Corambis

by Sarah Monette

  She sighed and said, “C’mon and sit down. I can’t think with you looming over me like this.”

  “I don’t loom,” I protested.

  “You’re most of a foot taller than me. Of course you loom. C’mon. Sit.”

  I felt as if I owed it to her; I sat beside her, leaning against one of the chimneys.

  She blew her nose and glared at me. “So. Tell me about this teacher of yours.”

  “Corbie!”

  “What?”

  “I can’t just . . .”

  “It ain’t that hard. Look, you said you liked me, and Mildmay said you liked teaching. So I really want to know what the problem is here.”

  “Okay,” I said. “You want to know? His name was Malkar Gennadion. Or one of his names. He was a blood-wizard. He was at least a hundred years old, maybe more like two or three. I don’t know. He bought me. From the brothel I was working in, when I was fourteen. And he took me to this place called Arabel, which was, oh I don’t know, fifty, sixty miles from Mélusine, farther from home than I’d ever been in my life. We stayed on the estate of a friend of his. Insofar as Malkar had friends. And sometimes, every few months, he’d . . .” I’d never told anyone this, and the words were drying up in my throat even as they were forcing themselves out. “He’d give me to his friend for a night. In ‘payment.’ And then one night he suggested they share me.”

  She was watching me, her eyes serious but not shocked. I swallowed hard and went on: “I don’t mean to imply that this was the first time I’d ever been used by two men together. But Malkar had told me he loved me. He’d told me I was special. He’d told me he ‘loaned’ me to Hestrand—his friend—because he had to, that he had no money to pay rent. But then that night . . .”

  I couldn’t go on. I couldn’t. But my mouth opened, and I said, “Malkar was fucking me up the ass, and he’d got my hands behind my back, and Hestrand was fucking my mouth, and Malkar says to Hestrand, ‘Do you know the story of how I found this treasure?’ And Hestrand says, ‘No,’ and Malkar tells him. He tells him the whole thing, fucking me slow the entire time, and then he says—I remember it word for word—‘He’s a clever little beast, but his true aptitude is always going to be for being fucked.’ And they proved it that night. They did things to me . . .” I managed a jagged sort of noise that might have been a laugh. “And the next day, when I tried to talk to Malkar about it, he just said, ‘Don’t make a melodrama out of it, dearest. It’s not worth it for a molly-toy like you.’ And I felt . . . It wasn’t about the sex. It was the betrayal, the way he didn’t even bother to lie to me.” I shook my head, trying, again, to shake away the past, and said, “That was my teacher. That was the man who taught me everything I know.”

  After a moment, she said, “Is that what you sounded like? Before?”

  I listened to my own words again in my head and winced at the way my vowels had slid into the Lower City. “Yes. Only worse. Worse than Mildmay.”

  She nodded, her eyes thoughtful. Still not shocked. She said, “But when I tried to tell you I couldn’t learn real magic because I was a jezebel, you got mad at me.”

  “I . . .” I realized my mouth was hanging open, and closed it.

  “So you’re not like him,” she said, as Mildmay had said. “And we know you’re not going to fuck me anyway, because you don’t do women. So what’s the problem?”

  “Corbie, I can’t—”

  “You keep saying that,” she said. “But I think what you mean is, you’re scared to. And that ain’t the same thing. So, all right. I ain’t gonna force myself on you. You decide what you want, and when you do, you let me know. I’ll be at the Brocade Mouse.”

  “Corbie—”

  “Shut up, Felix,” she said, and then smiled at me, a real smile, though tired and too old for her. “You got some shit to work through. I get that.” She patted my knee, very gently, and then was up and away as light on her feet as a butterfly.

  I sat shivering for a long time after she was gone.

  Kay

  The day before we were to leave Esmer, the evening post arrived while we were having tea, and Murtagh, as he generally did, opened his letters in between bites of pound cake. He frequently provided commentary, sometimes scurrilous, sometimes merely informative, and I listened with almost painful attentiveness, knowing that what he was really doing was educating me in the finer points of Corambin—and particularly Esmerine—politics. He was also still negotiating with Vanessa Pallister and her brothers-in-law over a marriage he seemed determined to push through; although it made me deeply uncomfortable to find myself cast as the bride and Murtagh as my father, was not as if I could have done anything about it myself. Even more uncomfortable was the realization that I did not truly have the option of refusing, unless I wished Murtagh to hand me over to either Caloxan or Corambin justice. And in that I found myself following my sister Isobel, who had not had the option of refusing the marriage I had negotiated with Murtagh. She could have entered a convent, as I remembered saying to her more than once, but a woman less suited than Isobel to the life of a contemplative was hard to imagine, and I had known that full well. I was ashamed of myself, both for doing such a reprehensible thing and for never once, in twelve indictions, stopping to consider what I had done. No, not until it happened to me, and then I was all indignation and hurt and anger. Then I found it reprehensible.

  Would not even be able to apologize to Isobel. An I did, she would box my ears. And I would deserve it.

  But this afternoon, Murtagh had mostly notes from Bernathan potentates, expressing their sorrow that he was leaving, their hopes of future good relations, “et cetera et cetera,” said Murtagh. And then the brisk sounds of letters being opened and unfolded and stacked to one side ceased. “Hello,” said Murtagh. “This is different.”

  “What is?”

  “This,” said he, and I heard the faint crinkle of paper being flourished, “is a letter from one Intended Marcham, of Our Lady of Marigolds in Howrack.”

  “Intended Marcham?” My mouth had gone dry; I found my teacup and burned my tongue on too large a swallow. “What does he want?”

  “Interesting that you should ask. His handwriting is nearly illegible and if the man was ever taught to spell, it clearly didn’t take. He says he’s very concerned because . . . Kay, I can’t make this word be anything but verlain. Can that possibly be right?”

  “Yes,” I said, and my voice sounded as hollow as I felt. “He’s talking about the engine.”

  “Which is verlain? Whatever verlain means?”

  “Yes. It’s a country word. It means ‘forbidden.’ ”

  “Ah. That explains why he’s talking about a curse in the next line.”

  “A curse?” I had feared he was writing to protest the dissolution of my penance.

  “Yes. He says that’s what killed Gerrard and the others and struck you blind, and he says now it’s punishing the people of Howrack for not stopping you. Everyone’s sickly, he says, and the crops are slow, and he’s quite sure it’s because of this curse.”

  “And he thinks what? That you can do something about it?”

  “Well, I’m not sure about that, either. I swear his spelling is getting worse as he goes along. He seems to think I should do something about it. Either that or he thinks you should do something about it. I can’t quite tell.”

  “He’s the intended. Why doesn’t he do something?”

  “You want me to ask?” Murtagh said, and he sounded so utterly appalled that I started laughing.

  “No,” said I. “I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

  “Good. Because I wouldn’t do it. You’ve met the man. Is he actually a lunatic?”

  “Did not meet him under the best of circumstances,” I said. “But, no, I did not think him mad.”

  “Then,” said Murtagh, “I’m afraid his wits have turned. Happily that problem is neither mine nor yours. It belongs to the unfortunate people of Howrack and, I suppose, to their margrave.”


  “Murrey.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer fellow,” said Murtagh with satisfaction, and I heard him wadding the letter into a ball and pitching it into the fireplace.

  Felix

  The Brocade Mouse was lavishly appointed but not—I noticed as a skinny not-quite-teenage girl led me back toward Corbie’s room—particularly clean. At night, no one would be able to tell, and the customers were the last people in the world to care. Corbie’s own room, though not much larger than a pocket handkerchief, was perfectly tidy and smelled pleasantly of rosemary and lavender. She was mending a layered cerise skirt when my guide opened the door and said, “Gentleman for you, Miss Gartrett.”

  “Call me that again, Nell, and I’ll take my hairbrush to your backside,” Corbie said without looking up; then she raised her head and squeaked. Then coughed and said, “Felix. How nice to see you. Come in and sit down.”

  This parody of politeness was far worse than belligerence. But I sat where she directed, on a spindly chair with a patchwork seat cover that was certainly not original, and folded my hands to keep from fidgeting.

  After Corbie had stared Nell into closing the door again, she shoved the skirt aside and gave me a sidelong, wary look. “So. You’ve made up your mind, then?”

  “I, um.”

  “You haven’t made up your mind?”

  “No, I have,” I said hastily. “I just . . .”

  She waited a moment. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t want to teach me, or that you do?”

  I couldn’t meet her eyes. I stared at the tattoos on the backs of my hands and managed to force the words out: “I do.”

  “You don’t sound like it.”

  It was what Malkar would have said, merely in order to prolong the agony for another round. But I looked at Corbie, and she didn’t look like she was enjoying this any more than I was. “No, I do,” I said. “I’m just . . .” The words stuck like fishhooks, but I had to say them: “I’m afraid I’ll fail.”

  I’d been taught never to fail, by the scars on my back, by Malkar’s ingenious cruelty that left no mark, by the avid eyes of the Mirador, predators and carrion-eaters waiting to take their comrades down. I had learned never to admit the possibility of failure, to carry everything off with a lofty air of omnipotence and a smirk. But if I didn’t want to be Malkar—and I didn’t, desperately didn’t—I couldn’t treat Corbie like that, couldn’t close the gates with her on the outside.

  “Well, I’m afraid I’ll fail, too,” Corbie said. “So we’re even.”

  “I guess we are.” I stood up. “Unless you have an objection, we’re leaving for Esmer tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s awful quick,” Corbie said, but she didn’t sound upset.

  “Is it a problem?”

  “No.” Her smile was sudden and radiant: still not my type, but she was lovely when she was happy. “I’ll be glad to be gone.”

  Mildmay

  It was a good thing I had Felix, or I would’ve drowned in that fucking bathtub three times over. And it was a good thing he wouldn’t listen when I told him not to come along. Powers.

  What was nice, though, and it was the first thing I’d felt really good about in a long time, was that he didn’t try nothing. He could’ve groped me, and he didn’t. He didn’t stare at me. He didn’t even say nothing, and I’d really been expecting he would. Because when he wanted something, he pushed. He pushed until you pushed back, and then he pushed some more. I mean, we’d had that conversation about how I didn’t want to sleep with him, and that hadn’t stopped him bringing it up again.

  Maybe this time I’d pushed back hard enough.

  Or maybe he was honestly trying not to be a prick about it. The way he did look at me when he looked—little sideways glances and no eye contact—was the way he got when he thought I was right to be mad at him. Because of course he never fucking apologized, even when he knew he ought to. So he’d do that twitchy no eye contact thing like he thought I was going to hit him until I gave up and forgave him for whatever the fuck it was he’d done.

  But I wasn’t mad at him now, and he wasn’t acting like he thought I was, except for the way we just didn’t have eye contact no more and especially when I took my clothes off. And, I mean, it wasn’t like I could ask, So why ain’t you staring at me while you got the chance?

  And okay, I knew part of it was that he was embarrassed—that ain’t the right word because it was worse than embarrassed. He was ashamed that I knew what he’d done, although how he’d thought he was going to hide it I don’t fucking know. And he was even more ashamed that I knew he’d done it to punish himself. Because, you know, he’s a smart guy. If he’d had his head on straight, he would’ve seen that wasn’t his only option. But he’d wanted to make a martyr of himself, and powers and saints, I guess that’s a pun.

  I didn’t figure that if I asked, he’d say anything to the point. He wouldn’t undress with me in the room, and leaving aside the scars on his back, he didn’t have no more modesty than a tabby cat. So he didn’t want me to see, and I got to admit I didn’t want to look. And it wasn’t like he wasn’t talking to me, in any of the Great Septad and six ways he had of doing that, including the one where he talked my ear off. No, we were having real conversations, and everything, and he even remembered his promise to help me learn to read better and we were actually working on it. It was just this one thing where he wasn’t saying nothing and I wasn’t saying nothing and it was like waiting for a thunderstorm to break.

  And I’m pretty good at waiting—got a lot of practice, thanks—but I’m a fucking terrible liar, and that’s what this felt like, like we were lying to each other by not talking about it.

  So the night before we left Bernatha—he’d gone out and bought train tickets and come back all flustered and red in the face because somebody’d been nice to him—laying there in the dark, I said, “Felix?”

  I knew he wasn’t asleep, but setting out to have a serious conversation with him was kind of like planning a burglary. You did it step by step and you never assumed nothing.

  “Yes?” he said. I rolled up on one elbow, and I could just make him out, laying on his back and staring up into the dark like there was something written on the ceiling and he was reading it.

  “I’m gonna say this wrong,” I said, “because I always do, but—are you okay?”

  At least I got his attention. He rolled onto his side, and I knew he was squinting at me. “Of course I’m o—all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “If you were hurt—I mean, really hurt—you’d tell me, right? You’d let me help?”

  “I’m not hurt,” he said and sat up. “Are you all right? What brought this on?”

  “Never mind,” I said, and I flopped back down on my back. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Do not never mind me in that tone of voice,” he said, sharpish but not nasty. “You’re worr . . . Oh.”

  He got it. I was glad it was dark, because neither of us had to try to look at the other. I could just lay there and stare at the ceiling and feel like the world’s prize half-wit dog.

  After a while, Felix said softly, “What are you really trying to ask?”

  Powers and saints, why do I start these things? But he didn’t sound like he was getting ready to tear into me, so I said, “I ain’t trying to pry or nothing.”

  “I know that,” and I thought maybe he was smiling a little.

  “And maybe it’s just that I don’t know nothing about it. I mean, maybe it ain’t no big deal, and I’m just—”

  “Mildmay. You’re babbling. Which you don’t do.”

  Oh fuck me sideways. I took a breath and just said it: “Whatever thing you got yourself into must’ve been pretty nasty. I mean, going by the bruises and all. And I just wanted . . . I mean, I figure you ain’t hurt too bad ’cause you’re moving okay and all and not feverish or nothing, but . . . I mean . . . inside, you know, in your self, are you okay?”

  Felix said, “You’re asking a
bout my feelings,” like he couldn’t quite believe it.

  I put my arm over my eyes, because even in the dark I was blushing. “I guess so.”

  “I’m not going to go crazy again,” he said, and I winced, because I’d been hoping he wouldn’t figure out I was worried about that. And, you know, I wasn’t worried a lot. But he’d told me what Strych had done and there was that stupid fucking dream about the wolves that wouldn’t leave me alone, and I didn’t know. I’d never been into the whole tarquins and martyrs thing, so I didn’t know how you could tell when it felt like rape and when it didn’t. But with the way he hadn’t been looking at me, I’d been afraid that maybe this had felt more like rape than otherwise.

  “I know that,” I said, even though I’d been worried. “I was just . . .”

  “Worried about me,” he said, and his voice was kind of funny, light and a little unsteady and even more breathless than usual.

  “Felix?” And now I was worried all over again. I sat up, and would’ve got up and gone over to him, except that I saw the white blotch of his hand come up.

  “I’m all right,” he said, like what he meant was Leave me alone. “I just hadn’t . . . well, I suppose I hadn’t expected you to care.”

  My jaw dropped, but before I could figure out what the fuck to say, he went on: “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I know you care. I meant, I didn’t expect you to . . .” I heard him take a deep breath, the same way I had. “Prostitution is a filthy business.”

  “So’s murder for hire,” I said, sharper maybe than I should’ve, but powers and blessed fucking saints, where the fuck was he getting the idea I thought I was better than him?

  “I know,” he said. “I just meant, the details are . . . sordid and humiliating and I wouldn’t blame you if you were repulsed by me.”

  He sped up as he went, so the last half of the sentence was basically one word. Which told me I’d better go slow and careful and think about what I was saying before I said it.