Seraphina

by Rachel Hartman

  The box of maternal memories gave a sickening twitch in my head, as if it would have liked to answer him. I tried to get away without speaking, with just a curtsy. It came out poorly: my arms were gripped so tightly around my middle that I could barely bend.

  “She was called Amaline Ducanahan, right?” he said, scrutinizing my face. “I looked her up when I was young, intrigued by your father’s mysterious first marriage, the one no one had heard of until you popped out like a cuckoo at his second. I was there. I heard you sing.”

  Every part of me had turned to ice except my hammering heart and the memory box, which bucked like a colt in my mind.

  “It was my first mystery: who was that singing girl, and why was Counselor Dombegh so very embarrassed when she appeared?” he said, his eyes distant with memory. His silent laugh manifested as a cloud of vapor in the air, and he shook his head, marveling at his youthful obsession. “I couldn’t let it go until I’d uncovered the truth. I may have been hoping you were illegitimate, like me, but no, everything was in order. Congratulations!”

  Everything would have been in impeccable order, surely; my father’s paranoia had omitted no detail—marriage contract, birth and death certificates, letters, receipts.…

  “Have you been back to Ducana province?” Kiggs asked out of nowhere.

  “Why?” I’d lost the thread of his thought. I felt like a crossbow being drawn: everything he said wound the cranequin a little further.

  “To see her stone. Your father had a nice one made. I didn’t go myself,” he added hastily. “I was nine years old. One of Uncle Rufus’s men had family at Trowebridge, so I asked him. He made a rubbing. I might still have it, if you’d like it.”

  There was no answer I could give. I was so horrified to learn that he’d investigated my family history that I was afraid of what I might say. How close had he come? I was wound to full tension; I was dangerous now. I waved the last white flag I had: “I don’t wish to talk about my mother. Please excuse me.”

  His brow furrowed in concern; he could tell I was upset, but not why. He guessed exactly wrong: “It’s hard that she left you so young. Mine did too. But she did not live in vain. What a wonderful legacy she left you!”

  Legacy? Up my arm, around my waist, and scattershot through my head? The hooting memory box, which I feared would burst open at any moment?

  “She gave you an ability to touch people’s very souls,” he said kindly. “What is it like to be so talented?”

  “What is it like to be a bastard?” I blurted.

  I clapped a hand to my mouth, horrified. I had felt the shot coming; I hadn’t realized the bow was loaded with this very quarrel, perfectly calibrated to hit him hardest. What part of me had been studying him, stockpiling knowledge as ammunition?

  His open expression slammed shut; suddenly he looked like a stranger, his gaze unfamiliar and cold. He drew himself up in a defensive posture. I staggered back a step as if he’d pushed me.

  “What’s it like? It’s like this,” he said, gesturing angrily at the space between us. “Almost all the time.”

  Then he was gone, as if the wind had whisked him away. I stood in the courtyard alone, realizing that I had failed to speak with him about Orma. My annoyance at forgetting paled before everything else that was clamoring to be felt, so I clung to it tightly, like a stick of driftwood in a tempestuous sea. Somehow, my aching legs carried me indoors.

  I took comfort in the normalcy and routine of my garden that evening. I lingered a long time at the edge of Loud Lad’s ravine, watching him build a tent out of cattails and Pandowdy’s shed skin. Loud Lad, like Miss Fusspots, looked sharper and more detailed now that I had seen him in the real world; his fingers were long and nimble, the curve of his shoulders sad.

  Fruit Bat was still the only grotesque who looked back at me. Despite my having asked him to stay in his grove, he came and sat beside me at the edge of the gorge, his skinny brown legs dangling over the edge. I found I didn’t mind. I considered taking his hands, but just thinking about it was overwhelming. I had enough to worry about right now. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Besides,” I told him, as if we’d been having a conversation, “the way things are going, I have only to wait for you to drop in on me.”

  He did not speak, but his eyes gleamed.

  The next morning, I dawdled over washing and oiling my scales. I dreaded facing Princess Glisselda’s lesson; surely Kiggs would have spoken to her about me. When I finally arrived at the south solar, however, she wasn’t there. I sat at the harpsichord and played to comfort myself; the timbre of that instrument is, to me, the musical equivalent of a warm bath.

  Today it was cold.

  A messenger arrived with a message from the princess, canceling the lesson without explanation. I stared at the note a long time, as if the handwriting could tell me anything about her mood, but I wasn’t even sure she’d written it herself.

  Was I being punished for insulting her cousin? It seemed likely, and I deserved it, of course. I spent the rest of the day trying not to think about it. I went about my (sulking) duties to Viridius, drilling the symphonia on the (pouting) songs of state, supervising construction of the (glowering) stage in the great hall, finalizing the lineup for the (self-pitying) welcome ceremony, now just two days away. I threw myself (stewing) into work to stave off the (moping) feeling that descended when I stopped.

  Evening fell. I made for the north tower and dinner. The quickest route from Viridius’s suite led past the chambers of state: the Queen’s study, the throne room, the council chamber. I always passed quickly; it was the sort of place my father would haunt. This evening, almost as if he’d heard me thinking about him, Papa stepped out of the council chamber and into my path, deep in conversation with the Queen herself.

  He saw me—Papa and I have a cat’s-whisker sensitivity to each other—but he pretended he didn’t. I was in no mood for the humiliation of being pointed out to him by the Queen in the belief he hadn’t noticed me, so I ducked down a little side corridor and waited just on the other side of a statue of Queen Belondweg. I was not hidden, exactly, but out of the way enough that I wouldn’t be noticed by anyone who wasn’t looking for me. Other dignitaries streamed out of the council chamber; Dame Okra Carmine, Lady Corongi, and Prince Lucian Kiggs all passed my corridor without looking down it.

  A merry voice at my back said, “Who are we spying on?”

  I jumped. Princess Glisselda beamed at me. “There’s a secret door out of the council room. I’m evading that withered courgette, Lady Corongi. Has she passed?”

  I nodded, shocked to find Princess Glisselda her usual impervious, friendly self. She was practically dancing with delight, her golden curls bouncing around her face. “I’m sorry I had to miss my lesson today, Phina, but we’ve been dreadfully busy. We just had the most exciting council ever, and I looked very clever, largely due to you.”

  “That’s … that’s wonderful. What’s happened?”

  “Two knights came to the castle today!” She could barely contain herself; her hands fluttered about like two excitable small birds. They lit briefly on my left arm, but I managed not to cringe visibly. “They claim to have spotted a rogue dragon, flying around the countryside in its natural shape! Isn’t that awful?”

  Awful enough to have her grinning ear to ear. She was a strange little princess.

  I found myself fingering my scaly wrist; I hastily crossed my arms. “Prince Rufus’s head went missing,” I half whispered, thinking out loud.

  “As if it had been bitten off, yes,” said Princess Glisselda, nodding vigorously.

  “Does the council suspect a connection between this dragon and his death?”

  “Grandmamma doesn’t like the notion, but it seems unavoidable, does it not?” she said, bouncing on her heels. “We’re breaking for dinner now, but we’ll take the rest of the evening to figure out what to do next.”

  I was fingering my wrist again. I clamped my right hand under my armpit.
Stop that, hand. You’re banished.

  “But I haven’t told you the best part,” said Glisselda, putting a hand to her chest as if she were about to make a speech. “I, myself, addressed the council and told them dragons view us as very interesting cockroaches, and that maybe some of them intended the peace as a ruse! Maybe they secretly plan to burn the cockroaches’ house down!”

  I felt my jaw drop. Maybe this was why her governess didn’t tell her anything: give her an inch and she took it all the way to the moon. “H-how did that go over?”

  “Everyone was astonished. Lady Corongi stammered something stupid, about the dragons being defeated and demoralized, but that only made her look a dunce. I believe we made the rest of them think!”

  “We?” St. Masha’s stone. Everyone would think I was giving the princess mad ideas. I’d made the cockroach analogy, yes, but the house of burning bugs—to say nothing of the peace being a ruse!—was her own extrapolation.

  “Well, I didn’t credit you, if that’s what you’re hoping,” she sniffed.

  “No, no, that’s fine,” I said hastily. “You never need to credit me!”

  Princess Glisselda looked suddenly stern. “I wouldn’t say never. You’re smart. That’s useful. There are people who would appreciate that quality. In fact,” she said, leaning in, “there are people who do, and you do yourself no favors alienating them.”

  I stared at her. She meant Kiggs, there was no mistaking it. I gave full courtesy and she smiled again; her elfin face wasn’t made for sternness. She skipped off, leaving me to my thoughts and my regrets.

  I mulled over her news on the way to supper. A rogue dragon in the countryside was unprecedented. Whose responsibility was it? I knew the treaty well, but that specific question wasn’t answered anywhere. On the Goreddi side, we would doubtless try to make the dragons deal with it—and yet how could they, without sending dragons in their natural shape to apprehend the rogue? That was unacceptable. But then what?

  We relied heavily upon dragon cooperation in the enforcement of the treaty. If even a few of them refused to accept it anymore, what recourse had we but the help of other dragons? Wouldn’t that effectively invite them to battle each other in our skies?

  My steps slowed. There wasn’t just the one rogue dragon. My own grandfather, banished General Imlann, had attended the funeral and sent Orma that coin. Could there be illegal, unregistered dragons all around, eschewing the bell and blending into crowds?

  Or was there just the one after all? Could the knights have seen Imlann?

  Could my own grandfather have killed Prince Rufus?

  The idea made my stomach knot; I almost turned away from dinner, but I took a deep breath and willed myself forward. Dining hall gossip was a chance to learn more about the rogue, if more was known.

  I crossed the long dining room to the musicians’ table and squeezed onto a bench. The lads were already deep in conversation; they barely noticed I was there. “Twenty years underground—are the old codgers even sane?” said Guntard around a mouthful of blancmange. “They probably saw a heron against the sun and took it for a dragon!”

  “They want to stop Comonot’s coming by stirring up trouble, like the Sons,” said a drummer, picking raisins out of his olio. “Can’t blame ’em. Does it just about make the hairs on your neck stand up, dragons walking among us like they was people?”

  Everyone turned in unsubtle unison to peer at the saars’ table, where the lowest-ranking members of the dragon embassy took dinner together. There were eight of them tonight, sitting like they had rods up their spines, hardly speaking. Servants shunned that corner; one saarantras returned the serving bowls to the kitchen if they needed a refill. They ate bread and root vegetables and drank only barley water, like abstemious monks or certain austere Samsamese.

  A scrawny sackbutist leaned in close. “How do we know they all wear the bell? One could sit among us, at this very table, and we’d have nary an inkling!”

  My musicians eyeballed each other suspiciously. I conscientiously followed suit, but curiosity had seized me. I asked, “What happened to the knights in the end? Were they released back into the wild?”

  “Banished men, and likely troublemakers?” scoffed Guntard. “They’re locked in the eastern basement, the proper donjon being full of wine casks for some significant state visit coming up.”

  “Sweet St. Siucre, which one might that be?” someone asked with a laugh.

  “The one where your mother beds a saar and lays an egg. Omelette for all!”

  I laughed mechanically along with everyone else.

  The conversation turned to the concert schedule, and suddenly all inquiries were directed at me. I’d had an idea, however, and was too preoccupied with it to focus on their questions. I referred everyone to the schedule posted on the rehearsal room door, handed my trencher to the little dogs under the table, and rose to take my leave.

  “Seraphina, wait!” cried Guntard. “Everyone—how were we going to thank Mistress Seraphina for all the work she’s doing?” He blew a pitch whistle while his fellows hastily swallowed their mouthfuls and washed them down with wine.

  To the great amusement of the rest of the dining hall, the saarantrai alone excepted, they began to sing:

  O Mistress Seraphina,

  Why won’t you marry me?

  From first I ever seen ya,

  I knew you were for me!

  It’s not just that you’re sassy,

  It’s not just that you’re wise,

  It’s that you poke Viridius

  In his piggy little eyes!

  “Hurrah!” cried all my musicians.

  “Boldly taking on Viridius, so we don’t have to!” cried a lone smarty-breeches.

  Everyone burst out laughing. I smiled as I waved farewell—a real smile—and kept grinning all the way to the east wing. It had occurred to me that these knights might be able to describe the dragon in enough detail that Orma could identify it as Imlann. Then I would have real, concrete evidence for Lucian Kiggs, more than just a coin, a dragon’s worry, and the vaguest of vague descriptions.

  Then perhaps I might work up enough courage to speak to him again. I owed him an apology, at the very least.

  A single guard manned the top of the eastern basement steps. I stood a little straighter and wiped the leftover grin off my face; I needed all my serious concentration if I was to pull this off. I tried to make my steps ring out confidently as I approached. “Excuse me,” I said. “Has Captain Kiggs arrived yet?”

  The fellow tugged his mustache. “Can’t say I’ve seen ’im, but I’ve just come on duty. He might be downstairs.”

  I hoped not, but I’d deal with that if I had to. “Who’s on duty downstairs? John?” John was a good, common name.

  His eyes widened a bit. “John Saddlehorn, yes. And Mikey the Fish.”

  I nodded as if I knew them both. “Well, I don’t mind asking them myself. If Captain Kiggs shows up, would you please let him know I’m already below?”

  “Hold on,” he said. “What’s this about? Who are you?”

  I gave him a lightly flabbergasted look. “Seraphina Dombegh, daughter of the eminent lawyer Claude Dombegh, the Crown’s expert on Comonot’s Treaty. Captain Kiggs wanted my insight in questioning the knights. Am I in the wrong place? I had understood they were being held here.”

  The guard scratched under his helmet, looking conflicted. I suspected he didn’t have specific orders against letting anyone down, but he still didn’t think he should.

  “Come with me, if you like,” I offered. “I have a few questions about the dragon they saw. I hope we can identify it.”

  He hesitated, but agreed to accompany me downstairs. Two guards sat outside a stout wooden door, playing kingfish on an upturned barrel; they lowered their cards confusedly at the sight of us. My guard jerked his thumb toward the stairs. “Mikey, take the top. When the captain arrives, tell him Maid Dombegh is already here.”

  “What’s this, then?” said
the one called John as my guard unlocked the door.

  “She’s to question the prisoners. I’ll go in with her; you stay here.”

  I didn’t want him there but saw no immediate way to prevent it. “You’re coming in for my protection? Are they very dangerous?”

  He laughed. “Maidy, they’re old men. You’re going to have to speak loudly.”

  The two knights sat up on their straw pallets, blinking at the light. I gave them half courtesy, keeping close by the door. They weren’t as decrepit as reported. They were gray-haired and bony, but had a certain wiry toughness; if the brightness of their eyes was any indication, they were playing “helpless old men” for everything they could.

  “What have you brought us, lad?” asked the stouter one, who was bald and mustachioed. “Do you supply your prisoners with women now, or is this some newfangled way of making us talk?”

  He was impugning my virtue. I ought to have been offended, but for some reason the idea tickled me. That could be my next career: instrument of torture! Seducing prisoners, and then revealing my scales! They would confess out of sheer horror.

  The guard turned red. “Have some respect!” he blustered through his mustache. “She’s here on behalf of Captain Kiggs and Counselor Dombegh. You will answer her questions properly, or we will find harder quarters for you, Grandpa.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “Would you mind leaving us?”

  “Maid Dombegh, you heard what he just said. It wouldn’t be proper!”

  “It will be perfectly fine,” I assured him in a soothing voice. “Captain Kiggs will be down any minute now.”

  He set the torch in a sconce and left me, grumbling. The room, which served as storage most of the time, contained some small casks; I pulled one up, sat down, and smiled warmly at the old men. “Which of you is which?” I said, realizing I would already know their names if I were here legitimately. To my embarrassment, I recognized the skinnier of the two, the one who hadn’t spoken yet. He had shooed Orma away from me at that disastrous dragon procession five years ago and had helped Maurizio carry me home. I had grown a lot taller since then, and he was old; maybe he didn’t remember me.