Banner of the Damned

by Sherwood Smith

  He paused long enough for us to comprehend that what we thought was a conversation-turned-debate had actually been a test.

  “It’s the same question we discussed in class the night before. During our discussion, you all employed admirable skills in politely confining yourselves to facts, without attempting influence, according to the First and Second Rules. But today, one of you used elementary diplomacy techniques to persuade: apparent agreement, then question, or apparent agreement then correction.”

  Birdy flushed to his ears.

  “Two of you did stay with the facts, but in attempting to avoid any imputation of influence, got bound up in a tangle of justifications and qualifiers until no one could make sense of your point. It seems, including you.”

  It was my turn to look down at my pen case, and I heard Nashande shuffling his feet.

  “One of you escalated in emphatic statements, rude in tone, and finally in word. Yet in class, these statements, when repeated, were couched in language that can only be termed an attempt at flattery. As if a buttery tone and a smile excuses emphatic repetition.”

  Shadow-kissing, in other words. Sheris looked away—and Tiflis looked startled, then uneasy. Faura just looked lost.

  “And one of you thought it best to parrot the flatterer.”

  Tiflis blushed.

  Over the past year, Tiflis had responded to my attempts to get back to our old rhythms by being friendly in public, but any time I tried to talk to her alone I was cut short by the ever watchful Sheris. That had hurt so much I’d tried to bury myself in work, studying even during recreational times—especially when they all turned sixteen and went off to the pleasure house, where I couldn’t go yet, unless I stayed in the children’s rooms downstairs. So I didn’t go at all.

  Now Senior Scribe Halimas surprised us further by saying, “You also did not know that this past ten days were your year tests. We have saved you a week’s effort in trying to gain knowledge that you should have spent the year accruing, and we have also saved ourselves a week of listening to what you think we want to hear.”

  The others’ shock, commensurate with my own, revealed itself in tiny shiftings, the sighs of indignation.

  The corners of the senior scribe’s mouth curled. “I am going to dismiss you to your Interviews, and thence to your new studies. Tiflis, you will attend me. Sheris, you will wait outside the door. When they are done, I will send someone to fetch the rest of you.”

  Tiflis cast a triumphant smile at the rest of us, though her shoulders were stiff. I suspected she wasn’t quite certain she was being singled out first for a good reason.

  The Interviews did not take long. Birdy and I were last.

  He had been kindly, if distant, this past year. I fancied that he looked down on me from his great height, from the vast worldly knowledge of a sixteen year old who regularly went off to the pleasure house, while babyish me stayed alone at our dorms and studied.

  Birdy addressed me abruptly. “My sister told me if you get called out first, it’s because you’re being sent from the royal scribe pool.” He’d transgressed unspoken etiquette by referring to family, but it was acceptable if the family member in question was employed at the palace—a fellow scribe. Everyone knew that one of his twin sisters, who were older even than my brother Olnar, was a royal scribe, employed by no less than the queen. “I think Sheris is being sent away.”

  “Sheris?” I repeated. I was used to thinking of her at the top, because she acted as if she were at the top. The rest of us had accepted her at her own valuation.

  “Did you notice her nails?” Birdy asked.

  “No.”

  I looked back in memory, and yes, Sheris’s hands were always hidden, except when we wrote, and then everyone’s attention was on work. “She bites them?” I asked.

  Birdy tossed one of his sandbags in answer. “Wager she gets sent to Archive. Not for herald training—she could never decide what is worthy of keeping—but as a scribe.”

  “She’d be perfect there.” Neat, orderly details, ranks and rows of indexed books and scrolls. Facts. “Perfect.”

  But it was no place for Tif. She’d hate that. Facts had always been her weakness. Her interest was in people.

  We were called soon after, to discover that we were joining the very small pool of royal scribes in training. As I made my way to Housekeeping to order my new plain bleached-white linen robe of the journey-scribe, I began to suspect that the Interviews had been nothing more than a compassionate gesture keeping us out of the way so that those not chosen for royal scribe training could gather their belongings and go.

  Sheris went to Archive, which meant she lived across the courtyard from us, and Faura to the public scribes. Her new dorm was on the other side of the palace, overlooking the city.

  Tiflis was sent to prentice with one of the most prominent book dealers in the city, which meant she had to leave the palace altogether. I hid in the stairwell, ready to pop out to hug her, to commiserate, to say anything, if she even glanced toward me as she trundled her trunk along.

  But she marched down to the canal, face red, mouth angry, without a look my way. Once again I crept to my room and wept, in spite of my promotion. When I got up, I resolved to bury feelings altogether. I was going to be the best royal scribe ever, even if I was the youngest in training.

  Here is another of those coincidences that shape us, though we have no idea at the time.

  Among our many new duties was the beginning of our training in sitting still for long periods. Scribes were expected to remain in the background, observing, ready at an instant to serve but otherwise separate from events.

  Because of those long periods of sitting, the senior scribes now required us to choose a method of exercise. I loved dancing, but that class was already full. So I scurried to the class meeting down by the canal to learn graceful boating. When I recognized the back of Sheris’s head among those waiting to join the class, I backed away in haste, to discover Birdy waiting for me.

  “Come do fan form,” he urged.

  “What is that?”

  “You will see.”

  Since I had to choose something, I went along with him.

  We were required to move slowly, in exactly prescribed patterns, back and forth across the floor, a fan in each hand, our steps in time to softly played music.

  Afterward, Birdy left with me, already juggling. “Like it?”

  “Boring. So slow!” I hopped out of the way when Birdy dropped one of his bags and dove down stork-like to retrieve it. I was startled to discover how long his arms were—how tall he’d grown. “I can’t believe that the fan form was truly for training warriors. Not that I know anything about war. But one would think that by the time you finished that first sweep, wouldn’t the warriors on horseback have trampled you and gone on to another city?”

  Birdy shot a bag into the air and nodded assent. “You didn’t hear her say that they used speed for attack?”

  “Even so. Whether fast or slow, waving a fan in a circle does not seem martial.”

  Birdy grinned. “I know. Well, it’s to strengthen our wrists and hands, and to keep them supple—that I learned when I talked to the instructor yesterday. I can use that. Since I won’t be going to any wars, I don’t care if waving a fan is lethal or not.” He let the bags plop to the marble floor and clapped his hands in The Peace. “Shall you say it, or shall I? It is down to you and me. For a single position.”

  I made The Peace in return. “For the garland,” I said, as the courtiers did before a race.

  He laughed. “For the garland!”

  Classes were now individual, or at most in twos and threes.

  I had Sartoran translation with Birdy, and we all came together again for Discourse. We had to delve for corroborative evidence, then we had to present our thoughts succinctly and politely. We would never be permitted to argue with those who employed us, so from now on, we were to regard our classmates as employers. Credits were earned (or marks garner
ed) on our manners and abilities to correct factual error yet avoid the attempt to persuade unless our opinions were sought. We had to discern the difference, because our employers would not always be clear which they wanted.

  I caught sight of Sheris from time to time. Faura sometimes appeared in the staff dining room—she had made new friends and, judging by the decrease in hair fingering, she had gained by the transfer.

  I never saw Tif, who lived in the city.

  “Should I send her a message?” I asked our counselor, old Scribe Aulumbe, when I was summoned for progress interview.

  “Why have you not?” she asked.

  “Because it might be felt that I am gloating.”

  “Are you gloating?”

  “No… yes… it is difficult to define. It’s just that we both wanted to be where I am, and the entire family wished to see us there. And I miss her.”

  “Do you miss her, or do you miss your childhood relationship?”

  “Are they not the same?” I asked.

  “You must decide that. For now, do you have family gatherings at which you can be friendly outside of the environment of our labors?”

  “No. We’re all scribes. I go at New Year’s Week to my parents in Ranflar, and she goes to her mother in Sartor, or our grandmother up in Altan.”

  The scribe touched her fingertips together and said, “You might send her a friendly note and see if she returns the wish for contact.”

  That friendly note, so simple to suggest, turned out to be more difficult to write than I thought. No, it turned out to be impossible, for it seemed that my entire life might be seen as a reproach, or a gloat. And so the days slipped by as I thought about it and even wasted some paper in attempts, but I could always hear Tif’s scorn. And Tif never wrote to me.

  The rest of the royal scribes were friendly enough, and I kept my friendship with some of the kitchen folk, but it was casual friendship—talk at mealtimes. They continued to go off without me for recreation, even after I turned sixteen. It wasn’t exclusion; I could see it was habit. To them I was still “the youngest.” So I studied harder than ever, which made the loneliness recede.

  Over winter the stonemasons began dismantling the old palace—work that ceased as soon as court returned, so that the nobles would not have to hear the noise and breathe the dust. Because it would, therefore, be a very slow process, they’d let the back garden grow wild to hide the unsightliness.

  I was listening to the thumps and clatter of great stones being dislodged as I stood by the open window of the scriptorium, waiting for Scribe Halimas, who had summoned me.

  He came striding out, robe panels flapping. “Good. You are here. Come inside.” With a sweep of his long sleeves toward the window he said, “The queen is there herself, pacing out where the new wing will be built.” His brows slanted steeply. “The dukes have already argued over how much space each should get.”

  Many courtiers bought or hired enormous, handsome houses along the Sentis Canal. But the dukes had been granted the right to housing in the royal palace by decree, when King Martande bound his nobles to him for the spring and summer season—what used to be considered the season of warfare. Rooms in the royal palace, cramped though they might seem to nobles accustomed to their own palaces, were a fiercely guarded privilege.

  Scribe Halimas eyed me from under his bushy brows, then flashed a quick grin. I’d never seen him grin before. “You have a comment, Journey scribe Emras?”

  The veins in my arms ran cold. I made the Peace. “You did not ask my opinion.”

  “Then give me an opinion of this. The Princess has asked for her own scribe. We have decided to assign you as first candidate—if, that is, you haven’t discovered you’re elas.”

  “I don’t have any preference yet,” I said, feeling childish and awkward.

  He shrugged. “It may happen later. Or you may be elor, like your aunt, which is a very good thing for a royal scribe, as you know. That is one of the reasons why she serves in Sartor as Colend’s scribe guild representative.”

  “Because royal scribes can never marry,” I said—trying not to sound impatient, since I’d grown up hearing that.

  He looked closely at me. “Some ducal families also require that of their personal scribes, because no one in a position of power wants… divided loyalties, let us say. I suspect a more detailed discussion of this matter lies a year or two off, though you’ve passed sixteen.”

  I made the Peace, internally shrugging.

  He frowned at me. “And yes, we know you should have another year or two of training. Eighteen is the customary age for royal scribes to take up their duties. But the princess wants a scribe, and you are the best candidate we have. We still have your public training to complete, and a few lessons about court, courtiers, and protocol, then you will be sent to her to see if you suit.”

  I trembled all over, wondering why they had not selected Birdy. Oh, of course. If he had inclinations, and they tended toward females, then he was out of consideration. What an odd thought, Birdy and attraction! A butterfly of hilarity swooped behind my ribs as I gave the formal answer that is appropriate to just about every situation, “I wish to serve.”

  Another impatient swoop of the sleeves, and the Senior Scribe was back to business. “At first the queen’s staff will continue to handle all state correspondence—such that the princess has—but you will take over her private communications, now that she is officially public enough to have a private life.”

  I smiled at the mild joke, though I still trembled.

  “From all evidence she has inherited her famous great-mother’s style and taste. Your pen work, your selection in paper and scents and seals is excellent. She has agreed to wait for your last lessons—she did ask for someone young, and understands that your training was not quite finished. Though you’ll continue to work with Scribe Selvad in getting your note taking to speed, you will also get used to public appearance.”

  He sent me to the Grand Seneschal.

  As soon as I reached the cool marble hall, Birdy appeared around one of the columns. He flung out a scrawny arm to steady himself, his beaky face joyous. “I was summoned just now by Senior Scribe Noliske. They want me to shift to the heralds. For training in diplomacy. And I’m to be part of the staff for no less than the King of Chwahirsland, who is coming to Alsais!”

  “The king? A Chwahir?”

  Birdy clapped lightly in happy affirmation.

  “You’ve always been the best of us at suitable persuasion.”

  Birdy shrugged, his smile odd. Then he leaned close and whispered, “If I do well over the next few weeks, and the Chwahir don’t take against me, I’m to go back to their capital with him. An embassy! I’m to wear a magic transfer token to bring me home in case of danger, and I must learn the diplomatic code, and everything!”

  I waited impatiently for him to finish, so eager was I to impart my own news. As soon as he paused, his expression one of inquiry, I said, “I’m in the last training before they send me to interview with the princess.”

  He grinned. “I hoped they’d pick you. I’d begun to hope so since winter. You’ll like a lifetime of cutting, writing, and folding pretty finger-scrolls about dances and picnics and all that. I confess I like the idea of danger. Not a lot, but some.”

  Once again, that sense of question, more felt than seen.

  I turned my palms out in Do Not Cross My Shadow. “Not me. I hate the idea of danger.”

  Birdy spun around in an awkward circle, then out came the juggling bags, arcing high in the air. As usual, he dropped one almost at once; while bent down, he turned his face up toward me and laughed. “Ah-yedi! I am so happy! Though she warned me that this first assignment, where we’re to go now, is the definition of tedium.”

  “You’ve been sent for? You go to the Grand Seneschal?”

  “Yes.”

  We walked together. The herald scribe who awaited us said, “Since the court is just beginning to arrive for the season,
we give this first month to you youngsters for your first public appearance. You’ll be monitoring the coming and going of courtiers in specific chambers from the Hours of Leaf to Stone, which is when they gather in the conservatory for the Queen’s Rising.”

  He paused, but we were too schooled to react beyond making the Peace with our fingertips, showing that we understood.

  He smiled. “This is not make-work, tedious as it sounds. The Grand Seneschal reports to the queen on how the rooms are used, which dictates next year’s changes.”

  When he saw our comprehension, he went on, “At first, you count the courtiers as they come and go. As you learn names, note them down. If you discern patterns in their movements, good. If any of them sends you on an errand, you see to it, but return as quick as you can. If you see a page and can hand off the errand, do it. They’re used to it.”

  The salon I was given to monitor had been built around a central fountain carved of ice-white marble in the shape of twined lilies, the sprays arching up to plash in a pool with lily pads. Most of the room was white marble, except for insets of polished black stone that outlined the triple ogee arches, and the ceiling vaults. Argan trees grew in marble pots with gilt rims in stylized leaf patterns. The trees’ silvery leaves turned toward the light in the triple-set trefoil windows far above.

  Surrounding the fountain, the semi circles of marble benches bore black satin cushions, their tassels hanging to the floor. Everything clean, the air moving in slow breezes with the faintest scent of spice.

  My first glimpse of courtiers in their complicated layers of robes made me nervous and self-conscious. Like the layers of their clothes, their modes and manners were far more complex than ours: they grew up knowing how something as simple as the turning of the wrist, and where that hand is poised in relation to one’s head, can change the meaning of everything said, heard, and displayed. And that was before they learned the silent communication of their fans.