Red Sister

by Mark Lawrence

  The girls groaned at that and got out their slates. Nona did her best to pay attention, but rocks proved less interesting than they sounded, and they hadn’t sounded that interesting to begin with. Time and again she found herself thinking of the moon that some distant ancestor of hers had set to hang above the world, and about how one thin and breakable mirror seemed to be all that stood between everyone she might ever know and the ice advancing from north and south.

  • • •

  AFTER LUNCH CLERA led Nona to the novices’ cloisters, flipping her penny as she went.

  “Why are you always playing with that?” Nona asked. It seemed that Clera, who thought herself poor now her family’s fortune lay ruined, considered the penny a trivial sum, no more than a toy, but Nona had seen a child purchased from her parents for a single penny and to see one tossed about so lightly always gave her a sense of disquiet.

  “My father gave it to me. Told me to learn how to turn one into many.” Clera shrugged. “The Corridor is divided into a hundred lands, maybe a thousand, but you know what doesn’t care about those borders or who rules there? Two things.” She counted them off on her fingers. “The Corridor wind, and money. Traders move through it like blood in a body. No queen or emperor is stupid enough to try to stop them. That’s why the rich spice their food with black-salt from the mines in Cremot. Nobody from Cremot has ever set foot in the empire, but the money flows and the trade flows.” Clera flicked her penny up and caught it. “Money is at the centre of everything we do: it has the loudest voice.” She sounded as though she were quoting her father.

  “But . . . you’re training to be a nun. Nuns don’t have money.” Nona wasn’t even sure if Clera was allowed to own the penny. She certainly kept it hidden in classes.

  “When I’m trained I’ll leave.” She put the coin into a pocket. “The kind of education we get here is highly sought after . . .”

  “But—” Nona was going to ask who paid her confirmation fee—it must be a hefty sum to pay for board and keep along with an education that gave such valuable qualifications—but she bit down on the question, not wanting to find it pointing back at her. Instead she nodded. “I’m going to do the same thing.” She thought of the priest who took Markus and beat Four-Foot to death. “I don’t want to be a nun.”

  • • •

  THE NOVICES’ CLOISTERS proved to be a galleried walkway around the internal courtyard of the building that served both as laundry and repair for nuns and novices alike. Fifty or so novices of all ages either walked slow circuits, chatting as they went, or sat on the long stone benches looking out through the arches onto the gravelled yard at the middle. At the middle of the yard a single huge tree, the centre oak, spread its branches, though quite what anchored it to the rock Nona couldn’t guess.

  “The nuns’ cloisters are much grander,” Clera said. “The sisters come out in the dead of night and lie in the centre waiting for the focus.”

  “No they don’t,” Nona said.

  “Naked!” Clera nodded her head.

  “Clera!” Ruli made a face.

  “Well they didn’t do it when I was sleeping in the cells,” Nona said.

  “You were sleeping,” Clera said.

  Nona tried to imagine Sister Wheel, Sister Rule, and the matronly Sister Sand moonbathing. “I think you’re the one who’s dreaming, Clera.”

  “We’ve got Shade next.” Jula came to join them, squeezing between Nona and Ruli. “Have you told her yet?”

  “Told who what?” Clera fell silent as Arabella walked past with several girls in tow. She always seemed to be laughing. Nona didn’t think she would be laughing if she’d had to leave the luxury of life in a noble family for the convent and had assassins trying to kill her.

  “About the Poisoner!” Jula said as soon as Arabella had passed.

  Clera rolled her eyes. “I hope nobody tells Arabella.”

  Jula turned towards Nona, face earnest. “Mistress Shade always poisons new girls.”

  “What!”

  “Tries to,” Clera said, as if it were nothing.

  “Well I haven’t seen her fail yet.” Jula pressed her lips into a thin line, remembering. “She got you, Clera. And me. And Ruli.”

  “I was sick for days.” Ruli mimed throwing up. “I played up in Blade just to get my head shaved so I wouldn’t get vomit in my hair.”

  “So don’t eat anything she gives you,” said Jula.

  “Or let her touch you,” said Ruli.

  “Best just let her do it. She’ll get you anyway,” Clera said. “It will be fun to watch at least.”

  “Cle—”

  “I meant funny to watch Arabella get done.” Clera spoke across Jula’s objection.

  “That’s terrible.” Nona scowled. “Doesn’t the abbess know?”

  “I think the abbess encourages her!” Clera gave a crooked grin. “If being poisoned is the worst thing that happens to you in Mistress Shade’s class then count yourself lucky. She’s the meanest bit—”

  “Clera!” Jula seemed to suffer coarse language as though the words were physical blows.

  “Well she is! Nobody gives punishments like her. It’s her sharp tongue that’s the worst though. Never answer her back, Nona, she can take you apart with a sentence.”

  Bray sounded, sonorous and lingering across the cloisters.

  “Time to go.” Clera got to her feet in a hurry. She’d never looked properly worried about being late before.

  “You could have warned me earlier.” Nona grabbed her shawl. “About the poisoning.”

  Clera shrugged. “There’s nothing you can do about it. Besides, it’s not something anyone wants to talk about over lunch.” They joined the elbowing crowd struggling to leave through the main arch. “She poisoned the soup for Grey Class once. Got all of them, just because none of them passed an exam.”

  • • •

  THEY GOT TO Shade breathless. The lessons were held in the natural caves that riddled the thickness of the plateau. Mistress Academia had been explaining something about their formation in the previous class . . . rainwater dissolving paths through the rock, if Nona remembered right . . . it didn’t sound right . . .

  “We’re not last!” Clera slapped Nona’s arm. “You never want to be last to this class.”

  They came up short at the steps down into the caves, a narrow flight sealed with an iron gate just a few yards in. The steps lay behind Heart Hall and were so close to the plateau’s edge that Nona wondered if the caves might not reach the cliffs and open out like hungry mouths.

  A tall, slender novice with dead white skin and dark hair stood at the top step, marking off the girls’ names on a slate as they arrived. She glanced Nona’s way with blue eyes of an unnatural and alarming shade.

  “That’s Bhenta,” Clera whispered, “from Holy Class. She’s the Poisoner’s assistant in the laboratories. Don’t mess with her.”

  A minute later Bhenta looked up from her slate and took a hefty iron key from a pocket inside her habit. “All here, then. Novice Hessa, good to see you’ve graced us with your presence this time. Novice Jula, you appear to have had a close shave since our last lesson.”

  “She tries to be snarky like the Poisoner,” Clera whispered. “But she can’t really do it.”

  “Novice Clera, get your tongue out of that new girl’s ear and pay attention to the steps.” Bhenta clipped Clera around the head as they passed her.

  The steps led steeply down, the limestone in places oozing and thick with slime. In some spots Nona thought that Bhenta, bringing up the rear, would have to duck in order to avoid scraping her head. Within a few steps a faint stink began to wrap them: the sting of lye, sour wine, and other components Nona couldn’t name. She wrinkled her nose as the smell grew stronger.

  The daylight followed them further than Nona had imagined, and just as it grew so
dim that she started to have difficulty seeing the steps another source of illumination took over. The new light turned out to be a fat candle positioned in a niche at a bend in the descent. Its light carried them down to a section of hand-hewn tunnel with a wooden door to one side, before which the girls started to queue.

  Bhenta came down, snuffing the candle then squeezing past the line to push into the room beyond. The girls followed her.

  This chamber was also hand-hewn, though perhaps from a smaller natural cave as some areas on the soot-stained ceiling looked irregular and didn’t show any pick-marks. Light entered by several horizontal shafts in the far wall, each five or six foot long and showing patches of sky. Nona guessed they must open onto the cliffs.

  Three long tables ran the length of the room with benches to either side, and all manner of jars, pots, glass bottles, and sealed gourds arranged along the middle of each. At the far end a nun stood with her back to the door, writing on a chalkboard. The novices seated themselves at the tables without the usual fuss of who sat by who.

  The woman at the board was neither tall nor short, shapely certainly, but Nona couldn’t guess at her age other than to say, “not old.”

  Bhenta closed the door, and Mistress Shade, the Poisoner, turned around with a warm smile for the class. “Ah, Nona dear, do come up here. And you, Arabella. I always like to take a good look at the new girls.”

  Nona blinked and stood. The Poisoner had had a pretty good look at her already in the bathhouse. “Yes, Sister Apple,” she said.

  They came to stand before Sister Apple, Nona shooting a sideways glance at the Jotsis girl, apparently serene despite just two nights ago sinking a knife into the spot where Nona had been sleeping. The idea that Arabella could hide her murderous instincts so deep that not a trace showed on the surface unnerved Nona more than the act itself. She knew her own emotions were written across her face the moment she felt them, possibly even before.

  “I do believe you’re less skinny already, Nona. Another year of convent meals and we might have a decent amount of meat on those bones. And Arabella Jotsis . . . a pleasure to have you join us. What is it like to be part of prophecy?” Sister Apple raised her hand as Arabella opened her mouth. “Best not to answer that one, dear.” She took an embossed tin, enamelled in black and white, from her habit and opened it with a squeeze that sent the lid springing back. Inside were a dozen translucent yellow balls, each no larger than a thumbnail. “A sweetmeat to welcome you to Shade Class. We’re going to have such a good time.” She smiled that same slow and easy smile she first greeted Nona with on the way to the convent.

  “I’ve stuffed myself.” Nona held her stomach. She had in fact stuffed herself as she did at every meal, but the sweetmeats did look enticing, glowing like the stained glass in Path Tower.

  “A pity.” Sister Apple turned to Arabella and held the box out.

  “Thank you.” Arabella reached out and took one daintily between thumb and forefinger. Nona noticed that both digits had a waxy sheen to them. “I’ll save it for after class.”

  Sister Apple closed the box and tucked it away. “To your seats then, girls. We’ve a lot to learn today!”

  Nona followed Arabella back to the nearest of the three long tables. The older girl returned to her place first, wincing as she sat, then shifting position with a frown. Nona found her place and lowered herself towards the bench before pausing, held by a sudden suspicion with her backside just an inch or two from the polished wood. She shifted and turned, narrowing her eyes as she made a quick study of the area beneath her. Something glinted. A short pin held upright on a tiny dark base. She flicked it to the floor and sat. Bhenta must have placed the thing while Nona was up at the front of the class.

  “Well done, Nona!” Sister Apple clapped her hands. “Arabella . . . less well done.”

  Nona looked across at Arabella. The girl’s face had a peculiarly stiff look to it, just her furious eyes and twitching grimace to indicate she wasn’t simply concentrating on Mistress Shade’s words. She jerked her body minutely to the left but seemed incapable of more movement.

  “You passed the test, Nona.” Sister Apple smiled. “I won’t try to trick you again.” She turned back to the chalkboard, where she tapped her chalk against a leaf-shape then underlined the word beside it. “Today we will be learning how to brew catweed to potency, a close cousin to segren root from which I made the tincture that was on the pin-trap Nona so cleverly avoided and Arabella did not. Commonly we call the tincture lock-up. The first—”

  A tap-tap-tap on the door turned Sister Apple back towards the class. “Come.”

  Sister Kettle poked her head into the classroom, a mischievous grin on her face. “I’ve just come from the scriptorium to give Nona her writing supplies.” She pushed fully through the half-open door, a dark slate in one hand and chalk sticks in the other. “For our lessons together.”

  “Go on then.” Sister Apple smiled tolerantly and waved Sister Kettle in.

  The younger nun—Nona thought Kettle might be twenty-something to Apple’s thirty—tiptoed over in exaggerated fashion and placed the slate and chalks before Nona on the table. She removed a folded wiping cloth from her habit and set that down between them before mouthing “sorry” at Mistress Shade and tiptoeing out, waving to the novices from the doorway once out of sight from the board.

  “As I was saying.” Sister Apple rapped the board. “Catweed.”

  Nona looked down at her new possessions. Her only possessions other than the quill, scroll and ink the abbess gave her . . . and a briefly owned knife. She picked the slate up, marvelling at its even corners and uniform thickness. The bigs in Nana Even’s seven-day class sat with rough pieces of slate they had dug themselves from Ebson’s Hole. While Sister Apple continued to describe the locations in which catweed might be found Nona set the slate back down before her, finding it slightly sticky. Her fingertips held a brownish stain where she’d touched it, and had a faint smell of rot.

  “Catweed in its natural state can be eaten without adverse effects,” Sister Apple continued. “Though you would be advised against consuming it in quantity. That would lead to stomach cramps and numbness in the extremities. Besides, it has a sour and unpleasant taste.”

  Sister Apple continued to expound upon the merits of catweed for several minutes before pausing to look at Nona. “And how are you feeling, novice?”

  Nona licked her lips. Her mouth felt strangely dry and cottony.

  “You . . . lied.” She discovered herself weak in every limb. An attempt to rise merely made her slump over the table.

  “It was entirely evident that I was trying to poison you, Nona dear. You don’t think that someone who would poison you might also stoop to not telling the truth on all occasions?”

  “L . . . iar.” No part of Nona’s body would obey her. Where Arabella had gone rigid Nona had turned limp, but neither of them had command of their muscles.

  Sister Apple crossed the room to stand beside Nona, setting a hand to her shoulder. “Do you know what the most insidious poison is, Nona?” Sister Apple pursed her lips. “That means ‘worst.’”

  “N—” The table filled most of Nona’s vision now as her head met it. She could see Sister Apple from hips to ribcage, Arabella’s arm, Clera behind them both.

  “N—? Catweed got your tongue?” Sister Apple retrieved the slate with a cloth-wrapped hand. “Trust, Nona. Trust is the most insidious of poisons. Trust sidesteps all of your precautions.” Behind the nun Clera rolled her eyes. “So give your trust sparingly. Or better still, not at all. And, Novice Clera . . . you will be grinding stinkcorns in the fume cavern for an hour after the lesson finishes.”

  13

  SHADE CLASS PASSED slowly but with little else to pay attention to Nona learned a lot about the properties and preparation of catweed, the primary ingredient of the preparation known as “boneless” with which she had been
poisoned. She also learned about segren root, from which the “lock-up” tincture with which Arabella had been poisoned was distilled. The most memorable fact was that catweed had an unpleasant aroma of decay whereas segren root when cut smelt like cat urine.

  “Segren root smells like a cat weed. Catweed does not.” Sister Apple tapped the board. “That should be easy to remember!”

  Nona didn’t see the demonstrations, though she did get to see Clera pinch the immobilized Arabella, twice.

  About ten minutes before the end of the lesson Nona found herself able to lift her head. All about her the novices were boiling small iron pans full of catweed and vinegar over trays of glowing charcoal. The stench was incredible.

  By the time Nona could sit up, Sister Apple was moving around the class checking the preparations for colour and consistency.

  “You should all be decanting the liquid now. Use a fine sieve, and make sure you’ve added the alkoid salt before sieving, and the quicksilver after. Next lesson we’ll be distilling our liquor to recover the essence with which Nona’s slate was coated. It will penetrate the skin, though slowly and less effectively—for optimal results it needs to be consumed while fresh.”

  Nona and Arabella brought up the rear when the class climbed the long stair to escape into fresh air at last. Sister Apple supported Nona while Bhenta helped Arabella along.

  “You’ll be fully recovered within the hour,” Sister Apple said, sending Nona on her way at the top of the stairs with a pat.

  • • •

  NONA DIDN’T FEEL entirely herself until bedtime. She sat on her bed chatting with Ruli until Clera finally showed up from the bathhouse.

  “I had to soak for hours to get the stink off me! Look! I’m all wrinkled up!” Clera held her fingers out, the pads of each ridged from too long in the water.

  Nona sniffed but didn’t like to say she could still smell the stinkcorns. “How did she know?”