“Could you stop if you tried?”
She went red. “I . . . No.”
I nodded. Because that was how it was, for wizards. When I was her age, I would have starved my magic out of my body if I’d been able—anything, if it would make Malkar lose interest in me. But I couldn’t deny it, couldn’t ignore it. Even now, with the binding-by-obedience wrapped about me as tight and airless as a winding sheet, my magic was still struggling for light and freedom, still struggling to be known. “Then I think, for the sake of every female wizard in the world, we’d better assume it’s not wrong. Has someone been giving you grief?”
“Not more than usual, really,” she said. Another interval of fidgeting, and she said, “Did you know most of the Mulkist warlocks were women?”
“Were they?”
“Yeah. And people are saying,” with a wave of her hand to indicate the general populace of the Institution and University, “that maybe it’s a sign, that maybe women can’t be trusted with power. That it’s unnatural and wrong and—”
“Corbie.” She grinned lopsidedly and said it with me, “Shut up.”
“I don’t think any of that is true,” I said gently. “Women who hold power can be good or evil, just exactly as men who hold power can be. So tell me about rachenants instead.”
“Well,” said Corbie, sitting down finally. “I ain’t found much yet. Because it’s like people just dumped boxes of books up there. Some of them aren’t even on shelves. Although”—and she looked sheepish—“I’ve been fixing that, a little.”
“Good girl,” I said, and she blushed like a fire.
“So rachenants are a class of ghost, and lumme, there’s more classes of ghost than I would’ve thought. But they’re ghosts of magicians and they’re ghosts called up for revenge, and they’re ghosts—” She frowned at her notes. “The word the Mulkists use is vorticant, which seems to sort of mean unstable and sort of mean hungry and I ain’t sure what all else. So it’s like a fire that has to be contained by the one who builds it or it’ll devour everything it finds.”
“Yes,” I said; that certainly matched with my experience.
“I ain’t found anything about calling ’em up or making ’em go back, although I did find this list of places and times where you should never try to deal with one.”
“Unlikely to be helpful,” I said.
“Yeah, I know. The books do say that you can’t ever give in to one and expect to make it out alive. They talk a lot about the Sacrifice of the Caster. That’s opposed to other sacrifices, which there’s also a list of.” She gave me a grimace. “The Mulkists liked lists.”
“And with such charming topics, too,” I said.
“Yeah. That’s all I have so far.”
“You’ve made excellent progress,” I said, and because it was true, added, “I’m proud of you.”
And the smile she gave me would have lit all Esmer on a moonless night.
Mildmay
In Esmer, they play this game called Caterwaul, which is like a second step-cousin of Long Tiffany—meaning it’s pretty much straightforward and not full of girly shit like Horned Menelan is. Or Griffin and Pegasus, for that matter, which I also hate. No, Caterwaul is all about the cards. What you have and what the other guys have and what you can do with it. And some cleverdick things like where you can take a fucking lousy hand and sweep the table with it if the other guys ain’t paying attention quite as hard as they should. Or just get that littlest bit unlucky. Lots of bluffing in Caterwaul. And the more you can keep all the cards in your head—who’s discarded what and played what and what all that means everybody has to have left—the better you do.
I might’ve been too stupid for books, but Kolkhis didn’t have no trouble at all teaching me cards.
I got to the Blooming Turtle around the ninth hour of the day. Fourteen o’clock, they said here, or pimpernel. I got the hairy eyeball but good, first from the guy at the door, then from the guy at the bottom of the stairs, and then from the guys around the table, but if there’s one fucking thing I know how to do, it’s how to give the hairy eyeball right back at the fuckers, and since Felix actually had given me spending money—and powers, just the words “spending money” made me want to go puke and then wash my hands ’til my fingernails bled or something—I had a stake when they asked about it. And, you know, probably they figured I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, and they’d fleece me out of my money and that’d be that.
Fat fucking chance.
I laid low the first few hands. Not losing big, not winning big, watching the way everybody else played, how they felt about the guy next to them, shit like that. Don’t matter what the game is, you got to know what’s going on at the table, or you’re fucked. I played real quiet, the way I’d been playing for decads, all the way from Clerval, because we had to be careful and not make anybody mad and still, you know, pay the fucking hotel bill in the morning. And then it just . . . all of a sudden I was done with that. I was done with being careful and polite and not getting in nobody’s face.
Just plain done.
Maybe I’d make Felix’s spooky eyes bug out after all.
Kay
The journey to Isser Chase began in grim silence, but once the sounds of Isserly had died away behind us, Vanessa said, still very brisk, “I feel I should warn you about what you’re walking into.”
“Had not realized it was an ambush,” said I.
“Ambush,” said she. “That may be the best description of my mother I’ve ever heard.”
She sounded different away from Esmer, both older and less polished. And far more intelligent. And in truth I was grateful that she was even bothering. I listened intently as Vanessa described her mother’s three marriages: first to a naval man who had gone down with the Fortitude in the Seventh of the One Hundred Forty-seventh, leaving her a widow with a small child, then to Vanessa’s father—there were three children from that marriage, Vanessa being the oldest—and finally to a man named Laurent Shale who was some two indictions younger than Vanessa’s elder half brother.
“He is very charming,” said she.
“Young men married to older women generally are,” said I.
She gave a tiny snort of laughter. “That’s certainly been Laurent’s strategy. He never crosses Mother about anything.”
Vanessa’s half brother, a naval man like his father, was currently serving on the Errant in the blockade of Alkorazond. His wife and infant daughter resided at Isser Chase, for he could not support them on a lieutenant’s pay and his wife had no family in Corambis, being Ygressine.
“Did I mention,” Vanessa said bitterly, “that my mother prides herself on being outspoken?”
Vanessa’s younger sister was recently married to a lesser lord in Kennerack, and her brother, to whom Isser Chase technically belonged, was unmarried, “but you will most likely meet his lover.”
“His lover?”
“Yes,” and she sounded like she was bracing herself. “Ambrose Teller. I like him a good deal better than Oliver, to be honest.”
I knew not how to respond. Could hardly decry Oliver Carey for being violet when I knew myself to be the same, but . . .
“Oliver has quarreled with every intended in the dominion,” Vanessa said, too brightly. “And with Mother. It’s the only thing I’ve ever known him to stand firm on, so I cannot help but believe he is sincere, even if I don’t understand it.”
I still could say nothing; I felt as if I had been turned to stone.
“If you’re going to denounce him as an unnatural and wicked sinner,” Vanessa said, “I really would appreciate a warning.”
Was why she had told me about her family in advance. To protect her brother and his . . . his lover.
“No,” I said finally. “Will not denounce anyone.”
“Rodger was very antique about it. Refused to have Oliver mentioned in his house, that whole ‘honor of the descent’ nonsense.” She sounded as she had in Esmer, bright and hard, but
this time I understood that she was defending herself.
I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, steadily. Said, “I am violet myself.” Had certainly been no secret in Rothmarlin that the margrave preferred chasing boys, no secret that when I went to Barthas Cross, I sought the jezebels of Clowder Place instead of those of Golden Row, but I had never said the words before, never admitted it might be . . . more. Save in that ugly confession to Intended Gye, and that was a nightmare and wrapped in nightmare and was not the same.
“Oh,” said Vanessa in a very small voice.
I knew not what to say to that, either. Am sorry? But sorry for what?
“Is that why you never married?” Vanessa said, as close to timid as I had yet heard her.
“No. Yes. I know not.” I sighed. “Is not easy to go courting when you spend the summer months at war and the winter months tending to all the matters you neglected during the summer. And then with the Insurgence . . .”
“Yes,” said she. “Did you have someone? Is that why you—”
“No,” I said, too sharply.
“All right,” she said, and the journey to Isser Chase ended as it had begun, in silence.
“Oh may the angels love us,” Vanessa said as the carriage slowed to a halt. “She’s got the whole family out. Ortenzia’s been crying. And what in the Lady’s name is Amabel doing out of Kennerack? I can see she’s increasing from here.” She huffed out something that was a laugh or a sigh or possibly both. “Brace yourself.”
I heard Springett put the step down from the rumble seat; a moment later, the carriage door opened and someone said, “Welcome back to Isser Chase, Miss Vanessa.”
“Thank you, Moss.” The carriage jounced as she climbed down, and I heard her say, “Springett will see to Mr. Brightmore.”
As someone assuredly must.
But Springett was as tactful about this as he was about everything else, and I was grateful for his support, knowing that Vanessa’s entire family was watching.
“Thank you, Springett,” said Vanessa, and she took my arm. I let her lead me forward. Whatever quarrels one might have with a fellow soldier, one did not leave his flank unguarded in battle.
“Vanessa, dearest!” I knew immediately where Vanessa had learned her hard, bright voice. “You look so well!”
Vanessa was as stiff as a poker under my hand, and her voice matched her mother’s when she said, “Mother, may I present my fiancé, Kay Brightmore. Kay, this is my mother, Paulina Shale.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said.
“Likewise,” said Mrs. Shale; she made no attempt at sincerity. “This is my husband, Laurent.”
“How d’you do?” in a nervous tenor.
“My daughter Amabel, and her husband John, Lord Waring.” Amabel’s voice was soft, a mumble drowned in shyness; her husband’s conveyed infinite disapproval.
“My daughter-in-law, Ortenzia Biddick.”
“A pleasure, Mr. Brightmore.” Quite deep for a woman’s voice, and with a strong foreign accent.
“And I’m Oliver Carey,” said another man, deeper voiced than Laurent Shale and without any of Lord Waring’s hostility. “Welcome to Isser Chase.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Moss will show you to your rooms,” said he. “We don’t keep fashionable hours—dine with the primroses—so you’ll want to change.” No, not hostile, but not overly cordial, either.
“How is Ambrose, Oliver?” Vanessa said, warning in her voice.
“He’s fine,” said Oliver, just as tightly. “You’ll see him at dinner.” A tiny, awkward pause, but Oliver Carey was clearly not about to apologize to me for anything. “Moss!”
Springett helped me change for dinner—a Corambin custom I found baffling—and took me downstairs again. “The sitting room, sir,” he said and established me in a chair before padding away again.
“You must be Kay Brightmore,” said a man’s voice, young, light, rather nervous. “I’m Ambrose Teller. Vanessa might have mentioned me?”
“Yes. I’m pleased to meet you.”
A pause in which he was almost audibly wondering if Vanessa had mentioned everything, then he said, “I grieved for the death of Prince Gerrard.”
I am still grieving. But I said, “Thank you. I hope now only that Governor Albern will be just.”
“Oh you may be sure of that,” said a voice behind me, and my grip on the chair arms went white-knuckled.
Thomas Albern, Duke of Glimmering.
“Your Grace,” said Ambrose Teller, even more nervously. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You were preoccupied.” Glimmering’s footsteps came around my chair. “Understandably so. It is not every evening one dines with the architect of a civil war.”
“You flatter me,” said I.
“Nothing but a simple soldier?” Glimmering asked mockingly. “You don’t expect anyone to believe that, do you? Of the Cougar of Rothmarlin?”
“I care not what you believe,” said I. I knew that he could see the way my hands were clawed about the chair arms, but I could not relax them.
I heard a door open; Vanessa said, rather breathlessly, “My lord duke! I didn’t know you were visiting us!”
“Vanessa,” said Glimmering, turning away from me. “As lovely as ever. Yes, I confess I imposed myself on your mother. I wanted to speak to you, and not in Murtagh’s ambit.”
“To me?” she said; she sounded surprised.
“Yes. After dinner perhaps. Unless you want to discuss your future prospects in front of your mother.”
“Your Grace’s acumen is uncanny,” Vanessa said, and I smelled lilies; she had come past him to stand beside me. Perhaps she, too, had learned somehow the difference between a friend and a fellow soldier.
That dinner proved that Paulina Shale, as a mother, made my own mother seem positively benevolent. She had not been very interested in me, even less interested in Serena and Isobel, but at least she had never indulged in acts of outright and deliberate sabotage. Listening to Mrs. Shale lecturing Lady Waring on her marital duties, I felt my mother’s indifference as a blessing.
Mrs. Shale ignored her son entirely; she spent most of the meal alternating criticisms of Lady Waring and Mrs. Biddick with rather unpleasant adulation of Glimmering. Was very clear that, though it might have been his idea, she had known precisely what she was doing in inviting him to Isser Chase while Vanessa and I were visiting. Over dessert, she turned on Vanessa. She began by inquiring pointedly after Richard, clearly faulting Vanessa, as I had, for leaving her child at Grimglass. “Isn’t he lonely, Vanessa? He must miss his father very much—you know, Thomas, that Rodger died at Marrah Ford.”
I remembered Marrah Ford; the water had been churned to mud in the first charge, and it became progressively thicker and fouler and redder throughout the long slow torpid afternoon. I remembered the flies buzzing drunkenly, remembered the dead floating away down the Crawcour, remembered washing and washing that night, and being unable to get the vile mud out from beneath my fingernails. I remembered the Crawcour stained red in great clouds that would have been beautiful had one not known their cause.
“Actually,” Vanessa said, “Richard barely remembers his father. Rodger spent very little time with him.”
“The Warden of Grimglass has so many responsibilities. It must be hard even for a very fit and active man to make time for his family.”
“Oh, no,” said Vanessa. “Rodger’s steward took care of most of that, and his brother Geoffrey the rest. Rodger simply had no interest in children.”
That stymied Mrs. Shale only momentarily. She turned to asking about Vanessa’s “little school friends,” and Vanessa answered, her tone becoming brighter and harder with every syllable as she recounted marriages and children and social successes. I realized that Mrs. Shale knew the answers before she asked the questions. These questions were strategic, designed to emphasize Vanessa’s undistinguished first marriage and the positively disgraceful alliance her secon
d marriage would be. It was an ugly performance, and it finally drove me to intervene.
“Was remarking earlier to Vanessa,” said I, cutting across Mrs. Shale’s next salvo, “how kind it is of your son to share his home with you and your third husband, Paulina. You must be a truly devoted mother to inspire such devotion in return—I myself, I am afraid, am not of nearly so affectionate a disposition.”
“And what,” said Mrs. Shale, her voice awful with affront, “is that supposed to mean?”
“Mean?” said I. “It means nothing. Was merely an observation.”
“I think Kay and I will take our coffee in the library, Mother,” Vanessa said, and we withdrew in good order.
Coffee was an upper-class Corambin fad, imported from Ygres Sur; I did not care for it, and Vanessa confessed that evening that she doctored hers with as much cream and sugar as she could get away with. She said, “You don’t care what people think of you, do you?”
“An I did, would be but one more misery atop the pile. For truly I have lost that race without the flag ever being dropped.”
“How do you mean?”
“One,” I said. “Am a Caloxan in Corambis. Two, am—as Glimmering so thoughtfully reminded me—the ‘Cougar of Rothmarlin’ and half Usaran in the bargain. Mine own countrymen think me a savage as much as you do.”
“I don’t—”
“Three, am called a butcher by the Corambins and a coward by the Caloxans. Four, have lost my honor and land and power and am now dependent on the charity of my brother-in-law. Five, I have no doubt that this marriage between us will be seen as everything from a reward from the Convocation to—”
“Oh, Grimglass is no reward, believe me,” said Vanessa.
“I know you like it not, but—”
“Like it? It’s not a matter of—”
A knock at the door, which opened before either of us answered. “Am I intruding?” said Glimmering, and I hated how easily I recognized his voice. “Only, your mother is organizing paper games in the drawing room, and you and I should talk. You can send Rothmarlin upstairs.”
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