Banner of the Damned

by Sherwood Smith

  Marnda indicated the door to the bath. “If you haven’t time to bathe. You’ve only to pick up the wand there and then step through. The wand passing through the bespelled doorway enables the magic to function. You and your clothing will be clean, but the magic does not remove water, or wrinkles.” Then she added, “For intimate recreation, our rule is to take it to the pleasure house. No staff relationships. We have an account at—” She bent and peered at me, her brow perplexed. “Are you old enough for this conversation?”

  “I am nearly seventeen,” I said, with the dignity of the young. (At least she did not laugh.) I neglected to add, however, that although I’d had to say the Waste Spell to bring on monthly flow for half a year now, I as yet had nothing more than a vague, academic interest in sex.

  “If you have questions, please come to me,” she said, and the subject rested there as she indicated my trunk, which had already been sent over.

  On it sat a row of little notes, almost all folded in the congratulatory shape called crowned lilies.

  Seneschal Marnda smiled as I bent over them, touching the largest of the crowned lily shapes, which was tied with a heavy white silk ribbon. I suspected this one was from my parents. Three of the others were tied by silk threads, most likely from fellow journey scribes, and one with a gold ribbon—it had to be an extravagance from my brother Olnar.

  I smiled, moving to the blossom made of shell pink paper—Tiflis’s favorite—with a full ribbon. I stared at it, overcome with surprise and joy.

  “I’ll leave you to—” began the seneschal, then halted at the sound of Princess Lasthavais’s voice from beyond the open door.

  “Where is my new scribe?”

  Marnda’s gaze flicked to my feet, but I’d already slid out of my house slippers when I’d entered. I shoved my feet into the waiting pair of silk chamber slippers as the princess scudded swiftly into the main room so her robes fluttered, and her hair ribbons—they wore them very long that year—streamed in an arc behind her.

  Her tiny steps slowed. I stepped out of my door. She clapped her hands lightly then flung them wide, almost as if to hug me, but her fingers spread apart in the Bird on the Wing, a gesture seen rarely in Alsais’s court. It was graceful, enthusiastic—so charming I was late in remembering to place my hands together and bow deeply.

  “Come! You’ve made your duty bow. But please, The Peace will do from now on, except when my sister is here. She likes the niceties. Truly. Ask dear Marnda,” the princess said in a quick rush of words.

  Her voice was what we call fluting: somewhere between husky and breathless, yet musical. “Do you like cats?” she added, as two glossy felines paced out from behind her.

  “I do, very much,” I said, bending just enough to hold down a hand.

  The nearest cat gave me a delicate sniff then put up its tail, so I ventured a pat. The animal sinuously rolled its back under my touch then passed on to scour its head against the princess’s leg, tail high.

  “I am so glad you like cats. But the bows must go when we are private.” The princess chuckled, a small and pleasing sound. “I came late to a presentation one day, when I was small. There I was, running from the south door, and oh, there was the entire court in full sovereign bow—with heads lowered—but you have no notion how that appears from behind.” She laughed again, as I struggled to control my own flutter of hilarity at the sheer unexpectedness of words and image. “And as I passed, I caught such looks! Ah-ye, I know manner is important, but meaning is, too. I never see a room full of deep bows without thinking of those silken backsides.”

  She did not wait for my answer. “Now, come with me. Tell me all about yourself,” she continued, whirling so fast that her blue silk hair ribbon caught against my side. Then it slithered and fell as she sped across the little tiled hall and into a wide chamber as large as all the service alcoves together.

  I gained a swift impression of raw silk cushions in a subdued blue the color of winter ice over water, a fine tile floor patterned in Venn knots made in shades of sand and beige and cream interleaved with blue. Potted argan trees arched overhead and, arranged abundantly below, were a variety of fragrant ferns.

  From there I followed her into yet another room, a bower of living things—potted lindens and stalked starliss under broad western windows, set on low platforms framing a sunken circle in the floor, fitted with couches around a mosaic patterned table. The floor had the largest rosebud carpet I had ever seen, made of thousands and thousands of hand-rolled silken buds of palest first-dawn rose.

  The princess dropped onto a darker rose brocade cushion, noticing my fascinated glance, for I had learned that rosebud carpets were favored for the intimacy of lovers. And here was one in a semi-public space!

  She chuckled again. “I have been given three rosebud carpets,” she said confidingly. “This one is here so I can run my toes over it. The maids put it through the cleaning frame every night, so if you ever feel headachy, feel free to run your feet over it. I assure you, it kills the pangs in moments!” She gestured, the turn of her hand both graceful and inviting. I never once had thought I would actually sit in her presence unless recording, so moved uncertainly until she patted a cushion. “Sit! My neck hurts, craning up to see you! I asked for someone my age,” she said, her gaze direct as she studied me. “Are you younger?”

  “Nearly seventeen, your highness.”

  “No titles when we are alone. I am telling you now so that you will not form the habit. Try it.”

  She waited, so I said, “Nearly…”

  “Lasva.”

  I could not get that past my lips. Yet I knew it was hypocritical, because among my closest friends we dropped the titles as often as not, though I had taken great care to be formal if I might be overheard by anyone in authority. And I had always referred to her as the princess.

  Lasva’s eyes narrowed in speculation. She said slowly, “I think you have the habit already, do you not? There is that in your face—here.” She touched her cheeks, and her chin. “You say ‘Lasva’ among your friends, do you not? Or is it Lasthavais? Or something worse?”

  “Never,” I exclaimed.

  “Then you’ve heard it from others.” Again the chuckle. “So. I’ll be nineteen soon. You know, my Name Day is not Midsummer, unlike my sister, my mother, my grandmother, and in short, all orderly Lirendis for whom the Birth Spell worked.” She chuckled deep in her chest. “I persist in thinking that the reason my mother tried the Birth Spell at the age of seventy-nine, on a winter’s day, was whim. Or even a dash of wickedness. Or at least humor, though everyone insists she was always very good. And I should think, very dull and dutiful. There, are you scandalized? I never knew her, you see. I may say what I like: she brought me into the world and then, in effect, abandoned me, as she died not long after.”

  She smiled, her cheeks dimpling. Then she said, “Tell me about your education. I am guessing it matched a great deal of mine.”

  My mind flashed to the kitchen—and she said, with that narrow glance, “You are laughing inside. I can see it! Why?” Then she waved her hands. “Ah-ye, I can see it is a secret—my sister warned me not to pester you. I know you must obey, I know that trust comes when it will, and not by order. Someday, someday. Now, let us talk about your duties. Oh! They will have told you that staff is strictly—” She gestured toward Thorn Gate with an ironic flourish. “—forbidden to have passions with one another. However, I know that you scribes are trained to be discreet. So twistle with anyone you like, but…” She laid her finger to her lips and smiled. “You understand, I am sure! You scribes are trained to observe. So are we, and yet, so much of what we are taught is the art of melende, which conceals instead of reveals.”

  She paused, so I put my hands together in peaceful assent, feeling very grown up.

  “My sister often asks her scribes, after an interview, what did you see?” She touched the sides of her eyes. “And they will tell her, ‘I saw anger in the tilt of her head.’ Or, ‘I saw the warines
s of a liar in the angle of his shoulders.’ I am beginning to have more social correspondence than I can deal with, but here is where we begin our trust.”

  I bowed. She clasped her hands again. “What I really, really want is for you to observe like my sister’s scribes but for me. Because you must know by now, everything I hear is flattery. Everything. I want to descry the truth if I can.”

  This surprised me so much I hesitated, and again she laughed.

  “Shall we begin while traveling to Sartor for the music festival? I always leave the morning after Midsummer’s Day. You can carry the scrollcase I promised my sister would always be near me. I hate that thing, it ruins the hang of my gowns. I’ll continue to carry the emergency transfer token—they made it a finger ring.” She touched her smallest finger.

  “I am ready to travel if that is your wish, your h—”

  She raised a hand, chuckling. “I think I will have to play the game with you. Poppy! Ah-ye,” Lasva cried when the little page appeared. “We will save the cakes yet. I want you to run in and out, so that I may get Emras accustomed to addressing me. Now, if she’s gone, you must say ‘Lasva.’ And when she appears, then it’s back to all the titles. You know that so-called privilege is a matter of social agreement, do you not? That in the baths, we are all skin over bones?”

  Poppy dashed in, her laughter light and free.

  “Your highness,” I said, when Lasva rose and nodded to me, her face full of fun.

  Poppy ran out, and at the royal gesture I said obediently, “Lasva.”

  Three or four more times we played this game. Then the princess had to ready herself for her part in a musical quartette for, at that time, courtiers created what were called air poems—extemporaneous verse while playing insuments. Though often enough the most witty (or that deemed the most witty if someone was courting someone else’s favor or favors) would appear in illustrated form the next morning, delivered by silent night pages, to be enjoyed over morning drink and discussed during the fountain chamber stroll before the Rising.

  Lasva whirled away, saying over her shoulder that I was free to settle in—I had liberty that night but would begin my duties in the morning.

  So I retired to read my congratulatory notes. My mother had folded a queensblossom in hers, a sign that she was pleased—and a warning to live up to my new status. My father sent a gold coin under his seal.

  I saved Tif’s for last, and with trembling fingers opened it.

  The note had only two lines, the first the customary words of congratulation, and then, “Come visit me when you can. On Restday eve you can find us at the House of the Thistle, our favorite pleasure house, or at whichever play is newest.”

  SEVEN

  OF THE PRICE OF STYLE

  O

  f course I must go see Tiflis! I’d only ventured into the city twice, both times in company with other students. I put on my new pair of outside shoes for my first venture into public as an adult scribe.

  Tiflis lived over Pine House on Alassa Canal. Competition for living space is vigorous in the city. My father had joked that it was probably a Water Guild conspiracy that made addresses on the canals so much more prestigious. The canals were lined with brick walkways, so that people could stroll along them as well as boat on the water.

  I proudly offered my gold coin to a young water girl on the Crown Skya Canal. This was personal business, so I would not use the palace pass.

  She broke my gold piece into satisfyingly heavy six-sided silvers and a handful of small square coppers, and then she and her partner rowed me into the city as the sun began its slide toward the west, lighting up the whitewashed buildings with warm, peachy rose, and intensifying to jewel tones the painted shutters and flower boxes and vine-trailing iron work.

  That bend in Alassa Canal was largely made up of book sellers. The front windows of their shops displayed books and scrolls, old and new. Pine House’s specialty seemed to be illustrated travel records, memoirs, and biographies.

  The Hour of the Lily was when many shops closed and others, mostly places of entertainment, opened for the evening. Booksellers catering to the court and to richer folk usually stayed open late. Tif’s shop was open, its door carved to resemble the outer edges of an open book.

  Inside, the fine display shelves and little reading tables were presided over by a woman wearing a rich overrobe in the deep V-fronted style called “swan wings.” It was embroidered in yellow knotwork over brown linen silk. Merchants dressed to signify success, as everyone believed that success bred more success. “May I be of service, Scribe?”

  “I am here to see my cousin Tiflis, if she is off-duty.”

  The woman’s inviting smile lessened at this evidence of mere personal business, but few dared to be rude to a royal scribe. “Second floor.”

  I found Tiflis in a parlor filled with fine papers, desks, and inks. Wide windows in all four walls let in the florid sunset colors; still-dark glow globes in sconces waited for someone to bespell them to light.

  At my entrance Tif laid aside her book, her manner casual, as if it had been an hour, a day, and not a year since we’d last seen one another.

  She introduced me around with obvious pride, ending with a thin girl our age dressed in a robe with great curling leaves of dull gold over pale eggshell blue silk. This girl, named Nali, eyed me speculatively from under a curled fringe of red hair as she made her Peace.

  Then Tif led me up to the third floor dormitory.

  The view from the journey scribes’ curtained cubicles (each had a window) was over the complexity of pattern-tiled roofs and balconies on the alley behind the shop.

  “It’s pretty,” I said.

  “You know it’s against the law to let any part of a property lapse into unsightliness?” she said.

  “I mean your space. The way you have fixed it up, with this book shelf over your sleeping platform.”

  “It’s small. I’m sure yours is ten times as grand.”

  My pay would be small, but I would always live in a palace. Tif knew that, but because she was Tif, she had to offer a challenge.

  “I hope you will invite me to see the festival of lights,” I said. “Which I will never see from my room.”

  “Oh, I will. But only if you bring some of those good cakes from your friends in the kitchens.” After this reminder of my service in the kitchens, she sat on the bed, waving me to the desk chair. “So you got free time already? I hadn’t expected you to come for a week or more.”

  I couldn’t resist—and the moment the words left my lips, I saw my mistake—“The princess gave me leave.” I tried to mitigate the error by adding, “Tell me about your life here.”

  To her peers Tif had shown me off, but now that we were alone, the competition narrowed to us. I saw it in how her spine lengthened, her chin came up, and her voice sharpened as she launched into an affected speech about how hard they worked, how difficult it was to copy books while keeping an eye to beauty on every page—a hint at how much easier it was to make full scribe in the palace than here in the world of commerce, where life was fast and challenging, and how much harder it was to design beautiful books instead of being a mere copyist. “Towers scribes are responsible for making every page look exactly like the original. Any ten-year-old can do that, once you’ve got the knack of measuring off your page. But to design each page so that it is a work of art…”

  She described how they were always on the watch for a book that might become popular—but they had to determine whether it would appeal to people who collected fine books or just to those who liked reading parties. Most people, she explained, liked hearing a book, especially when read by a Reader, but rarely wanted to own it or even hear it a second time.

  Gradually her voice and mood lightened, leaving me wondering why it is that so many of us humans may love a thing, but we still test its value against others’ opinions: She was happy here, but she still wanted me to envy her, because she envied me being employed by a princess, even if s
he had scant interest in the actual work.

  “… and so I’m hoping to find an illustrator to pair with me. Nali says you get promoted faster if you can create a style together. Nali also told me, in the first week, that everyone wants illustrated books, at least the capital letters, these days.”

  That was the fourth “Nali says.” I wondered if Nali had replaced Sheris in the way that Sheris had replaced me.

  “How about Thumb?” I asked. “He was one of us—he was easy to get on with—and I never saw anyone draw as well as he did. Remember that sketch he made of Scribe Aulumbe when she stuck the quill behind her ear when it was still full of ink? Three lines, it seemed, and he had her very expression.”

  “Thumb’s already been promoted to inker, and they say next year he’ll be an illuminator, youngest in thirty years. Way beyond me from the start. He’s at Laurel House, doing erotica, so I couldn’t get him as my illustrator even if he wasn’t so far ahead of us all.”

  “Erotica,” I exclaimed, trying to imagine absent-minded Thumb illustrating people cavorting in sensory abandon.

  Tif grinned, clasping her hands around her knees—the princess now forgotten, I hoped. “Did you know that most men arouse seeing drawings, the more detailed the better, but most women prefer poetry and text? But it all changes when they give one another pillow gifts.” She shook her head. “I don’t quite get it yet, though Nali insisted I go to the pleasure house with her a year ago winter, for my first time. And it was fun, but…” Tif wrinkled her upper lip. “Here I am, already eighteen, but it still takes forever to warm up. I like practicing on myself, and at the House of the Thistle, I play cards. I am deemed quite good, especially at Riddle.” She turned her head cantwise as she regarded me. “Have you and Birdy twistled yet?”

  “Birdy!” I exclaimed. “We never—”

  “Em, you’re not a baby anymore.” She threw up her hands in don’t cross my shadow. “The way he used to stick to you, we thought he was sweet on you.”