Seraphina

by Rachel Hartman

  Comonot did the talking; we’d gone up the apse to speak privately, in his version. I held my breath, but Comonot let nothing slip about my background or my maternal memory. He simply claimed I’d had confidential information for him.

  “Pertaining to what?” asked Kiggs.

  “Pertaining to none of your business,” grumped the Ardmagar. He’d had enough wine that he could no longer find the door to the mental room where he was supposed to stow his emotions. If he even had such a room.

  Kiggs shrugged, and Comonot continued, detailing the swift and bloody fight. Kiggs pulled Thomas’s dagger out of his belt, turning it in his fingers. The tip had crumpled grotesquely. “Any idea how this happened?”

  Comonot frowned. “Could it have hit the floor in such a way as to—”

  “Not likely, unless he threw it straight at the stones,” said Kiggs, looking full at me for the first time. “Seraphina?”

  That old, inconvenient feeling bubbled up in response to his using my first name. “He stabbed me,” I said, staring at my hands.

  “What? No one told me this! Where?” He sounded so alarmed that I looked up. I wished I hadn’t; it hurt to see him concerned about me.

  I felt around near my right kidney. The hole went through my cloak and through all my layers of gown, unsurprisingly. Could I refasten my belt to cover it? I glanced at Kiggs again; his mouth had fallen open. He had a point: I should be dead.

  “Did Glisselda not tell you? I’ve got a … a Saint’s burthen. A silver girdle that protects me from heresy. It saved me.”

  Kiggs shook his head in wonder. “It’s always something unexpected with you, isn’t it. A word to the wise: a blow hard enough to do this”—he held up the bent dagger—“is going to leave a painful bruise, or even a laceration. I’d let the palace physicians have a look at it.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” I said. My back was sore; I wondered what bruised scales looked like.

  “Ardmagar, the city is secured,” said Kiggs. “A contingent of Guardsmen is here to escort you back to Castle Orison. I expect you to stay there for the rest of your visit.”

  Comonot nodded hastily; if he had once doubted the sense of remaining under guard, he did no longer.

  “What were you doing here alone?” asked Kiggs. Comonot gave him almost the same answer he’d given me, his voice now soggy with melodrama. Kiggs’s brow creased. “I’m going to let you reconsider that answer. Someone knew you’d be here. You are withholding information material to this case. We have laws about that; I’m sure my grandmother would be happy to summarize them for you at dinner this evening.”

  The Ardmagar puffed up like an angry hedgehog, but Kiggs opened the door, signaled his men, and had the old saar packed off in a matter of minutes. He closed the door again and looked at me.

  I stared down at the bishop’s ornate Porphyrian rug, agitated and anxious.

  “You didn’t help the Ardmagar escape his guard, I suppose?” he said.

  “No,” I said.

  “Why were you up at the Skep with him?”

  I shook my head, not daring to look at him.

  Kiggs put his hands on his hips and wandered across the room, pretending to examine the framed calligraphic rendering of St. Gobnait’s benedictio hung between the bookcases. “Well,” he said, “at least we know who the would-be assassin was.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  He slowly turned to face me, and I realized “we” hadn’t meant him and me. It meant him and the Guard. “So you knew him,” he said lightly. “That rather changes the color of things. Do you know why he might have tried to kill you?”

  With shaking hands, I rifled through my satchel, underneath the crimson gown and the gift from my father, until I found my coin purse. I emptied it onto the seat of the bishop’s lectern, the nearest horizontal surface; a shadow across my hands was Kiggs stepping into the window light, drawing near to see. I picked the lizard out of the heap of coins and handed it to the prince without a word.

  “That’s a little grotesque,” he said, turning it right side up in his hand and studying its face. He smiled, though, so at least he hadn’t instantly assumed it was another illegal device. “There’s a story here, I presume?”

  “I gave coin to a quigutl panhandler, and it gave me this in exchange.”

  The prince nodded sagely. “Now the quig will think it’s found a particularly fruitful street corner, the neighbors will get upset, and we’ll be called in twice a week to escort him back to Quighole. But what’s the connection to the dead clothier?”

  Ah, now the lying had to start: there was a collapse and vision in the middle of this story, tangling it up with shame and fear. I said, “He saw the transaction. He was very upset, and he called me all kinds of terrible things.”

  “And yet he brought you back to the palace,” said Kiggs quietly.

  I looked up, shocked that he knew, but of course the barbican guard would keep records and report to him. His eyes were tranquil, but it was the calm of a cloudy summer sky: it could change to stormy with little warning. I had to tread carefully: “His brother Silas insisted that they offer me a ride to make up for Thomas’s rudeness.”

  “He must have been exceedingly rude.”

  I turned away from him, tucking my purse back into my bag. “He called me a worm-riding quig lover, and told me women like me get thrown into the river in sacks.”

  Kiggs was silent long enough that I looked up and met his gaze. His expression was a tangle of shock, concern, and annoyance. He turned away first, shaking his head and saying, “It’s a pity the Ardmagar killed him; I’d have liked to discuss these women in sacks. You should have brought this to my attention, or your father’s.”

  “You’re right. I should have,” I murmured. My need to conceal myself was a hindrance to doing right, I was beginning to notice.

  He returned his attention to the figurine in his hand. “So what does it do?”

  “Do?” I hadn’t bothered to check.

  He mistook the question for a deeper ignorance. “We confiscate demonic devices every week. They all do something, even the legal ones.”

  He turned it over in his hands, prodding it here and there with curious fingers. We were both leaning over the thing now, like two small children who’ve captured a cicada. Like friends. I pointed out a seam at the base of its neck; Kiggs grasped my meaning at once. He pulled its head. Nothing. He twisted it.

  “Thluuu-thluuu-thluuuuu!”

  The voice rang out so brightly that Kiggs dropped the figurine. It did not break, but bounced under the lectern, where it continued to jabber while Kiggs groped around for it. “That’s quigutl Mootya, isn’t it? Can you understand it?” he asked, turning his head toward me as he searched for it by feel.

  I listened carefully. “It seems to be a rant about dragons transforming into saarantrai. ‘I see you there, impostor! You think you’ve fooled them, that you pass invisibly in a crowd, but your elbows stick out funny and you stink. You are a fraud. At least we quigutl are honest.… ’ It goes on in that vein.”

  Kiggs half smiled. “I had no idea quigs held their cousins in such contempt.”

  “I doubt they all do,” I said, but realized I didn’t know. I was less frightened of quigs than most people, but even I had never bothered to learn what they think.

  He twisted the figurine’s head back, and the grating, lisping speech ceased. “What horrible tricks one could play with a device like this,” mused the prince. “Can you imagine setting it off in the Blue Salon?”

  “Half the people would leap up on the furniture, shrieking, and the other half would draw their daggers,” I said, laughing. “For additional amusement, you could bet on who would do which.”

  “Which would you do?” he said, and there was suddenly a sharpness in his tone. “My guess is neither. You’d understand what it was saying, and you’d be standing stock-still, listening hard. You wouldn’t want anyone to hurt a quig, not if you could stop that from happening.”r />
  He stepped toward me; every inch of me quivered at his proximity. “However practiced you are at deception, you cannot anticipate every eventuality,” he said quietly. “Sooner or later, something takes you by surprise, you react honestly as yourself, and you are caught out.”

  I reeled a bit, in shock. How had he turned interrogator so fast? “Are you referring to something specific?” I said.

  “I’m just trying to understand what you were doing here with Ardmagar Comonot, and why you were stabbed. This does not explain it.” He wagged my figurine, pinched tightly between his thumb and forefinger. “It was no spur-of-the-moment crime; the man was disguised as a priest. Who told him Comonot would be here? Did he expect Comonot to meet someone else—someone he also intended to kill—or were you just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  I stared, openmouthed.

  “Fine,” said Kiggs, his expression closed. “Better silence than a lie.”

  “I have never wanted to lie to you!” I cried.

  “Hm. That must be a wretched existence, forced to lie when you don’t want to.”

  “Yes!” I could hold back no longer; I wept, hiding my face in my hands.

  Kiggs stood apart from me, watching me weep. “That all came out harsher than I intended, Phina,” he said, sounding miserable. “I’m sorry. But this is two days in a row that someone has stabbed you.” I looked up sharply; he answered my unasked question. “Aunt Dionne confessed, or rather lamented Lady Corongi’s faulty intelligence to anyone who would listen. Selda was heartsick to learn it was her own mother who cut you.”

  He stepped closer; I kept my eyes on the gold buttons of his doublet. “Seraphina, if you are in some sort of trouble, if you need protection from someone, I want to help. And I can’t help if you give me no indication of what’s going on.”

  “I can’t tell you.” My chin trembled. “I don’t want to lie to you, but if I don’t, then there’s nothing I can say. My hands are tied.”

  He handed me his handkerchief. I stole a glance at his face; he looked so worried that I couldn’t bear it. I wanted to take him in my arms as if he were the one in need of reassurance.

  My father’s words from the night before came back to me. What if he was right? What if there was a chance, any chance, that Kiggs wouldn’t despise me if he knew the truth? One chance in a million was still better than zero. I felt dizzy at the thought of it; it was too like hanging over the parapet of the bell tower, watching your slipper spinning through space, falling to the plaza below.

  It wasn’t just my scales between us. He had duties and obligations and an overweening need to do the right thing. The Kiggs I loved could not love me the way things stood; if he could have, he would not have been my Kiggs. I had reached for him once, and he had been terrified enough that he hadn’t protested, but I couldn’t imagine him tolerating it again.

  Kiggs cleared his throat. “Selda was beside herself with worry this morning. I told her you’d be back, no question, that Aunt Dionne hadn’t frightened you off for good. I sincerely hope that’s true.”

  I nodded shakily. He opened the door for me and held it, but caught my arm as I passed. “Aunt Dionne is not above the law, first heir or not. If you wish to pursue justice for your arm, Selda and I would support you.”

  I took a deep breath. “I’ll consider it. Thank you.”

  He looked pained; something important still had not been said. “I’ve been angry with you, Phina, but also worried.”

  “Forgive me, Prince—”

  “Kiggs. Please,” he said. “I’ve been angry with myself as well. I behaved rather foolishly after our encounter with Imlann, as if I could blithely disregard my obligations and—”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head a bit too vehemently. “Not at all. People do strange things when they’re terrified. I hadn’t given it a second thought.”

  “Ah. It is a great relief to hear you say that.” He didn’t look relieved. “Please know I consider myself your friend, what bumps we have encountered upon that road notwithstanding. The heart of you is good. You’re an intelligent and fearless investigator, and a good teacher too, I hear. Glisselda swears she couldn’t do without you. We want you to stay.”

  He still had hold of my arm. I extricated myself gently and let him take me home.

  The sky was just growing dark when our carriage rolled into Stone Court. Princess Glisselda waited to meet us; she fussed over me and fussed at Kiggs for letting me get hurt once again, as if protecting me ought to have been his priority when the entire city was up in arms. Kiggs smiled at what a little mother hen she was. Glisselda placed herself firmly between us, giving an arm to each, chattering away as was her wont. I pleaded abject tiredness and broke up our little trio at the earliest opportunity.

  I was exhausted, though it was not yet five o’clock. I trudged up to my room and threw myself into a chair, letting my satchel drop to the floor between my feet.

  I could not continue living in such close proximity to Kiggs if it was always going to hurt this much. I would stay through Treaty Eve, tomorrow night, and then I would give Viridius my notice. Maybe not, even. I would simply disappear, run off to Blystane or Porphyry or Segosh, one of the big cities, where I could disappear into the crowds and never be seen again.

  My left wrist itched under its bandage. I just wanted to look at the scale scab, I told myself. See how it was getting on. I began unfastening the bandage, pulling at it with my teeth when it was difficult to undo.

  There was, indeed, a crusted scab where the scale had been; it squatted malevolently among smooth silver scales to either side. I ran a finger over it; it felt rough and sore. Compared with that fat black scab, the scales were not so ugly. Trust me to turn my native hideousness into something even more hideous. I hated that scab. I pried up an edge, then had to look away, gritting my teeth and cringing with revulsion.

  Still, I did not intend to stop until I had torn a hole in myself again.

  The satchel at my feet fell open. I must have kicked it. Out of the bag fell the long, slender box and the letter, which just this morning—it seemed longer ago than that—my sisters had handed me on my father’s behalf. I backed off my wrist for the moment and took up the box. My heart pounded painfully; the box was the right size and shape to contain a specific musical instrument. I wasn’t sure I could stand the heartbreak if it didn’t.

  I fetched the letter and opened it first.

  My daughter,

  I suspect you will remember little of our conversation last night, which is just as well. I fear I babbled on foolishly. However: I owe you this, at least. Your mother had more than one flute, or I could never have borne breaking the other. I still regret that, not least for your look of betrayal. I was the monster in our household, not you.

  What comes, comes. I have made my peace with the past and with the future. Do what you feel you must, and do not be afraid.

  All my love, for good or ill,

  Papa

  With shaking hands I opened the wooden case. Inside, wrapped in a long strip of saffron fabric, was a flute of polished ebony, inlaid with silver and mother-of-pearl. It took my breath away; I knew it at once for hers.

  I put it to my lips and played a scale, smooth as water. Both my wrists twinged painfully as my fingers moved. I took the saffron strip and wound it around my scabby left wrist. It came from both my parents. Let it remind me I was not alone, and protect me from myself.

  I rose renewed, and headed for the door. There was work yet to be done, and I was the only one who could do it.

  Comonot was important enough that he had been given a room in the royal family’s private wing, the most luxurious and heavily guarded part of the palace. As I approached the guard station, my stomach fluttered anxiously. I had no clear plan for how to bluff this time, no lie I could tell them. I would ask to be allowed through to see the Ardmagar, and see what happened.

  I nearly balked when I recognized Mikey the Fish, one of the guards from before
, but I gripped my saffron-bound wrist, lifted my chin, and stepped up to him anyway. “I need to speak with the Ardmagar,” I said. “How do I go about doing that?”

  Mikey the Fish actually smiled at me. “You follow me, Music Mistress,” he said, opening the heavy double doors for me and nodding to his fellows.

  He escorted me into the forbidden residential area. Bright tapestries lined the corridor walls, punctuated by marble statues, portraits, and pedestals supporting fine porcelain and fragile spun glass. The Queen was known for loving art; apparently this was where she kept it. I scarcely dared breathe lest I knock something over.

  “Here’s his suite,” said Mikey, turning to go. “Watch yourself—Princess Dionne claims the old saar made a pass at her.”

  I found that distressingly easy to believe. I watched the guard retreat down the hall and noted that he did not turn back toward his post but went deeper into the residence. He’d been told to let me in, and was off to report that I’d arrived. Well, I would not question my good fortune. I knocked on Comonot’s door.

  The Ardmagar’s servant—a human lad, assigned to him from among the castle page boys—answered the door at once, making a very peculiar face at the sight of me. Someone else had been expected, evidently.

  “Is that my dinner? Bring it through,” said the Ardmagar from the other room.

  “It’s some woman, Your Excellence!” cried the boy as I stepped past him into what was evidently the study. The boy yapped at my heels like a terrier: “You’re not to enter unless the Ardmagar says you may!”

  Comonot had been writing at a wide desk; he rose at the sight of me and stared, speechless. I gave him full courtesy. “Forgive me, sir, but I was not finished talking to you earlier, when we were so rudely interrupted by your would-be assassin.”

  He narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “Is this about that cabal theory of yours?”