by Nix, Garth
She sat down, but thought she’d better wait for Magistrix . . . no, Mrs. Tallowe, before pouring the tea. It was interesting “Magistrix” was not a word recognized by Wilhelmina and obviously not used in the school, or not used widely. Perhaps even though magic was taught here, it was not talked about, Elinor considered. She remembered what Dr. Bannow had said about officialdom turning a blind eye to magic in the North. Likely it was the same here at the school. Thinking of this, she pulled her straw hat down a little lower at the front, making sure her Charter mark was hidden.
She sat alone for a few minutes more, trying not to think about what had happened and what her life might become now. Her side ached, though the wound had healed and Dr. Bannow was happy with her recovery and said this pain would pass in time. Her wrists ached, too, though there was only the faintest sign of hot, burning fingermarks. Dr. Bannow was less confident about that pain ever disappearing. She simply didn’t know.
There was a knock on the door, a polite rap before entry. The woman who came in was neither tall nor short, and was not distinctive, other than the dark green scarf she wore. Concealing her forehead, Elinor noted. Apart from that she looked to be in her forties and was sensibly attired in several layers of unfashionable grey flannel. The scarf was the only touch of color about her. Even her eyes were grey.
“Miss Hallett?” she asked, her voice anxious. “I am Abigail Tallowe. Is it my sister? Has . . . has she passed away?”
Elinor stood up and inclined her head.
“No,” she said quickly. “No one close. In fact I am not even sure you knew my mother, Amelia Hallett.”
“Amelia Hallett? I don’t think so . . .” faltered Mrs. Tallowe. She walked to the closest chair and sat down in it, rather too swiftly than could be comfortable. Elinor thought perhaps she wasn’t so much relieved her sister hadn’t died as disappointed. There was something in the set of her mouth.
“Her mother, my grandmother, was Myrien Clayr,” said Elinor. “Or Myrien of the Clayr, if you will.”
Mrs. Tallowe looked swiftly around the room and back at the still-open door. Elinor watched, waiting for her to speak.
“It is best to speak quietly of any matters to do with . . . the North,” said Mrs. Tallowe finally, her voice low. “Myrien? I believe she was my grandmother’s cousin. No close connection. Nevertheless, thank you for letting me know.”
She stood up and took a step toward the door.
“That’s not all,” said Elinor. She felt a surge of recklessness well up inside her and removed her hat. Mrs. Tallow saw the mark on her forehead and stopped.
“I believe it is customary for us to touch each other’s mark,” said Elinor.
Mrs. Tallowe hesitated for a long second.
“Oh, very well,” she said crossly. She went to the door and closed it, before turning back and removing her scarf. “You do understand that most people around here prefer to not be reminded of the Old Kingdom and all that comes from it?”
“I do indeed,” said Elinor, thinking of her mother.
They both reached out at the same time, and touched each other’s marks. Elinor had done this with Dr. Bannow several times in the hospital, and had not fainted, learning to accept the sudden immersion in the immensity of the Charter. But the experience had also not been as intense or powerful as when she’d touched Terciel’s mark. Perhaps because even though she was closer to the Wall by many miles, the wind was not blowing from the north.
This time the experience was even less significant, and in fact could almost be described as pallid. Elinor felt the presence of the Charter in the other woman, but it was distant, not the all-encompassing immersion she’d had before. The Charter was not corrupted inside the teacher. It was simply less present.
Mrs. Tallowe, for her part, drew her finger back very quickly, and her face paled.
“There,” she said. “Both of us true bearers of the Charter. As I said, thank you for visiting, and I am sorry for your loss—”
“I want you to teach me Charter Magic,” said Elinor, rather more bluntly than she’d planned.
“What? Teach you . . . No! I only teach girls here at the school, from the old families who want it. They all know it is not to be spoken of elsewhere. Who told you I teach magic here?”
“Terciel,” replied Elinor, stretching the facts a little. “The Abhorsen-in-Waiting.”
Mrs. Tallowe stepped back and looked from side to side, as if fearing an ambush.
“That’s . . . that’s . . . anyway, I cannot. It is a long tradition of the school, and so allowed, provided it is done discreetly. A student from outside would attract attention the school authorities would not welcome, not at all. I absolutely refuse.”
“What if I was here at the school, in some capacity?” asked Elinor.
“We do not take new students after the Fourth Form,” said Mrs. Tallowe. “Certainly not straight into the Sixth. How old are you, anyway?”
“Nineteen,” replied Elinor. “But I was not thinking of becoming a student—”
“You are too old in any case,” interrupted Mrs. Tallowe. “Now, you must go!”
“I was thinking of obtaining a post as a school servant,” said Elinor, halting Mrs. Tallowe’s rush to the door.
The older woman positively shrieked and held a fist to her mouth, before managing to cough out, “No! No! I cannot possibly have even a distant relation as a servant here! Think what the girls would make of it! And my colleagues! I positively forbid it!”
“I doubt you will be able to stop me,” said Elinor, drawing herself up to her full height, which still left her several inches shorter than Mrs. Tallowe.
Mrs. Tallowe drew in a long breath and deliberately refastened her scarf, pulling it low on her forehead. Her nails were bitten to the quick, Elinor noted.
“I have been a teacher here for nineteen years,” she said, very stiffly. “Nineteen years of dedicated service. If I go to the Head and ask her to not hire a servant, or indeed to dismiss one, I believe she would do as I ask.”
Elinor believed her, too, and sighed.
“I am sorry I offended you,” she said, conscious of a bridge burned and no other river crossings anywhere in sight. “I did not mean to do so. I need to learn Charter Magic, so I may go into the Old Kingdom.”
“You will not learn it from me!” snapped Mrs. Tallowe. “And if you go into the Old Kingdom you will likely die, and quickly, making you even more foolish than you now appear. Good day!”
She flung the door open and stormed out.
Elinor waited a full minute, breathing slowly, centering herself. She had handled Mrs. Tallowe badly, she knew, badly enough it seemed unlikely a recovery was possible. She would not be learning magic from Magistrix Tallowe, to add to the few small spells she had already learned from Dr. Bannow, all that the good doctor knew.
Sighing, she went out into the hall. Wilhelmina watched her from the front door. Elinor smiled at her, to hide her own disappointment and to try to put a brave face on matters. As she reached the bust of Breakespear, this forced optimism welled to the surface.
Elinor stopped, turned to face the poet playwright, and in a loud, confident voice said:
Come the flood up the river, bearing boats
Home, deep laden with the spoils of the sea
Wilhelmina stood up and clapped. Elinor bowed as Ham had taught her, and then effortlessly turned that into a series of cartwheels along the hall, ending with a full twist and perfect landing in front of the astonished schoolgirl.
“Who,” said a strong, authoritarian voice behind her, “are you, to declaim and cavort in my school!”
Elinor spun around. A broad-shouldered, silver-haired woman dressed all in black save for the fine lace at her throat and wrists had emerged from one of the doors along the hall, the sign on it not visible, and unnecessary in the circumstances. This could be none other than the headmistress, who Elinor had heard about when first making inquiries in Bain about Wyverley College. The redoubtabl
e Professor Kinrosh, champion of women’s education, who had helped found not one but two of the women’s colleges at Inglesham in Corvere and in her “retirement” had come here to Wyverley, where she had long ago been a student herself.
“I’m, I’m Miss Elinor Hallett,” replied Elinor, bowing. She didn’t know why. It was a very old-fashioned thing to do.
“Know your Breakespear, do you?” asked the woman. She strode toward the door, her heavy, sensible shoes sounding like the drumbeat for an execution to Elinor. “What’s that from, hmm?”
“The Nets of Thetis, Act Four, Scene Two,” replied Elinor. “Duke Esperosa’s speech on the battlements, watching the fishing fleet come in.”
“Not knowing they carry his drowned daughter with them,” replied Professor Kinrosh. “And the acrobatic display?”
Elinor hesitated, not sure for a moment how to answer. She felt there was opportunity in this conversation, but she also felt she could mess it up. She couldn’t tell whether this woman was a bastion of proper behavior and so she had already put herself beyond the pale, or . . .
It didn’t matter, Elinor decided. She would never be ashamed of Ham, or what she had learned from him.
“I was taught by a master juggler and acrobat,” she said, very clearly. “Ham Corbin.”
“Ham Corbin.”
The name stopped the older woman in mid-stride. She smiled at Elinor, but her eyes looked past her, back into time.
“There’s a name I’ve not heard for many years,” said Professor Kinrosh. “I saw him first as a child, several times, when the Great and Wonderful Circus came through. Never frequently enough for us, a year or two or three apart. Something never to be forgotten, and he was a wonder among wonders. Is he still performing?”
“No,” said Elinor, choking up. She wiped a tear from her eye. “I’m afraid not. He’s dead.”
“He was a relative of yours?”
The old woman was close now, bending her head to look down at Elinor. She was taller than she’d seemed from a distance. Older, too, her face very wrinkled under heavy powder. But her eyes were a brilliant brown, the same as they’d been all her long life.
“No,” whispered Elinor. “He was my governess’s uncle, and a dear friend.”
Surprisingly, Professor Kinrosh reached out and carefully, slowly pushed the brim of Elinor’s hat down. It had ridden up when she did the cartwheels and the twist, revealing her Charter mark, which was now hidden again.
“Why are you here?” asked the headmistress. It was not an aggressive or judgmental question.
“Oh,” said Elinor. “I . . . I came to see Mrs. Tallowe. I . . . she is a distant cousin . . .”
“And?” asked Professor Kinrosh. She had the sort of gaze that defied any attempt at falsehood or misdirection, as many a schoolgirl, teacher, and fellow academic had found over the years.
“I had hoped she might teach me magic,” whispered Elinor. “And I hoped to secure work of some kind at the school. As a servant.”
“Really?” asked the professor. “Where is your home? Your family?”
“I have none. My father died long ago,” said Elinor. “My mother recently. And our home is gone. Burned and repossessed.”
“There is a story behind all that, I’m sure,” said Kinrosh. “But, perhaps to our loss, we do not take on young women of your class or background as servants here. Why come here in particular?”
“I do have relatives in the Old Kingdom,” said Elinor. “I want to prepare myself to go there. Nowhere else teaches magic, and in the meantime I have to find some way to make a living.”
“I see,” said the professor thoughtfully. “You know your Breakespear. You can tumble and juggle. Do you act?”
“I have done,” replied Elinor, surprised. “Privately. Not . . . not to an audience.”
“And sing?”
“Passably.”
“Instruments?”
“Piano, reed pipe, mandolin, drum,” replied Elinor in a daze. “Ham said I was adequate, ‘good enough for the fair’ to be exact . . .”
She wiped another tear away.
“Hmm,” said the professor. She reached out and took Elinor’s arm, urging her back down the hall, not out the front door. “The school play this year is The Court of the Sad Prince and it is not coming along well. The comic fights are distressingly bad and the fooling worse. Madame Lancier—our drama teacher—and I have been wondering what to do, and now you are here! A disciple of Ham Corbin, who played the Prince’s Fool for two years at the Birdcage in Corvere! The tickets were impossible to get, you know, the most sought-after things in the capital. But Corbin would throw a dozen to the crowd before each performance, and once . . . once one of those tickets landed in the hand of an undeserving student who thus was able to see one of the most incredible theatrical performances of her long life. I will never forget it.”
“He never told me that,” said Elinor. The tears were coming fast now, faster than she could brush them away. “Neither did Mrs. Watkins. But what . . . what do you mean about your play, and me a disciple . . .”
“I am offering you employment, my dear,” said the professor as she ushered Elinor into yet another drawing room, this one more palatially furnished, better lit, and clearly more frequently used. “As a temporary teacher’s assistant to help with the play, to assist Madame Lancier with the staging and direction, most particularly with the fooling. Lodgings at the school are provided, and twenty-seven pounds a year, paid monthly, though I fear we can only take you until the end of next term, when the play will be performed. But if your intention is to go into the Old Kingdom, perhaps that is time enough.”
“Thank you,” muttered Elinor. She dried her eyes as elegantly as she could manage with two fingers as Mrs. Watkins had taught her, rather than the back of her hand. “You are very kind.”
“Nonsense! We will have tea, and you can tell me all about what has happened, and your plans,” said Professor Kinrosh. “For I can see that there is a great deal more to your story. Take the yellow chair, child. The green one is mine.”
Chapter Ten
Terciel slept almost until noon, and then had to hurry. He had several Sendings attend on him. Brusque, ancient servitors who hustled him into his bath, which was delightfully hot and welcome. There were hot springs far below the House and the water was piped from there. He had long since got used to the slightly sulfurous smell that came with it. One of the Sendings shaved him, a strange sensation when its Charter-spelled fingers touched his face, lifting his chin or pulling on one ear. A Sending would have dressed him as well, but he waved it away, putting on the soft shirt, loose trousers, and slippers that were his usual comfortable garb when he was home. He tried to avoid putting on the heavier surcoat embroidered with the silver keys of the Abhorsens, but both Sendings joined forces to slip it over his head and it was easier not to resist them. A supple leather belt and a jeweled dagger in a silver-banded scabbard completed the ensemble, and he managed to duck the Sending who tried to fit a velvet cap on his head as he left.
A Sending in a blue-and-silver tabard preceded him to the hall, the biggest and most impressive room in the house, which took up half the ground floor. Terciel sighed, because this meant Tizanael was in an unforgiving mood and was going to be all ceremonial with the visiting Clayr. If she was feeling more relaxed, the meeting would have been in her study, upstairs in the tower, or maybe even in the kitchen.
As usual, when there were distinguished visitors, the Sendings had brought out all the trappings. The hall was dominated by a very long table of a bright, lustrous wood and it was laden with silver. Ornaments and decorations of uncertain purpose lined up with salt cellars and candelabra and chafing dishes all the way down the middle of the table, and each of the three settings at the end was arranged for a dozen courses, with seven different drinking vessels. For some reason, the hall Sendings always set out massive drinking horns banded in gold and amber along with the more usual glasses of fine Belisaere crysta
l, even though no one ever drank from them and Terciel didn’t even know what you might fill them with.
Tizanael was standing at the western end, in front of the floor-to-ceiling stained-glass window, which was a creation more of Charter Magic than iron and colored glass. It mostly depicted the building of the Wall, though sometimes it changed to show other scenes from far-off days. It was the Wall today, with stonemasons laboring with the actual blocks of stone and rows and rows of Charter Mages, the long-gone Wallmakers, who were engaged in some sort of vast cooperative spell, surrounded by a storm of marks. At the far end, those mages appeared to be actually disappearing into the half-built wall, merging with the stone. As per usual it was hard to remember what you had seen when you looked away.
The Abhorsen was dressed more formally than Terciel, and he felt her gaze of disapproval at his relatively casual attire. She wore a deep blue robe stitched with thousands of silver keys, high-collared; a five-tiered necklace of cascading moonstones; a sash of silver under a velvet-covered leather belt, and her sword. A plain weapon, apart from the emerald in the pommel and the play of Charter marks on every part of it. The sword was a symbol of her office, as much as the bells.
A Sending hammered the suspended bronze gong by the door, making Terciel jump. They only did that for visitors, and it always surprised him. He tried to turn the nervous jump into a more planned about-turn to meet the visitor, but knew he looked clumsy. The Clayr always made him nervous, ever since he’d first visited their glacier a few years before and had encountered their very straightforward approach to sex. He was considered a suitable partner for the young Clayr who simply wanted to enjoy themselves and the generally somewhat older Clayr who wanted to have a baby and considered him as a potential father. Or to be more accurate, he thought, a sire in the same way a stallion might meet a mare and then the two would never meet again.
