by J M Sanford
“Quite true.” Bessie passed the crystal ball back to Bryn. “Do you feel the need to escort us safely on our way?” A passer-by might give her a distraction she could use, but whether a random stranger on the street would come down for or against a City Guardsman would be a coin toss. She’d been so anxious about sneaking out and past Greyfell’s window that she hadn’t even thought to equip herself with anything more than the small knife she always carried, but at least she had her conjuring rings. If she kept her head and thought fast, she might still get away with it. One thought gave her courage: if Archalthus had sent his men after her, then she must still have some place in the Queens’ Contest. Bessie Castle could be crowned Black Queen yet…
2: THE ILGREVNIAN
“You look young to be out so late without a chaperone,” said the guardsman. “Perhaps I should escort you home, and your friend here can get back to the Argean embassy.”
At her side, Bessie heard Bryn growling, low and quiet. “Bryn, remember he has a sword,” she murmured. “Run when I run. Find Greyfell.”
Bryn glanced at her, the nuances of his expression difficult to read as ever, but his short tawny fur stood on end, his ears were back, and the pupils of his golden eyes had narrowed to slits. She could only hope he would listen to her and not do anything stupid. She could see the guardsman judging the distance between them, trying to guess Bryn's reach. She didn't want to pin her hopes on his sense of self-preservation, then… “Perhaps,” she said, fiddling anxiously with the clasp of her cloak, “perhaps you should take me to the Station on the Crescent.” She was satisfied to see the grin falter and a flicker of irritation cross the guardsman's features: the Crescent would be packed with people visiting theatres at this time of the evening, and if they got as far as the Station, the City Guard wouldn't recognise this man as one of their own any more than the Iletian elite would recognise Bessie. She smiled. “Let's go, shall we?” and she turned and ran as fast as she could down the stairs.
She threw away her cloak at once, afraid of being caught by it, and her stomach flipped when Bryn overtook her a moment later. On four silent paws he ran twice as fast as a man could, a huge but graceful feline spectre disappearing in the night. He'd reach Master Greyfell long before she could get back to the safety of her dormitory – so much for keeping this a secret… If she'd needed to, she could have run and hammered on the front door of the Academy, begging them to let her back in, but that would involve the Headmistress in the matter for sure, and invite public humiliation for Bessie. Instead she headed for the laundry building besides the Academy's wall, not hesitating to look over her shoulder. Those noisy footsteps rang loud in the night air, not far behind her. She scaled the wall quickly, almost effortlessly with adrenaline firing her muscles, and dropped down into the launderers’ yard. She darted across the open space, praying her pursuer might not see her, and into the alleyway behind the Academy, where she scrambled through the hole in the wall like a fox going to ground. Here the guardsman could not follow her. She glanced up and down the narrow passageway, hoping rather desperately to find an open window at ground level: she'd forgotten she'd have to brave the rooftops again. “Damn it!” She didn't like to take such an exposed route in the first place, but more importantly, getting up onto a roof is so much harder than getting down when one is short.
The guardsman scaled the wall much faster than she'd expected, and landed in the Academy's main courtyard. Fear drove Bessie up onto the roof of the lavatories almost as fast as she'd come down, not so long ago. The guardsman followed her onto the roof, distressingly easily for someone who couldn’t be familiar with the buildings, and Bessie scrabbled across the tiles away from him, not so sure-footed or silent as before. There must be an open window overlooking the courtyard somewhere, at some level… Ahead of her lay the roof of the old ballroom, notoriously flimsy, visibly run-down and in terrible need of repairs. Rumour had it only the most waifish of the girls could cross it, and then only if they held their breath, but if Bessie successfully led her pursuer into that trap, the Headmistress might let her off lightly for the damage and the scandal caused. She darted across it, light as a bird and swearing like a skysailor all the way. She heard the guardsman following, but not as reckless as she'd like him to be if she was to draw him into the trap…
Suddenly, a slice of light spilled out across the rooftops. “Miss Castle!” a familiar voice boomed. Bessie looked up at Master Greyfell's open window, the one she'd tried so scrupulously to avoid before. “What is the meaning of this?” the Master demanded, loud enough to wake half the City.
Bessie grinned in spite of her fear. “A stranger on Academy ground!” she shouted back to him. The whole of the grand old Antwin Academy seemed to grumble and whisper, roused from sleep, as shutters opened and candles brightened in windows all around the courtyard. The guardsman's footsteps faltered and stopped. Bessie too stood stock still, hoping her silhouette – small, slight, clad in Academy uniform – would make her identity as a student obvious enough to all. She'd begun to count under her breath. The intruder would have about a minute before Greyfell could lay hands on a crossbow, load it and take aim… maybe more by moonlight, and if Greyfell wanted the intruder alive. The guardsman, having wasted the first five seconds of his minute, took off like a frightened cat. Ignoring the way he'd come in, he went racing across the rooftops towards the Academy's old clock tower. The clock hadn't worked for fifty years, the bell silent; the rickety tower far too expensive to rebuild or repair, and strictly off limits, even to the most daring and foolish of students. Even outside the Academy, all Iletians knew that to climb the crooked clock tower was to court a long fall onto the flagstones below, but the guardsman barely hesitated. The Academy held its breath and watched. Something stirred in the belfry as the guardsman reached it, and Bessie thought she heard Greyfell mutter something as he tried to take aim, but a moment later a great grey creature lunged out from the belfry, spreading its wings. A crossbow bolt flew through the night air, but too late: both creature and guardsman had vanished.
A round of chatter started up, rippling around the edges of the courtyard. A griffin? Impossible. Improbable, at best. But that's what it had looked like…
~
Several of the Academy’s Masters had come out with lamps to investigate the clock tower and check that the intruder had really gone, Master Greyfell amongst them. Bessie came down from the rooftops reluctantly. Safe from her pursuer (for now at least), she'd still have to contend with the Headmistress. She might have been better off allowing herself to be taken prisoner…
“Miss Castle!” Master Greyfell bellowed, just as Bessie was trying to slink back to the dormitory unseen. As her name echoed around the moonlit courtyard, Bessie dragged her heels despite her original intention to be cool and defiant in the face of his disapproval. Greyfell might be in his pyjamas, but he still carried the crossbow, and looked as fierce as ever. As she approached, he glared at her. His eyes were steely; his face had turned that alarming shade of red, criss-crossed with pale scars, and though the sight of the scars reminded Bessie that Greyfell had made his own mistakes in the past, she knew it would be unwise to try to wring any sympathy from him at this stage.
“I'm sorry, Master Greyfell,” she said quietly, not daring to attempt the manipulative look of contrition that she'd used on the Archmage.
“Sorry you were caught, no doubt,” the Master barked. “Who was that man?”
“Don't know, Master Greyfell. I saw him at the jade temple. I think he's in service of Prince Archalthus.”
“You allowed him to escape. That will be a black mark against you.” Faces watched from every window around the courtyard. One or two of the girls looked sympathetic, but more were gloating: early on in her schooling, Bessie had gained a reputation as Master Greyfell's pet. “He climbed the clock tower, yes?” Even furious with her, he was already preparing her to defend herself to the Headmistress, who’d want to know why a third year with real world experience would allow
an intruder to slip away unharmed.
“Like a rat up a drainpipe, Master Greyfell.”
Greyfell surveyed the crooked silhouette of the clock tower, then fixed Bessie with that steely grey stare again. “Hmm. I suppose you're going to tell me you hadn't anticipated that.”
Bessie certainly hadn't anticipated that. The guardsman had climbed the tower almost as quickly and easily as Bryn could have. Under such pursuit, Bessie thought she’d done well to keep the business off the street and out of the sight of the evening crowds. “The rules prohibit climbing of the clock tower for good reason, Master Greyfell. I underestimated the intruder's recklessness. I should have killed him,” she added. After all, she’d had on her conjuring rings, and a simple fireball spell could at least have knocked him off balance. She wondered why she hadn’t tried. An Antwin girl couldn’t afford to be soft-hearted or slow-witted in the heat of the moment…
“It’s not ladylike to be so keen for your first taste of blood,” Greyfell reprimanded her. “And what is your excuse for consorting with Argean skysailors in the middle of the night? Or for the language we all heard you using as you came over the roof of the ballroom?”
“Very sorry about that, Master Greyfell,” said Bessie stiffly, not looking at him, pretending to watch the skies for the return of the griffin. Since enrolling at the Academy, she'd become much more careful about the way she spoke, not wanting to be taken for some graceless, witless slattern from the Walls. At least it sounded like Bryn had reached the Academy safely, even if he'd been turned away at the door… Bessie didn't dare ask after him, though. Was Greyfell looking any less red in the face yet?
“Being so well versed in Academy lore,” said Greyfell, “you are of course aware of the rot in those timbers.” He indicated the roof she'd just come down from.
“Yes, Master Greyfell.” It took all her willpower not to look down at her feet.
Greyfell stared at her, appraising her as fiercely as he had done on their very first meeting, before she'd proved her dedication to learning, her ambition and her spirit. “In all the years I've been at the Academy,” he said, “I can recall only three students who crossed the ballroom roof as part of their final examinations. One of them passed, one was lucky enough to walk away unscathed when she fell, and the third girl broke her neck.” The other Masters in their pyjamas were retreating indoors to the warmth of their beds. “Your performance tonight was impressive, Miss Castle,” said Greyfell, more quietly, “and I strongly suggest you consider incorporating the ballroom challenge into your own final examinations… should you make it that far in your studies.”
“Oh. Thank you, Master Greyfell,” she said, weakly. “Um. I'd like permission to look at a few of your books, if you don't mind.” She really was pushing her luck, and she knew it, but there was something she needed to look up while the information was fresh in her mind.
Greyfell's eyes narrowed. “I think that would be permissible,” he said, much to Bessie's surprise. “And while we're in my office, I need to discuss some things with you. Your extracurricular studies, for the most part.”
Bessie nodded. A lecture from Greyfell would be a joy compared to whatever punishment the Headmistress might dream up.
~
The Masters and Mistresses of the Antwin Academy lived within its walls, and their offices were part of their homes. In her first year, Bessie had had the misfortune to be summoned to several of these offices, and always felt intimidated by the grandness of the furnishings, the walls of leather-bound books glittering with gilt titles on their wide spines. By comparison, Greyfell's quarters were as spartan as the third year dormitory where Bessie slept. They were as clean and well-ordered as anyone would expect, but scarcely looked lived in, and contributed to the pervasive rumour that Master Greyfell never slept, stalking the grounds in search of students out of bed after curfew. His shelves of books were not as impressive as those belonging to some of his colleagues, but at least Bessie was convinced he found them useful rather than beautiful. Bessie had once admired his collection of books on military history… from a distance. Up close, she'd found them to be bogged down in tedious details, but she remembered one on the history of the Flying City Guard, containing a set of full-colour plates of different uniforms throughout the ages. It was this book that she spread open in front of her as she sat at the desk in Greyfell's private quarters. She'd noted something off about the guardsman's uniform when she'd seen him in the jade temple, but at the time she'd been too worried about the White Queen to care very much about him. Now, with it fresh in her mind, she should be able to find it easily. Although at first it had looked close enough to the uniform worn by the Iletian City Guard, there had been something decidedly outdated and odd about it. “This one,” she said at last, and leaned back to let Greyfell see. A shade of blue distinctly different from Iletian Blue, with a short coat and gold braiding. She could find nothing else in the book quite like it. Ilgrevnian City Guard, 1192 – 1237. That made the man's uniform more than five hundred years out of date.
“Wrong City, wrong century,” Greyfell murmured, quiet and thoughtful now that they were away from the inquisitive eyes of students and faculty. “Are you absolutely certain that's what he wore? In low light, the imagination tends to embellish colourful details in lieu of a clear image. And of course, this is particularly true for excitable women and children.”
Bessie clenched her jaw and took a moment to compose herself before she spoke. “I'm positive that's what he wore. Does Ilgrevnia still fly?” She thought she'd heard the name before, but so many of the Flying Cities had fallen or vanished over the years.
The look on Greyfell's face suggested that he too found the name uncomfortably familiar. He glanced at three long rolls of paper on a nearby shelf: judging by the purple ribbons they were tied with, they would be line charts, showing the flow and conglomeration of the world’s magic, along with the location of every Flying City that sailed on that magic. Bessie had tried her best to keep track of the position of their own City as it moved on its yearly trade route, but it had been a difficult thing to do without drawing attention to her plans. “I'll check the line charts in the morning,” said Greyfell. “If Ilgrevnia flies, somebody will know its whereabouts. As for you, Miss Castle,” he looked meaningfully at the clock, “I believe you have lessons in the morning?”
Bessie hesitated. The prospect of punishment still loomed, and she'd prefer to know what it would be, but so far Greyfell had barely raised his voice, not compared to what she'd heard when other students had disobeyed him. She wished he would give her a piece of his mind – she didn't like not knowing what he was thinking. “Yes, Master Greyfell. But what about –”
“Go back to bed. Report to my office tomorrow, immediately after the day's lessons.”
Bessie left Greyfell's office fearing that she already knew what her punishment would be: incarceration in the safety of the Academy's grounds, under constant watch. More than that: her punishment would be humiliation before all the other girls. She felt the prickle of tears at her eyelids. Soon everybody in the Academy would know how she'd failed, and how she was to be treated as a helpless victim while more capable people took control of the situation. Not only had she lost her last chance to pursue the crown, but she'd compromised her fallback plan: the Academy would never qualify her as an assassin after this. She didn't know why Greyfell had even bothered to mention final examinations, unless it was to taunt her with what she’d lost. She had no place amongst the wealthier girls, and after displaying her lack of stealth and skill, she'd be kicked out of the Academy before the end of the week.
3: STRANGE VISITORS
Greyfell himself didn't go back to bed. He'd expected Elizabeth to kick up trouble after her defeat by the White Queen. He'd expected her to sneak off behind his back in an effort to re-join the Queens' Contest. He’d even had an appropriate punishment in mind for when he inevitably caught her at it. He hadn't expected the cursed prince's men to come after her. That chang
ed things…
He checked the line charts there and then, but they only told him what he already knew. With his better grasp of history, he'd known the name 'Ilgrevnia' at once: the smallest of the Flying Cities, built for manoeuvres quite beyond her larger sisters' capabilities, although her original purpose had been lost to the world. Centuries ago, Ilgrevnia had fallen into the wrong hands and been taken out into the wilderness where magic was reputed to be capricious, and civilised Cities didn't dare follow her. There she'd become the Pirate City, the terror of small towns on the borders of civilisation, looting and kidnapping, or so the old stories went. There had been many tales told of Flying Cities that rebelled against the proper order of things, but little evidence of them surviving into modern times. Where Greyfell's history books spoke of Ilgrevnia, they said nothing greatly out of the ordinary: remarking on her small size and her agility; a couple of notable mages who'd had some involvement with her. Where they spoke of the Pirate City, they apparently found it distasteful: a bloody battle to defend the City; betrayals; executions. History had no reliable witnesses to the details – most sources hinted or outright claimed that no loyal Ilgrevnians had survived. Over time, sightings became less frequent, and Ilgrevnia had eventually vanished into obscurity. A handful of tales described the alleged destruction of the Pirate City, although they contradicted one another. Some said she was stranded at some far-flung location, cut off from civilisation by the ebb and flow of the earth’s magic over the years. Either way, Ilgrevnia's name didn't appear in the official line charts, and hadn't for many years.
Alone in his office as the sun rose, Greyfell sighed heavily. “Yet nothing explains the presence of this Ilgrevnian guardsman in modern day Iletia,” he muttered to himself.
The intruder wouldn’t have killed Elizabeth – Greyfell had already deduced that much – he would only have abducted her and taken her to Prince Archalthus, but then what? It seemed the Prince had the power to take the form of a dragon, which suggested he had something to do with the Queens' Contest, but the name Archalthus hadn't been familiar to Greyfell when Elizabeth first reported what had happened in the jade temple. Greyfell had done his best to research the Prince Archalthus, only to find the name suspiciously absent from the records. What Kingdom had the Prince come from? Might Greyfell find what he was looking for if he could translate the name into some other language? He'd just turned back to his books when a hiss of air and a loud 'clunk' behind him announced the arrival of a message in the pneumatic tube beside his desk. He looked at it in surprise for a moment before realising that the dawn had broken and the school day had already begun. If he had lessons scheduled, the message would probably be from somebody wondering where he was, and reminding him that he ought to be teaching. He read it anyway:
