by Various
“It’s medicine, Irene. It will stop the headache.”
“Useless, then,” I muttered.
He laughed softly. “It’s not. You only need a new dose. Come. Do not fight me. I am still afraid from the last time.”
I scowled. “You are laughing at me.”
“No.” His smile faded. “No, not at you. I’m laughing at myself, and very awkwardly, too. Please, Irene. The healer says you must drink all of this.”
He held the mug to my lips. With a few spills, I managed to drink the entire dose. My stomach gave one lurch, then relief washed through my body, and I collapsed back onto my pillow.
Taavi smoothed the blankets around me. “Better?”
“Better,” I admitted. “Where are Nedda and Klera?”
“Library. Colloquium. We took turns watching over you. In case you were not aware, you had a dangerous fever. But Nedda called in a healer she trusts, and that healer prescribed the necessary potions. Nedda says you can repay her next week. If you die, however, she will never forgive you.”
Now I did laugh, though it was more like a painful wheeze. “Fair enough. What about you? What of your punishment?”
“Ah, my punishment.” He grinned at me with too much obvious delight. “In recognition of the two or three dozen drawings I completed to her satisfaction, my adviser has granted me a stay of execution. If you do not recover by next week, however, I shall have to abandon you to Biss’s care.”
As if at his command, Biss leapt back onto the bed. She marched over my stomach and took up a stance next to my pillow, regarding me with her great golden eyes.
“If I died, she would eat me,” I whispered.
“Possibly. Therefore, you must live.”
“Faulty logic. What were you sketching?”
“Oh. That.” His cheeks flushed dark. “Well … I was sketching you.”
My heart gave a ping of misgiving at his words.
“Show me,” I said softly. “Please.”
With some reluctance, Taavi retrieved his sketchbook from the floor and offered it to me.
The book had opened naturally to the last page with any sketches. I went still the moment I saw the first portrait. The ordinary details meant nothing—he had sketched me while sleeping, with my eyes closed, my braids spread over the pillow, and my head tilted to one side. To me, however, the portrait was both strange and familiar. Those … those were not my true features. My cheeks were too round and my lips too full, not to mention all the other details that proclaimed an ancestry far different from Versterlant’s northern tribes. But there was something about the way he emphasized the lines of my face, the way my outstretched hand curled around, and any number of small details that said: Yes, this is who I am.
That he could know me so well, in spite of my disguise—I shivered as a rabbit might, when the fox tracks it to its lair. At the same time, I knew that no one else, not my sister or my parents or anyone else from Versterlant, had ever troubled themselves to sketch my true nature. Even when I had no disguise.
Taavi stirred. “I am sorry. I should have asked permission first.”
“You should have,” I said softly. “But I forgive you. No doubt you had little else to occupy your time. May I see the rest of your drawings?”
When he nodded, I leafed back through the book. I wanted to see if he had sketched others, as he had sketched my likeness.
Before me came portraits of Nedda and Klera and other students. I smiled at the doodles of Biss at play with a length of string, Biss curled into a ball with one paw over her eyes, a very fierce Biss attacking Klera’s hand, and an equally cautious Biss exchanging nose sniffs with the landlord’s hound. The tension eased from my chest. He sketched everyone—not just me.
Next came six pages with detailed drawings of the city, many of them concentrated around the Gallenz River. These must be part of his punishment exercises, I guessed, and they showed districts I had not yet explored. Even to my untutored eye, I could see the buildings were of a much older style. Far older than their neighbors. One especially drew my attention, with a chimney stack, decorated with embellishments at each corner, and more decorations along the flat roof.
“What is that building?” I asked.
“The guest house of Hêr Barone Duerre. He was a trusted adviser at court three hundred years ago, in the period we sometimes call Royal, and sometimes Imperial. He was offered the title of Royal Governor, and a grander household, which he took, though he retained this building for guests.”
Taavi had captured the spirit of the building with his pen strokes, the strong bones of its structure and the flat roof that was like a frown, relieved by the whimsical carvings along the gutters and beside the upper windows. The sketch was clearly incomplete—a few faint lines gave the impression of sky and clouds and the horizon—but I could see where he had begun to fill in the details around the windows.
“It is like my grandfather,” I said. “He can be very grim, except when he smiles.”
“You are the first person to say such a thing,” Taavi said. “My teachers accuse me of being fanciful. Your grandfather must be a very strong-minded man.”
I shook my head, unwilling to discuss my grandfather, who ruled our household and the Council of Versterlant, second only to my grandmother.
Toward the middle of the book, I came to a series of sketches of the palace—a dozen or more—showing the gates and grounds and towers from all directions. The prize, however, was a detailed map that spread over six pages. It gave the layout of the first and second floors, including the kitchens and stables, the public audience halls and the private interview chambers scattered throughout. What captured my attention were faint lines drawn outside the regular walls. Some paralleled the public corridors; some took contrary paths between and around the interview chambers. Only a few, and only on the ground floor. These were not the servants’ corridors, which he had clearly marked as such. My pulse gave a leap as I realized what they must be.
Secret passageways. He had mentioned them before.
“You had no trouble entering the palace?” I asked.
I noticed the tick of hesitation before he answered.
“All the public halls are open for visitors. It’s the residential wings and offices that are guarded more closely. My adviser and the University acquired a temporary pass for me.”
I deliberated a moment, then took a chance.
“And the secret passageways? You told me about them once. Or—no, the guards would surely not let you explore there.”
Another hesitation. “No, they would not. I have a friend who is a runner. He … to be honest, he owed me a favor or two, and I persuaded him to show me the passageways. It was wrong of me, but I wanted to make my map complete. My friend showed me one secret door near the kitchens, and I mapped as much as I could before his sense of honor insisted we stop. Not very much, as you can see.”
I did see, and more than he guessed. There were flourishes on every page where he had mapped a secret passageway. I studied them closely, memorizing the patterns and within them the sequences of letter shapes. It would be easy enough to decipher them from books in the library. When Taavi extracted the sketchbook from my hands, I did not protest. Little did he know that my training had included memorization. I would not forget those mysterious flourishes, or the passageways they represented, until I died.
* * *
I spent the chief part of the next three days in deep slumber. When I woke on the fourth day, I learned that Taavi and Klera had set out for lectures and the library at an early hour. Nedda herself watched over me until noon. She dosed me with a new potion, then nagged me until I had consumed an entire bowl of broth.
“I must go before the next hour bell,” she said. “I would rather not, but my adviser is yammering for a conference.”
I hid my excitement with a yawn. “Go. I will not die, you know. Besides, Taavi comes back soon, doesn’t he?”
“Not for two or three hours.” She pau
sed, clearly disliking the idea of abandoning me. “Do you promise to sleep?”
“I do. Yes, yes, yes, oh mother of us all.”
Nedda laughed. “She bites. And I deserved it. Very well. I leave you to Queen Biss.”
She took away the bowl and spoon. I closed my eyes and pretended to doze until our apartment door shut and the lock turned over. Even then I counted up to a hundred, just in case Nedda returned unexpectedly for some forgotten item. Only when I was certain did I stagger from bed.
My bones ached. I had to clutch the door frame to keep myself upright. I was not so strong as I had believed.
You could wait. You could try this experiment another day.
Except we had only a year—maybe less—before the Emperor and his soldiers marched north.
I dragged my trunk from the closet and dug through its contents until my fingers closed around a small leather box. Inside the box were trinkets—small cheap bracelets, cloak pins, and a dozen ribbons. The jewelry was nothing. The ribbons … Though I had spent a decade studying magic, my grandmother and mother had spent decades longer. They had used their skills to imbue their magic into the cloth.
This is our gift to you, my grandmother had said. Then, with a rare gentleness, she had laid her palm against my cheek. For you, for you alone. Do not forget it.
I took a faded green ribbon and wrapped its length around my hands. Its rough texture reminded me of my grandmother, lending a different kind of strength to my purpose.
I recited the words to unleash the spell: Ei rûf ane gôtter, ei rûf ane zauberei …
The fresh green scent of magic filled the room. It reminded me of the ocean tang in summer, the fragrance of wildflowers and tundra underfoot. Home. The desire to return at once was so intense, I nearly wept. There would be time enough later, I told myself, and quashed my homesickness.
The ribbon did its work quickly. The last traces of fever cleared from my brain, and strength flooded my body. The gift was temporary—my strength would last four or five hours at the most—but it would be enough for my purposes.
I washed my face and dressed in a fresh shirt and trousers. Then I collected my writing case with its pens, ink, and scrap paper, and packed those in my haversack. There was the risk that Taavi might return early, but I had my excuses ready. He knew I was anxious about my studies. He would believe me when I said I only wanted to consult with my teachers.
I skimmed down the stairs. At this hour, our lodging house was empty, our neighbors at lectures or working in the city. I slipped through the outer door, locked that, and soon joined the anonymous crowds in the nearest boulevard. The day was clear, the air crisp enough for an autumn day in Versterlant, or early winter in Duenne. I hurried along, past the cook shops and booksellers, the chandlers and butchers and the occasional temple dedicated to Lir and Toc. Something in my grandmother’s magic must have sharpened my sight, as well as lent me strength, because the city appeared much more vivid this day. I wondered, would I see this city any differently, were I truly a student and not a spy?
A philosophical question worthy of my instructors. And dangerous to my resolve. Perhaps I could answer that later, once I returned home to Versterlant and laid this burden of theft aside.
Inside the library, I headed first into the philosophy wing and to my usual desk, in case anyone noticed my presence. I scanned the shelves of books a few moments. Then, when I was certain no one watched, I circled back to the history and linguistics books. A few key dictionaries were all I needed—those concerned with the dialect and script of Ournes. With these, I returned to my desk and set to work.
At first I found the problem almost too trivial. Taavi had not attempted any complicated cipher, and it required less than half an hour to decipher the first flourish into a series of straightforward instructions for locating the secret door, which stone to press, and the words to recite. He gave a second set of spells to light the lamps inside the passage. If the rest were as simple, I could decipher the whole within an hour.
Then I called up the second flourish from memory.
Its pattern resembled the first, but only superficially. Taavi had encoded complete sentences, to be sure, but the phrases for opening the doors and lighting the lamps were nonsense to anyone trained in magic. Poetical nonsense, but useless for my purposes. With deep misgivings, I sorted through the other flourishes in my memory house, and compared them to these first two.
Useless.
I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers against my forehead. And thought.
One golden coin from a stash of counterfeits. A bitter disappointment, but to be sure, I would have suspected a trap if his drawing had yielded a perfect plan for my mission. No, more likely, Taavi Matlik had discovered one set of keys to the secret passageways, and disguised it with these nonsense flourishes.
I packed my writing case and replaced all the books on their proper shelves. The few notes I had scribbled down, I destroyed in the nearest fireplace. Outside the library, I paused again to drink in the fresh cold air.
The hour bells rang twice. Doors all over the University Quarter crashed open and a stream of students flowed past. Many of them were my classmates from the practical. It was like watching a flood of young foxes, clad in thick winter pelts. They were young, young and serious. I had observed them enough to know that they were talented as well. The Empire would have an army of strong mages in its future.
My friends, my enemies.
On impulse I glanced north and east, in the direction I had not permitted myself to acknowledge these past three months. To Duenne’s Imperial palace.
Our agent had described its grounds—how many acres it covered, the height of its walls, the number of guards at each gate, and when the watch changed. What neither my sister nor Afrim Halil could convey was how its towers rose up like mountains. This. This was nothing like our Council Hall, built of gray stone. This was a city within a city, two or more miles in circumference, its golden towers spiraling upward against the late autumn sky.
It was too soon, Léna had whispered. I knew it, but I could not resist.
Why not? I had asked.
I remembered her words, as if Vrou Nef had inscribed them on my brain with her metal nib.
I had to. I saw a parade—a prince of Morennioù and his guard. They’d been taken prisoner when they attempted to rise against the Imperial Navy. And I thought, if they could not break free, not with an ocean between them and the Empire, then we would have no chance at all without the jewels.
Complaints and arguments yammered at me as I headed east. I ignored them. Once I reached the innermost city walls, mostly ruins, which marked the oldest parts of Duenne, I circled north to the bridge leading into the city’s original boundaries.
Well away from the public square that bordered the palace grounds, I ducked into an empty lane which fed into an equally empty courtyard. By now my grandmother’s magic had taken hold and I felt invincible. I summoned the spells to transform my face. I was no longer a young woman from Fortezzien, but a Veraenen, an old woman with iron-gray hair and a face creased and furrowed by starvation. I stuffed my haversack behind a trash barrel and tossed my outer cloak over it. To complete my disguise, I rubbed dirt into my skin and cast a glamour of ugliness and stains over my clothes.
Now I was dirty and poor. Invisible.
I wanted a few more moments to sink deeper into my character. Old, I am old and hungry and desperate. I expect nothing except blows and curses. All my movements are slow and cautious, and I flinch at every loud noise.
Yes. That was me, at least for an hour or two.
With my new disguise, I ventured into the streets once more. A passerby pressed a coin into my hand and directed me to the side entrance for commoners. There, the guards asked my business. I told them I wanted work, any work at all, in the kitchens or cleaning out slop buckets. The older of the two winced in sympathy. “Come inside, mother,” he said. “I know the cook. You can warm yourself by the fire, have a morsel o
f bread or stew.”
His hand was warm, his smile kind.
Regret can be your worst enemy, my grandmother told me before I departed. Now I truly understood her words. I told myself I meant no harm to this man. Out loud, I thanked the guard and headed in the direction he pointed.
At the next intersection, I glanced around to make certain no one observed me, then ducked into a side corridor. Taavi had mapped this section of the palace thoroughly in his sketches. To the right lay the palace kitchens. To the left stood a series of chambers used for interviews with lesser diplomats. I glanced around and saw no one. Within moments I had located the stones Taavi had described in his first flourish and recited the words.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Komen uns der zauberei …
A strong, acrid scent bloomed in the air. Old, old magic was at work. I heard a groaning deep with the walls. I was certain a guard would pass by any moment and arrest me. But then the walls slid open, revealing the dark passage behind. I leapt through the opening just as the doors were easing shut again.
Darkness washed over me, blacker than the darkest of Versterlant’s nights. My pulse jumped in panic and excitement. For a moment, I almost believed I had made the leap into the magical void, except no souls streamed by overhead. I closed my eyes and sucked in my breath. The passage smelled of dank wet stone, of moss, and of the human world.
At least this much of Taavi’s information was true. Now to attempt the next step.
I recited the spells for igniting the lamps. The scent of magic filled the air, green and sharp, and a faint illumination blossomed in the dark, like pale green candlelight, picking out the bricks in the wall, the dust motes circling around me, and a spider’s web fluttering overhead. Tunnels led off to my left and right. More lamps winked to life in the distance.
I swallowed a breath and considered my options.
