by Garth Nix
But still she felt wary, more on edge than ever, and the edginess would not leave her, no matter that she told herself she was jumping at shadows. She just had to get through the dinner, and the night beyond. In the new day she would see Kargrin and get out.
‘Please, be seated,’ said Kilp. He clapped his hands. Four servants entered in answer, each carrying a tall silver ewer of wine. They did not ask what the guests would prefer, but simply filled the four goblets in front of each of them. A waste, Clariel thought, but typical of the showing off that Aronzo seemed to like. He’d obviously inherited the trait from his father.
‘I wanted us to have a small, private dinner,’ said Kilp as they sat. Aronzo was next to Clariel, but she edged her chair away and angled her legs, so that Aronzo’s questing foot could not touch her own. ‘The two leading families of the city.’
‘Will your lady wife be joining us?’ asked Jaciel, indicating the empty chair. ‘I have not seen her for some time.’
‘I fear Marget is ill,’ said Kilp, with a sigh that did not alter the coldness of his predatory eyes. ‘As you know, the poor dear suffers from many ailments.’
‘You are equipped for battle,’ said Harven. ‘And the Trained Bands have been called out. Should we postpone this dinner? I … We would not wish to get in the way of whatever … whatever is occurring.’
Kilp waved one hand in a relaxed dismissal.
‘It is nothing of any great consequence. A rabble of rioters has proclaimed they will march upon this house and present their “demands” to me. Malcontents from the Flat, who have no stomach for honest work. But they could be annoying, damage property of guildmembers and so forth, so we will essay forth and … contain their protest … before they get anywhere important. Let them stone their own windows and burn their own hovels, I say. We will keep them penned in, have no fear of that!’
‘What are their demands?’ asked Clariel.
‘Who knows?’ said Kilp. ‘They want this and that, changing by the day or even hour. They complain of too much work, or not enough … The truth is they need firm handling. But enough of this, these troublemakers will occupy too much of my night as it stands. Let us talk of other things, and begin to eat.’
He clapped his hands again. Four more waiters entered, bearing trays of oysters, mussels and eels, which they set upon the table. Again, there was far more food than the five of them could possibly eat, and Clariel knew it would only be the first of many courses. She had no appetite, aware that Aronzo was watching her all the time, and Kilp too, that she was of no account to them save as a playing piece in their game of power, and they were preparing to make a move.
‘You come from the Palace,’ said Kilp, opening an oyster with gusto, using the short, blunt knife provided among the array of cutlery in front of him. ‘How was the King?’
‘We did not see him,’ said Jaciel. She speared a mussel from its shell with a needlelike implement of finely chased silver. ‘He met with Clariel, to receive the kin-gift.’
‘And gave one in return,’ said Harven quickly, clearly wanting to be in on the conversation. ‘A most notable gift.’
‘He did?’ asked Kilp, with a darting glance at Clariel.
‘The Dropstone salt cellar,’ announced Harven cheerfully. ‘We will have it in the workshop tomorrow.’
‘Really?’ drawled Aronzo. ‘I would like to see that. I have heard of it, of course, but to look at it closely …’
‘You must,’ said Jaciel eagerly. ‘It is a remarkable work. Kilp, you too. There is so much that we can learn from it.’
‘I fear I am overburdened with matters of state, rather than matters of craft,’ said Kilp. ‘It is too often the way, but then I was never as skilled as you, Jaciel. Aronzo will undoubtedly benefit from a study of the work, though I must say I am greatly pleased with his journeyman piece. It will go before the Guild assayers next week.’
‘Next week?’ asked Jaciel. ‘Congratulations, Aronzo. You will be one of the youngest masters ever.’
‘Should the work be accepted,’ said Aronzo with, Clariel was sure, entirely false modesty.
‘It will be. You will be a Goldsmith of the High Guild,’ said Kilp. He gave Clariel a slight bow. ‘And a guildmember should be married. When Aronzo sets up his own house and workshop, I would be delighted to see his wife by his side.’
‘So should I,’ said Clariel sweetly. ‘Who are you marrying, Aronzo?’
Kilp laughed. Aronzo transformed the beginnings of an angry scowl into laughter as well, a second too late.
‘You are playful, Lady Clariel,’ said Kilp. ‘It would be good to plan for the wedding soon, as I fear we will all be busy with the current difficulties, which can only be exacerbated by the King’s ill health –’
‘The King is perfectly well,’ interrupted Clariel. ‘And plans for my wedding are much ahead of any likelihood of there being one.’
Kilp raised his eyebrows and opened another oyster, tipping the shell back to let the meat inside slip down his throat. He tossed the shell on his plate and looked at Jaciel.
‘Lady Jaciel? I thought this matter was agreed?’
‘Not quite,’ replied Jaciel smoothly. She looked at her daughter, but Clariel couldn’t tell what she was thinking. ‘Clariel and I have many matters we must talk about. Let us discuss other things. Your son, Aronzo’s work, perhaps. I would like to see his masterwork, if I may.’
‘It is not quite ready, I regret,’ said Aronzo. ‘A matter of some minor polishing remains, and there is the question of etiquette, that only the assayers should …’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Kilp. He turned to the servant behind him and snapped, ‘Fetch Lord Aronzo’s goblet from the workshop.’
‘Father, it’s really not …’ Aronzo started to protest, but Kilp merely looked at him. The young man stopped, picked up one of his goblets instead and took a hefty swallow.
‘The King is well, you say,’ said Kilp, after a minute of awkward silence, though at least Jaciel and Harven had started eating.
‘He seemed well enough, though very old,’ said Clariel. ‘He was very kind to give me … us … the salt cellar.’
Kilp grunted, but did not add anything else. He continued to look at Clariel as he ate, until she became uncomfortable and resorted to helping herself to a portion of eel. She pushed this around on her plate, cutting it into smaller and smaller sections with a knife that was considerably blunter than she thought it should be. She also couldn’t hold it tight enough, because the wound on her palm still hurt.
‘You do not intend to be a goldsmith yourself, do you, Lady Clariel?’ asked Aronzo blandly, as if they had just met. ‘What are your plans for your future?’
‘I have not been in Belisaere very long, Lord Aronzo,’ said Clariel. ‘I am still assaying the true value of many things here. Sometimes there is only the thinnest layer of gold upon the lead.’
‘That’s true,’ said Harven. ‘Remember those counterfeit bezants from that gang in Navis? They skimped on the leaf so much the coins could hardly pass between two hands before it came off.’
‘True coin is an ornament of the state,’ said Kilp pontifically. ‘And yet another responsibility of we Goldsmiths. Ah, here we are!’
His exclamation was for the arrival of Aronzo’s masterwork, which if passed by the guild examiners, would allow him to become a full member of the guild. It was a goblet, carried in the white-gloved hands of the cloth-of-gold-clad major-domo, self-evidently a much more senior servant than the man sent to fetch it, who could not be trusted with an item of such value.
It was a very beautiful piece, Clariel noted with reluctance. A slim goblet of beaten gold raised upon a long stem set with small rubies, arranged so that a red glow wrapped the cup above and the circular foot below, which was also rimmed with rubies or tiny chips of ruby.
Jaciel’s eyebrows rose as she saw it.
‘Show me!’ she demanded, rising from her seat. Aronzo stood too, and both moved around opposi
te sides of the table towards the major-domo.
‘It really isn’t ready, Lady Jaciel!’ he said, in his most charming manner. ‘Please don’t touch –’
Even as he spoke, Jaciel put out one finger and touched the foot of the goblet. It was the slightest touch, a mere graze of her fingernail, but as it passed, tiny white sparks flew from her hand.
‘You didn’t make this alone,’ said Jaciel, her voice harsh. ‘This was made by a Dwerllin or Hish. It was forced by Free Magic from the raw gold!’
‘True,’ sighed Aronzo, and drew his sword in one swift motion. A moment after he did so, Kilp thrust his chair back and drew also. The servants, all save the major-domo, drew daggers. Clariel pushed her chair back, but before she could rise there was a dagger at her throat from the servant who been standing behind her, and another had her weapon at Harven’s neck. He looked bewilderedly from side to side as two more servants moved in front of Jaciel, their daggers ready, though they did not lift them.
Jaciel stood very still, clearly unarmed in her white and gold silks.
‘I’m sure we can forget this,’ said Kilp. He darted a sharp glance at his son, who looked down and bit his lip. ‘So my son had some help. It is of no great importance. Let’s sit down and talk, there are many arrangements we need to make –’
‘I beg to differ,’ interrupted Jaciel. She stood tall and imperious, speaking as she might to a forgehand who had spoiled the work of days. ‘You have knives at the throats of my husband and daughter. You deal with Free Magic. No.’
She spoke a word then that could not be properly heard or understood, a word that Clariel saw emerge from her mouth in a flash of golden brilliance. A master Charter mark that was linked to hundreds of other marks, that came out of her mouth all together like a sudden storm of rain, but here the drops were molten gold, spraying out at neck height, passing over Clariel’s head so close she felt the burn of their passage. If it were not for her scarf, her hair would have caught on fire.
The servants in front of Jaciel and the ones behind Harven and Clariel screamed and fell as one, their faces dappled with burning holes. Jaciel stooped and picked up two daggers, wielding one in each hand. She lunged at Aronzo who frantically backed away and parried, and Kilp ran back to the doors and shouted, ‘To me!’
‘Flee!’ screamed Jaciel, parrying a riposte from Aronzo with one dagger as she drew Charter marks in the air with the other. The marks were bright as the sun, shining in the air with such brilliance they left after-images in Clariel’s eyes. She pushed her chair back but the legs stuck against the fallen servant, so she had to writhe under the table to get out, and then drag at her father’s hand. Harven was still sitting there, his mouth open and face aghast.
‘Father! Come on!’
She pulled his hand hard. He rose from his chair and they stumbled away. Clariel still had the small, blunt knife that she’d been using to cut the eel. She let go of her father’s hand and charged towards Aronzo’s back, aiming for his neck above his armoured coat, but he saw her coming from the corner of his eye and stepped away, and she was only saved from his counterattack by Jaciel parrying with a dagger.
‘Go!’ screamed Jaciel. She was still tracing Charter marks with her left hand, even as she parried with her right. Clariel had rarely seen her mother practise her swordcraft, but somewhere along the line Jaciel had been taught very well indeed. ‘Take the small stair!’
‘Don’t kill them, especially the girl! Shoot to wound!’ shouted Kilp as he opened the doors, a dozen or more of his guardsmen pouring in around him.
But even as he spoke three eager arbalesters fired their crossbows. Quarrels shot through the air, all three aimed at Jaciel. Yet they did not strike true, instead colliding with some invisible, or near invisible, barrier, for Clariel saw Charter marks flash as they struck.
Though the quarrels did not strike home, they did distract Jaciel for the barest instant. In that moment, Aronzo landed a cut across her arm. Blood flowed through the silk, spreading quickly.
‘You cut as easy as any, for all your magic,’ taunted Aronzo, stepping back so he could watch Jaciel and Clariel together, his blue eyes flickering. Harven was still gaping, his hands raised imploringly as if someone might step in to save them.
‘Do I?’ asked Jaciel. She leaned over and licked the blood from her shoulder, the smear of it frightful around her mouth. She laughed, a laugh Clariel had never heard before. A laugh that made her shiver from crown to toe. The laugh of something being released after a long, long captivity.
Another crossbow twanged, this time the arbalester aiming low at Jaciel’s legs. The quarrel struck the back of a chair, deflected off it at an odd angle, and struck Harven in the middle of his chest. His hands fell, the imploring gesture broken. He fell to the floor, blood pumping from the wound like a flooded gutter overflowing at the eaves.
Clariel felt him die. It was a sensation she knew well from hunting, though she had never realised it was the death sense of the Abhorsens, because she had never been so close to a person in the moment of their death. With animals it was like a fleeting, frozen touch in her mind. Here it was an icy gale that blew through a door that slammed shut again, all in one terrible instant.
A moment later Jaciel’s left-hand dagger flew through the air and the crossbowman who’d fired choked and gargled and plucked at the steel in his throat. Clariel felt his death too, another brief, icy waft deep inside her head.
‘Clariel! Go!’
Jaciel’s command was laced with Charter Magic. Before Clariel could even think to fight against it, she found herself at the small door, wrenching it open, the narrow stair below her dark. She turned sideways as she stepped through, fighting the spell, and saw Jaciel throw her second dagger at Aronzo. He parried it too slowly and too close, so the blade spun across his handsome face, opening his cheek from chin to ear. Aronzo screamed and dropped his sword, his hands clutching his face, the blood running out between his fingers.
Clariel had one last glimpse of Jaciel preparing to launch herself at Kilp and his guards. Her mother was casting a spell, a forge spell drawn with a single master Charter mark, sketched in the air. Flames grew from her fingers as she traced it, long white-hot flames like curving swords.
Jaciel’s daughter saw no more. The spell forced her away, turned her head and sent her stumbling down the stair.
Clariel did not see her mother charge her enemies.
Kilp fled before her, his guards closing ranks behind him. Jaciel killed one, cutting him almost in two. But she was struck herself twice, a terrible wound in her side, and another above her knee. She merely laughed again. Bloody foam dribbled from her mouth as she spun and hacked and drove steadily deeper into the panicked guards, her fiery blades hissing as they cut through armour, flesh and bone.
The guards fought back, chopping and stabbing in blind desperation at this terrible enemy who wielded fire and would not die.
Jaciel was almost through to Kilp when a blow from a halberd took her in the neck, and the head of the greatest Goldsmith and finest artist in the Kingdom flew from her shoulders, to roll bloodily across the floor.
chapter seventeen
seeking refuge
Clariel ran. She stumbled down the stairs, compelled by the spell. All she could think of was flight. She had to get out of the dark, enclosed stair, get out of the Governor’s House, get out of Belisaere!
Get out! Get out!
She collided with the door at the bottom, and frantically felt for the lever, handle or bar. But there was nothing, just smooth wood. She hammered on it with the eel knife, screaming, ‘Open! Open!’ until finally someone did open it and she fell out into lantern light, her clothes splattered with blood and the top of her head singed. Hands clutched at her, but she fought them off and ran, ran as fast as she could for the front door through people shouting questions, and then all-too-slowly beginning to run after her.
Then she was outside, the door behind her. Out in the courtyard, crowded with
soldiers, and there was an instant, just an instant, when no one noticed because it was noisy and everyone was excited with the coming battle or riot or whatever they wanted to call it.
That moment passed as Kilp shouted behind her.
‘Stop her! Catch her! Do not use steel!’
Clariel didn’t slow down. Even as everyone began to react, she was running, this time for the gate in the curtain wall. She was halfway there when she heard Kilp again, closer.
‘Stop her! Catch her!’
A grinning guardsman stepped into her path, the grin gone instantly as she kicked him in the groin and ducked past, cursing the flimsy shoes she wore instead of her proper boots.
She was almost at the gate when one of her own guards, the grim-faced Reyvin, stepped out from the shadows and thrust her spear-shaft at exactly the right point between the young woman’s knees.
Clariel came crashing down on the flagstones and lost her eel knife. She rolled quickly and got onto her knees, just as the spear-shaft came down again, this time to tap her quickly on the back of the head.
It was meant to knock her out, but it didn’t. Clariel rode the blow down, flipped over on her side and kicked up at her attacker, getting Reyvin just under the knee. The guard cursed and went down herself, sprawling on the pavement. Clariel dived onto her, whipped a dagger from her belt and was up and away again, still compelled by her mother’s spell, Jaciel’s shouted ‘Go!’ echoing in her ears.
She was through the gate before any other guard came close, and then sprinting down the road faster than she had ever run, faster than on any hunt, this time the quarry rather than the hunter. She ran without conscious thought for any ultimate destination, seeking only darkness to shield her, turning off the well-lit roads that were illuminated by Charter-Magic lanterns suspended on iron poles, choosing always the darkest street at every intersection.