Scott J Couturier - [The Magistricide 01]

by The Mask of Tamrel (epub)

  Nuir squeezed Kelrob in her grip before releasing him, leaving Kelrob’s fingers aching. “This is the husband you have found for me?” she said, with a disgusted look at her father. “His grip is weak, his body frail. It looks like a good gust of wind would blow him away.”

  Kelrob blanched at her assessment, though he found her complete contempt of the ritual rather comforting. “Perhaps we should sit?” he suggested, which drew another flashing glance from Nuir.

  “I’ve insulted your manliness,” she said in a harsh voice. “Do you have nothing to say in your defense?”

  “Nuir!” Lord Azumana shrieked, rising and storming around the length of the table to confront his daughter. The lord’s peacock-studded jerkin rippled about him as he drew back a hand and struck Nuir across the face, causing her to stumble, her veil falling askew. Kelrob had a brief glance of her features — rounded and full, with a small pointed nose and surprisingly narrow lips - though his powers of observation were hampered by his disgust at Azumana’s act. He almost reached forward and grabbed the lord’s arm, which was bending back for a second strike, but Nuir stayed the blow by bowing to Kelrob and saying, in a proud choked voice, “My Lord Magister.” As she spoke she extended her hand; Kelrob bent to kiss it, moving with automaton-like jerkiness. The kiss was brief, his lips pressing against her brown knuckles. He tasted sweat on them, leaking through the embalming cocoon of perfumes and ointments. It tasted like fear and fury commingled, and when Kelrob straightened he unconsciously wiped at his lips.

  “And now,” Nuir said, bundling up her skirts and falling to her knees, “the true humiliation.” Leaning forward, her burning eyes closed in shame, she raised her veil and planted kisses on the tips of Kelrob’s boots, the dark carmine on her lips leaving small, reddish smudges on the leather. In a flash and a flurry of cloth she was on her feet again; Kelrob was caught in the upswelling scent of her body, floral distillates and the musk of resin, all underscored by the earthy reek of sweat. She had clearly not bathed for the occasion, instead masking and enhancing the smell of her body with a maelstrom of complimentary perfumes. Kelrob felt a tingling run along his body, a peculiar admixture of arousal, embarrassment, uncertainty, interest, and fear. Without a word he watched as Nuir swept around him and seated herself at the table, her hand rising to similarly cleanse her lips. Lord Azumana swelled with anger at this latest impudence, but issued no approbation, seemingly content with the ceremony’s swift, uneasy conclusion. Taking Kelrob by the arm, he guided the mage back to the table, settling him gently into the high-backed chair. Nuir sat several feet to Kelrob’s left, though as he settled in she dragged her chair over a few more inches, increasing the distance. “You must forgive me,” she said to him as she resumed her seat, arms clasped tightly around her budding chest, “but I have an aversion to being sold. And don’t even think of trying poetry, or spewing odes, or bringing me bundles of ridiculous flowers. I will never love you.”

  Fine with me, Kelrob thought. He toyed with the idea of edging his own chair away in accord, but caught Azumana’s deadly glower as the lord returned to his seat across the table and thought better of it. Nuir seemed quite willing to gall her father; all he had to do was sit and nod.

  “So,” the lord said, settling into his seat with an agitated flutter, “all is set. The wedding ceremony is arranged for tomorrow at noon. As a prelate of the Temple I will do the presiding; of course the Temple itself is lost, so we shall perform the ceremony in this room. Normally I would encourage you both to compose the oaths of your troth, but I see that my daughter is determined, as always, to be foolish and headstrong. It matters little, of course. The tantrums of a child are to be disregarded, or, if they persist, treated with the rod. As Nuir can tell you, Kelrob, I do not shy from discipline.”

  Nuir shifted uncomfortably in her chair; Kelrob could see a faint bruise forming on her exposed upper cheek. “He’s a tyrant,” she said, reaching over and appropriating one of Kelrob’s untouched glasses of wine. “If my body should displease you in any way, remember that I have borne his abuse for seventeen years. Though the scarring is minimal, just enough to decrease my value.”

  Lord Azumana’s hands tightened on the armrests of his chair. “The value of a woman is in her subservience, her willingness to bow to the just whim of her father and husband. That is your weakness, my dear daughter, and the true reason you are being traded like mealy cattle.”

  Nuir laughed at him, slid the goblet beneath her veil and drank deeply. “It is true, my milk is sour. So what think you, Kelrob, of your bride? Were you expecting a wilting blossom, or does my insolence entice you?”

  Put on the spot, Kelrob played for time, toying with his array of salad-forks and stealing a sip of wine before responding. “I was expecting nothing,” he said at last, turning and meeting Nuir’s demanding gaze. “Until today I had no idea I was to be married.”

  Nuir blinked, leaned forward. “They told you nothing?”

  “Nothing. I thought I was stopping in Tannigal to rest before continuing on my journey north. Obviously our fathers had other plans.”

  A smile twitched on Nuir’s unseen lips. “Yes. They often do.” Turning to Azumana, who was watching the exchange with a tense mien, she raised her glass and said, “To the both of us, caught up in filial snares. May the loins of our sires be cursed evermore, until they wither and fall off.”

  This incited fresh rage in Lord Azumana, and he cracked a ring-bedecked hand on the table. “I am not above having you gagged,” he said as Nuir drank to her curse. “One more word of disrespect and I will have you trussed and beaten, even if it means bearing you to the altar on a pallet.”

  This stymied Nuir’s rebellious talk, though her body remained rigid, the poise of an animal yearning for flight. “So,” she said, turning to Kelrob and setting aside her wine, “what is it you do, Kelrob Kael-Pellin? I know you are a magister, but there are many kinds of knives in that drawer. What is your specialty?”

  Kelrob blushed at the question. “I am an initiate of the 16th Circle,” he said, “an adept. My initial studies tended towards mentalism and biomantics, but I...grew bored with it all. For the last year I have been studying to be a scholar, copying archives and organizing old texts, that sort of thing.”

  “A scholar? In what Circle of the Arcanum?”

  Kelrob lowered his eyes. “My intent is the Tenth,” he said.

  Nuir rolled her eyes. “A Hedgewizard? I’ll confess, when father told me I was to marry a magister I took some comfort in the thought that my enforced husband would at least be interesting company. But a Hedgewizard?”

  Kelrob’s blush deepened even as he inclined his chin. “It is an honorable and necessary path,” he said.

  “Of course it is. Someone has to wade through all those moldy old books and take down the words of better men. I suppose your hands always stink of ink and parchment, just like a scribe’s?”

  Kelrob’s anger was stirred at the comparison; how dare she liken him to some low-caste merchant’s assistant? “Right now I imagine they smell of soap and sandalwood,” he said through clenched teeth. “Earlier today they smelled of blood and dust and blasting-powder. My work is my work, it is what I have chosen. If that displeases you I can only apologize.”

  “That will not be necessary,” Lord Azumana said. Raising his hands, he clapped them twice, and the small army of servants emerged from the far door, bearing trays of fresh and outlandish delicacies. This served as a welcome interruption, and Kelrob savored the respite as platter after platter of steaming meats were placed before him, alongside an array of cheeses and breads and rice and whipped confections and huge heaping bowls of overripe fruit. The sheer variety of viscera on display was awe-inspiring and stomach-turning: curried beef and roast nightingales, lobsters smoldering in their incarnadine shells, thinly-sliced sheaves of pork floating in cilantro gravy, filets of exotic fish and candied locusts, three whole baked peaco
cks still sporting their vivid tails, and a large gantle beetle steamed in its carapace, considered a high delicacy among the Jeneni. Kelrob imagined himself set as the table’s centerpiece, his flesh roasted and lightly glazed, an apple stuffed between his gaping jaws.

  Lord Azumana sighed expansively as the servants departed, leaving the groaning table in their wake. “There is nothing so soothing as a meal amongst family,” he said with an ironic smile. Picking up the proper serrated knife, he began carving into a hunk of beef, the juice squelching and running beneath his ministrations. “My good daughter, you are quick to condemn Kelrob’s highly respectable path. Hedgewizards are the backbone of the Isdori Order! Perhaps, to even the field, you would care to share some of your own aptitudes and accomplishments?”

  Nuir’s glance at her father could have shriveled fruit. “To what are you referring, father? If you mean my dedication to the feminine crafts, I fear Kelrob will be sorely disappointed.” Turning to the mage, she caught his downturned gaze and said, “I have no head for mending, and embroidery makes me want to choke. I can cook, more’s the pity, but I refuse to be any man’s culinarian, least of all my husband’s. As for my knowledge of medicines, here I succeed, for I love the study of herblore; but bear in mind that, as such, I know a dependable tincture for the abortion of any pregnancy. I also know poisons, in fact they are my delight, which brings me to my truest failing as a woman: I cannot, and will not, be caged. If you abuse me, or rape me, or force me to bear your wriggling child to fruition, understand that all it takes to kill you is a simple, properly distilled droplet added to your tea or wine or pillow. Now let me see, there’s something I’ve forgotten, something that remains unsaid; ah! yes, of course. My greatest aptitude, which I am certain you will appreciate, is the frightening off of suitors. You are the eighth man my father has brought into this hall on my behalf. Four endured the betrothal feast and tried to take me to wife. Of those four, three fled shortly before the ceremony, after I had chance to be with them alone, and one, the most determined, would have marched me off to the marriage bed with a grit to his teeth, had he not come down with a violent case of dysentery that only abated when he quit Tannigal and returned to his distant holdings. He did not return. And now here you are, sitting in the same chair, eating with the same cutlery. The only difference is you are every bit as unwilling as I am. As such, I cannot frighten you off with threats and insinuations; but understand that I am like a snake. I do not merely rattle, I also strike. If we are to be wed, and I see no way around it, you will not seek to dominate, ensnare, or bind me. If you do, I will unsheath my fangs. And I always know when to bite.”

  Kelrob listened to this monologue with a bemusement that would have been slack-jawed if he hadn’t forcibly locked his teeth together. After Nuir stopped speaking, silence fell; the only sound was Lord Azumana masticating his steak. At last, the mage grabbed up his utensils and began forking food onto his plate, glancing sideways at Nuir. She still stared at him unblinking, waiting for his response.

  Kelrob cleared his throat. “I also have an interest in poisons,” he said, slicing through the braised leg of a peacock and plopping the meat on his plate. “A professional interest, in fact. When I was at the Rookery I studied the Mentatis Discipline, as I mentioned; subsequently I changed my specialization to Biomancy. Part of my training was the extraction and distillation of serpent venom. It was harrowing work at first, but over time it became almost a pleasure. I harvested venom from diamondbacks and hooded cobras, coral adders and cottonmouths, even a few speckled asps — once the poison was extracted it could be modified magically, either transmuted to a serum or made a thousand times more virulent. This fueled my interest in organic toxins, and the next term I took herbology, specializing at first in various breeds of wolfsbane. It was the process of distillation, refinement, and alteration that fascinated me; taking something so deadly in nature and transforming it into a healthful cure, or enhancing its essence until a mere drop could slay an entire town. It was the latter application that finally soured my interest, and I abandoned my studies. Still, I have considerable experience dealing with snakes, my lady, and moreover an intimate knowledge of most plant toxins, not to mention the poisons readily extracted from a mineral base, so if you do choose to do me in, I hope we can at least work together to brew up something potent and painless.”

  It was Nuir’s turn to stare at him unspeaking. After a moment Lord Azumana swallowed, set aside his utensils, and began to clap. “Very well said,” he laughed, with a vicious glance at his daughter. “Perhaps, Kelrob, you could use your skills to modify Nuir’s poisonous disposition, and make her a more agreeable wife? But it’s of no matter; she knows that killing you would result in her own death. I would personally see to it.”

  Kelrob turned his attention to the lord. “Is it true what she says? About the other suitors?” Rakisha had said nothing of that.

  “Utterly and completely. Nuir has been a thorn in the side of our family since the day of her birth, when she sent my fourth wife to the grave. Growing up, she was wild, callous, an insult to her sex; and now, come to womanhood, she has exceeded all my worst fears. Not even the promise of a share in my vast fortunes could compel those men to wed her. So you see, Kelrob, why this coerced marriage is a necessity. Where love and reason fail, business flourishes. I breathed a sigh of relief from my very bones when Amon agreed to this match, and the papers were signed.”

  Nuir began to shiver as her father spoke, her slim hands gripping the underside of the table. “I will not be transmuted,” she said, a feverish gleam in her dark eyes. “I will not be broken down.”

  Lord Azumana smiled at her defiance, forking a cut of steak into his mouth. “Speaking of breaking down, you’ve eaten nothing, my daughter. Do so, by all means. I’ve paid for this feast eight times over in your honor.”

  Nuir surged to her feet with such force that her chair toppled backwards to clatter against the marble. “You’ve gotten far more in this bargain than you’ve spent,” she snarled. “Does Kelrob know what his father is giving you? Does he know that his home, his title, his ancestral lands -”

  A faint tremble shook the hall, causing the cutlery to rattle and a precarious mound of blood-oranges to tumble and roll free across the table. Lord Azumana rose to his feet with almost as much force as his daughter, his chair scraping against the floor. Together they listened until the dim vibration subsided, died away.

  For a moment no one spoke. Azumana, an expression of extreme displeasure on his face, raised his hands and clapped, once. The serving-boys departed at the signal, and two armed House-guards entered the hall, their hands locked firmly on their weapons. Kelrob recognized Kisha and Bergir, the lord’s ever-present heralds. They rounded the table and stood before Azumana, backs rigid, waiting for their owner to speak.

  “Find out what that was all about,” Lord Azumana said, motioning sharply about the chamber. “Send a man down to the gate, and send another up the east tower. I want to know exactly -”

  With a noisome hissing the hovering lanterns extinguished and fell to the floor. There was a tremendous crash as the glass vessels shattered against the marble, spewing oil and plumes of varicolored sparks. The feasting hall flooded with shadow, lit only by the flicker of the curl-legged braziers.

  Lord Azumana motioned to his heralds, who had drawn their weapons; they took up protective stances at his right and left hand. “Obviously some sort of malfunction in the magic,” he said, glancing to Kelrob, then to Nuir. “I must go and investigate this personally. I know it is in violation of custom for the two of you to be left alone the night of your betrothal, but considering the wedding is tomorrow, I suspect you would both be glad of the chance to speak intimately. Not that my daughter veils her tongue in my presence. She will say many things to you, Kelrob, not the least of which is that your father is ceding his lands to me in exchange for an unbelievable amount of wealth. I have done good business with Lord Kael-Pellin,
and savored the wines that have resulted from our partnership; however, I will enjoy much better business and much cheaper wine when I control all the means of production.” The lord stared into Nuir’s eyes as he spoke, barely sparing Kelrob a glance. “There, my daughter, was that your dreadful secret? It matters not. The papers have already been signed. Tomorrow’s ceremony is mere formality. You are a married woman.” Turning his attention to Kelrob, Azumana bowed curtly and said, “You have nothing to fear. My payment to your House was most generous. Hopefully the comforts of affluence will dull the needling of my darling thistle. You will both remain in this room until I return for you; know that there are guards on all exits, each of them sworn to my blood and my blood alone.” As the lord spoke this last he snapped his fingers, and flanked by his heralds swept from the hall without another word. The rosewood doors refused to open automatically; Kisha and Bergir were forced to push them open with their shoulders, greatly deflating the majesty of his exit.

  20: Proof In The Pudding,

  Crow In The Corn

  Kelrob and Nuir sat in fire-lit silence for a moment, the oil gleaming as it trickled across the marble floor. Servants entered by the far door, intent on cleaning up the shattered glass, but Nuir dismissed them with a snarl and a wave of her hand. Turning to Kelrob, she examined his face from behind the fastness of her veil, delicate fingers curled into fists on the tabletop.

  “So now you know,” she said, in a soft, defiant voice.

  Kelrob stared down at his plate, at his own warped reflection in the burnished gold. Something was coiling inside of him, coiling instead of breaking; raising his eyes, he looked to Nuir, examined her from concealed head to anklet-braced foot, and said, “Yes. Thank you. It all makes sense now.”

  Nuir blinked, unnerved by his response. “Is that all you have to say? Where is your anger, Kelrob Kael-Pellin?”