Clariel

by Nix,Garth

  Harven ran up to Jaciel’s side and took her arm, and they swept on up to the broad front steps of the house, Clariel following along behind. The flickering light of oil lanterns lit their way, with no Charter Magic illumination to be seen, not even the soft sheen of the old marks that must have been in the stone of the steps and the railings, and had been clearly chipped away or painted over.

  The rain began to fall more heavily as they reached the front door, which stood open, Goldsmith’s guards standing on either side. A servant, dressed entirely in cloth of gold, bowed low as they stepped through to the entrance hall. This again was lit only by lanterns, and crowded with yet more guards, mostly officers of the various Guild Companies, in fancier clothes and armor, many sporting expensive decorations on the hilts and scabbards of their swords.

  The cloth-of-gold-clad servant, some kind of majordomo, coughed gently to get their attention and said, “Welcome, Lady Jaciel, Master Harven, Lady Clariel. The Governor wishes to apologize for the unusual circumstances in the house. Please follow me to the Governor’s study.”

  The majordomo led them through the crowd of officers, some pausing their conversations to bow or salute, though many of them hardly noticed the new arrivals. There was an air of excitement among them all, the kind of energy Clariel had often seen before a hunt, the expectation of adventures to come. Here she found it distasteful, the powerful and rich about to descend upon the weak and defenseless, as if a full array of Borderers were about to attack a rabbit hutch. All these sleek soldiers, and the massed ranks outside, up against the kind of folk who’d thrown the scrunched-up papers at the Palace gates . . . it had all the trappings of a nightmare, a nightmare bounded by the city walls.

  “This way,” said the majordomo, opening a small door in the corner, revealing a narrow, winding stair. He took a lantern from its hook above the door and started to climb, his shadow flickering behind him across the steps. “This is the Governor’s private stair.”

  The door at the top of the steps was open, a bright rectangle lit by many candles within. Kilp himself stood there. He was wearing armor, a coat of gilded mail with no surcoat over it, and his sword with the swan-wings hilt was at his side.

  “Well met, well met! Come on up! I’m sorry we shall not have too much time to dine, as no doubt you saw there is serious business afoot tonight. But the Governor’s office is ever busy.”

  He stood aside as they entered a surprisingly large room, the narrow stair being truly a private entrance, as there were large double doors at the other end. The place was lit by candlelight rather than Charter Magic, two huge chandeliers of golden filigree hanging from the timbers of the vaulted ceiling, each carrying a hundred candles. Beneath them was a table of deeply polished walnut, set for six, with a great array of gold and silver cutlery, gold goblets, and silver-rimmed glasses, and a massive salt cellar fashioned in the shape of Belisaere itself, or an abstraction of it, a thing of aqueducts and walls with a few key landmarks like the Palace, all of it shining gold and silver and massive gemstones. It was quite remarkably ugly and the weight of metal alone would make it worth a fortune.

  Aronzo came in through the main doors as Clariel stepped in from the small, private way. He also was armored, in blackened mail, and he wore a dark gold surcoat over it, a sword and long dagger on his belt. He smiled, his blue eyes bright in the candlelight.

  “Lady Jaciel and family. Good evening.”

  Clariel returned his bow, a second slower than her parents. She was thinking about Kilp and Aronzo armed and armored, and her empty sleeve and generally weaponless state. But surely there could be no real danger . . . not when they had arrived so openly, and Jaciel an important figure in the Guild . . . if there was danger, it would not be a danger that could be met by a dagger from her sleeve or boot.

  But still she felt wary, more on edge than ever, and the edginess would not leave her, no matter that she told herself it was jumping at shadows. Clariel told herself she just had to get through the dinner, and the night beyond. In the new day she would see Kargrin and get out.

  “Please, be seated,” said Kilp. He clapped his hands. Four servants entered in answer, each carrying a tall silver ewer of wine. They did not ask what the guests would prefer, but simply filled the four goblets in front of each of them. A waste, Clariel thought, but typical of the showing off that Aronzo seemed to like. He’d obviously inherited the trait from his father.

  “I wanted us to have a small, private dinner,” said Kilp as they sat. Aronzo was next to Clariel, but she edged her chair away and angled her legs, so that Aronzo’s questing foot could not touch her own. “The two leading families of the city.”

  “Will your lady wife be joining us?” asked Jaciel, indicating the empty chair. “I have not seen her for some time.”

  “I fear Marget is ill,” said Kilp, with a sigh that did not alter the coldness of his predatory eyes. “As you know, the poor dear suffers from many ailments.”

  “You are equipped for battle,” said Harven. “And the Trained Bands have been called out. Should we postpone this dinner? I . . . we would not wish to get in the way of whatever . . . whatever is occurring.”

  Kilp waved one hand in a relaxed dismissal.

  “It is nothing of any great consequence. A band of rioters has proclaimed they will march upon this house and present their ‘demands’ to me. Malcontents from the Flat, who have no stomach for honest work. But they could be annoying, damage property of Guildmembers and so forth, so we will essay forth and . . . contain their protest . . . before they get anywhere important. Let them stone their own windows and burn their own hovels, I say. We will keep them penned in, have no fear of that!”

  “What are their demands?” asked Clariel.

  “Who knows,” said Kilp. “They want this and that, changing by the day or even hour. They complain of too much work, or not enough . . . the truth is they are a rabble who need firm handling. But enough of this, these troublemakers will occupy too much of my night as it stands. Let us talk of other things, and begin to eat.”

  He clapped his hands again. Four more waiters entered, bearing trays of oysters, mussels, and eels, which they set upon the table. Again, there was far more food than the five of them could possibly eat, and Clariel knew it would only be the first of many courses. She had no appetite, aware that Aronzo was watching her all the time, and Kilp too, that she was of no account to them save as a playing piece in their game of power, and they were preparing to make a move.

  “You come from the Palace,” said Kilp, opening an oyster with gusto, using the short, blunt knife provided among the array of cutlery in front of him. “How was the King?”

  “We did not see him,” said Jaciel. She speared a mussel from its shell with a needlelike implement of finely chased silver. “He met with Clariel, to receive the kin-gift.”

  “And gave one in return,” said Harven quickly, clearly wanting to be in on the conversation. “A most notable gift.”

  “He did?” asked Kilp, with a darting glance at Clariel.

  “The Dropstone salt cellar,” announced Harven cheerfully. “We will have it in the workshop tomorrow.”

  “Really?” drawled Aronzo. “I would like to see that. I have heard of it, of course, but to look at it closely . . .”

  “You must,” said Jaciel eagerly. “It is a remarkable work. Kilp, you too. There is so much that we can learn from it.”

  “I fear I am overburdened with matters of state, rather than matters of craft,” said Kilp. “It is too often the way, but then I was never as skilled as you, Jaciel. Aronzo will undoubtedly benefit from a study of the work, though I must say I am greatly pleased with his journeyman piece. It will go before the Guild assayers next week.”

  “Next week?” asked Jaciel. “Congratulations, Aronzo. You will be one of the youngest masters ever.”

  “Should the work be accepted,” said Aronzo with, Clariel was sure, entirely false modesty.

  “It will be. You will be a Gold
smith of the High Guild,” said Kilp. He gave Clariel a slight bow. “And a Guildmember should be married. When Aronzo sets up his own house and workshop, I would be delighted to see his wife by his side.”

  “So should I,” said Clariel sweetly. “Who are you marrying, Aronzo?”

  Kilp laughed. Aronzo transformed the beginnings of an angry scowl into laughter as well, a second too late.

  “You are playful, Lady Clariel,” said Kilp. “It would be good to plan for the wedding soon, as I fear we will all be busy with the current difficulties, which can only be exacerbated by the King’s ill health—”

  “The King is perfectly well,” interrupted Clariel. “And plans for my wedding are much ahead of any likelihood of there being one.”

  Kilp raised his eyebrows and opened another oyster, tipping the shell back to let the meat inside slip down his throat. He tossed the shell back on his plate and looked at Jaciel.

  “Lady Jaciel? I thought this matter was agreed?”

  “Not quite,” replied Jaciel smoothly. She looked at her daughter, but Clariel couldn’t tell what she was thinking. “Clariel and I have many matters we must talk about. Let us discuss other things. Your son, Aronzo’s work, perhaps. I would like to see his masterwork, if I may.”

  “It is not quite ready, I regret,” said Aronzo. “A matter of some minor polishing remains, and there is the question of etiquette, that only the assayers should . . .”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Kilp. He turned to the servant behind him and snapped, “Fetch Lord Aronzo’s goblet from the workshop.”

  “Father, it’s really not . . .” Aronzo started to protest, but Kilp merely looked at him. The young man stopped, picked up one of his goblets instead, and took a hefty swallow.

  “The King is well, you say,” said Kilp, after a minute of awkward silence, though at least Jaciel and Harven had started eating.

  “He seemed well enough, though very old,” said Clariel. “He was very kind to give me . . . us . . . the salt cellar.”

  Kilp grunted, but did not add anything else. He continued to look at Clariel as he ate, until she became uncomfortable and resorted to helping herself to a portion of eel. She pushed this around on her plate, cutting it into smaller and smaller sections with a knife that was considerably blunter than she thought it should be. She also couldn’t hold it tight enough, because the wound on her palm still hurt.

  “You do not intend to be a goldsmith yourself, do you, Lady Clariel?” asked Aronzo blandly, as if they had just met. “What are your plans for your future?”

  “I have not been in Belisaere very long, Lord Aronzo,” said Clariel. “I am still assaying the true value of many things here. Sometimes there is only the thinnest layer of gold upon the lead.”

  “That’s true,” said Harven. “Remember those counterfeit bezants from that gang in Navis, they skimped on the leaf so much the coins could hardly pass between two hands before it came off.”

  “True coin is an ornament of the state,” said Kilp pontifically. “And yet another responsibility of we Goldsmiths. Ah, here we are!”

  His exclamation was for the arrival of Aronzo’s masterwork, which if passed by the Guild examiners, would allow him to become a full member of the Guild. It was a goblet, carried in the white-gloved hands of the cloth-of-gold-clad majordomo, self-evidently a much more senior servant than the man sent to fetch it, who could not be trusted with an item of such value.

  It was a very beautiful piece, Clariel noted with reluctance. A slim goblet of beaten gold raised upon a long stem set with small rubies, arranged so that a red glow wrapped the cup above and the circular foot below, which was also rimmed with rubies or tiny chips of ruby.

  Jaciel’s eyebrows rose as she saw it.

  “Show me!” she demanded, rising from her seat. Aronzo stood too, and both moved around opposite sides of the table toward the majordomo.

  “It really isn’t ready, Lady Jaciel!” he said, in his most charming manner. “Please don’t touch—”

  Even as he spoke, Jaciel put out one finger and touched the foot of the goblet. It was the slightest touch, a mere graze of her fingernail, but as it passed, tiny white sparks flew from her hand.

  “You didn’t make this alone,” said Jaciel, her voice harsh. “This was made by a Dwerllin or Hish, it was forced by Free Magic from the raw gold!”

  “True,” sighed Aronzo, and drew his sword in one swift motion. A moment after he did so, Kilp thrust his chair back and drew also. The servants, all save the majordomo, drew daggers. Clariel pushed her chair back, but before she could rise there was a dagger at her throat from the servant who been standing behind her, and another had her weapon at Harven’s neck. He looked bewildered from side to side as two more servants moved in front of Jaciel, their daggers ready, though they did not lift them.

  Jaciel stood very still, clearly unarmed in her white and gold silks.

  “I’m sure we can forget this,” said Kilp. He darted a sharp glance at his son, who looked down and bit his lip. “So my son had some help. It is of no great importance. Let’s sit down and talk, there are many arrangements we need to make—”

  “I beg to differ,” interrupted Jaciel. She stood tall and imperious, speaking as she might to a forgehand who had spoiled the work of days. “You have knives at the throats of my husband and daughter. You deal with Free Magic. No.”

  She spoke a word then that could not be properly heard or understood, a word that Clariel saw emerge from her mouth in a flash of golden brilliance. A Master Charter mark that was linked to hundreds of other marks, that came out of her mouth all together like a sudden storm of rain, but here the drops were molten gold, spraying out at neck height, passing over Clariel’s head so close she felt the burn of their passage. If it were not for her scarf, her hair would have caught on fire.

  The servants in front of Jaciel and the ones behind Harven and Clariel screamed and fell as one, their faces dappled with burning holes. Jaciel stooped and picked up two daggers, wielding one in each hand. She lunged at Aronzo who frantically backed away and parried, and Kilp ran back to the doors and shouted, “To me!”

  “Flee!” screamed Jaciel, parrying a riposte from Aronzo with one dagger as she drew Charter marks in the air with the other. The marks were bright as the sun, shining in the air with such brilliance they left afterimages in Clariel’s eyes. She pushed her chair back but the legs stuck against the fallen servant, so she had to writhe under the table to get out, and then drag at her father’s hand. Harven was still sitting there, his mouth open and face aghast.

  “Father! Come on!”

  She pulled his hand hard. He rose from his chair and they stumbled away. Clariel still had the small, blunt knife that she’d been using to cut the eel. She let go of her father’s hand and charged toward Aronzo’s back, aiming for his neck above his armored coat, but he saw her coming from the corner of his eye and stepped away, and she was only saved from his counterattack by Jaciel parrying with a dagger.

  “Go!” screamed Jaciel. She was still tracing Charter marks with her left hand, even as she parried with her right. Clariel had rarely seen her mother practice her swordcraft, but somewhere along the line Jaciel had been taught very well indeed. “Take the small stair!”

  “Don’t kill them, especially the girl! Shoot to wound!” shouted Kilp as he opened the doors, a dozen or more of his guardsmen pouring in around him.

  But even as he spoke three eager arbalesters fired their crossbows. Quarrels shot through the air, all three aimed at Jaciel. Yet they did not strike true, instead colliding with some invisible, or near invisible barrier, for Clariel saw Charter marks flash as they struck.

  Though the quarrels did not strike home, they did distract Jaciel for the barest instant. In that moment, Aronzo landed a cut across her arm. Blood flowed through the silk, spreading quickly.

  “You cut as easy as any, for all your magic,” taunted Aronzo, stepping back so he could watch Jaciel and Clariel together, his blue eye
s flickering. Harven was still gaping, his hands raised imploringly as if someone might step in to save them.

  “Do I?” asked Jaciel. She leaned over and licked the blood from her shoulder, the smear of it frightful around her mouth. She laughed, a laugh Clariel had never heard before. A laugh that made her shiver from crown to toe, the laugh of something being released after a long, long captivity.

  Another crossbow twanged, this time the arbalester aiming low at Jaciel’s legs. The quarrel struck the back of a chair, deflected off it at an odd angle, and struck Harven in the middle of his chest. His hands fell, the imploring gesture broken. He fell to the floor, blood pumping from the wound like a flooded gutter overflowing at the eaves.

  Clariel felt him die. It was a sensation she knew well from hunting, though she had never realized it was the death sense of the Abhorsens, because she had never been so close to a person in the moment of their death. With animals it was like a fleeting, frozen touch in her mind. Here it was an icy gale that blew through a door that slammed shut again, all in one terrible instant.

  A moment later Jaciel’s left-hand dagger flew through the air and the crossbowman who’d fired choked and gargled and plucked at the steel in his throat. Clariel felt his death too, another brief, icy waft deep inside her head.

  “Clariel! Go!”

  Jaciel’s command was laced with Charter Magic. Before Clariel could even think to fight against it, she found herself at the small door, wrenching it open, the narrow stair below her dark. She turned sideways as she stepped through, fighting the spell, and saw Jaciel throw her second dagger at Aronzo. He parried it too slowly and too close, so the blade spun across his handsome face, opening his cheek from chin to ear. Aronzo screamed and dropped his sword, his hands clutching his face, the blood running out between his fingers.

  Clariel had one last glimpse of Jaciel preparing to launch herself at Kilp and his guards. She was casting a spell, a forge spell drawn with a single Master Charter mark, sketched in the air. Flames grew from her fingers as she traced it, long white-hot flames like curving swords.