Immediately, with a quick twist and pull, she tied off the last ends of the weaving, finishing both it and the spell within it, barring Acrilat from Liavek for as long as the threads of the hanging held together. She gave the mad god a good shove with all the energy she had left, just to speed It on Its way. Finally, she said a quick mental farewell to Aritoli ola Silba and settled wearily back to watch the end of the play.
The lightning and flames faded from the stage, and the players proceeded to their final speeches. Neither they nor the audience seemed to have noticed anything untoward. Granny rolled up her weaving and relaxed. Acrilat, at least, was taken care of. On stage, several bodies fell as the play reached its final bloodbath, and Granny frowned. There were still the Benedictis to be dealt with.
The curtain came down, then rose again as the players knelt to the audience in thanks. The players climbed down from the stage to mingle with the audience and receive congratulations. Granny made her way to Deleon, who was scanning the crowd with a dazed and rather apprehensive expression. Presumably he was expecting his family, and from the look of him he wouldn’t hear more than a third of what was said to him until he found them. Granny limited her remarks to, “That was a singularly illuminating performance, young man.”
As she turned away, she saw Aritoli ola Silba staring at her with a thunderstruck expression. Of course; he’d finally recognized her voice. Granny made her way over to him.
“I believe I owe you an apology, mistress,” ola Silba said by way of greeting.
“It seems there’s more to you than I’d thought, ola Silba,” Granny said.
“Thank you. And there is more to you, also, than meets the eye,” ola Silba replied. He hesitated, then said with studied casualness, “I trust you enjoyed the play?”
“Enormously,” Granny replied, amused.
“A very…powerful performance, wouldn’t you say?” ola Silba looked at her with a sort of worried inquiry.
“Powerful in a number of ways,” Granny said dryly. “Some of which fortunately cannot be repeated. And that’s all I’m going to say about it, so you needn’t bother to keep fishing for information.”
“You relieve my mind,” ola Silba said. He made her an elegant bow and slipped away.
Deleon was talking to his sister, Jehane; Verdialos stood a little way away, apparently scolding Nerissa. Verdialos saw Granny, and a moment later, when Nerissa went to join Jehane and Deleon, he came over to her.
“You might have warned me,” he said.
“About the Benedictis, or about Acrilat?”
“Acrilat?” Verdialos looked startled. “What does Acrilat have to do with this evening’s—” He stopped short, his eyes widening even more, and he glanced in Nerissa’s direction as if to make certain she and Jehane and Deleon were still there.
“Even the Benedictis couldn’t make this much of a mess without help,” Granny said. She bit back a stinging remark about Verdialos’s lack of thoroughness in investigating his protégé’s background.
“That still doesn’t explain why you didn’t warn me.”
Granny snorted. “It’s not my business to tell you where to set your fishing nets. Though I doubt that the Benedictis will cause quite as much trouble as you’re worrying about.”
“What’s to keep them from it?”
“I’ve a few things to discuss with them,” Granny told him dryly.
“All of them?” Verdialos said, looking toward Nerissa and Jehane again.
“All of them,” Granny said, “but not necessarily all at once. Jehane!”
Jehane, who had moved tactfully away from the reunion between her missing brother and her youngest sister, turned at the sound of her name. When she saw Granny standing with Verdialos, she stared in surprise, then came back to join them. Granny studied her while she gave the appropriate greetings, then thoroughly startled the girl by offering her the wall-hanging. The binding that remained in the weaving would hold Acrilat outside Liavek as long as it remained intact. Jehane was careful; she’d keep it well. And the fact that the hanging was in the hands of a Benedicti would add to the effectiveness of the spell. Granny explained none of this to Jehane, but she was pleased enough by the girl’s reaction to propose giving her weaving lessons.
Jehane was still too stunned by this offer to answer when Nerissa rejoined them. The younger girl gave Granny a speculative look and then reminded her sister that she had been looking for a remunerative occupation. Weaving of the sort Granny did was very remunerative. When Granny left them, Jehane had accepted and the following morning had been set for the first lesson.
Naril pounced on Granny as soon as she was free of Verdialos and his charges. He took her down to the players’ dressing room and demanded, in the most polite and respectful terms he could manage, to know exactly what had been going on.
“I did less than half the effects in the third act,” he said. “And there was more happening than an imitation blizzard and blue fire. What did you do?”
“Nothing whatever, as far as your special effects were concerned,” Granny replied. “The enhancements were someone else’s work, but it needn’t concern you. It won’t happen again.”
Naril apparently did not find this entirely reassuring.
“You’ll have no more need for that rune I gave you,” Granny went on. She paused for a moment, frowning. “Still, I think it would be better if you made a few changes in the spells you’re using in the third act. There’s no sense in taking foolish chances.”
“No sense at all,” Naril agreed faintly. The dressing room door opened to admit a group of players and their friends, all of whom ignored the conversation in the corner as they set about removing their make-up.
“That’s settled, then. I’ll send you the alterations in the morning,” Granny told Naril. “You’ll probably find them easier than that elaborate jumble you’ve been using, and they won’t affect the look of things at all.”
“Thank you, Granny,” Naril said. “I think—”
The outside door of the dressing room opened again, and a string of tall, pale-skinned, yellow-haired people filed into the room. They clumped together like butter separating from cream and stood staring at Deleon Benedicti, who had frozen in place with only half his blue makeup removed. Granny held up a hand to silence Naril, then crossed the room to tell the Benedictis what she thought of them.
The initial reactions of the family were more or less what Granny expected. The elder Marigand Benedicti was stiffly furious at being called to account by anyone. Her husband seemed to think he had done something meritorious by being weak-willed enough to be of use to Acrilat, while their children were stunned to see someone berate their mother with impunity. And all of them were thoroughly taken aback by Granny’s ultimatum—put their lives in order or leave Liavek within a year.
During most of this lecture, Deleon sat like a stone between Calla and Aelim, the graceful, finely boned man Naril had said he was living with. When Granny informed the rest of his family that they had one year to pull themselves together, however, he stirred and caught Granny’s eye. “And do you have any suggestions?” he said.
He’d learned a lot about playing in nine years, Granny thought; that tone said plainly that, runaway or not, he was a member of this family and entitled to be abused with the rest of them. It was a pity he didn’t realize how true that was; on the other hand, he’d been through more than enough penance already, if that play of his was anything to judge by. And Granny had made mistakes of her own regarding the Benedictis.
“Don’t write any more plays about Acrilat,” Granny told him briskly. She paused and looked pointedly from Calla to Aelim. “And make up your mind.”
A look of surprised resentment crossed Deleon’s face, as if he had not really expected the rebuke he had asked for. Granny suppressed a sudden smile. She would have to handle this irritating and intractable family the way she handled her shuttles and bobbins: pull too hard, even in the right direction, and the weaving would
be ruined, but prod and poke correctly and the thread would slide into place perfectly. “Livia!” Granny said sharply to the first Benedicti who caught her eye. “Your sister tells me you’re engaged.”
Livia gave a frightened nod, and Mistress Benedicti’s face grew stiffer than ever.
Granny eyed them both narrowly. “To whom?” she said, in a tone calculated to frighten Livia into silence and force Mistress Benedicti to answer for her daughter. Mistress Benedicti would hate admitting that she had allowed one of her children to become engaged to a Hrothvekan, but she was angry enough that she’d marry her daughter off tomorrow if she thought Granny disapproved.
Mistress Benedicti reacted with gratifying predictability. With very little additional effort Granny was able to prod most of the rest of the family into an intelligent discussion of their futures. She was pleased to find that the Benedictis junior seemed quite willing to be assimilated into Liavek if they were allowed, and for the most part she stayed out of their deliberations.
Near the end of these proceedings, Granny noticed that Deleon Benedicti was wearing an expression of suppressed alarm. Granny glanced over her shoulder and saw Mistress Benedicti coming toward them. She looked back at Deleon. “Go along with you. And mind what I said.”
Deleon escaped with an expression of heartfelt relief, taking Aelim along. Granny turned to finish dealing with Mistress Benedicti and her husband.
“You take a great deal upon yourself, Granny Carry,” Mistress Benedicti said coldly.
“That’s my job,” Granny replied. “And I do it well, which is more than can be said for you.”
“You need not think you can blithely arrange the lives of my family to please yourself,” Deleon’s mother continued in the same tone of frigid anger. The rest of the family had fallen silent to listen apprehensively.
“I haven’t the slightest intention of it,” Granny said, and paused. “Nor will I allow you to continue doing so.”
“Exactly what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that your children are not children any longer,” Granny said severely. “Not even according to the ridiculous Acrivannish standards you insist on living by. There’s no reason whatever for them to be still tied to your fishline like a string of sinkers. They can make their own decisions; in fact, I shall require them to. From the sound of things a minute ago, I’d say they won’t have much trouble adjusting once you’ve stopped stuffing them with foolishness.”
“I will not allow—”
“Fiddlesticks,” Granny interrupted. “You can’t stop me, but if you choose to waste the next year trying, that’s your affair. I’d advise against it.”
“What have we done to deserve this?” Master Benedicti asked the air.
“By your standards or mine?” Granny said, skewering him with a look.
Master Benedicti, thoroughly taken aback, did not respond. Granny snorted. “Well, then. You’ve spent twenty years hankering after things you couldn’t have and ignoring what you could; you’ve put custom, appearance, and convenience ahead of affection, substance, and industry; you’ve broken your own rules by living off your daughters’ dowries when your funds stopped coming from Acrivain; you’ve taught your children so poorly that one of them knows no better than to use the summoning prayer for Acrilat in a player’s speech. You’ve whined at the smallest inconveniences and sneered at the best fortune, and in the end you’ve made yourself and your family into a broad bridge for Acrilat to cross into Liavek. I’ve had enough of it. Settle down and make something of yourself, or leave Liavek altogether. I don’t care which. You’ve a year to make up your mind, but I won’t object if you decide to go sooner.”
Master Benedicti stared at her as if she had just turned into a dog and bitten him. Granny snorted and turned to go. A brown-skinned hand on her arm stopped her; it was the player, Calla. “Don’t you think you should stay until they’ve calmed down?” she said.
“No, I don’t,” Granny replied sharply. She saw an expression of annoyance flit across the girl’s face, followed quickly by a measuring, speculative look that all her acting skills could not quite hide. “And you needn’t try your tricks on me, young woman,” Granny added.
Calla flushed. “What—I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” Granny snorted and looked directly at the girl. “You meddle in other people’s affairs without considering that the results may be other than you expect,” she said baldly. “If you aren’t careful, you’ll turn out like Mistress Benedicti here, arranging her children’s lives to suit herself without worrying about what they want.”
“I don’t!” Calla said, genuinely shaken.
“Not yet.” Granny studied the girl briefly. She nodded, satisfied that her message had gone home. “Mend your ways,” she said to the room at large, and left by way of the outer door. Behind her, she heard a babble of discussion break out, and she smiled. She’d hear a great deal about this night’s work, one way or another, but she rather thought the real trouble with the Benedictis was over. In a way, that was even more satisfying than her success with Acrilat. Still smiling, Granny marched down the Lane of Olives in search of a footcab.
Liavek, Festival Week, 3320-21
A Necessary End
By Pamela Dean
The first thing I ever promised Verdialos was to keep a journal, and that was also the last thing I promised him. He says that an honorable child requires promises, but that to an honorable adult they are a hindrance. I can’t decide, and nor could Deleon or Jehane when I asked them, if it is harder to be honorable or to be an adult. In Liavek, by all common understanding, I would have been an adult four years ago; in Acrivain I would not be one yet. Verdialos does not count years; he keeps rather a calendar of changes, turning-points. Nor does he count the ones I would count, the large events, the plain changes, the crossroads with signposts. He adds up events so tiny I am not always certain they happened at all, like the plots of those Morianie plays my father hates so. This is the way he reckons his own life also; and so when the largest thing of all happened to Verdialos, he shrugged his shoulders at it.
I will never understand him. But I promised him that I would keep a journal, and I never promised him to grow up. So here speaks the honorable child Nerissa Benedicti, who owns a remarkable cat.
It is difficult to write unless you know whom you are writing to. My poems I wrote to myself, my stories to Jehane my sister, who always found them no matter how well I hid them. My first journal I wrote to Verdialos. This one is for him, but not, I think, to him. It will no doubt end up in the Green Book with the other, in that motley section at the end reserved for oddities. One day someone will have to copy it fair for the printer. I think my writing is quite clear and regular, but fashions in handwriting change as everything else does; so one day some other Nerissa will hunch over this paper, with ink on her second finger and her hair sticking to her neck, and wonder why it is that all people who wish to kill themselves have such very bad handwriting. Then she will wonder if, perhaps, this is in truth the way the Green Priests choose their members. If all the questions, the prying, the sympathy, and the sly suggestions of every other remedy imaginable are a game and a toy; they are looking for folk who cannot write clearly, so that they will have work for the young ones in ten years, or fifty.
It isn’t so. They mean it. You should know this also, you other Nerissa. Are you hunched there under that weight of misery that’s like the hottest and dampest day even Liavek can offer, holding you in your chair? If you’re copying this, either the weight has lessened a little, or you are among those who can plod along under it. Are you young, as I was? If you are, I can say that this may be like the new teeth growing in and the spots on the face; it may pass. If you are not, I can say that if you mean it, the Green Priests will let you have your way in the end. You won’t think so. You’ll ask, as everybody does, when was the last time a Green Priest died even in an accident, let alone in the manner he had planned as if it were a new n
aval treaty. You’ll make jokes about it all, maybe; or you’ll make grave statements about the true purpose of the House of Responsible Life.
But they mean it. One way or another, they will take that misery from you. Let me tell you about Festival Week in the year 3320.
Divination Eve
On the eve of Divination Day, Verdialos and Etriae asked me to supper, as they had done every month or so for the last three years, ever since Verdialos found me loitering on the banks of the Cat River trying to discover the depth of the water. I have thought since then that I was going about the business of killing myself very foolishly; Verdialos, approached with this opinion the first time I ate with them, agreed with me but said that when he was looking for people who needed the House of Responsible Life, he considered their intentions, not their wisdom. He and his wife have a longstanding argument on this topic; Etriae holding that people who truly intend to kill themselves will take the trouble to discover how actually to accomplish it, while Verdialos says people who wish to kill themselves often have not the strength for such discoveries. I learned not to mention the subject with both of them present.
Often, this past year, they had invited me and my best sister Jehane, or me and my brother Deleon; once, even me and my silly sister Livia, although that was not an enlivening evening and was not repeated. But this time they just asked me.
Their house is on the Street of Flowers, not far from the House of Responsible Life. The house is two hundred years old, built in a frenzy of admiration for the Hrothvekan architecture of that time, which is to say, of brick, and very tall and spiky. Hrothvekan brick is red, but all the old houses on the Street of Flowers are of gray bricks. Most of them are painted bright colors, Liavekans being what they are; but Verdialos and Etriae’s house is just gray, and very scrubbed-looking. The door is red, and inside everything is white and yellow and brown and gray. It used to make me sleepy, but now seems merely comforting. They have nothing green in it except the clothes they wear to work in. Coming from the House of Responsible Life, which is green everywhere a building can be green, until Jehane says it looks moldy, one can understand their leaving the green in the garden.
Points of Departure Page 28
