Clariel

by Nix,Garth

  Jaciel’s daughter saw no more. The spell forced her away, turned her head and sent her stumbling down the stair.

  Clariel did not see her mother charge her enemies.

  Kilp fled before her, his guards closing ranks behind him. Jaciel killed one, cutting him almost in two. But she was struck herself twice, a terrible wound in her side, and another above her knee. She merely laughed again. Bloody foam dribbled from her mouth as she spun and hacked and drove steadily deeper into the panicked guards, her fiery blades hissing as they cut through armor, flesh, and bone.

  The guards fought back, chopping and stabbing in blind desperation at this terrible enemy who wielded fire and would not die.

  Jaciel was almost through to Kilp when a blow from a halberd took her in the neck. The head of the greatest goldsmith and finest artist in the Kingdom was hewn from her shoulders, to roll bloodily across the floor.

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  Chapter Seventeen

  SEEKING REFUGE

  Clariel ran. She stumbled down the stairs, compelled by the spell. All she could think of was flight. She had to get out of the dark, enclosed stair, get out of the Governor’s House, get out of Belisaere!

  Get out! Get out!

  She collided with the door at the bottom, and frantically felt for the lever, handle, or bar. But there was nothing, just smooth wood. She hammered on it with the eel knife, screaming, “Open! Open!” until finally someone did open it and she fell out into lantern light, her clothes splattered with blood and the top of her head singed. Hands clutched at her, but she fought them off and ran, ran as fast as she could for the front door through people shouting questions, and then all-too-slowly beginning to run after her.

  Then she was outside, the door behind her. Out in the courtyard, crowded with soldiers, and there was an instant, just an instant when no one noticed because it was noisy and everyone was excited with the coming battle or riot or whatever they wanted to call it.

  Then there was a shout behind her. Kilp shouting.

  “Stop her! Catch her! Do not use steel!”

  Clariel didn’t slow down. Even as everyone began to react, she was running, this time for the gate in the curtain wall. She was halfway there when she heard Kilp again, his shout closer behind.

  “Stop her! Catch her!”

  A grinning guardsman stepped into her path, the grin gone instantly as she kicked him in the groin and ducked past, cursing the flimsy shoes she wore instead of her proper boots.

  She was almost at the gate when one of her own guards, the grim-faced Reyvin, stepped out from the shadows, thrusting her spear-shaft at exactly the right point between the young woman’s knees.

  Clariel came crashing down on the flagstones and lost her eel knife. She rolled quickly and got onto her knees, just as the spear shaft came down again, this time to tap her quickly on the back of the head.

  It was meant to knock her out, but it didn’t. Clariel rode the blow down, flipped over on her side and kicked up at her attacker, getting Reyvin just under the knee. The guard cursed and went down herself, sprawling on the pavement. Clariel dove onto her, whipped a dagger from her belt, and was up and away again, still compelled by her mother’s spell, Jaciel’s shouted “Go!” still echoing in her ears.

  She was through the gate before any other guard came close, and then sprinting down the road faster than she had ever run, faster than on any hunt, this time the quarry rather than the hunter. She ran without conscious thought for any ultimate destination, seeking only darkness to shield her, turning off the well-lit roads that were lit by Charter-Magic lanterns suspended on iron poles, choosing always the darkest street at every intersection.

  Halfway along a dim lane, the spell began to fade a little. This allowed Clariel to think for moment instead of simply running. She paused for a moment to look up at the stars to get her bearings. But there were no stars. The clouds hung dark and low, and a light rain was falling, less wet than the tears already on her face.

  There was a great hue and cry behind her, so she went the opposite way from the noise, running not quite so fast, saving her strength. There were people on the streets, as there always were, but few now, for it was full night. They parted before her, as soon as she was close enough to be seen in whatever light fell from house windows or street lanterns. No one wanted to get in the way of a bloodied, crazed-looking woman cradling an unsheathed dagger to herself as if it were a precious jewel.

  Eventually, the compulsion faded completely. Clariel came to her senses, or what passed for senses, given the shock of her parents’ murder. She was shivering with shock, her hands ached, her feet were cut and bruised, her soft shoes in ribbons. She looked around wildly, seeing only the dark outlines of tall houses, relieved here and there by glow of lamps and Charter lights. She was in a residential street, a good one, judging from the size of the houses near her, but she had no idea which one.

  Or where she should go. At least it was quiet. Wherever her pursuers were, they were not close. Perhaps she was no longer even pursued . . .

  Clariel looked around again, studying the skyline, the patterns of lights. Then she saw it, sticking up above the other houses, the darker, taller shadow of a tower. One of the towers of the old wall.

  Perhaps even Magister Kargrin’s tower. This could be . . . it looked like it was . . . the Street of the Cormorant . . . somewhere she had run to unwittingly, her deeper self knowing where some hope of safety lay.

  The gold and a disguise, thought Clariel dully. Now I have to go, for there is nothing . . . no one left to me here. Nothing but death and trouble . . .

  Limping, she walked up the street, keeping to the shadows, crossing the road when a particularly well-lit house cast too bright a light out its many windows.

  Near Kargrin’s tower, she slowed, pushing the shock and grief away, forcing it deeper, till some other time. Kilp might well have Kargrin watched, she thought, as a known opponent. She might have to fight her way to the gate, and if it were at all possible, it would be best that Kilp not know where she was until she could be disguised and on her way again. Clariel had no idea how long a Charter Magic disguise would take to cast. Hours? She hoped it was quick, or there would be little chance for her to escape.

  Three houses up and across the street, she hid by the front door of a darkened house, and watched the gate of the tower. It was only when she tasted salt in her mouth that she realized it wasn’t just rain on her face. She was crying, the tears flowing for the father who though he had disappointed her, she had always loved; and for her mother, whom she must presume to be dead.

  But she could not afford tears, not yet at any rate. Clariel wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and watched again. There was no movement on the street. All was quiet, and most of the nearer houses were dark. She could not wait longer, because any search would undoubtedly come here. Valannie knew everywhere she went, and doubtless she would have already told Kilp’s minions where to look.

  Clariel crossed the road at a run, went straight to the small portal in the gate, and knocked on it as quietly as she dared. Even so, the knocks sounded very loud in the quiet, dark street. She gripped her dagger harder, ignoring the pain in her hand, tensing for a sudden attack from somewhere. An arrow, or a quarrel from one of the windows opposite, someone leaping out from that doorway—

  A head appeared suddenly through the door, thrust through the iron-studded timber. Clariel shrieked and jump back, before she realized it was the Charter sending that had opened the door before. It looked at her, its eyes a bright concentration of Charter marks.

  “Kargrin,” croaked Clariel. “I need to see Kargrin. Let me in. My name is Clariel. Please let me in!”

  The sending’s head withdrew. At the same time Clariel heard running footsteps on the street, hobnails sharp on the paving stones. She turned and saw half a dozen guards in goldsmi
th livery approaching, long wooden staves in their hands rather than more deadly weapons.

  “Drop your dagger!” commanded the leader.

  The sound of bolts being withdrawn came from within the tower. Clariel backed up against the door and hefted her dagger. The guards approached warily, staves at the ready.

  Clariel stamped backward with her foot, hoping the door would budge. But it didn’t move.

  “Kargrin!” she screamed, as loud as she could. But he didn’t answer, and no help came. She couldn’t fight six guards, not without help, and the berserk fury that might have made the difference felt far distant, somehow suppressed by the shock of her parents’ death, or suppressed by the aftereffects of Jaciel’s spell.

  The door groaned open. Clariel turned to duck through it, and in that instant, the guards struck. Several blows rained down on her back and shoulders, sending her sprawling across the threshold of the gate. She tried to crawl through, with the sending just standing there, doing nothing but holding the door open. She felt her legs grabbed as the guards dragged her back out. She twisted around and recognized Linel, who mouthed the word “Sorry” even as she was treading down hard on Clariel’s hand to make her drop the dagger, pain stabbing through her half-healed wound.

  Too much pain, and too much endured in too short a space of time. Clariel made one last, violent attempt to rise up and spring through the door, but she was held fast. Her arms were brought behind her back and roped together before she was picked up and carried away from her potential refuge, limp and no longer struggling. For a moment she gazed up at the night sky, crowded in by the buildings on the street. The sky seemed darker than it should, till she realized she was swimming in and out of consciousness, and then the darkness was complete.

  Magister Kargrin, flying above in the shape of a beggar owl, granted by wearing a Charter skin, saw the commotion on his street from afar, but despite the powerful beating of his grey wings, he could not arrive in time to tip the balance in Clariel’s favor. For a moment he did consider a rescue, but there were not only the six guards who had taken Clariel, but another dozen coming up the street. Some were Charter Mages, and there would not be time to argue rights and wrongs, so any aggressive magic he used would be countered or negated by these others, as was the nature of Charter Magic. And he could not physically fight more than four or five guards, on a good day, with luck.

  Luck had not been noticeably with him so far that night. He had been spying on the Governor’s House, watching the Trained Bands muster, for he knew the soldiers were not being gathered by Kilp to counter a riot in the Flat, since it and all other parts of the city were quiet. He’d seen Clariel come bursting out of the gate, but had lost her in the alleys, and then had lost precious time going to her home, not guessing she would go to his own tower.

  He was wondering whether he should follow the guards taking Clariel back to the Governor’s House, and attempt a rescue there, or do something else, when he caught the sound of a distant horn blast.

  The great baritone boom of the Charter-Magicked horn that hung on chains atop the gatehouse of the Palace.

  The Palace was under attack.

  Kargrin let out a screech that was the owl equivalent of violent swearing, and swooped up to catch the wind that would speed him to the northwest, to defend the King. He took one last, yellow-eyed look at Clariel down below, a forlorn figure carried on the shoulders of the guards like a casualty of battle.

  They would not harm her, he thought. Kilp needed Clariel, or her mother. Surely, they would not harm her . . .

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  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  Chapter Eighteen

  UNWANTED CLIMBING PRACTICE

  Clariel came back to consciousness in slow starts, like a fish rising to a baited hook with slow circling and tiny nibbles, till at last it struck and she, just like that hooked fish, was hauled out of comforting dimness and into harsh light.

  She was on a low truckle-bed. Her hands were freshly bandaged, as were her feet, and she had on only the innermost of her long silk tunics, three layers of gold and white removed.

  The bed was in a small, circular room. Clariel sat up and looked about and corrected that observation. It was not a room, as such. It was either the base of a small round tower, or a circular pit. The walls stretched up thirty feet, and ended in a slanted glass ceiling, which was currently admitting a lot of light, so the sun must be nearly directly overhead. Which meant it was late morning, or early afternoon, presumably the day after—

  “The day after my parents were murdered,” whispered Clariel. But she could not continue with that thought, or dwell on it, because if she did she thought she might never pull herself together again. Instead, Clariel slid out of the bed and stood up to take stock of her limited surroundings. There was the bed, a simple chest at its foot, and a small table that from the characteristic scorch marks on its top had come from a goldsmith’s forge. There was an earthenware pitcher on the table, with a tin goblet next to it, and a lidded chamber pot under the table.

  She couldn’t see any entrance. There was no door or hatch, in wall or floor.

  All in all, it was clear she was in a prison. A moderately comfortable prison, with sunshine above, a bed, and everything to meet modest needs. But nevertheless a prison.

  It was even shaped a little like a bottle, Clariel thought, remembering Aziminil and her plea not to be caught. The lower part of a bottle. Narrow and tall, with the walls pressing in and the air still and stagnant . . .

  A shadow crossed the floor, and Clariel looked up. Someone was looking down through the glass ceiling high above, but the glass was cloudy and she could not make out who it was, till the central pane was lifted up by unseen hands, and there was Kilp staring down at her with his horrible eyes.

  “Lady Clariel.”

  She didn’t answer, just stared back at him. He was leaning over and partially into the window, so there was some sort of walkway up there, suggesting she might be in the base of a tower and not a pit. Though she supposed it still could be a pit, with a raised upper portion. Like a well. It could be a well. A very wide one. Which might mean it extended much deeper below, and that could be useful . . .

  “Lady Clariel,” Kilp said again. “May I say that I regret the circumstances that have led you here. They were not of my choosing.”

  Clariel didn’t answer. She looked away from him, up and along the brickwork. The bricks were small and very tightly packed, with hard mortar in between. But perhaps if she could pick that mortar out, to make toe- and fingerholds, then she could climb to the skylight window above. If she had something hard she could turn into a mortar-picking tool . . .

  “Regrettable things have happened,” continued Kilp. “But let me assure that your mother is receiving the best care, a healer—”

  “What!” exclaimed Clariel, goaded into talking to him. “Mother’s dead.”

  “No, she is badly wounded, I grant you, but the healer says she will live,” said Kilp. “And your father’s death was an accident. If only we could have all just talked about it!”

  “Talked about consorting with Free Magic creatures,” snapped Clariel. “Against every law of the Kingdom and all common sense!”

  “In many ways I am now the law of the Kingdom,” said Kilp. “And this so-called Free Magic, how does it differ from Charter Magic really? I employ Charter Mages. Why should I not employ a Free Magic entity?”

  “Because they are inimical to mortal life,” said Clariel.

  “That is a story we are often told,” replied Kilp easily. “But Az, as we called it, never harmed anyone, and it did much useful work.”

  “And how did you pay her . . . pay it?” asked Clariel. “Blood?”

  “No, no. Some gold, some gems, nothing much different than any other in my employ.”

  “You’re lying!” screamed Clariel. “Lying about everything
!”

  “No,” said Kilp. “I speak the truth. I deal with the world as it is, not as some would wish it to be. I would like to make an arrangement with you, Clariel. One of benefit to both of us, as all good trades are. But we cannot talk about it while you are in this aggressive frame of mind. I will come back tomorrow. And to help you concentrate your thoughts, I think we’d best give you more shade down there.”

  He snapped his fingers. Guards moved up next to him, lifting across large sections of planks. Shutters, Clariel saw with dread, shutters that were quickly fixed across two of the panes so that only the central, open window still admitted any sunlight.

  “I understand you are not the mage your mother is,” said Kilp. “Even so, you should know that Charter Magic will not help you escape this particular place. It was made so, long ago, and then forgotten. Till Az showed us. You see again how useful the creature could be? Think hard about being more conciliatory, young Clariel. As I said, we can help each other. Deal with what is, not dreams and fancies.”

  He stepped back, and the last shutter was fixed in place, plunging the deep chamber into total darkness.

  Clariel felt her way slowly back to the bed and sat on it.

  Could her mother still be alive? Kilp had sounded convincing, but she felt sure he always did. Surely, there was no way Jaciel could have survived, charging toward so many enemies, so many weapons raised and ready. They would have had no choice but to fight against her, for she would have given them no quarter . . . but Clariel had not felt her die, not as she had felt her father’s death. Perhaps she had been too far away . . .

  But what if Jaciel was alive?

  Clariel rested her head in her hands, massaging her temples, as if she could somehow force the memories of the night before out of her mind, make it as if it hadn’t happened.

  But it had happened, and she was sure both her parents were dead. Even if Jaciel had miraculously survived, that didn’t matter now, Clariel decided. She was never going to enter any arrangement with Kilp, no matter what. The only thing she would do with Kilp was hunt him down and kill him, and Aronzo too, as if they were crazed stoats that had to be got rid of before they killed again.