Lady of Drith

by Chad Huskins

  “But your new-sisters are all out of the city at the moment,” the governess elaborated. “So you won’t meet them for another week.”

  “Taja?” Drea said. “Could I venture a question?”

  “Speak,” the woman said tersely.

  “My new-sisters…are they…?”

  “Are they what?”

  Drea hesitated. “I’ve heard stories about the Syphenus, that they’re all…”

  Osween smiled. “Sorcerers?”

  “Yes, Taja.” She looked up at the old woman. “Have…have I entered a den of snakes?”

  The slap Drea received for asking the question had silenced her on the matter forever. Osween had given her a lecture about the ills of spreading lies, particularly when it came to the very House that had shown her mercy and given her a home and new education.

  Now, Drea awoke on a cold, rainy day. The dreariness of the scene outside the window reflected what she felt within. She tried to write a poem about it, but, as Taja Osween had noted, she was quite ungifted at poetry.

  Mother was the poet, she wrote in her journal that morning. Tragically, that gift did not pass on to me, or else I would have a better way of expressing my impressions of all that has happened.

  Intermittently, she saw Thryis’s face. On the walls. In the shadows of her room. In the dark clouds roiling overhead. She had not spoken with Thryis in a week, but she had been promised by Lord Syphen that he would not keep visitors from her, not so long as she kept up her studies with Taja Osween.

  She checked the time on her timekeeper, then rushed so as not to keep Osween waiting. She gathered up her materials—sketch paper, brush, quill, ink bottle, charcoal—and hustled down the stairs.

  The house belonging to the Syphenus was a large, dour-looking thing, filled with long halls and dark passages. There were electric lamps in most corridors, but most of them were kept switched off, or else flickered on and off indecisively. Drea gazed into empty dining rooms and dark offices. She walked down black corridors haunted only by candle-wielding slaves, all of whom shuffled by quickly and rarely looked at her as she passed.

  Sometimes, she felt like they were ghosts. Other times, she felt like she was the ghost.

  She rarely ever caught sight of Lord Syphen, and when she did it was always at night when he came home from a day’s work in the Senate. As part of the new Triumverate, Lord Syphen was one of three men expected to rule in the Imperator’s stead—final say on all new laws in Drith would soon pass through him.

  Fate is rather strange, she thought. I was to be the bride of a ruler, but then one man murders him, and I am now that man’s ward. What next? Will someone kill Lord Syphen and then I’ll marry that man’s second cousin?

  Fate certainly seemed to have a circuitous path set for Drea. It made her angry the more she thought on it. The unfairness of it…well, it did not befit Loraci’s call for justice.

  If Father was here, he would declare that we’re not all meant to sit around and wait for Loraci to conduct justice, but that we are all supposed to be agents of Loraci, avatars of the goddess, and that we should make justice done ourselves.

  But what justice could be done? How could Drea possibly dream of extricating herself from this role in life?

  Just because those questions seemed like fair ones, didn’t mean that they didn’t stir a deep-seated rage within her. Drea missed her father, she missed her mother, and she believed that Sora, the Mother of Mercy, had neglected her and her family far too long. But Drea fought to keep that anger in check as she stepped in front of her governess once more, ready to continue her studies.

  “Let’s see what you’ve drawn,” the governess said to her. No greetings, no wishing of a good morning. Straight to business. Once Drea had presented the rendering of the house’s palisades, Taja Osween arched an eyebrow. “It wants some finer detail, doesn’t it? Not enough shading to lend dimension. Do you have anything else?”

  Drea offered a small sketch journal, inside of which she had only a few basic outlines. One small piece was of sparrows and pigeons, done entirely in charcoal.

  “Sparrows and pigeons,” Osween said shortly. “Is it a study of life and biology?”

  “Perhaps. I drew what was close by at the time. I noticed a lot of these birds in the eaves around this estate. And I see pigeons coming and going from the cotes,” Drea said, referring to the shelter reserved for carrier pigeons. “I find them fascinating.”

  “Why?” Osween asked.

  “Because they always find their way home.”

  Osween looked at her severely. After a moment, she said, “It still wants better dimensions. You’ll give it some tomorrow. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Taja.”

  “Enough of that,” Osween said, putting the sketch away quickly. “I thought I’d start the day with some reviews in logic. Sit there, and let’s review what you know.”

  Drea blinked in confusion. “Logic, Taja?”

  “Did I stutter?”

  She shook her head. “No, but…well, that is a masculine art—”

  “And Lord Syphen tells me that your mother already overstepped her bounds in teaching you the foundations, and since my own governess foolishly did likewise, I thought I’d see what sort of logician you are. Are you prepared or not?”

  Drea hesitated. She almost said she couldn’t be trusted with logic since it had been so long since she had been tested in it, but something else stopped her. An urge to prove herself. Drea wanted to show this governess that she was no slouch when it came to her studies, and that she had not lied about her mother’s talents.

  If nothing else, Drea wanted to prove her mother had not been only a pretender at logic and reasoning. “I’m prepared, Taja.”

  “Good, then have a seat there.”

  Drea did as she was told, and sat with her hands cupped in her lap, her posture erect, her gaze attentive.

  “Now then, tell me, what is the primary goal of logic?”

  “To ascertain the truth without bias,” Drea said.

  “And how is that done?”

  “Through deductive reasoning.”

  “Which is?”

  “The ability to evaluate arguments and evidence, and to form a link between premises and conclusions.”

  “And how do these evaluations works?” Osween asked, her face keeping stoic, though her tone became more demanding, tetchier. It was obvious the woman was trying to test not only Drea’s education on the subject of logic, but her composure when under pressure. After all, one of the tenets logicians followed was that they must not be easily swayed by emotion.

  “Evaluations of arguments have to do with two things: validity and soundness,” Drea said. “An argument is valid only if it makes it impossible for the premise to be true while the conclusion is false. An argument is sound if its statement can be proved across all other argument structures.”

  Osween nodded curtly. “Very good. Now I present you with this argument, and you tell me if it’s both sound and valid: ‘All men who serve as politicians are liars. House Kalder’s men served as politicians. Therefore, all Kalderus men were liars.’ What have you to say to that?”

  Drea felt her blood rise. And she knew that was exactly what Taja Osween wanted. Her hands went briefly into fists, and the governess’s eyes flitted down to her hands, noting the unconscious gesture.

  Drea took a breath and relaxed, then said, “The argument is valid, but not sound.”

  “Explain,” Osween said immediately.

  “Your argument’s first premise is false: ‘All men who serve as politicians are liars.’ Surely there have been good, godly men who have served in the Senate that are not liars. However, it is possible for an argument’s premise to be true while the conclusion remains false. That is, your conclusion—‘All Kalderus men are liars’—follows the logic of your previous two statements. If all men who served as politicians were liars, then your argument would be sound.”

  Osween snorted. “You certainly
recite the basics easily enough. Your mother was attentive to train you like a parrot, at least.”

  “Mothers make more effective teachers than governesses. Taja Osween has no children. Therefore, Taja Osween must not be an effective teacher.”

  Osween’s eyes widened. “What? What did you just say to me, girl?” Her wrath was near to bursting.

  “An argument,” Drea said innocently. “My own example of an argument that is valid, but not sound. I hope Taja Osween sees that I was only doing as she asked, and showing how competent I am at logic.”

  The governess impaled her with a baleful gaze. For an interminable moment, the two women just stared at one another. Drea noticed that Osween’s upper lip was quivering almost imperceptibly.

  At last, the governess said, “Attend your flute, girl. Play for me. And make none of the mistakes you made yesterday. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Taja.”

  And so Drea played. With mediocrity. But she played, and she did so without repeating any of the mistakes from the day before. This seemed to displease the governess more than if she had failed. Drea now held no disillusions about Taja Osween; this governess was clearly sent to weed out the truth of her.

  Lord Syphen still doesn’t trust me, she thought, trying to keep her proper posture while playing. Then, on the heels of that, Perhaps he’s right not to. It was an evil thought to have, but there it was, and she wasn’t ashamed of it.

  “Your new-sisters have returned,” Osween said once she had finished. “And they await you inside the clothroom. You will listen to them and spin wool using whatever techniques they prefer, even if it contradicts what you’ve been taught before. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Taja.”

  “Good. Now be off.”

  Drea did not dawdle. She gathered up her things and walked inside the house. She knew she had overstepped her bounds. When talking back to the governess, she had to remember she was essentially talking back to Lord Syphen himself, for she was his agent. Osween had said it herself, she had raised dozens of Syphenus children before.

  And now I’m off to meet some of them.

  This part frightened her the most, because so far Drea had not met a member of House Syphen that she liked.

  I miss Thryis. The thought came quite unbidden, quite out of nowhere. Yet in troubled times, people often seek a friendly face for counsel. If anybody was willing to give Drea advice, it would be her oldest friend.

  I wonder what she’s doing right now. Probably hard at work on the Great Generator.

  Drea entered the main house and walked through its long dark corridors, passing beneath the gas lamps, all of which were lightly hissing and made it seem as though someone were passing secrets around in the dark.

  As she crossed from one passage to another, Drea became a little turned around. It was sometimes easy to get lost in the house, its corridors curved and twisted and zigzagged—it was said that many old homes had been originally built this way on purpose, back before Drith had any walls to protect it from invading armies. Back then, homes were built like castles, fortified and with confusing corridors so that intruders could not find their way so easily to the women and children. In these old homes, there were typically hidden passageways. Drea wondered how many were in this vast place.

  Eventually, she came to a large study, one filled with six tall shelves of books and three couches for lounging and reading. There was a fireplace that was empty at the moment. A single electric light jutted out from the wall, but at present it was switched off. The study had three windows, and the curtains were parted to admit the dim rays of sunlight. The day was still overcast and gloomy.

  Drea started to turn away from the study in search of the clothroom, but she paused when she heard a most disturbing noise.

  Ssssssssssssssss-chhhhhuuuuuuuu

  It sounded like something breathing. Or no…no, it sounded like the exhaust of some sort of steam engine. She looked around for the source of the sound, and then spotted something most astonishing. Indeed, it floored her.

  Outside the nearest window, she could see a short driveway. There, stepping out of a carriage to meet with Lord Syphen, was an iron golem of incredible size! Drea had never seen its like before. It was something out of her nightmares as a child, something dreamt up in a fever.

  It was a man in a bulky suit of armor, one fixed with tiny pipes that whined and exhaled steam. Even the man’s head was covered, and by a helmet that had no personality, no human-like visage, just two black circles for eyeholes and a small opening for the mouth.

  The giant must’ve stood nine feet tall, and was completely covered in iron and steel. A suit of armor? No, more like an instrument made for torture. The arms and legs had symbols etched into the metal, glyphs which appeared foreign to Drea’s eyes, as well as two or three crixstones, which pulsed with green darklight.

  Sssssssssssssssssss-chhhhhuuuuuuuu, the machine-man breathed.

  Drea pressed her hands against the window. The iron golem was just now stepping out of the back of a giant clockwork wagon being pulled by eight horses, and bowed briefly in deference to Lord Syphen.

  Gods above and below, it’s a wonder the horses can pull him at all, Drea thought.

  The giant’s helmet and mask chuffed like a steam engine as he stood there, unmoving, listening to something Lord Syphen was saying.

  Behind the giant, two men stepped out of the carriage. By their thin leather vests and tall brown boots, Drea recognized them at once as organizers for the Den of Beasts, where gladiators faced off against dangerous beasts. But if they were organizers for the Den’s arena, then who was the golem? Was he some new gladiator for their arena? And why were they all meeting with Lord Syphen?

  What are my eyes seeing?

  Finally, Lord Syphen made a waving gesture. The iron golem bowed low again and walked away with the two organizers, his helmet and the exhaust ports sticking out of his back still breathing, Sssssssssssssss-chhhhhhuuuuuuuuu.

  Lord Syphen walked towards the house, and happened to glance at the window that Drea was looking out of. She pulled herself away immediately and left the study, continuing her search for the clothroom. She finally came upon a slave that pointed her in the right direction and she found the clothroom on the east wing of the second floor.

  Clothrooms were essential to life in Drith. Drithean households tried at all times to be self-sufficient. Land-owning families who could afford to rear sheep preferred to use wool produced on their lands to weave and spin into their own clothes. They would also grow vast fields of plants such as flax, which was used to make linen. And, of course, no reputable Major House could be expected to be without at least a cotton field or two.

  When Drea entered the clothroom, she paused at the threshold and looked at the three women assembled inside. They were all seated facing one another in a triangle. They were dressed in fine stolas—one girl in red, one in green, the other in blue. Their hairstyles were all completely different, but were all held up by ivory pins and jade combs, and their hands were bejeweled with flashing red jypsite and stygian bluestones.

  Long strands of fresh wet wool were pulled taught around each girl’s elbow, and their hands worked to overlap the threads onto a weaving board. In their laps, each woman wore an epinetron, a piece of pottery that was used to prevent the grease of the wool from staining their clothes.

  The woman wearing the red stola spotted Drea in the doorway first. She looked up, a surprised look giving way to a soft smile. Though she looked young, her superior air made Drea peg her as the eldest of the sisters. “Oh, look here, sisters. It’s our new-sister, come to join us.”

  The others turned to look at her.

  The woman in red said, “Let’s greet her properly. Up, up.” The other two did as their sister said, and put down their epinetrons to turn and bend their knees slightly in greeting. “You’re Drea, yes?”

  Drea nodded.

  She was still a bit disturbed by the iron golem she had just seen from
the study, and found it difficult to recover in time to give a great first impression.

  “My name is Vaedris. And these are my sisters. Saephis,” she said, gesturing to the blonde girl in blue. “And Daedoris,” she said, gesturing to the brown-haired girl in green.

  “So pleased to meet you,” Drea said, all manners.

  “You’ve just come from your lessons with Taja Osween, I take it?”

  Drea nodded. “I have.”

  “Horrible woman, is she not?”

  Drea fought back the smile, but might’ve lost that battle. “She’s…formidable,” she said diplomatically.

  The three women tittered, and looked at one another as if they shared a secret. Drea felt almost as awkward as she had when she was first brought in front of Lord Syphen.

  “Come, have a seat,” Vaedris said, waving a hand that flashed with the darklight of a stygian bluestone. “Grab an epinetron and a weaving board—you do know how to use one of those, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course,” Drea said.

  Vaedris beamed. “Excellent. I knew you could not be as useless as my uncle suggested. I said to him, ‘Uncle Phaedos, she is a girl of noble upbringing, a Lady of Drith, and therefore I am sure she cannot be as much a dullard as she let on.’ You see, he believed you when you said you were not very clever, but I told him better. I said, ‘Uncle, it is only the very wise and intelligent that profess ignorance.’ And isn’t that what you did, new-sister?”

  Drea picked up an epinetron and took a seat where the tallest sister, Daedoris, gestured. “I’m flattered you think me clever,” she said, placing the weaving board on her lap and gathering a ball of wool from a basket by her chair. She wound a few strands around her arm and then started threading them through the board.

  The rest of the women took their seats, and Drea noticed that, while their hands went back to their work of weaving, their eyes never really left Drea alone for long.

  Gods below, am I to be constantly evaluated for the rest of my life?