“Shut up, Cat,” Han growled. “Don’t rattle on about things you know nothing about.”
“The clans are gifted in magical materials, healing, and earth magic,” Dancer said to Cat. “High magic—the kind wizards use—that’s not a clan vocation. That’s why I had to come here.” His face remained untroubled, as if Cat’s digs and insults slid right off him.
“Some people say Southern Islanders ought to stay in the islands,” Han said, feeling the need to stick up for Dancer, since he wouldn’t stick up for himself. “We all got to make the best of it. There must be something about the Temple School you like.”
Cat gnawed on her fingernail. “I do like the music,” she said grudgingly. “All you want. There’s basilkas and flutes and harps and organs and harpsichords. Choirs singing. Recitals all the time. Mistress Johanna gave me another basilka all to myself, said I could keep it long as I’m at school. She said they got masters can give me lessons on any of the other instruments, too. My choice.” She crammed a handful of grapes into her mouth. “She keeps pestering me to do some recitals. Play in front of people. I don’t know if I want to do that.”
That Mistress Johanna is smart, Han thought, if she already figured out that the way to Cat was through music.
“You’ve been accepted and come this far,” Dancer said. “You should take advantage. I’d love to hear you play.”
Cat twitched irritably, twisting a lock of her hair between her thumb and forefinger. “I just don’t know how long I’m going to be here. No point in getting all tangled up in something that won’t last. People begin to think they own a piece of you.”
Han flung his napkin onto the table. “There’s nothing you’re in a rush to get back to, is there? That’s why we’re all here. We got nothing and nobody at home.”
“You got no idea who I am or why I’m here,” Cat said. She stood and stalked out of the dining hall.
“That’s true enough,” Han said, looking after her, shaking his head. He turned to Dancer. “You don’t have to put up with her ragging about the clans, you know.”
“She’s all right. It’s nothing worse than what I’ve heard in the Vale.” Dancer pushed his bowl away. “Want to go to the library now?”
Han shook his head. “Later. After dinner, maybe. I’m going to stop by Hampton and drop off my books, then I have to go see Abelard.” He rolled his eyes. “I an’t looking forward to that.”
Han crossed the quad to Hampton Hall. The dormitory seemed deserted, all the students either in the dining hall or in class. He loped up the four flights of stairs to the top floor. When he reached the landing, a stench hit his nose. Excrement. Pressing his sleeve over his face, he looked up and down the corridor. The door to his room stood open. Drawing his blade, he soft-footed down the hallway, his other hand planted firmly on his amulet. Keeping his body canted to one side, he eased his head around the door frame and looked into his room.
It had been completely trashed. His clothing had been dragged out of his trunk and sliced to pieces, his books yanked from the shelf and shredded, his lamp smashed on the floor, the oil soaking into the wood. His bedclothes were ripped from his bed, torn apart, and scattered. It appeared that a number of brimming chamber pots had been dumped on top.
A gout of anger flamed up in him.
The protective charms he’d laid had done no good whatsoever. And he knew exactly who was responsible. Someone who knew Han would be down in the dining hall. Someone Han didn’t remember seeing there.
Micah’s words came back to him. I know where you live, Alister, and I’ve got plenty of time.
Turning, he swung around the corner into the stairwell, heading for Micah Bayar’s rooms on the second floor. Two steps down, he tripped and went flying, head over heels down the stairs, slamming into the wall at the bottom of the first flight and bouncing down a second flight of stairs.
Han should have been dead, but he knew how to take a fall. He bounced once or twice on the way down, which slowed him down some, and he managed to wrap his arms around his head before landing painfully on his right shoulder on the landing at the bottom, his head hanging over the top step. He’d narrowly missed tumbling down the third and final flight. His knife flew out of his hand and landed with a ping down below.
He blacked out momentarily. When he came to, the wind was totally knocked out of him and black spots swam before his eyes. His right arm was numb, his shoulder aflame with pain. Blood trickled into his eyes from a gash on his forehead.
Han heard footsteps approaching, but for the moment, he couldn’t move.
“Is he dead?” somebody asked, his voice trembling with fear and excitement. “He’s got to be. I never thought—he really landed hard.” Han recognized his voice. The thin Mander — Arkeda.
“Let’s hurry before somebody comes.” Someone bent over him, groping at his neckline. The plush Mander — Miphis.
“Don’t touch it,” a third person muttered in Fellspeech. “Roll him over and lift it by the chain.” Unmistakably Micah Bayar.
The spots cleared and Han saw a pair of fine blueblood boots next to his head. He grabbed the groper’s calf with his good hand and yanked. Miphis shrieked and went down, thudding down the last flight, landing hard on the stone floor at the bottom.
Han screamed like a mad tom, curling his body protectively around his amulet. He heard swearing, running feet, doors slamming, Blevins bellowing out questions that grew louder as he got closer until he was kneeling next to Han and screeching in his ear.
“Great hounds of the demon, boy, what happened to you?”
Han spit out blood from his bitten tongue, along with a fragment of tooth. Rolling onto his side, he sat up, cradling his right arm close to his body, supporting his elbow with his left hand.
The black spots returned as the weight of his arm pulled on his collarbone. Leaning back against the banister, Han said, through bloody lips, “Fell down the stairs.”
“I told you boys not to race up and down them steps,” Blevins said. “They got loose boards and they’re all different sizes. It’s lucky you didn’t break your fool neck.”
Yeah, Han thought. Lucky me. He looked up toward the third floor, down to the first, though moving his head was painful. The staircase was empty save for him and Blevins. Miphis had managed to get up, then, and leave on his own.
“Did you see anyone else on the stairs?”
Blevins shook his head. “No. Why?” The dorm master mopped at Han’s forehead with a filthy handkerchief.
“Someone made a mess of my room. I was — coming to tell you.”
Blevins’s face flushed pink-purple. “You boys got to learn that pranking just leads to misery, you hear me? You got to work these things out among yourselfs.”
The message was: don’t count on me to intervene. Not that Han expected or wanted it. He was used to fighting his own battles.
This is more than a prank, Han thought. And I’ll find a way to stop it myself. I have to if I’m going to survive.
“Could you find my knife?” Han asked. “I think it’s down below. It was knocked loose when I fell.”
The dorm master descended the steps, returning a few minutes later with Han’s knife. Han slid it into its sheath and eased to his feet, still leaning against the railing.
“Anything broke?” Blevins asked.
“My collarbone. Maybe.” Han trailed off, mumble-minded from the pain.
Blevins grabbed Han’s left elbow as if he thought he might fall. “We got to get you to Healer’s Hall, then. Let’s hope Master Leontus isn’t out this evening.”
“Just a minute. I want to take a look. See if there’s a loose board or something.” Over Blevins’s protests, Han hauled himself back up the stairs, gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder and arm.
Ah. Someone had stretched a heavy cord knee-high across the stairs just below the fourth-floor landing, where a person wouldn’t see it if he was in a rush. Drawing his knife, he cut it free and stuffed it int
o his pocket before he went back down to Blevins.
“What I thought,” Han said. “Loose board.”
Fortunately, Master Leontus was in his office. It was very different from the matriarch’s lodge. There were none of the bundles of herbs and jars of unguents that Willo kept handy. No tools for extracting the essences of plants. No patients convalescing in back rooms. Everything was scrubbed up and orderly, plain and empty, save a shelf of books of healing charms. Peculiar.
The wizard healer diagnosed a broken collarbone, a fractured cheekbone, a split scalp, and various bumps and bruises.
Blevins left to tell Dean Abelard that Han Alister was with Leontus and so would not be able to make their appointment.
That was one bit of good out of it, anyway. Like they said about summer fever—it might kill your friends and family, but it was bound to kill off some enemies, too.
But Abelard sent back word that she wanted to see him anyway, soon as he was done.
Han laid back on a table so Leontus’s proficient could wash the blood out of his hair and clean out the wound in his forehead. It had bled like crazy, but he’d had worse. One more scar to add to the collection.
Bluebloods back in Fellsmarch hired wizard healers, but they never set foot in Ragmarket. Being healed by wizardry was a peculiar business. Leontus laid hands on Han’s collarbone, and a cool flow of magic seemed to wash the pain away. Han felt better and better while Leontus looked worse and worse. The wizard paused when Han guessed they were about evens.
“How do you feel, my boy?” Leontus asked, trying for heartiness.
He’d lost color, his eyes had clouded, and his skin glistened with sweat. “Maybe not perfect, but — ?”
“You did a rum job, thanks.” Han felt guilty asking him to do more. “I’m sure I’ll heal up good on my own now.”
“Let’s put this arm in a sling for a few days; keep the pressure off the mending bone,” Leontus said.
As the healer applied the sling, Han asked, “Do you ever use herbs or plant remedies? Seems like that might help ease some of the —” His voice trailed off when Leontus curled his lip in a sneer.
“If you are speaking of copperhead remedies, they are dangerous and unproven,” Leontus said sternly. “They have no place in legitimate healing.”
Well, then. Han had some willow bark back in his room he could take for the pain. At least, he used to. No telling where it was now, or if it was still safe to use.
“Can a wizard heal himself?” Han asked. That would come in handy, considering how things were going. It might make it worth paying attention in Leontus’s class.
Leontus shook his head. “No,” he said brusquely. “Wouldn’t be much need for healers, then, would there? Here, take a look in the glass and see what you think.” He turned a table mirror so Han could see his face. He had a fat lip, and his right eye was blackened and nearly swollen shut. His cheek was all bruises, but no longer dented. It looked like it would heal up all right. Han ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, found his broken tooth. Least it wasn’t right in front, in case he ever smiled again.
“You’ll be stiff and sore in the morning,” Leontus said. “You also need to rest and build up your magic again.” He brushed the back of his hand across Han’s undamaged cheek. “You’re used up. It’s not unusual. The patient’s magic contributes to healing.”
The winter sun had already set as Han limped across the quad toward Mystwerk Hall and his meeting with Abelard. Students collected in little groups between the buildings, shivering in the raw wind.
Ignoring his screaming muscles and joints and his aching head, Han put his shoulders back, lifted his chin, and tried to make a good show, in case somebody was watching. But he felt like an empty vessel—fragile and vulnerable. Genuinely scared.
If he’d been killed in the fall, it would have been put down to an accident. He’d been careless, and he couldn’t afford that. There were countless other accidental ways to die. Bayar and his cousins only had to get lucky once. If he didn’t find a way to defend himself, it would be a very long year.
Or a very short one.
Abelard’s offices were luxurious, a suite of rooms on the top floor of Mystwerk Hall, overlooking the river. The proficient in the outer office went in to announce Han, then ushered him into the inner office.
The dean was seated behind a massive desk, leafing through a stack of papers. On the wall behind her hung a banner emblazoned with an open book, flame gouting from its pages. Thick We’enhaven rugs covered the polished wood floors, muffling sound to a whisper.
She allowed Han to stand there a while before she looked up.
Her eyes widened when she saw his face. “Demon’s blood, Alister, what happened to you?”
“I fell down the stairs,” Han said. “Didn’t Master Blevins tell you?”
“Really.” She leaned forward, her sleeves puddling on the surface of the desk. “Care to tell me about it?”
“Stairs are tricky at Hampton,” Han said, sitting in the available chair without waiting for an invitation. “All it takes is one little misstep.”
Abelard gazed at him a while longer. “You’re not one to complain, are you, Alister? And you know how to keep a secret. That’s good.” She put her papers away, taking her time. Then said, “I’ve looked into your background, as I promised. And it seems what you told me is true—as far as it went. You do come from Ragmarket. You’re a criminal, in fact—a thief and a murderer. The queen of the Fells has put a price on your head for trying to kill the High Wizard.”
Han just looked back at her steady. I can’t be the first murderer to attend Mystwerk Hall, he thought. Murderers probably get extra credit.
She leaned in again, lowering her voice. “Did you really try to kill Gavan Bayar?”
“He had it coming,” Han said, knowing that the dean had already made up her mind about him anyway.
Abelard sat back, resting the heels of her hands on her desk. “I can tell you’re not stupid, so I’m wondering why you’d take that kind of risk.”
“It was him or me,” Han said. “Next time I’ll aim better.”
Unexpectedly, the dean laughed. “You have no remorse at all. I like that.”
I’m not the one should be sorry, Han thought.
The dean just sat and looked at him for another long moment.
“Well, then,” he said, scooting to the front of his seat. “You got the goods on me fair. Is that all? That healing has wearied me out, and I’d like to go lie down a while.”
Abelard raised both hands as if to push him down in his seat. “Not so fast,” she said. “I have something to discuss with you—an opportunity.”
“Opportunity?” Han settled back in his chair. “What do you mean?”
“The political situation in the Fells is becoming untenable,” Abelard said. “The truce between the Gray Wolf line, the savages, and the Wizard Council is dissolving. We wizards are prisoners of restrictions from another time, based on a tragedy that probably never happened.”
“The Breaking, you mean.”
Abelard nodded. “The limitations on magic and magical weapons, the restrictions on wizards politically, it makes us weak—too weak to defend ourselves. Many of us believe that the wars in Arden will spread to the rest of the Seven Realms. Here at the Ford we are particularly vulnerable, having no barrier of mountains to protect us.”
“I’ve heard that,” Han said, wondering why the powerful dean of Mystwerk House was delivering this little speech to the likes of him.
“The Valefolk and the copperheads must be forced to see reason. There will be a need for wizards with your particular skills in the near future,” Abelard said.
“My particular skills?”
Abelard steepled her hands. “Those willing to spill blood if need be. Those who are — experienced in that line of work.”
Han cleared his throat, thinking he must have misunderstood. “You’re looking for an assassin?”
“I n
eed someone with the flexibility to do whatever is required.” Abelard rose and walked to the wall of windows, looking out over Mystwerk quad. “You would seem to be uniquely qualified—bright, powerful, and totally without scruples.”
These are dark times, Han thought, when everybody’s in the market for a killer.
Abelard turned back toward Han, and must have read resistance in his face. “Don’t worry. You will be well compensated, and no one will dare attack you openly while you are under my protection. I intend to return to the Fells within the year. If you prove capable, I will take you with me.” She paused, then added delicately, “I hope your attachment to that mongrel copperhead won’t prove to be a problem.”
Not for me, Han thought. No way I’m throwing in with you.
“I’ve left the Life,” Han said. “As you can see, it’s all I can do to manage my classes and reading and studies. I an’t interested in politics.”
“That’s good,” Abelard said. “That way you’ll do as you’re told.” She paused, and when he didn’t respond, went on. “Come now. I won’t be sending you out with a list of people to kill. We’ll start with some special training. I work with a select group of talented students. I would like you to join us.”
Han sat up straight, resting his hands on his knees. This must be the group Mordra deVilliers had mentioned. “What do you mean, you work with them?” he asked.
“I provide them with instruction that goes beyond the usual curriculum, and introduce them to powerful magical tools. They will be the core of our wizard army and will play a pivotal role in the struggle to come.”
“Who else is in this group?” Han asked.
“Mostly fourth years, proficients, and masters,” Abelard said, shifting her eyes away. “It’s an unusual opportunity for a first year.”
“Are there any other first years?” Han persisted.
Abelard heaved an exasperated sigh. “The Bayar twins,” she said.
“That’s a deal breaker,” Han said, putting up his hands. “Thanks just the same.”
Abelard shook her head. “Hear me out. Politics among wizards is complicated. We have some common goals—to defeat the clans and protect ourselves from the fanatics in the south. Thus we need a well-trained gifted army. But we are not of one mind when it comes to other issues, such as who should be High Wizard, who runs the council, and who controls the queen.”
Exiled Queen, The Page 25
