Lessons in Etiquette (Schooled in Magic series)

by Christopher Nuttall

  But why would he risk summoning a cockatrice? Emily asked herself. It could have killed us all.

  Alassa began to read out loud from the book, using a language that Emily didn’t recognize. Could it be that she should have asked Alassa how to read Void’s book from the start? It had honestly never occurred to her…but what was the language the book’s authors had used? Why was it the same as that belonging to the crone goddess’s followers?

  Emily concentrated, then cast a translation spell.

  “…Of all we see,” Alassa said, her words suddenly understandable. “You bring us into the world, you marry us, you lay us out when we die…”

  Her words died away suddenly. Emily watched as she closed the book, folded her hands in her lap and then started to meditate. Silently, Emily rose to her feet and walked over to the bookshelf, examining the books the young princess had been allowed to read. Several of them looked to be storybooks that were surprisingly Victorian–complete with fixed gender roles, a hefty dose of orthodox morality and heroes so brave, noble and true that they were effectively Mary Sues–one of them detailed the Empire’s views on how a princess should behave and two final ones were books on magic. Emily opened one of the magic books and skimmed through it, only to conclude that the writer had been writing a book for dummies.

  Alassa could have used this to grasp the basics, she told herself, sourly. But she stayed with her memory instead.

  The other magic book was, if anything, even worse. It was merely a listing of minor spells, ranging from practical jokes to a handful of spells for domestic purposes. One of them promised to clean tables, if used by someone with enough mana to work it. Judging by the handwritten notes next to the words, the person who had originally owned the book had gotten frustrated with the spell and warned his successors not to bother trying to get it to work. A final spell was a very basic lie detector. Emily had a feeling that she knew who had given Alassa the books.

  She started to read the storybooks out of boredom, while glancing up at the meditating princess to be sure that she hadn’t fallen asleep. Alassa seemed to be coping with the vigil much better than Emily would have done, although there were hours to go before first light. Emily had been forced to stay on watch for a couple of hours on camping trips with Martial Magic, but she’d always been relieved before she’d dozed off. The sergeants had a number of brutally effective punishments for anyone who did fall asleep, pointing out that a sleeping sentry was an invitation to murder.

  Emily was still reading when morning came and the maids started to knock on the door. Alassa rose to her feet and grinned at Emily, then walked over to the door and opened it. A small army of maids appeared, carrying jugs of water and a bathtub. Alassa was undressed, helped into the tub and scrubbed clean. Emily watched with some amusement as her golden hair was washed, then left to hang down her back. Emerging from the water, as naked as the day she was born, Alassa looked almost like a goddess.

  “The baronesses are coming,” one of the maids said, as Alassa wrapped a towel around herself. “Should I show them in?”

  Alassa made a face. “May as well get this over with,” she muttered to Emily, then raised her voice. “Show them in, by all means.”

  Emily had been introduced to the barons and their wives during the first couple of dinners, but she couldn’t really say that she knew them. They all seemed to share the same disapproving expression when they looked at her, although Emily couldn’t tell if they disliked her because of her official origin story or because they hated and feared the changes she had brought to their country. This time, they seemed content to ignore her and clustered around Alassa, their black dresses making them seem almost like a flock of crows surrounding a dove. They poked and prodded at Alassa, their fingers exploring every inch of her body, testing every last muscle. Emily wanted to curse them as Alassa yelped in pain. One of the women had just pinched her in a sensitive spot.

  “Healthy,” Baroness Silver said, finally. The other women echoed her. “You should be capable of living long and bearing many children.”

  Alassa watched them go and then muttered a curse, barely loud enough for Emily to hear. “When I am queen,” she said, “that one will not be welcome in court.”

  Emily shook her head, unable to avoid feeling anger at the red marks on Alassa’s skin. They were fading quickly–quick healing was part of the Royal Bloodline–but it proved just how badly they’d mistreated her. Maybe, if she were lucky, Lady Barb would uncover proof that the baroness who’d poked her worst was the one whose husband was behind the plot. The woman deserved to suffer before she died.

  The maids returned. Two of them were carrying a white dress for Alassa, the others were carrying more jugs of water. Emily found herself being stripped and pushed into the bathtub before she could object, then felt hands scrubbing all the dirt and sweat away from her. By the time she was pulled out and dried, Alassa was in her dress and the maids were working on her hair. Emily’s own dress was blue; the maids helped her into it and then did up her hair.

  “I could just use magic,” Emily protested, as the maids started to insert hairpins. “It will stay up.”

  Alassa laughed, sweetly. “Tradition,” she said. She struck a dramatic pose in front of the mirror. “How do I look?”

  “Like a blushing bride,” Emily said. “What are you going to wear on your wedding day?”

  “Oh? Green, probably,” Alassa said. “That too is tradition.”

  Emily puzzled over that as the maids finished fixing up her hair. White symbolized purity–and virginity, which was why it had been adopted for wedding dresses. But green was often taken to symbolize regeneration and rebirth. Perhaps it did make sense; marriage was often a step away from one’s parents and into a whole new world.

  Once they were ready, the maids escorted them downstairs into the Great Hall. Emily hung back as Alassa walked up towards her father, seated on his throne, and bobbled a curtsey to him. King Randor rose to his feet, embraced his daughter and then looked at Emily.

  “Lady Emily,” he said. “Was she checked and certified as healthy?”

  “She was,” Emily said. As she had been told, she dropped a curtsey of her own. “Your daughter is fit, healthy–and ready.”

  The breakfast was small, nothing more than small fruits. Emily was silently grateful–she couldn’t have eaten much and she wasn’t the star of the show. Alassa’s face was expressionless–most of the nobles in the room were watching her like hawks–but Emily could see her tension in how she held her body. She was more nervous than she wanted to admit. If the ceremony went wrong, it would be taken as a bad omen. God alone knew what would happen then.

  King Randor rose to his feet and announced that the march to the Assembly was about to begin. He took his wife’s hand and led her out of the hall; Alassa hesitated, then followed him. Emily walked by her side as the rest of the nobles came after them, heading out of the castle gates and down towards the Assembly. The streets were lined by cheering crowds, all waving banners or yelling encouragement to the princess. Emily wondered, rather cynically, if the armed guards were there to protect the nobility or to encourage the population to cheer.

  Up close, the Assembly was larger than she’d realized. The elected assemblymen were lined up outside, bowing to King Randor as he walked past them and into the main hall, followed by his court. Inside, there were two long rows of seats for the nobles and elected assemblymen–and three golden thrones, placed at one end of the hall. One for the king, Emily remembered; one for the heir and one–left empty, with a sword placed nearly on top–for the Emperor. But the Empire was gone.

  Tradition, she thought. But it was an odd tradition, one that puzzled her. Zangaria was trying to demonstrate that it was an independent kingdom, yet it was honoring the days when it had been part of a mighty empire. Or was it a reminder of why the Allied Lands were so important? Unity was strength; disunity meant weakness–with the necromancers lurking in the Blighted Lands, ready to swoop down on t
he Allied Lands if the defenses ever weakened.

  King Randor sat on his throne and waited for the assembled guests to find their seats. Emily herself had been given a chair near Alassa’s throne, one half-hidden in the darkness. But no one would be paying attention to her anyway, not when a princess was being Confirmed as heir. Alassa herself stood in front of her throne, waiting for permission to sit. She couldn’t sit down until the ceremony was completed.

  The trumpets blared as the heavy wooden doors closed with a loud thud. “MY LORDS,” the herald shouted. “STAND FOR YOUR KING!”

  Everyone rose to their feet, including Emily. King Randor studied the guests for a long moment and then stood up himself, motioning for the guests to sit down. They obeyed slowly, keeping their eyes on their monarch. Here, he was supreme.

  “King Alexis I found this kingdom in a state of chaos,” King Randor said. His voice was quiet, but amplified so that everyone could hear his words. “He brought it order. He founded the monarchy while his followers became the core of the aristocracy. Successive generations of royalty have honored the pledge Alexis made to his people. Strength, unity, order and protection!

  “Now, my daughter Alassa, Daughter of Marlena, comes to take her place as heir,” he continued. “It is time for her to be certified as the rightful heir, so that she may take my place when I leave this world…”

  The Duke of Iron fell to the ground, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

  A moment later, all hell broke loose.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  EMILY CAME TO HER FEET AS a thunderous impact knocked the heavy wooden door off its hinges and sent it falling onto the people at the rear of the hall. Armed soldiers–and men carrying wands–crashed into the chamber, shouting for everyone to remain still. No one seemed interested in paying attention; noblemen were jumping up, shouting for their guards, while others were hitting the ground. A handful of guards appeared and were ruthlessly cut down by the newcomers.

  A spell struck King Randor and he froze, then toppled over and hit the ground. Emily jumped forward and knocked Alassa down as another spell crackled over their heads. The entire situation seemed to have dissolved into chaos; Emily couldn’t tell what was going on or who was attacking. She rolled off Alassa and readied her magic, just as a trio of men carrying wands approached the thrones. Her wards deflected their spells, then Lady Barb crashed into them, lashing out with her magic. None of them stood a chance.

  “Get Alassa out of here!” Lady Barb shouted. Magic crackled around her as the newcomers attacked, trying to overwhelm the combat sorceress by sheer weight of numbers. “Now!”

  Emily hesitated for a long second. King Randor was down, clearly frozen in place; his wife, the queen, was on the ground beside him. And the newcomers were getting closer…Emily caught at Alassa’s arm and pulled her towards the rear of the hall, where there should be a way out. The princess seemed dazed, but followed, keeping her head low. Emily took one last glance at the fighting, realized that the newcomers seemed to have won, and then pulled Alassa out of the hall. They found themselves in a small corridor heading deeper into the building.

  Sergeant Harkin had said that a situation could go from placid to absolute chaos in less than a second. Emily had never really understood what he’d meant until now. Someone had launched a coup, attacking King Randor and almost all of the senior nobility at the same time…but who? Why would one of the barons risk their own death in the crossfire? Could it be that the true enemy was a commoner? Maybe there was a commoner wealthy enough to buy enchanted armor…

  She pushed the thought aside as she pulled Alassa down the corridor. Simple logic suggested that the intruders, whoever they were, would try to block all exits, but they couldn’t have risked doing that before they burst into the main hall, or they might have alerted King Randor’s guardsmen. If they could get out of the building before they managed to secure the grounds, they could escape into the city and then…Emily didn’t know, but they would at least have some time to consider the next step.

  They turned the corner and ran into four men wearing armor and carrying swords, perfectly placed to block the escape route from the main hall. Emily gritted her teeth as they advanced towards her, casting three separate spells towards them in hopes of overloading their armor. Magic flared around them, but seemed unable to touch them until Alassa started to cast spells of her own. The guards screamed in pain as their armor flared bright red and failed, then the spells took effect. Emily felt a moment of pity for them as she scooped up two of the dropped swords and passed one of them to Alassa. So many spells combining would produce results that were almost impossible to fix.

  “Traitors,” Alassa seethed. “Who are they?”

  Emily shrugged. The duke had collapsed first–what did that mean? She couldn’t escape the odd feeling that she should know what had happened to him, but her conscious mind refused to provide answers. Had he broken his oath and suffered the consequences? But if he was behind the coup, he’d lied to his brother despite being part of the Royal Bloodline. How the hell had he done that?

  “Down here,” Alassa said. “We can get into the tunnels and escape underground.”

  “But the duke would have known about them,” Emily protested. He’d been his father’s spare and his brother’s military commander. The duke would know all of the secret passages; he, like the students at Whitehall, would have had ample time to explore the building and locate them all. “We can’t risk using them.”

  Alassa stopped and stared at her. “I… I don’t know how he did it,” she said. “If he did do it.”

  There was a shout behind them as two armed guards appeared. “Stop,” one of them bellowed. “You are our prisoners.”

  Both girls cast spells at once, directing them at the guards. One guard’s armor overloaded, sending him falling to the floor; the other kept coming, balefire crackling around him without touching his skin. For a long moment, Emily stared in disbelief before realizing that the guardsman was actually a magician in disguise. He lifted one hand and threw a powerful paralysis spell at the two girls. Emily parried it with an effort and threw back a blast of raw power. The magician would have no trouble deflecting it, but he’d be blinded for a handful of seconds. Emily lunged forward, sword in hand, and lashed out with a more focused spell she’d learned in Martial Magic. The magician’s wards failed, just for a long second, long enough for Emily to bury the sword in his chest. He let out a grunt and staggered backwards, toppling to the ground. Emily pulled the sword out and then beheaded him, just to be sure.

  There was no time for horror and revulsion at what she’d done. Emily turned and rejoined Alassa, leading her rapidly down the corridor towards the tunnel entrance. They rounded a corner and stopped dead. Seven heavily armed men and two magicians were standing in front of the tunnel, clearly ready to prevent anyone from escaping into the underground network. Alassa used a vile word and lashed out with her magic, but the two magicians deflected it from their companions. Emily caught Alassa and yanked her backwards as the magicians started throwing spells back at the girls. One of them struck Emily’s wards with something that almost knocked them down before they got out of range. Oddly, the guards didn’t seem interested in giving chase.

  They have to guard the tunnels, Emily thought, grimly. Can’t risk having King Randor or his family getting back to the castle.

  Alassa led the way through a pair of wooden doors and into a smaller chamber that was less ornate than the main hall, but built along the same general principle. The commoners had to sit here, Emily decided, as they ran through the middle of the hall and out towards the commoner exit. There would be guards outside by now, she knew, but if they failed to break out they might as well surrender…no, that couldn’t be risked. Alassa would probably be forced into marriage to one of the barons, assuming the barons were actually behind the plot; Emily herself would be executed. Unless Void came to the rescue…

  “Wait,” she said, before Alassa could run out
of the building. “We need to disguise ourselves.”

  Alassa gave her a blank look, then nodded in understanding. Every girl at Whitehall–and at least half the boys–learned how to use glamors to change their appearance. Some were simple illusions, designed to hint at larger breasts or cleaner faces, others were suffused with tiny compulsion spells which insisted that no one should look too closely. It would be easy to place a more powerful version of the charm on themselves, but it was too likely that they would run into another disguised magician. He might well spot the glamor and then wonder what it was concealing.

  Emily recalled the first set of guards they’d encountered and carefully shaped the glamor spell, casting it over them both. As always, it felt faintly odd to be wearing a glamor of any kind; she hadn’t been able to understand why so many girls used them when they made their magic feel a little strange. But then, vanity had never been one of her vices.

  “You look like a hairy man,” Alassa said. She giggled, suddenly. “What do I look like?”

  Emily frowned. Was Alassa going into shock? The coup had to be the most shocking event in her life, even more shocking–and terrifying–than the moment Emily had almost killed her. She did know that people could fall into shock as soon as they had a moment to reflect; God knew she’d certainly felt that way after Void had snatched her out of Shadye’s clutches…and he had used a spell to keep her calm.

  “Like there’s two of you,” Emily said. She knew the glamor was there, so it seemed like an insubstantial shadow concealing the girl below. The guardsman was only an illusion, after all. She took a breath, then transfigured Alassa’s dress into something smaller, small enough that it wouldn’t break the glamor. “Remember you have to walk naturally, not run. The last thing we need is to attract attention.”

  She pushed the door open and stepped out into the bright sunlight, wincing as the light stabbed into her eyes. Outside, a small group of guardsmen stood at the edge of the grounds, while others were heading into the building. Emily wondered just what they intended to do with the captives, before pushing the thought aside. There was nothing she could do for them now, apart from keeping Alassa safe and then…she didn’t know. They’d have to work out some kind of solution or flee back to Whitehall.