The Ruins of Ambrai

by Melanie Rawn

  It was Elomar’s turn to nod in agreement. “Centuries later, Captal Caitirin Bekke created two.”

  “That we know of,” Col added.

  “Holy Saints, you’re right,” Sarra said, and whether she was more amazed at the deductions or that Collan had made them, Cailet wasn’t about to guess. “The wharf pylon at Roseguard—wood constantly attacked by tides doesn’t last Generations. When was it last replaced? That’ll tell us one of the latest dates for the creation of a Ladder—”

  “Figuring out when doesn’t solve the other rhymes,” Cailet said. “I think somebody’s been lying about the Ladders for a very long time.”

  “You made the ones here and at Bard Hall bigger,” Taig said. “Could you build one from scratch? If one Captal did it, maybe it’s part of the Bequest.”

  If that knowledge was in the Bequest, Lusath Adennos had not been able to give it to her. That she was incomplete, not a true Captal, was not something she would admit in front of people who didn’t already know.

  Sarra fielded Taig’s question for her. “It may be a special talent, like being a Healer Mage.”

  “And I don’t have it,” Cailet said, grateful that her sister had provided a workable explanation—which could be correct for all she knew.

  “I wonder,” Pier ventured, “if the Malerrisi can.”

  “If they could, they would. Bet on it.” Collan took a long swallow of coffee, grimaced, and got up to warm the mug from the pot. “Look at the list. Every Ladder we know of to Malerris Castle is in someplace certifiably ancient. Except Captal Bekke’s Tower, of course. I don’t think they know how.” He sat down again, crossing long legs at the ankles. “Besides, they don’t need to.”

  “The velvet Ladder!” Sarra picked up his thought instantly. “They wouldn’t need a permanent one if they could use one of those whenever they pleased.”

  “But how do they work?” Cailet got to her feet and began to pace the carpet. “I still don’t quite believe they can exist. How do you put all the necessary energy and spells and Wards into a piece of cloth?”

  Elomar did credit to his upbringing by rising to replenish everyone else’s cups. “Most surgical instruments are carved with spells.”

  “I’ve seen them on a lot of things,” Sarra agreed. “The spines of books, silver goblets—the velvet must be covered in embroidery. Maybe the cloth itself was spelled as it was woven. Their patron is the Weaver, after all.”

  Cailet held still long enough for Elomar to pour coffee, then went back to wearing a path in Lady Lilen’s rug. “You said Glenin used hers to get inside the bower. Near another Ladder. Maybe proximity is necessary. Maybe they can’t be used to go just anywhere—there has to be a Ladder someplace nearby.”

  “Why?” Col challenged.

  “How should I know? I’ve been Captal for—what, a whole week now?”

  “Just about,” he drawled. “Done a fair job of it so far.”

  She made a face at him and flopped into a chair. “I’m overwhelmed by your praise, Minstrel. If you ever turn any of this into a song, don’t tell the truth or I’ll use my magic to turn you into a toad.”

  “It’d be an improvement.” Sarra plied her dimples. “In looks and wits.”

  Unperturbed, Collan replied, “Careful, First Daughter—you know what happens when you kiss a toad.”

  “I’d sooner step on you to hear you croak. Come to think of it, a toad would be a vocal improvement as well. Anytime you’re ready, Minstrel dear.”

  He gave a languishing sigh. “And to think that in Pinderon you could hardly keep your hands off me.”

  “That was to keep you alive! And I never came close to kissing you!”

  “Maybe, but you sure were thinking about it.”

  Taig rapped his knuckles on the arm of his chair, grinning. “Now, now! A man never argues with a lady unless he’s married to her—or wants to be.”

  Cailet repressed a giggle. Far from shutting their mouths, Taig’s rebuke made their jaws drop open.

  “Back to the Ladders, if you please,” he went on.

  “Uh—yes,” Cailet said, responding to the brow he arched in her direction.

  “Oh, must we?” Pier pouted, dark eyes dancing.

  “Ladders,” Elomar said firmly.

  “All right, then,” Taig resumed. “My brother believed there were three hubs. Let’s say for the sake of argument that they were laid out before The Waste War. Ryka Court for the government, the Academy for the Mages, and Malerris Castle for the Lords.”

  “No,” Cailet said, sitting up straighten “Go back before that—before the Malerrisi. There’d be cooperation between the government and the Guardians, so they wouldn’t need Ladders from Ryka to every Shir. Just one or two from Ryka to Ambrai. They’d continue on from there.”

  Recovering, Sarra said, “So we can safely assume at least fourteen pairs at the Academy. That’s twenty-eight Ladders. Cailet, you can sense one when you’re near it, can’t you?”

  She gaped at her sister. “I can’t possibly go search every round building on Lenfell! The temples and shrines alone—not to mention sewer pipes!”

  “Will you let me finish? All you really need is a little logic. Where would Ladders be needed?”

  “The major population centers, obviously—but that doesn’t explain the one in the foothills of Caitiri’s Hearth.”

  “Let’s stick with Sarra’s logic a while, shall we?” said Taig. “When everyone cooperated, travel was easy. But after the Malerrisi left the Mages, they’d want their own Ladders. And very likely all of them would be secret, but for the one to Ryka Court. They’d need that to be open, just for appearances’ sake—and no, Elomar, that was not a pun!”

  Collan grinned appreciatively, then said, “There had to be Ladders in to Isodir and Firrense to keep them from starving during Veller Ganfallin’s wars. Maybe even a ladder between the two cities.”

  “Let’s not go wild with our speculations here,” Taig cautioned.

  “I’m not,” he said at the same time Sarra said, “He’s not.” They looked at each other in confusion for a moment before she continued. “Alin told me the same thing. He also thought there also had to be one between Domburr Castle and Domburron. Otherwise it’s impossible for Anniyas to have won the battle against Grand Duke Whatever-his-namewas and kill that Warrior Mage in the same day.”

  “That I’ll grant you,” Taig said, nodding.

  “You pretty much have to,” Col responded dryly. “I know what the rhymes for those Ladders are.”

  Cailet gave a start. “You do? Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Kitten, we’ve only been discussing this for the last five hours. There hasn’t been time yet to bring it up.”

  She laughed at him. “Is that a hint that you’re hungry?”

  “If he’s not, I am.” Sarra stood up and stretched—to the enraptured fascination of every male present. “Which of you otherwise useless men will cook tonight while we women discourse learnedly on more important things? Elo, you are not a candidate. Stoves explode when you come near them.”

  Rillan Veliaz had been doing the honors in the kitchen. Two days ago Cailet had sent him and Tarise and Taguare to a minor Ostin property up the Shainkroth Road—and had regretted it at every meal since. But they would be safer with every mile put between them and Longriding, though doubtless they would be about as inconspicuous as tone-deaf musicians in the Isodir Opera Orchestra. Still, by and large you were what you said you were in The Waste. Its citizens had neither the time nor the desire to pry into other people’s business; usually their own was shady at best. The trio would be remarked upon, but few if any questions would be asked.

  The days went by, consumed by plans and discussions and simple rest. Then it was the first night of Seeker’s Moon, the Festival of St. Alilen—patron of birds, singers, and crazy people. Longriding’s residents lingered outdoors under the
full moon, serenaded by roving choral groups paid for their performances with feather tokens. The general population handed out the real thing; the prosperous were expected to provide real silver. Caught unprepared, Sarra ordered all the lights extinguished and no fires lit, and hoped aloud that the ruse would work.

  “Otherwise it’s eggs on the portico and soap on the windows,” she said.

  “Not in The Waste,” Elomar told her, sharing an amused glance with Cailet and Taig.

  Cailet explained. “Eggs and soap are too expensive. What you get on the front walk—”

  “—is horse shit,” Col finished with a grin, revealing himself familiar with local custom.

  “Whatever did we do without your Minstrel’s elegance?” Sarra observed.

  “Your pardon, Lady,” he said with one of those elaborate bows—this one with an equally overdone expression of regret—that so irritated Sarra. “Ought I to have said ‘the inevitable result of intestinal collaboration between animals of the equine persuasion and certain varieties of nutritional fodder’?”

  “Descriptive, if long-winded,” Sarra said: the discerning critic. “But perhaps you ought to join the celebrants. Feathers aren’t your usual fee, I’m sure, but more than you’ve earned in the last four weeks. Your purse must be positively hollow.”

  “Gracious of you to worry about my finances. Rest easy, Lady. I’m promised adequate payment for my expertise in keeping you and the Council Guard unacquainted.”

  Sarra’s dimples were in full play as she replied, “Indeed? And what do you consider ‘adequate’ for the privilege of participating in circumstances that ensure your continued breathing?”

  “Look, Lady,” Collan began, his temper getting the better of him.

  Cailet held up a hand for silence, simultaneously dimming the four small Mage Globes she’d conjured—and so easily—to ease the back parlor’s gloom. “Shh! Someone’s coming!” Praise all Saints, she added in a glance to Taig. He didn’t notice.

  The choral group didn’t stop outside the Ostin house but continued on across the broad avenue. The music was just audible. Cailet watched the faces around her in the dimness as voices wove the intricate patterns of a dainty Firrensean madrigal. Collan and Falundir listened with Bardic precision; Sarra with subsiding annoyance; Taig and Elin with eyes closed; Pier with one finger tapping the arm of his chair. Elomar alone seemed unimpressed, by which Cailet supposed he was tone deaf. Pity. The song really was lovely. When the singers had moved on, she allowed the Globes to brighten once more.

  “If no one has any objections, then on the third we’ll leave for Renig.”

  “Why Renig?” Sarra asked.

  “Lady Lilen has a house there, doesn’t she?” Elin said.

  Taig nodded. “On the cliffs overlooking the sea. It’s my favorite.”

  “And undoubtedly crawling with Council Guards,” Sarra reminded them. “Malerrisi, too, for all we know.”

  Cailet smiled. “Oh, they’ve come and gone at all the Ostin residences, looking for Taig. Not even Anniyas would order Lady Lilen arrested—”

  “Which must be breaking Geria’s heart,” Taig interrupted.

  “If she has one,” Cailet added nastily. Cailet’s private worry about Geria was put to rest by a few minutes’ thought. First Daughter had no idea who Cailet really was. Neither did anyone else in The Waste except Taig and Lady Lilen. Gorsha had seen to it before he took Sarra to Roseguard shortly after Cailet’s birth.

  “Why won’t Anniyas touch Lady Lilen?” Collan wanted to know.

  “Because the Ostin Web tangles half Lenfell, and my mother sits at its center.” Taig shrugged. “That’ll only work just so long, you know. Eventually the Council and the Guilds will figure out a way to unravel it without fatal damage to their own interests.”

  “Possibly,” Sarra said. “But for now, she’s safe. We’ve seen the bounty sheets. Most of us are listed. Lady Lilen isn’t.”

  “Neither am I,” Cailet pointed out. “The Lords of Malerris don’t even know I exist.”

  “So we’re going to Renig to put them on notice that you do?” Sarra asked in a sharp voice.

  “No. We’re going to Renig to join the Council Guard.” She grinned at her sister’s astonishment, and heard Col give a snort of laughter. “Well, we’ve got twenty-five complete uniforms, all patched and mended. Besides, I haven’t played dress-up since I was eleven.”

  “Geria’s Candleweek gown,” Taig said, chuckling. “I remember!”

  “Turquoise was never her color,” Cailet observed, delighted that she was herself again in his eyes. “But it is mine.”

  “Mine, too,” said Sarra, a smile teasing her mouth.

  “I know,” Taig said—and it was the Ambrais he spoke to, whose Blood colors were black and turquoise.

  “Personally,” Col said in a drawling voice, “I’ve always wondered what I’d look like in uniform. Though the cut of the tunic could use a little work. And I’ve never approved of that gold sash. Gaudy.”

  Elin gave him a look that doubted his sanity. Then, to Cailet: “Forgive me, but you don’t seriously intend to pass us off as Council Guards?”

  “People see their uniforms, not their faces. And like it or not, Col, that gold sash is authorization to go anywhere. But not all of us will be in uniform.” She pulled in a deep breath, knowing they weren’t going to like this at all. “I’m the only woman tall enough to join you men in impersonating Council Guards . . . who are bringing to justice the renegade Sarra Liwellan, the equally traitorous Elin Alvassy—and the infamous Bard Falundir.”

  The silence could not have been more deafening if she’d announced she was turning her cloak to become a Lord of Malerris. The explosion that followed the silence actually made her wince.

  The only part she’d hesitated about was using Falundir, but when she met his gaze he was nodding, a satisfied smile on his face. Relieved that he agreed with her plan, she waited the others out. It felt like half an hour before she could get a word in edgewise.

  “Will you listen to me a minute? Thank you. Who does Glenin Feiran want? The woman who escaped her—and the sister of the woman who caused that to happen. Who does the First Councillor want? The man who condemned her in front of all Ryka Court. Any of you would do—but all three of you together are guaranteed passage to the people we want most to see.”

  “We?” Collan echoed. “Not on your life, Captal!”

  She felt the title as betrayal and warning. But she didn’t back down. “You may do as you like,” she told him steadily. “I have no claim on you. In fact, the obligation is mine.”

  He shrugged that off, mouth pulling into a line of disgust. “You can’t do this, Cailet. It’s insane.”

  “Tonight I’ve been inspired,” she replied lightly. “The Festival of St. Alilen, who watches over crazy people. Who’d be crazy enough to look for a Minstrel in a Council Guard uniform?”

  It applied to them all, of course. All but her. Her father and eldest sister didn’t even know she was alive; neither did Anniyas or the Lords of Malerris. Cailet Rille was nothing more than a name in a volume labeled Year 951: Births gathering dust at the Ministry of the Census.

  They were all going to find out otherwise.

  Sarra was regarding her with something closely akin to horror. “Cailet—you can’t do this.”

  “Because it isn’t what you’d do?” She rose, and crossed the carpet to take her sister’s hands. “You said you and Glenin can more or less anticipate each other. She knows nothing about me. Nothing. No guesswork, no instinct, no logic in the world can help her.”

  “But she does know me,” Sarra said slowly. “And that makes me useless to you except as an indicator of what you shouldn’t do. Oh, don’t worry. I don’t mind.” The smile was a very bad fit on her beautiful face. “I make a good lure, too. Very well. I’m with you. But not as Sarra Liwellan.” She reached inside her shirt for the
identity disk on its long chain. “She’s dead. I’m Mai Alvassy now, Cailet.”

  “Oh, I’d forgotten that.”

  “You’re both crazy!” Collan exclaimed.

  “Full moon,” Taig growled. “Col’s right—it isn’t ‘we’ who need to confront the Malerrisi. It’s you, Captal. I don’t like your reasoning.”

  Speechless, Cailet spun to stare at him. Before she could find words, Sarra rose to stand beside her.

  “And I don’t like your tone!” Sarra snapped. “Do I need to spell it out for you, Taig? She has Alin’s Ladder Lore. How do you think we got here? She has Tamos Wolvar’s knowledge of Mage Globes. Where did you think those came from?” She gestured to the four spheres hovering in the corners of the room. “And she has what Lusath Adennos gave her and a goodly dose of Gorynel Desse as well.”

  “I know!” he cried, and a whimper of pain clogged in Cailet’s throat. “Don’t you think I see them looking out from her eyes? All of them—Gorsha—and m-my brother—”

  Sarra was shaking with rage. Wonder-struck, Cailet realized that here was protection and defense for always, and not because she was the Mage Captal. “You’re my sister, and I love you.” She meant it. . . .

  “Cailet isn’t Alin! Or any of the others! If you ever doubt it again, Taig, just ask yourself if any of them—if anyone in the entire history of magic on Lenfell!—could have done what she did to those Ladders!”

  Silver-gray eyes sought Cailet’s, slid away again as if it hurt too much even to look at her. His anguish was a living thing that twisted the muscles of his face and made his lips stiff as he said, “They gave her what they knew. But there’s never been magic like hers. Gorsha said it long ago.”

  “The hell with what he said!” This from Collan, her other staunch defender. “You look at her, Taig. Know her for who she is. Holy Saints, man, you’ve known her all her life!”

  It was a long time before Taig lifted his head. He searched her face, sighed quietly, and murmured, “Forgive me, Caisha. I’m sorry.”