The Use

by D. L. Carter

  Chapter Three

  Being bonded to the Element of Water does not provide additional protection from illness. For example, during the great plague of 4125 which killed thousands of Elves, including the last High King, the greatest loss of life was amongst the practitioners of Water Magic. Fenth, the High King, was an Adept of all the Elements, but his strongest bond was with Water, which is why he, of all those gathered in the Synod chamber that day, was at greatest risk. The Plague was so virulent toward Water practitioners that a whole generation of healers died in one month.

  The Elements Un-Deified

  An impartial history of Magic

  Halidan halted, backed up one step, and straightened her spine. Her father’s book brace was on the other side of the room with the rest of their belongings. She promised herself she would never in future venture anywhere without it tucked up her sleeve. From their clothes and manner, these were masterless men. Itinerant workers. Usually in her position within the House she had nothing to do with this type of person. Netha would never permit the hiring of itinerants for more than one season’s work, if that, declaring them to be untrustworthy and unreliable. Besides, she had said, if they were hired more than once, they started to get ideas about belonging and acquired expectations for things they didn’t deserve.

  Considering the Matriarch’s behavior to Halidan and her father, Halidan didn’t think that she would follow that worthy woman’s example. She didn’t smile; however, as she addressed the Elves, but she would be polite.

  “I am sorry, sirs, but I don’t think this place will do.” She stepped to one side and gestured toward the cloth covered body of her father. “This is the mortuary chapel.”

  “Oh, Elements,” said one of the Elves, a shorter, stockier male with a dark pink flush to his skin and dirty storm-grey hair. He retreated, fluttering his hands in confused embarrassment. His friends did not move; instead they bowed their heads toward the bier before turning to Halidan.

  “Ah,” said the leader, his face solemn now as he tucked the dice away, “my apologies for our disturbance in your time of grief.”

  “You are forgiven, but I think it better you leave.”

  The males nodded and retreated from the room. Halidan followed, halting beside the door, one hand resting on its comforting weight. Her father chose that moment to give a gasping grunt and begin to snore deep and slow.

  The Elf with the dice paused and glanced back, surprised. “He has not yet passed? You stay with him while he . . . um?”

  “My father,” said Halidan, “I will not leave him while he might need me. Do not fear, the Prior assured me that it is not a contagious illness.”

  The Elves all stared past her in reluctant fascination. Mixed blood children had much shorter lives than their pure blood relatives and since places such as the Sanctuary existed to shelter those who were ill and dying safely out of sight, it was unlikely that any of these had seen an ill mortal.

  Halidan glanced at the packs the males were carrying and reconsidered. Each bore a short sword and bow and while they were not wearing mail or light armor their packs were bulky enough to suggest they did own some. Not farm workers then, drifting from planting to harvest, but guards. From their lack of livery, they were unlikely to be in the High Lord’s employ.

  The one who’d fled the chapel first shifted, moving further down the corridor. Something hanging from the back of his pack clattered against the stone wall. With a muttered curse, he shifted the pack around. Dangling on a thick cord from his sash belt, Halidan saw a small black painted placard with Elvish script scrawled across it. The guard studied the letters for a moment with a worried frown, then nodded to himself, satisfied.

  Seeing the direction of Halidan’s gaze, he lifted the placard and said, “This is for hiring fairs. You put it at your feet and people know what sort of job you’re looking for. Couple months ago, I paid a scribe to write out words for me. I’ve tried to memorize the shape of them just in case they get wiped off, but so far I’ve managed to keep them safe. I write over them every now and then to keep them bright.”

  “I see,” said Halidan.

  For the first time, she gave some thought to her life after her father's death. She’d never gone looking for a job. Her father had brought her to the House of Pitchuri when she’d been in her teens. She was aware that he had been approached in some manner with a job offer, but they’d never spoken about how to find an employer. When she had thought of it before, she had assumed that she would go with one or another of the daughters when they married.

  She glanced over her shoulder at her belongings. How could she show her papers to a prospective employer with Matriarch Pitchuri's scrawl of dismissed across them? There would be questions. Why had she left? What crime had she committed to so offend the Matriarch?

  The Elf with the dice tilted his head to one side and gazed down into Halidan’s face.

  “Not been to a fair before?” he asked.

  Halidan shook her head, determined not to let her distress show. She must have failed since the Elf continued.

  “It’s not so bad,” he said. “Boring, mostly. You stand around for hours. No one ever gets hired before lunchtime, but you’ve got to be there from dawn. Have to grab yourself a good spot and hold it. Must be seen to be strong . . . to be patient . . . to be able to tolerate heat or cold. Although for a lady like you, a House servant, maybe that isn't as important.”

  A scrape of shoe on stone made them all turn. A full blood Elf wearing soft indoor clothes paused at the turning of the corridor and gazed at them. There was no insignia on his clothing and he had a heavy towel draped over his shoulders. Long ash-white hair drifted around him. Everything about his face and form marked him as a High Court Elf. The half Elves glanced toward him, noted the fine quality of his clothes and coloring and shifted closer to Halidan to leave the corridor clear. Halidan glanced quickly toward the new arrival, then down and away lest she make eye contact and give offense.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Elf incline his head to acknowledge their existence as he walked toward them down the long hall.

  “You’ve got to get there early to get a good placard,” said the other guard in a soft voice to give the illusion that they were not paying attention to the High Court Elf. “Get one with good paint so the chalk stands out. You could probably write your own job description. You look like the writing sort. Then you stand beside your placard and wait for those hiring to talk to you.”

  He held out his chalk board and Halidan finally could see the words he’d protected for so long.

  “Oh,” said Halidan wincing. There was no way she could in all kindness let this stranger go on confidently displaying this sign wherever he went. “Ah. The person who wrote this for you . . . he wasn’t a friend, was he?”

  The guard scowled, first at her, then down at his writing. “No. Not really. Just was someone I met. Why? What does it say?”

  Halidan stepped back. “I’m sorry.”

  The first Elf put a restraining hand on his friend’s arm. “Easy, Nittel. Your scowl is more of a weapon than your sword.” He smiled at Halidan. “Of your kindness, tor Halidan. Please, what does it say?”

  She hesitated a moment longer, then the spokesman gave her an encouraging wave.

  “Loud and stupid,” said Halidan in her softest voice.

  “Damn him to the nether hells,” growled Nittel as he rubbed the chalk board clean with his sleeve. “I’ll get him for this. Letting me go about showing this to people. No wonder I don’t get work. When I get him I’ll pound his a . . .”

  “Gently. Gently. You’re frightening the lass,” the first said, though his eyes turned toward the full blood who was walking slowly down the corridor and pretending he wasn’t listening to every word they said.

  “I paid him five coppers. Five! Just wait ‘til I see him again, Cris. I’ll teach him loud and stupid.”

  “No, you won’t,” said Cris, firmly. “He wouldn’t be supervising m
arket day unless he was related to someone of authority. You cause trouble and you’ll find yourself banned from hiring fairs from one end of the demesne to the other.”

  The full blood Elf was almost beside them at this point. Good manners dictated that they ignore him unless he spoke first. No one needed to remind the half breeds of manners. They subsided and fell silent until the other passed by.

  “How much would you charge to write out a word for my friend?” asked Cris, once the full blood was a suitable distance away.

  “What does he want it to say?” asked Halidan.

  “Uh . . .”

  Halidan searched through the folds of her sash for a stub of chalk while Nittel gave the important matter of his words serious thought.

  “I want to say that I’m good with all weapons, can track and hunt. I can do decent campfire cooking of what I catch. I’m good in emergencies and . . .”

  “That’s a lot of words, my friend, and you’ve only got a small placard.” Halidan located a stub of white chalk and smoothed the end with her fingertip. “How about we just go with a nice simple phrase: Experienced guard, for example.”

  “Two words, that’s cheaper, right?”

  She smiled and nodded. Taking the placard she balanced it on her hip and began to write. After a few letters she stopped and shook her head, erasing what she’d written. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was using feminine style.” She started again this time inscribing with bold strokes, large, clear characters. “This is masculine style in Common and this,” she changed to an assertive spiky script, “is High Court, masculine.”

  Nittel chewed his lip. “I dunno that I dare have High on my sign. After all, they’re not the ones that come looking for guards at fairs.”

  “Perhaps Low Court? Or do you think Common is enough?” asked Halidan, glancing past her audience. The full blood had disappeared down around the corner, but she wouldn’t swear that he wasn’t listening out of sight.

  “How much will it cost?”

  “Perhaps we could work out a trade?” said Cris and laughed when Halidan looked shocked. “No, tor, I would not be so crude, what with you so soon to be bereaved.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You’ll be job hunting soon?”

  Halidan nodded.

  “Well, the best hiring fair for people with special skills like scribing is down the road two days in Warming Fire. We’re heading that way. I’m thinking you’ve never gone about in the world without escort before. What say you come with us? We’ll be your honor guard and you’ll teach us a little scribing.” He glanced across at his friends. “I don’t know about Nittel and Morae, but I’ve always had my suspicions about the cost of beer and food. I’m certain they charge traveling folk like us more than regular. But, if you challenge their prices they point at the wall and say, there it is, all written down. I’d rather be overcharged than admit I can’t read, but pride can get damned expensive sometimes.”

  “Well . . .”

  “I think the young lady may not have to travel so far to gain employment.”

  The soft voice had them all freezing in place. The full blood Elf was back standing just behind the guards. How he'd managed to get so close to them all without any noticing was beyond Halidan's understanding.

  He took the placard from Halidan’s unresisting fingers and turned it to examine her script.

  “Neat. Even. A fine hand in both styles. This should serve you well,” he said, returning it to Nittel with a slight nod. Then he examined each face in turn. “Your papers.”

  Being quietly phrased didn't make it any less a command. Halidan reached into her sash and the guards into jerkins and packs. In a moment they were all holding out their personal papers. Halidan blushed at the sight of the twisted front cover of hers even though the damage wasn't her fault. Even the guards living rough had taken better care. Their papers were wrapped in Waterwater-sealed folders and cloth to better preserve them.

  The Elf examined the guards’ papers first, then tucking them into his sash turned his attention to Halidan’s. When he reached the page with the Matriarch’s damning word on it he sighed and hissed through his teeth. “Hardly kind.”

  He took two steps forward forcing Halidan to retreat or be bumped against him and peered past her into the chapel where her father’s deep snoring breaths could still be heard. He gazed at the cloth covered brier for a moment without his expression changing to the expected revulsion.

  “I am sorry for your impending loss,” he said, after a pause.

  “Thank you for your kindness.”

  “Who is this person to you?”

  “My father.”

  “Ah. The death of a parent is a time of great grief.” he said, examining her father’s papers. “Tell me, what were your duties in House Pitchuri?”

  “I was general tutor with my father to both sons and daughters of the House in matters of mathematics, geography, and history. My father took the sons for Ritual training and I taught the daughters Ritual and Manners.”

  Since he’d spoken directly and kindly to her, Halidan risked raising her eyes to his face. It was difficult to judge the age of Elves. Their skin did wrinkle after a time, but for the most part the greatest sign of years on them was in their eyes. Over time they appeared weary, then faded. This one's were bright and contained a hint of amusement. The expression on his faintly pink-brushed face was one of pleasant interest. His silver eyes remained focused on hers and he listened as if her words were the most important he’d ever heard. Halidan lifted her chin and tried to pretend she couldn’t feel the blush rising to stain her cheeks.

  “You have no magic. How can you teach ritual?” The Elf frowned at the papers, again. “House Pitchuri. I do not recall . . . they are Low Court, are they not?”

  “They refer to themselves as Mid Court . He is the head of the local merchant's guild.” Halidan blushed for her late employer’s pretension as the Elf's lips twisted in a smirk. Not wanting to have to defend the Matriarch’s ambitions Halidan continued. “It is not necessary to have magic to teach language and memorization. Rote and rhythm. The Matriarch required that her daughters be word perfect in all the Rites even if they could not summon the Elements.”

  “Hmm. It appears you write High Court, Low, and Common; can you speak it as well?”

  Halidan drew herself a little taller and recited the opening verses of Spring Turning Ritual in smooth and seamless High. Her students would have slurred the phrasing, but Halidan was word and intonation perfect. The Elf nodded his approval.

  “And to be this educated you must have knowledge of books, their care and maintenance.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you will hold that the books of House Bronet are the best works.”

  “Hardly,” said Halidan without hesitation.

  The Elf only raised an eyebrow. Halidan blushed, again. What if the Elf was a collector of Bronet? She should watch her words more closely.

  “Well, it’s just that if what you want is a work of art in leather, jewels, and lace that you can store on a bookcase,” continued Halidan, “then the covers of House Bronet books will meet your need. But, I have always thought that the purpose of a book is to convey knowledge from one mind to another. The Bronets make a fuss about the delicacy of their imprintings, but I find the script too narrow and idealized to be readable. And their stories are dull, poorly written, and lack variety.”

  “House Frieia?”

  “They use thin ink on odd-colored paper. They also use very small printing. I think that’s so they don’t have to use as much paper. Their illustrations are poor quality and rarely color touched. Added to that, the books do not age well and must be sheltered from light else the ink will fade. If not, within a decade or two, they are unreadable.”

  “How accurately you dismiss them.” The Elf laughed. “Very well, you have some knowledge. I find myself in need of a librarian. Not, however, for my House library, but for my personal books. Those who know me will tell you I buy far more books
than I can ever find time to read; therefore, I need someone to organize them. I am convinced that I have duplicate copies of some, but haven’t the time to weed them out and choose the best imprint to keep. To find and protect the rare, I need someone to read and summarize the contents so I can concentrate my attention on those that are of use. It will take me some little time to instruct you in what is important to me, but I believe it will be a job you will enjoy.” He glanced over at her father, again. “I realize that this moment is not the best of times for the discussion of employment. Think on it when you are able. I shall send my secretary to speak to you again in the morning.”

  Halidan hesitated. “Ah . . . whose secretary shall I wait on in the morning?”

  The Elf paused as if to enjoy the moment, then said. “I am Eioth.”

  The guards who had been creeping closer the better to overhear the conversation, gasped. Halidan muttered, “Of course,” and all four immediately made low bows, Halidan sinking down into Formal obeisance.

  Eioth reached down and taking Halidan’s hand raised her to her feet. He held onto her hand until she raised her eyes again to his, then he smiled.

  “High Lord,” called Cris from the doorway, “my apologies . . .”

  Eioth waved the words away without taking his gaze from Halidan. “How were you to know? I do not wear my insignia to bathe. Now, Halidan tor Ephram, we will leave you to your vigil.”

  He closed her papers, running a finger over the bent cover and handed the books back. Then he left pulling the door shut behind him. Halidan stood staring after him until a gasping breath from her father had her rushing to his side.

  Her future, which might or might not include service to the High Lord of North West Demesne, would have to wait. For now her father needed her. She tried not to let the relief that someone was willing to hire her despite everything blind her. She had no experience in choosing an employer. Yes, it was an honor to be invited to serve the High Lord. Yes, it was unlikely she would ever get a better offer. But, she was alone with no idea of what to do and no other options. She didn’t want desperation to drive her into making a dangerous choice. The High Lord would know how vulnerable she was. How fragile her situation.