Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Title page
Of Books, and Earth, and Courtship
Afterword
Bonus: chapter one of The House of Shattered Wings
About the Author
OF BOOKS, AND EARTH, AND COURTSHIP by Aliette de Bodard
Published by Nine Dragons River 2015
Cover photo © 2015, Guillaume mo, 2015, "Notre-Dame, Paris", modified by Aliette de Bodard, distributed under a CCBY 2.0 Attribution 2.0 Generic License.
Cover layout: Rhiannon Rasmussen-Silverstein
Copyright © 2015 Aliette de Bodard
Distributed by Smashwords
The right of Aliette de Bodard to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved by the Author.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any forms or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor otherwise be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without similar a condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is for Rochita Loenen-Ruiz and D Franklin, without whom none of this would have happened.
OF BOOKS, AND EARTH, AND COURTSHIP
by Aliette de Bodard
Of Books, and Earth, and Courtship
The Fallen came into the library of House Silverspires every morning, and every morning she would go into the stacks and come back with a pile of dusty books smelling of old, cracked leather, and sit down at the furthest table, staring at the books as if she could make them cooperate with a mere glance. By the looks of it–she was still sitting at the table hours afterwards, perhaps a third of the way into the first or second book-it was not going well.
Emmanuelle knew who she was, of course. Everyone did: Selene, Morningstar's latest student–his latest pride, before he grew bored of her and cast her aside; as he had cast aside all his other students. She walked tall and straight; wearing men's clothes, a set of black trousers and a swallowtail jacket, both impeccably pressed and arranged with a meticulousness that was more frightening than alluring.
The smart, sensible thing to do–and Emmanuelle was nothing if not practical-–would have been to stay away. To smile, and show Selene the way into the stacks, and see her out every morning. To go back to her cataloguing and repairs of old books, and sorting the odd fight between archivists. But... but Selene smelled of patchouli and freshly-cut grass, and walked with the grace of a queen, her face oddly expressionless–what would it look like, if it creased into a smile? And, day after day, Emmanuelle found her gaze drawn towards the depths of the library, and the silent struggle at the table–until one day she found herself smearing glue across the first page of a beautifully illuminated manuscript, instead of efficiently dabbing it on the top of the spine.
Right. Enough was enough.
Emmanuelle decided to tackle the problem head-on. Infatuation was very much not on her order of business; and she'd spent quite enough time digging herself out from Morningstar's claws to dally with his latest conquest.
She put down the book, sending a brief burst of magic into it to prevent the glue from completely drying, and headed straight for Selene's table. "Good morning," she said, smiling brightly–acutely conscious of how awkward and how fake her smile must have been, her hesitation visible to the naked eye.
Selene raised her gaze from the book. She had short, auburn hair, strands tousled around her face–Emmanuelle fought an urge to curl them around her fingers–grey eyes and a gaze that was too sharp, taking in everything and shredding it into incoherence.
"Good morning." She inclined her head, barely. Her face was smooth, with the slightly lambent skin of adult Fallen–ageless, immortal, the light of Heaven slowly fading with the years: the same radiance Emmanuelle saw when she looked in the mirror–save, of course, that her own skin was much darker, and that the light made it glisten more than shine. "What can I do for you?"
"I-–" Emmanuelle stammered, looking for words that had fled. "I–I was just wondering... if you needed any help?"
A pause; and the grey eyes looking her up and down, assessing her, like a cat weighing up prey–like Morningstar, sitting behind his desk and shaking his head when she'd told him she had no interest in studying with him–amazed that she would have the audacity to refuse him, the First Fallen, the head of her own House...
At length, Selene shook her head. "Not for the moment," she said, but her lips curled up into a smile that made Emmanuelle's innards feel like jelly. "I'll let you know if anything comes up."
"I–I see. Thank you," Emmanuelle said; and fled, before the blush that spread across her cheeks could become blindingly obvious.
Alone at her desk once more, she stared at the ruined book, trying to still the mad beating of her heart. She'd been right: such a beautiful smile; except that now, of course, she couldn't put it out of her mind.
Well, that had worked out just fine, hadn't it?
"Excuse me?"
Emmanuelle looked up; and found Selene staring at her. She took a deep, trembling breath; forced her mouth to line up words. "Yes?"
Selene was holding out a book, with spidery text on its yellowed pages. It took an absurdly long time to Emmanuelle to realise what she wanted. "You need help?"
One of Selene's long, graceful hands rested on a paragraph near the spine. "I thought you might know what that referred to," she said, simply.
"Let me see." Emmanuelle frowned, trying to make out the words. "'The remnants of what once woke up Paris– trees felled by an axe of fire, buildings scattered across the plain, bridges cracked from end to end, and seals that once barred the way broken...'" She looked up again, met Selene's intent gaze. "The remnants..." She read the words again, her archivist's instincts taking over, thoughts rising from the murk of her mind, connections made , propagating like sparks. Trees and buildings. A plain. The seals... the seals on the gate to the Observatory's underground tunnels. "Grenelle," she said, slowly, carefully. "The explosion of the Grenelle gunpowder factory, in 1794. Fifteen hundred dead, and extensive damage all across the Southwest of Paris." She focused on the book again, Selene completely forgotten. "'Take them and hold them in your hand, and whisper the words that reawaken the fire'?"
"It's for a spell," Selene said.
"Obviously." Emmanuelle shook her head, vaguely annoyed that Selene was stating the obvious. "The Grenelle Castle was destroyed more than a century ago, and with it the last remnants of the factory. I imagine it would work..." She bit her lips, bringing to mind the little formal knowledge she had of magic, the scraps she'd acquired through books and pamphlets. "Earth from where the gunpowder factory once stood. With traces of sulphur and saltpetre and ashes."
Selene's face did not move. It simply froze into place, the blood gradually draining from it until she hardly seemed alive. Emmanuelle fought an urge to reach across and hug her until the awful moment had passed. Why–? "Grenelle. That's House Harrier. Inside House Harrier," she said.
"Yes," Emmanuelle said, slowly, carefully–not sure of the right thing to say.
"I–" Selene didn't move. "I can't do that. I can't just walk into Harrier..." But then, with what was clearly a supreme effort of will, she collected herself–slowly turning again into the steely, confident person who'd walked into the library that mornin
g, with only a slight, soon quelled tremor in her hands betraying her. "I see. Thank you very much... Emmanuelle, was it?"
She knew Emmanuelle's name. She... And she was frightened, and... Too many things, too much to work out at the same time... Emmanuelle could only nod; could only watch as slowly, stiffly, Selene walked back to the table with the book in her hands, holding it as though it were a death sentence.
Earth from the Grenelle Castle. A task, no doubt, set to her by her absent master; another of the unfeasible games Morningstar liked to play–what did he think Selene could do, just walk into another House and ask? All the Houses were at each other's throats, permanently seeking to outdo each other, to have more reach, more power, more influence over the city: every House a fortress with its own rules, and House Harrier was... not the worst–that would have been House Hawthorn, on the other side of the Seine from it–but close. Very damned close. To walk into a House, any House, as a dependent of another, without the official sanction of a delegation, without the protection of official affairs–was suicide.
None of her business.
Emmanuelle watched Selene for a while; the back of her head, the auburn hair falling partly across a colourful silk scarf; the rigid set of her shoulders under the black jacket; the intent stillness of deep thought, of fears barely kept at bay.
If she walked away now, she would always regret it, wouldn't she?
She cursed, softly. And walked, cat-like, across the floor of the library until she stood by Selene's table once more–watching as Selene's gaze swung upwards from the book, one eyebrow raised in polite, almost cold inquiry–reminiscent of Morningstar once more, of his way of weighing everything and taking what he wanted, regardless of people's wishes or preferences–the same gaze, trained on her as she stood in his office and sought the courage to speak...
She faltered, but not for long.
"I know how to get inside House Harrier," she said.
"This is ridiculous," Selene said.
They stood in a side street, just by the entrance of House Harrier: the black railings marking the House's territory would be just around the corner, but here, in this small cobbled impasse, half an hour before dawn, they could be reasonably sure no one would intrude in the next few minutes.
Emmanuelle had foraged in her wardrobe until she'd found a women's kaftan, printed with a pattern that would seem garish to French eyes. She might look African, and be mistaken for Senegalese by most people, but she'd never actually set foot there and didn't feel any particular attachment to the clothing. But, when push came to shove...
Selene wore a simple, worn set of trousers and a coarse cotton shirt with such obvious ill-grace that Emmanuelle would have laughed, in other circumstances. "Harrier is the most stratified of Houses. They won't pay attention to lower classes."
Selene's voice was sharp. "To mortals. Lower classes are mortals in Harrier. How are you going to get past this inconvenient detail?"
Emmanuelle smiled. "There's a trick to it." She pulled out a mirror–an uncharged artifact she'd bargained from the alchemist's laboratory–and slowly and gently breathed into it. Magic frosted across the glass, a slow wash of light that made everything around seem weightless and inconsequential. Emmanuelle kept breathing, long past the point when her lungs told her to stop–until her legs started to wobble under her, and the air turned to tar around her, as if a giant hand were pressing her to the floor.
"Stop," Selene said. "You can't–"
Emmanuelle shook her head. She breathed, once more; and closed the mirror, stilling the shaking of her hands with a deliberate effort. Her lungs felt... wrong, wrung out, as if she'd run from Ile de la Cité to here with a pack of gang-members on her tail.
"You look–" Selene's gaze took her in; and whatever words she'd been about to say shrivelled in her mouth.
"Mortal?" With the light gone, and that easy, graceful way of moving that came with magic replaced by a bone-deep weariness–the agelessness broken into thousands of tiny wrinkles–in due course, her innate magic would take over, of course, would regenerate her once more; but not for a few hours.
"Vulnerable," Selene said. Her voice had the edge of broken glass. "In the midst of another House."
"Do you want that earth, or not?" Emmanuelle handed her the mirror. For a brief moment as she held it out, their hands touched, and she suddenly felt unbearably warm.
"Maybe. Maybe not." Selene took the mirror, and breathed in turn. Magic fled her like clouds driven by the wind; her beautiful, ageless face becoming that of an old woman, its lustre dying down; her hands curling up, slightly, fingers flexing awkwardly. When she set it down, her movements were less self-assured than they had been; everything about her brittle and thin and wasted.
Just a disguise. Just temporary. There was no need to feel... such a knot of anxiety in her stomach, such a feeling of wrongness. Emmanuelle wasn't the most powerful Fallen in House Silverspires–content to remain among the books, safe in the library–but this was one place where power wouldn't avail her anything.
"Come on," she said.
She didn't touch Selene again. She didn't dare to.
On the main street, in the pre-dawn gloom, the daily procession had assembled: men in workers' bourgerons and caps, women in woollen dresses and aprons, a flow of labourers from the Houseless areas, from the suburbs–hoping to find employment within the House, if only for a few hours, if only for a day. Emmanuelle and Selene slipped in unobtrusively behind a group of flowergirls. The queue was growing all the time, and people paid them scant attention.
There were guards at the gate, watching the influx of workers, sorting them out into groups. When they came to Selene and Emmanuelle, the guard stopped–staring at Emmanuelle and dismissing her as an ill-dressed colonial, but faltering at Selene. Even in her weakened state, she shone: her gaze was sharp, remote; her bearing entirely too proud.
"Why, aren't you a precious one?" the guard asked. He stared at Selene for a while, and then shook his head. "Found hard times, have we?"
Selene's face blazed. Emmanuelle reached out before she could think, laying a hand on Selene's elbow–willing her to be still, to bow down; to be humble and meek. They had talked about this. They had–
At length, Selene–controlling herself with an effort that was screamingly visible to Emmanuelle–lowered her head. "No shame in falling low," she whispered. "Have to eat."
The guard looked from Selene to Emmanuelle, and then back again, frowning, as though trying to work out if something was wrong; and he would find it, if he dug deep enough, if he willed himself to ignore the appearances of two quivering, trembling women... Emmanuelle pitched her voice low, shaking, taking on the singsong accents of West Africans speaking French. "We mean no harm, sir. Just need a little work, that's all. Some mending or washing, or cooking..."
She watched the guard as she spoke; saw the suspicion fade away, replaced with minor annoyance at having to make an effort to understand her–and then dismissing her altogether. Even if they were a bit odd, what did it matter? The House had its own protections, and they couldn't do any harm.
"Cooking?" the guard guffawed. "You two certainly wouldn't be trusted anywhere near a kitchen. Stand over here, Mistress Céleste will find you something to do."
"You all right?" Emmanuelle asked Selene, after they joined the people milling inside–mostly older men and women, and a few young children. They were in the corner of two streets which met at a perfect right angle, between two buildings of yellow limestone and ornate cast iron balconies painted a pristine black. From a quick glance around, most buildings seemed to be built on the exact same pattern; and the streets, too, intersected at precise right angles, an uncommon occurrence in Paris. It was... odd. Exhilarating and frightening, and a pointed reminder that they weren't in Silverspires' warren of connected buildings anymore–the House's magic distant and cold in Emmanuelle's mind, like a banked fire. There were wards, and layer after layer of spells laid on the cobbled stones, on the asphal
t: an intricate dance of magic that would incinerate them, given half a chance.
"Mm." Selene didn't look pleased. "We must have looked downright decrepit."
"Yes. The strong will be asked to join renovation works," Emmanuelle said. "Shifting blocks of stone, replacing roof tiles, cutting down trees..."
"And us?"
Emmanuelle shrugged. "Whatever small tasks they need help with. Could be mending, could be sorting out vegetables."
"You've done this before," Selene said, in a low, almost accusing voice. She kept rubbing at her arm, not far from Emmanuelle had touched her, as if she couldn't quite dismiss a worry, so painfully and obviously out of her element that Emmanuelle wanted to hug her–but of course she couldn't.
"I wasn't always inside the archives," Emmanuelle said. She kept her voice mild, conversational; pitched too low for their nearest neighbour to hear.
"Are... things the same in Silverspires?"
Emmanuelle shrugged. "Sometimes? Most of the time it's regulars. But it doesn't mean it's better. Did you think it was?" Did she believe Morningstar's self-aggrandising claims of being the first and foremost House of Paris, the place of safety all would clamour to join? Was she... was she completely taken in by him?
Selene didn't speak for a while. At length she said, not taking her eyes from the young flowergirls next to them, "I don't know," she said, slowly, fiercely. "Not the point, is it?" She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge a swarm of bees. "Never the point."
Something shifted and broke within Emmanuelle's chest–for all her arrogance, Selene was so heartbreakingly young and naive. "There is safety within the Houses. And always a price to pay for it. People have food and water and money–and others... don't. And it's no sin to be one or the other." She didn't say–because she didn't have the heart to–that it might not be a sin, but that it was a choice, and that she had made hers in full awareness.
Of Books, and Earth, and Courtship Page 1
