Clariel

by Nix,Garth

  There were some shouts ahead, but not in alarm or trouble, just the same sort of ceremonial call as Roban had given when they’d arrived at the Academy, calling out “Goldsmiths!”

  “Are we there already?” asked Clariel, puzzled. “I thought there was some sort of park, a band of trees below the Palace . . .”

  “Not yet, milady,” answered Valannie, who was trying to speak without opening her mouth too wide. “We’re turning onto the King’s Road. There are guards, to keep the commoners out of the gardens.”

  Clariel frowned at this, and wondered why the commoners were being kept from the gardens. In Estwael, there was a town park much frequented by the more timid folk who didn’t like the forest beyond the walls. She’d loved it as a small child, before transferring that love to the wilder woods.

  Through the spyhole, she saw a large crowd gathered as close as they could get to the great iron gates that had been opened to allow the palanquin’s passage, gates in a high fence of iron topped by spikes that had once been gilded, remnants of gold still showing here and there.

  As Clariel looked out, she saw one of the people, obviously poor from her sackcloth dress, lift her arm back to throw something. As she did so half a dozen others followed suit.

  “They’re throwing something!” cried Clariel, instinctively crouching and once again reaching for her dagger.

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  Chapter Fourteen

  KING ORRIKAN REGRETS

  But the thrown objects had no weight, bouncing off the roof and sides of the palanquin, and neither the guards nor the bearers paid any attention to the missiles or the throwers. Whatever they were hurling, it was soft and harmless. Clariel saw one missile bounce onto the road near her and partially unfurl.

  “They’re throwing crunched-up paper?”

  “Petitions,” said Valannie, with a sneer. “They hope to get their petty grievances to the King. Don’t worry, the guards at the gate will pick the papers up and record the names on them for later attention.”

  “To address their wrongs?” asked Clariel, but even as she asked the question she knew that would not be the case.

  “No! To make further enquiries, to see if they are troublemakers,” said Valannie. “It is a small set of rabble-rousers causing all the problems. Most folk are loyal to the Governor.”

  “You mean loyal to the King,” said Clariel, but Valannie didn’t answer, nor would she meet Clariel’s gaze.

  It wasn’t her problem, thought Clariel. Let others politick away and plot and counterplot. She would be away from the city soon enough, and in the Great Forest within a week. If the Borderers continued to exist, then she would join them in a year or two, when she had proved herself as a hunter and guide. If by some stroke of governmental foolishness the Borderers were disbanded or discontinued through lack of funds, then so be it. She would remain a hunter and try to carry out some of the good work the Borderers did on her own account, tending to the woods, its animal inhabitants and the men and women who lived or traveled there. “Tending” being a word that covered all manner of activity, from clearing overgrown paths, protecting young deer from poachers, travelers from wolves and bears, culling populations of animals that threatened the balance of the forest . . .

  A shadow fell across the palanquin. Clariel reacted to it instantly, her head going up, her nose sniffing the air. She knew the shape and feel of that shade, she could smell the great tree that cast it. Ignoring Valannie’s decorous and ineffectual attempt to stop her, she leaned forward and pulled the curtain open.

  They were in the Palace gardens, being carried along a gently rising road that ran straight as a blade between great oaks, whose branches intermingled above them to form a canopy of green, the occasional crunching sound underfoot from the treading of fallen acorns.

  There were lawns behind the oaks, and stands of other trees, silver birch and rowan, ash and beech, interspersed with beds of white flowers, bordered in red brick, a warm and welcome sight compared to all the cold stone of the city.

  Off in the distance, for the gardens stretched around the Palace Hill and continued out of sight, a stag raised his antlered head to watch the procession. The rest of his herd, a half-dozen hinds and half-grown fawns, followed his motion a moment later. They were cautious, but not overly so, and Clariel knew they were not hunted, but mere ornaments of the royal garden, or perhaps an aid to keep the grass down.

  “Do close the curtain, milady!” protested Valannie again. “It is not seemly.”

  “I don’t care,” said Clariel, breathing in the clean, soft air with its scent of earth and wood and natural decay, the work of wind and rain, not of mortal action.

  Valannie muttered something else, but Clariel paid her no attention. She was drinking in the vista, the air, the whole park, reinforcing her spirit for whatever lay ahead.

  One of the guards, a man Clariel hadn’t seen before who was walking close by, looked over at her curiously. She knew she must seem an odd sight with her head thrust out of the curtains, staring into the distance. But he said nothing, falling back a step or two, so as not to intrude upon her view.

  The road they were on—the King’s Road, Valannie had said—took a sharp turn to the right and began to climb up Palace Hill, which Clariel saw had been terraced into six levels, the road switch backing up, first right then left and back again. The gardens continued on each terrace, the closest one with wildflowers growing in the retaining wall, a profusion of starflowers, a mixture of the white and yellow varieties. Starflowers did not grow in Estwael, the climate did not suit them. They were late even here, Clariel considered, so close to autumn.

  The bearers swapped positions seamlessly as they climbed up the road, a pair from the front moving to the back, to help hold the palanquin level despite the inclination of the road. It wasn’t that steep, but enough to cause problems for palanquin bearers. For a moment Clariel thought about hopping out and walking once again, but she gave up that idea after considering the likely lecture from Valannie and possibly from her mother, who never seemed to care about etiquette and the like except when it concerned her own interest. If they weren’t allowed in the Palace because Clariel had walked up, and Jaciel thus didn’t get to examine the Dropstone gold work, then there would be a storm indeed. It wasn’t worth the risk.

  At the top of the final terrace, the King’s Road ended in front of a massive gatehouse that projected out from the high, white walls of the Palace. Clariel didn’t wait to be invited, climbing out of the palanquin even before one of the bearers could put down a step.

  The Goldsmith’s guards marched around and drew themselves up in formation, four ranks deep. There were forty of them all together, Clariel noted, which seemed like a lot of guards for only three people. There was a certain tension among them too, she saw, as if something more than ceremonial escorting might be required.

  There were half a dozen Royal Guards present too, on the bridge that ran over the narrow, but very deep moat before the gatehouse. In fact it looked like not so much a simple moat but a dark crevasse that might go all the way down through the hill to sea level. The guards wore the same long hauberks of gethre plates as Captain Gullaine, with red-and-gold surcoats and blackened steel helmets. They held poleaxes and had swords at their belts. Clariel noticed another ten or so above on the walls, looking down. These had short bows like the Borderers used, holding them strung and ready, but without arrows nocked. There were more still behind the portcullis at the end of the bridge, in the arched entryway to the gatehouse. Clariel also noted the portcullis was halfway down, sitting just above the level of the guards’ heads, so it could be quickly dropped.

  All of which added up to a high level of suspicion on the part of . . . well, it had to be Captain Gullaine since the King was supposed not to take an interest in anything . . . Clariel wondered again about the number of
Goldsmith guards they’d brought.

  “You go ahead, Clariel,” said Jaciel, as she alighted from the palanquin with imperious ease. “Your father and I will follow. Where is your gift?”

  Clariel looked around for the bearers who were supposed to be carrying the gold-rimmed bowl with its bright fish. After all the effort to get the fish, she’d forgotten to check that they had joined the procession and had a moment’s panic, assuaged when she saw the two men behind the palanquin with the bowl—wrapped in cloth-of-gold to hide its contents—suspended under two stretcher poles, as if it were a palanquin itself.

  “Bring the bowl over, please,” Clariel called out, waving to the bearers. “Take it to the guards . . . oh, here they come.”

  Gullaine—or Gully, as Clariel now tried to think of her, at the Captain’s request—had told her that no one would be allowed to enter the Palace proper, save for herself and her parents. Royal Guards would take the gift and convey it inside for the presentation. Everyone else would have to wait by the gatehouse until they came back out.

  Of all the Guild guards and servants, only Valannie made an attempt to stay with Clariel. She fell in behind her mistress as they crossed the bridge, but they’d had only gone a few paces when Captain Gullaine stepped out of the shadow under the gateway and took Valannie by the elbow as if leading her in a country dance, swinging her around to send her back again. It happened so quickly she barely had time to squawk in indignation.

  “King’s guests, only, madam,” said Gullaine. “Lady Clariel, Lady Jaciel, Master Harven, I welcome you on behalf of His Highness.”

  “Oh, I never meant—” bleated Valannie.

  “Best wait with the others,” said Gullaine. “Refreshments will be sent out.”

  Clariel noted a general stir among the guards and bearers, a movement of positive approval. Evidently the Palace did not stint on refreshments to visitors’ entourages, even if they were not trusted and required to wait outside.

  Gullaine led Clariel and her parents through the gatehouse, under a broad pattern of murder holes that looked as if they might have been tested recently, judging by the fresh scorch marks around each opening, and the evidence of scrubbing on the pavestones beneath. After they passed the portcullis, it slowly groaned down behind them.

  “Expecting trouble, Captain?” asked Harven. He sounded nervous, Clariel thought. Jaciel paid neither the closing of the portcullis nor her husband any attention, striding on ahead to a metal-studded gate that glowed with many slowly crawling Charter marks.

  “We always expect trouble,” said Gullaine, with a smile and a wave of her hand. “This tends to work out better than never expecting any.”

  At the inner gate, Gullaine drew a Charter mark in the air—yet another one Clariel didn’t recognize—and spoke something very quietly under her breath. The marks on the gate glowed more brightly in response, and one leaf slowly opened, just enough to admit the four of them, in single file. As soon as they passed through, it shut behind them, leaving them in an octagonal guardroom that had gates on all but one side. Each of the seven oaken gates was decorated in cut bronze and silver, showing various scenes from the kingdom. Clariel recognized the Wall, the Clayr’s glacier, a house on an island in a river, Belisaere itself, two rural scenes that could be almost anywhere, and a forest setting that was most likely in the Great Forest but could be in one of the lesser woods.

  A guard stood in front of the gate decorated with the walls, aqueducts, and houses of Belisaere. He bowed as they entered.

  “Ah, Kariam,” said Gullaine. “Lady Jaciel, Master Harven, you will be escorted to the Upper Hall, while I take Lady Clariel to the King.”

  “What?” asked Jaciel, suddenly sharp. “We are not to see the King?”

  “I fear not, Lady Jaciel,” said Gullaine. “The King is old and tired, and visitors tax his strength. He has agreed to see Lady Clariel for the kin-gift, as ancient tradition demands, but that is all.”

  “I demand to see him,” said Jaciel. “We are second cousins, after all.”

  “His Highness has given strict orders that allow no variation,” said Gullaine. “However, perhaps I should also tell you that a number of items I believe you wish to see have been placed in the Upper Hall, to . . . ameliorate your disappointment at not seeing His Highness.”

  “What items?” asked Jaciel.

  “Items I believe are of particular interest to one of your craft, Lady Jaciel. The Dropstone-work salt cellar and the swan dish,” replied Gullaine.

  “Ah,” sighed Jaciel, the sound of a starving person finally being offered food.

  “Also a water ewer that is believed to also be Dropstone work,” continued Gullaine. “Though it is unfinished and does not bear the mark.”

  “Unfinished?” asked Jaciel. Now her whole body stiffened to attention like a dog catching that first scent of a fox. “I did not know . . . I must . . . I must see it!”

  “Kariam will take you there now,” said Gullaine. “Lady Clariel, please, this way.”

  Though she didn’t appear to do anything, the gate marked for the Clayr’s glacier swung open, again only just enough to admit Clariel and Gullaine in single file. There was a narrow winding stair on the other side, and here they could walk side by side, though Clariel’s shoulder brushed the wall. It should have been dark, enclosed by stone with no windows, but there were bright Charter marks in the walls. Marks that grew brighter as Clariel drew nearer and faded as she passed.

  “Are we going to some sort of throne room or something?” asked Clariel. “Or a great hall?”

  “No,” said Gullaine. “We go to the battlements of the North Wall, facing the sea. The King likes to look out from there in the afternoon, if the day is warm. In a moment we will have to pause a little. Do not be alarmed.”

  She said this as they reached a landing, a small room that had two doors leading to left and right, while the stairs continued up. The room was empty, save for a bare wooden chair in one corner. The walls, unlike in the lower stair, were plastered rather than bare stone, and painted a pale yellow.

  “Sit on the chair, please,” said Gullaine. “This will only take a few minutes.”

  Clariel sat on the chair, and looked at Gullaine.

  “Why do I need to sit here?”

  “One of the King’s Guardians must look you over,” said Gullaine. “They are Charter sendings, of a kind. It won’t take long. Here comes one now.”

  Clariel looked up and down the stairs but couldn’t see anything. Then she noticed a faint ripple in the faded plaster of the wall opposite, a ripple that spread up from the floor. As she watched, tiny Charter marks blossomed and began to outline . . . something . . . that was about eight feet long and four feet high and took up most of the wall. Slowly the outline began to become more distinct, until Clariel saw it was some sort of catlike beast, but far larger, longer, and thinner and it sported a feathery tail.

  The outline flashed bright as sunshine on a mirror and an actual beast, albeit one made of Charter marks, stepped slinkily out of the wall. It shook itself as if to become fully awake and opened its impressively betoothed jaw, hopefully in a yawn and not in anticipation of a meal. It was taller than Clariel, and as the beast shook itself it became more and more solid-looking, its color darkening to something like a sweet wine, and faint shadows grew thick upon its back and flanks like spots.

  Clariel sat extremely still and resisted the twitch of her right hand toward the knife in her sleeve. She doubted any normal blade would be much use against a sending like this one anyway.

  The Guardian finished its yawn and extended its flat, rather triangular head toward Clariel, sniffing up her left leg, across her body, and then down her left arm. When it reached the sleeve it stopped and a great paw came up, claws extended, and it delicately pulled back the material to reveal the small, sheathed knife.

  “I said no weapons,” chided Gullaine, but she sounded calm enough. Clariel tried not to breathe as the sending opened its mouth to show
those great teeth again, and bent forward to bite—the hilt of her knife, pulling it out of the scabbard. Clariel expected it to drop the weapon on the floor for Gullaine to pick it up, but instead the cat-beast tipped its head back and swallowed the knife whole, apparently with great satisfaction and no ill-effect.

  “What . . . will I get that back?” whispered Clariel. It was a very fine knife, and it was hard to get one of such quality so small.

  “I doubt it,” said Gullaine. “I’m not actually sure where things go when they eat them. I trust you have no more hidden weapons?”

  Clariel shook her head, very slowly, so as not to antagonize the Guardian. But it kept sniffing up and down her body, and along her arms, paying particular attention to her hands, nudging Clariel to open them when she unconsciously balled them into fists. Once open and flat on her knees, palms uppermost, the sending sniffed for a long time at the still-healing cuts and then surprised Clariel with two sudden licks, which sent a jab of pain right through her arms to her forehead. She jumped, but the sending wasn’t finished. It rose up on its haunches and its paws came down on her shoulders, fortunately with claws retracted, and gave Clariel one more lick, right across the Charter mark on her forehead.

  Not that it felt like a lick. It was a sudden immersion into the Charter, her head submerged in a vast sea of marks for a second and then just as rapidly they were gone again and the cat-beast sat back down and let out a purring noise similar to a house cat satisfied with its current lot, only much louder. As it purred, small, almost transparent Charter marks fell from its mouth and nose.

  “Never seen one lick anyone before,” said Gullaine, with interest. “I suppose it’s because you’re a relative. But it’s passed you, so we can go on. Up three more flights.”

  Clariel stood up and followed Gullaine. She had only taken three or four steps up when she noticed the Guardian was following her, though its large paws were completely silent on the stone.

  “Does it . . . normally come along?” she asked.