped the remains until suddenly coming to her rather appalled senses, followed soon after by a great weakness, not to mention a feeling of revulsion.

  So she couldn’t dismiss the notion she was a berserk as easily as she wanted to …

  Roban’s other suggestion, that Kilp was sending a warning to thwart her mother’s ambition, was easier to disregard. Clariel very much doubted her mother could have changed so drastically without her noticing. Surely if Jaciel was plotting to become Guildmaster of the Goldsmiths, and Governor, and then Queen, she would have stopped making things, or at least would be less fanatical about her art.

  ‘I suppose I had better try to talk to Father,’ Cl
ariel whispered to the sky. Unlike in the Great Forest, it was a vast and bare expanse of stars, lacking the comforting shadows cast by the mighty trees. It made her shudder to look upon the cold emptiness above, and shudder again as she dropped her gaze and looked out upon its opposite: the crowded, fettered houses jammed together, mimicking the night sky and its stars with lanterns and Charter lights in a thousand, five thousand, ten thousand windows …

  Clariel went down the stairs. Even the cool, dead wood of the stair rail gave some comfort under her hand. It was not a living branch, but it still had some connection with her true home, and it had been cut and shaped by a master. One day, Clariel told herself, she too would fell trees for a house, and take axe, adze, plane and saw to timber, and fashion a dwelling in the greenwood that would enrich her spirit, not leech the life from it, like all the cold, dead stone around her now.

  Harven was in his study, his elbows planted amid a pile of papers, his hands close to his face, turning something in his fingers so it caught the light from another ancient Charter light on his desk, this one a cube of translucent stone with the marks set within a central hole inside it, so it gave a softer illumination.

  He turned as Clariel entered, smiled and then looked back to the tiny golden object he was studying. His daughter came close, and gazed over his shoulder at the teardrop of gold he held. It was no longer than the nail on his little finger, though a third its width.

  ‘It is a perfect tear,’ said Harven reverentially. ‘Burnished so cunningly it reflects light from all angles, and appears liquid, for all that it is solid metal. Even as I hold it, I fear it will run between my fingers, and splash away into nothing. And yet your mother made it quickly, and will make dozens more this night, and I … some other master goldsmith could never make such a thing, no matter how long they laboured. She has the skill of the ancients in her hands and eyes, rival even to Dropstone or Kagello the Old –’

  ‘She is truly gifted,’ interrupted Clariel. ‘Now, Father, I need to talk to you about something important.’