by Nix,Garth
“Well enough for Kargrin to keep our bargain?” asked Clariel. “To help me leave Belisaere?”
She had another reason to be gone from the city now. Clariel did not want to meet the Free Magic creature again. Not because of what the creature might do to her, but because of what she might do to it.
“Yes,” said Gullaine. She hesitated then added, “You will be paid, and you will be helped on your way. Kargrin thinks it would be best that you leave. After you have seen the King.”
“I suppose,” said Clariel. “The creature . . . do you think you will find it, and bind it?”
“I am sure of it,” said Gullaine, who was indeed very sure, for reasons not yet to be shared. She watched Clariel carefully as she spoke, but the younger woman didn’t notice. She was looking at her bandaged hands.
“It won’t . . . it won’t come looking for me?”
“It is extremely unlikely,” said Gullaine. “If it does, five of the dozen guards in your house tonight used to be in the King’s service, all bear the Charter mark, two are quite accomplished Charter Mages. There is also no easy path to get to this house without passing one or more Charter Stones, and the creature cannot or will not do that.”
“I wonder . . .” Clariel said slowly. “I wonder if I should stay to help you find it.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Gullaine. “Don’t you yearn to be free of the city? Magister Kargrin certainly thought you did.”
“I do, I do,” confirmed Clariel, but there was the slightest tinge of doubt in her voice.
“Presuming you still wish to leave, we will help you,” said Gullaine. “After you have seen the King. Speaking of that, let me tell you of the manner of your presentation tomorrow. It is quite straightforward . . .”
The Captain spoke on, and Clariel listened, taking in what she needed. But part of her mind was thinking back to Aziminil, remembering the moment when she felt the raw power within the creature.
Power waiting to be called upon, waiting to be directed, waiting to be used.
Power waiting for her . . .
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Chapter Thirteen
OFF TO THE PALACE
The Academy was not so daunting the second time, now Clariel knew she would be free of it within days. In fact the most difficult part of the morning had been the walk over, with Valannie going on and on about the perfidious day laborers and their attack upon her, and her poor wounded hands despite the fact they had already scabbed over and the unsightly scars hidden under the thinnest doeskin gloves, bleached whiter than Belisaere stone.
Clariel had even enjoyed the first lesson, The Exercise of the Body, Martial and Merely Aesthetic, which on this occasion had been mostly aesthetic, practicing some of the dances the students would perform as their part of the Autumn Festival. Denima was in that lesson. She came over to Clariel at once to ask her what had happened to her the day before, since rumors were flying all over the city. Clariel stuck with the official story of being attacked by a gang of disaffected workers, which Denima also appeared to accept without demur, indicating that such attacks were a lot more common than anyone had wanted to tell Clariel, and the guards a necessity.
The second lesson, On the Writing of Letters, Reports, Epistles, Writs, Bills, and Such, was considerably less enjoyable, mainly because Aronzo was in it. As soon as Clariel came into the Second Hall, where the lesson was held, he approached her with a smirk on his face.
“Lady Clariel,” he said, with an exaggerated bow. “I trust you are well?”
“Well enough,” replied Clariel, moving to step past him and going to the closest empty desk. Aronzo moved into her path, so she stopped and looked at him with a withering gaze.
“You hurt your hands I believe,” said Aronzo. “Those annoying rebels from the Flat are becoming too troublesome.”
Clariel nodded and stepped sideways. Aronzo stepped sideways too, the smirk changing to a full-blown smile, showing off all his white teeth.
“And poor little Belatiel,” continued Aronzo. “Got stuck in the shoulder. More than a little prick, I hear.”
Clariel’s eyes narrowed and she felt the anger rising. Her right hand was halfway to her sleeve before she even knew it, fingers reaching for the hilt of her knife. She stopped the movement and breathed in very slowly through her nose, counting silently to three, and out her mouth, counting again. As Gully’s book had told her, she imagined the anger blowing out with the air.
“I suppose you could say he was very lucky,” said Aronzo, still smiling.
“I suppose you could,” replied Clariel, very coldly. Inside, her mind was putting pieces together and not liking what she made from them. Denima had not asked about Belatiel, and Clariel was sure she would have done so if she’d known he was injured. Clearly Belatiel’s presence at the supposed attack was not part of the general rumor, though it would be now, since everyone else in the room was watching and listening intently.
So how did Aronzo know Belatiel was wounded, and that it was in the shoulder?
“Please allow me to take my seat. I believe we are about to begin our lesson.”
Aronzo arched his eyebrows in mock surprise.
“So keen to learn, Lady Clariel? I had not thought you so intent on your lessons. It gives me hope.”
“Hope for what?” spat Clariel, the anger rising again, till she clamped down on it and resumed the steady breathing, slowly in and slowly out, slowly in and slowly out.
“Hope is a wonderful thing,” said Aronzo. He turned and walked away, only a few steps, before looking back over his shoulder. “We can discuss it at dinner tonight.”
“I’ll be otherwise occupied!” said Clariel, louder than she had intended, causing some gasps and titters among the rest of the class. Clariel ignored them, sat down at the nearest desk, and selected a quill from the three or four that had been cut and put there by the Academy servants earlier, trying to stay calm as she inked it and tested it on a piece of scrap paper.
My temper is my own and answers to me, she wrote. My temper is my own and answers to me.
She was writing the phrase for the third time when the teacher came in, a middle-aged man who had inkstains on the sleeves of his shirt, and a pleasant but slightly absent face. Clariel noted he had a Charter mark on his forehead not very well concealed by the same sort of paste Valannie applied expertly to Clariel’s skin. He stopped to introduce himself to Clariel as he went past. She flipped over the piece of paper as he bowed, so he couldn’t read it.
“Master Kaernon,” he said. “Scribe by profession, teacher upon occasion. Welcome to the Academy, Lady Clariel.”
It was a fairly perfunctory greeting and he did not wait for an answer, proceeding straight to the lectern at the front of the hall, where he opened a book and called out, “Pages fifty-two to fifty-five, Heribert’s Misleading Letters, read the piece on appearing to agree while not agreeing at all, and then we shall discuss.”
Clariel found the book under the lid of her desk, one of the three books there, opened it and began to read. But while her eyes took in the words, she did not retain them, nor think about the content. She was wondering what Aronzo meant by “we can discuss it at dinner tonight,” whether he was a good shot with a crossbow, and how well he could swim. She was also thinking about collecting her money from Kargrin and getting out of Belisaere, what she would say to the King in just a few hours, the possibility of meeting Aziminil the Free Magic creature again and what she might do if that happened . . . there were so many things that were more important than writing misleading letters.
But she had to listen to the discussion about such letters, and then write one, all of which seemed to take far longer than two hours. In part to avoid Aronzo and partly because she simply couldn’t bear being cooped up again, Clariel raced away as soon as Kaernon dismissed the class.
> Denima hurried after her, and caught her by the front gate.
“Clariel! Aronzo said that Bel was hurt? Is he all right?”
“Yes,” said Clariel hurriedly. After a moment’s reflection she added, “At least as far as I know. I’ve been told he is . . . injured . . . but recovering.”
“But what happened? Was he attacked too?”
“I can’t talk now,” said Clariel. “I have to go. Sorry!”
She rushed out through the gate. Valannie was already waiting, and rather than trying to encourage Clariel to stay and lunch with her fellow students, this time she was anxious to get her back home as quickly as possible.
“We must hurry, Lady Clariel,” she said. “You need to dress and I will have to repaint your face as best as I can, indeed I don’t know how I can make it last to this evening! If only I’d been told earlier!”
“Told what?” asked Clariel crossly, as she led the way into the street, with Heyren, Linel, and the new guard—an older, very tough-looking woman called Reyvin—rushing to keep up.
“That you would be dining at the Governor’s house tonight,” said Valannie. “And going straight from the Palace instead of coming home first!”
“I see,” said Clariel grimly. “Am I to go alone, or with my parents?”
“Oh, with Lady Jaciel and your father, of course,” prattled Valannie. “It is a signal honor, you know, to be invited to dine with just the Governor’s family. But no surprise. Of course, it would have been easier tomorrow night, what with you going to . . .”
Her voice dropped and she looked around nervously before adding in a much quieter tone, “Going to see the King. I do hope he doesn’t keep you long, but with him as mad as he is, who can say?”
“That’s enough!” snapped Clariel.
Valannie gave her a mulish look, but didn’t speak for the rest of the hasty walk home, via the stone garden on the ridge. Clariel noticed that the steps had indeed been freshly repaired, a wooden framework still around the broken piece of stone to keep the new work in place.
There was a great bustle back at the house, with many extra guards in the livery of the Goldsmiths formed up loosely outside the gate, and several palanquins and bearers inside the courtyard. Apparently Clariel and her parents could not risk getting dusty and hot by walking the Palace. Or perhaps couldn’t get dusty and hot for the visit after their royal audience. The Governor’s dinner continued to occupy Valannie’s thoughts and speech as she rushed Clariel upstairs to dress in the new, made-to-measure clothes that had been delivered just in time from Mistress Emenor. She also repainted Clariel’s face, once again burying her Charter mark under the thickest paste, smoothed with a brush and a curious light stone. Clariel had to admit Valannie was an extremely skilful lady’s maid. Even if she was also a spy for Governor Kilp and couldn’t be trusted at all.
When Clariel came back downstairs an hour later, she felt more like a painting of herself than herself, a thought that caused her to begin to smile until she remembered that this would crack the plasterwork on her face or somesuch thing. She had on no less than five silken tunics, but they were so light she hardly noticed any weight or constriction and had to admit that in the warm and humid air of Belisaere they made much more sense than her normal clothes. She still had her small dagger in her sleeve.
“There you are,” said Jaciel as Clariel entered the courtyard. Her mother was attired similarly to herself, but was also wearing the new golden necklace of teardrops that she had made, and her gold-dotted scarf was fastened with a large golden brooch set with sapphires and diamonds in the shape of a swooping hawk, also her own work. “You will go in the first palanquin with Valannie.”
“Yes, mother,” replied Clariel. Jaciel did look very regal, she thought. She was proud of her mother, as a truly great goldsmith and artist. But she had often wished that she could swap this grand personage for someone easier to get on with. Her Aunt Lemmin, for example. Jaciel would actually be a better aunt than mother, she thought. Good for gifts and visits and influence, without needing to offer much actual love or time . . .
“Milady?”
Clariel blinked. Valannie was holding back the red and gold curtains of the nearer palanquin, and a block had been placed to make it easier to climb inside. Clariel had never ridden in a palanquin before, it seemed stupid to her to be carried by people when you could walk yourself. But as Captain Gullaine had explained to her the night before, it was the usual protocol to arrive at the Palace by palanquin, or on horseback if given leave to ride within the city, but this was usually reserved for royal couriers or other special messengers.
The interior of the palanquin was padded with cushioned velvet on all surfaces, so much so Clariel wasn’t sure exactly where she was supposed to sit. She climbed in and positioned herself at one end, discovering that there was a depression amid all the cushioning, though it made her not so much sit as recline. Valannie climbed in the other end, carrying her cedarwood case of cosmetics, and twitched the curtains closed. There were small holes to see out, disguised on the outside as gold coins against the red, but they didn’t offer much of a view. Or let in much air, so it was quite stifling inside.
“Please remember to keep as still as possible, milady,” said Valannie anxiously. “I will retouch your face of course, but please do try to keep it undisturbed.”
“I’ll do my best,” muttered Clariel. She settled back and slowly turned her head so she could see out through one of the small holes. One saving grace about being trapped in a palanquin with Valannie was that the maid probably wouldn’t talk too much, not wanting to crack her own face paint, or encourage Clariel to answer and destroy the last hour of work.
There were eight bearers carrying the palanquin. Clariel could hear them whispering a kind of marching song to one another to help them keep in step and make sure the ride stayed level. She smiled as she recognized the chant; it was a song the Borderers sang, though with ruder words.
I once loved a lover but I left . . . right . . . left
Never find another as right . . . left . . . right
Should I have left . . . right . . . left . . . right . . .
I once loved another but I left . . . right . . .
Should’ve listened to mother right . . . left . . . right
But I’d still have left . . . right . . . left . . . right . . .
Even with the steadiness of the bearer’s step, there was a small amount of swaying and tilting, rather like being on a barge. Clariel had been on a barge once, when she traveled with her father along the Metal Canal that took silver ore from the mine at Mount Shulle to Ponstayn, where it was smelted and refined. She had not particularly enjoyed the experience, disliking the mine and the metalworking town. They were far to the west of her beloved Estwael and surrounded by clear-felled dales, the surrounding woods gone for lumber long ago. Her father had liked it though, perhaps because he was seen as a significant figure there, being an important buyer of silver and not just Jaciel’s husband.
There wasn’t much to see out the closest coin-size hole in the palanquin’s curtains apart from even more houses of white stone. There weren’t even many people, probably because they were being herded out of the way by the guards that accompanied the palanquins on every side. Despite the presence of the guards, Clariel regretted that she had only her smallest dagger, and nowhere to hide a larger weapon, since she’d been forced to wear slippers of a soft silver mesh fabric rather than boots.
With nothing to see, Clariel turned away from the peephole, remembering to do it slowly so as not to invite criticism from Valannie for cracking her face paint. She hoped this would be her first and last ride in a palanquin, because it was getting even more airless, and the slight swaying motion was making her feel sleepy, but not in a good or comfortable way.
It should be one of the last, at least, she told herself. She would go to Magister Kargrin tomorrow, get her money and a disguise, and leave. It would probably be best if she were disguised as a ma
n, which she had done before herself, without the aid of Charter Magic. She smiled as she suddenly thought of what a magic disguise might do. If she was bespelled to look like a man, would that go so far as to give her the parts of a man, to look at, at least? That would dissuade even the most suspicious, if it came to that kind of inspection . . .
The sudden, sharp sound of metal on metal brought her out of this amusing daydream and she shot upright with her hand on her knife, legs swinging toward the curtain, before Valannie managed to raise her hands in alarm and cry out.
“Milady! It’s only the metal stars in the road, under the guard’s hobnails!”
Clariel’s hand slowly came out of her sleeve, but she did not lie back.
“What stars?”
“We are on the Avenue of Stars,” said Valannie. “There are many tiny stars set in the flagstones. It is a wonder of the city.”
“I see,” said Clariel. She leaned forward and gently pulled the bottom of the curtain up and leaned over to look out. The palanquin rocked more than usual, and there were a few grunts as the bearers adjusted to the shift of weight. Clariel peered down at the road, and indeed saw many tiny stars in the stone, reflecting the afternoon sun like bright sparks fallen from a fire, though these would never fade to cinders.
The metal clicks continued for quite a long time. Clariel looked out, but again couldn’t see much, apart from the fact that the Avenue of Stars was at least twice as wide as most of the regular city streets, and that the guards were still keeping people well back, forcing them to stand aside. Most of them looked at the passing palanquin with unhappy or angry faces, making Clariel think again about the “minor trouble” with “unsettled workers.” She’d not really noticed before, the mass of people in the city being simply too large for her to focus on as anything other than “huge and frightening crowd,” but seeing individuals from within the palanquin, it became clear to her a great many people were not happy to see rich Goldsmiths and their guards arrogantly force their way past.
