“As you wish,” Carioca said. He took another sip of his tea. “There is, however, another matter that must be discussed.”
“Quite,” my father said. He’d never been a fan of small talk. “We do have to take the children back to school before sunset.”
Carioca nodded, then leaned forward. “You have my Family Sword. We want it back.”
Dad looked surprised. I kicked myself, mentally. I’d meant to tell him about the sword ... I hadn't meant to keep it a secret ... but it had slipped my mind. I’d thought we could discuss it after the hearing, somewhere well away from prying ears. But Akin had told his father ... I swallowed a word that would have had Mum washing my mouth out with soap. I should have informed Dad at once. He was not going to be happy.
He looked at me. “Explain.”
I swallowed, hard. “Magister Tallyman gave me an old sword - an Object of Power - to repair,” I told him. “I succeeded--” - Dad’s eyebrows crawled up “--but no one could handle the sword until Akin touched it. He was the only one who could lift it.”
Dad’s face went very still. “Indeed?”
“Yes, Dad,” I said. He was going to kill me. Or ground me for the rest of my life. Or ... I really should have told him. He wasn't going to thank me for letting him get blindsided by his rival. “It’s their Family Sword.”
He studied me for a long moment. I didn't dare look away. A Family Sword was literally priceless - or at least it had been, before I discovered my talents. And yet, it was useless to anyone who didn't have a blood tie to the family. No one could even move such a sword without being a relative. I’d had to use a cradle of metal to move the sword into a box, then carry it upstairs to the dorm.
“We shall discuss this later,” he said, in a tone that froze my blood. “Where did you get the blade?”
“Magister Tallyman gave it to me,” I said, again.
“That’s true, sir,” Akin said, hastily. “We didn't know who owned the sword until I touched it.”
“We are not accusing your daughter of stealing the sword,” Carioca said, smoothly. “However, as I’m sure you can understand, we want the sword back.”
“I see,” Dad said. I could see the tension in his stance as he looked back at his rival. I wondered if they could see it. “How did you lose it?”
“The family records state it was lost during the House War between Rubén and Caldecott, two hundred years ago,” Carioca told us. “It was never actually recovered.”
I forced myself to think. That House War had been particularly bloody, if I recalled correctly. House Rubén had been trying to force its way back to the top and House Caldecott had stood in the way. Rubén had won, decisively. The remnants of House Caldecott had fled the city, leaving their clients to make whatever terms they could with the victors. But no one had ever mentioned a missing sword.
The blade was damaged, I recalled. It was difficult to damage an Object of Power, particularly when it was in use, but ... someone might have done it. Magister Tallyman had assumed that the owner had tried to remove a gemstone ... perhaps, instead, someone had done it deliberately, knowing it would render the sword useless. One final burst of spite from the defeated house?
“One would assume you gave up ownership,” my father said, smoothly. He seemed to have recovered, although I wasn't fooled. I was in deep trouble. Dad might just rethink his position on some of Great Aunt Stregheria’s suggested punishments. “It certainly doesn't belong to you now.”
“But my son is the only one who can use it,” Carioca countered. “The sword is ours.”
It certainly isn't any use to us, I thought. Technically, it was mine; practically, Carioca was right. The sword wasn't any use to me. But Dad won’t want to give it up without a fight.
“You lost the blade, somehow,” Dad snapped. “It’s Cat’s, now.”
Carioca looked at me. “Name your price.”
Dad reached out and tapped my hand, hard enough to sting. “We will consider the matter,” he said. “But it isn't something that can be decided immediately.”
“The sword is ours,” Carioca repeated. “And if you don’t hand it over, we will sue you for custody.”
You make it sound as though the sword is a child, I thought.
“You could try,” Dad said. “But the chain of ownership was broken.”
I frowned. Magister Tallyman hadn't known who’d originally owned the sword. Or had he? How much of what he'd told me had been true? If he’d lied about that, what else had he lied about? Was he a Caldecott? Perhaps the last survivor of a dead house? I considered it, then dismissed the thought as absurd. Magister Tallyman certainly wasn’t old enough to have fought in the House War. Maybe one of his ancestors had fought in the war.
He could have been one of the Caldecott clients, I thought. Someone who changed his allegiance after the end of the war, but kept his mouth shut about the sword.
“I believe that a court may disagree with you,” Carioca pointed out. “Who deliberately throws away a family sword?”
“We shall see,” Dad said. “Do we have any other business?”
“Not at the moment,” Carioca said. “Are you still planning to visit the Guardhouse?”
“Perhaps,” Dad said. He stood. “I’ll inform you of what, if anything, happens.”
I looked at Akin. He met my eyes, just for a second. I saw embarrassment, and horror, and something else clearly written on his face. I doubted he’d known that his father intended to confront my father. He would have warned me. I thought he’d warn me. Isabella would certainly not have warned me, just to watch us flail, but Akin had struck me as a decent person. He still struck me as a decent person. We’d been through too much together to simply become enemies overnight.
His father might not have told him what he had in mind, I thought. I wasn't sure when Akin had been picked up from Jude’s, but he’d definitely been there over the last week. He wouldn't have had many chances to talk to his father in private. Akin might not even have mentioned the sword until today.
“Cat, come,” Dad said.
I rose and followed him out of the room. It was clear he wasn't pleased. I had to practically run to keep up with him as he reached the top of the stairs and strode down to the hall. A handful of noblemen - all of lesser houses - were gathered at the bottom of the stairs. They started babbling as soon as they saw us, calling out questions and requests for alliances and other things I didn't understand. Dad barely slowed as he reached the bottom, forcing them to jump aside. I followed in his wake, grimly aware I was in real trouble. Dad had become patriarch because he was good at handling people. Now, he was ploughing through them in his haste to get away.
“I need you to repair my family’s heirloom,” someone I vaguely recognised called. “I will pay ...”
Dad glared at him. “Later!”
The crowd parted. Dad resumed his walk. I followed him through the corridors and out into the warm autumn air. Winter was coming, in theory, but Shallot wouldn't have snow for months to come. I wondered if playing with the snow - and having snowball fights - would be more fun when I was wearing a protective charm or two, instead of being a sitting duck for every hex hurled in my general direction. My distant cousin had managed to animate a string of what he called Snow Goons and send them out to do battle on his behalf. I would have enjoyed it more if I’d been given a fair chance to play.
Dad spoke quickly to a guardsman, then waited outside Magus Court. I tried to ignore the shocked looks we were getting from the staff, who’d probably expected more warning of our departure. They’d get in trouble, under normal circumstances, if the carriage hadn't been ready for us ... now, I thought they’d be fine. It was me who was in trouble.
The carriage came 'round from the back, the horses looking around with interest. I stepped back as the carriage came to a halt, careful not to stand too close. I’d never really liked horses, although Mum and Dad had insisted that I learnt to ride. Alana had kept casting spells to make me fall o
ff the poor beasts and land on my rear. I fully intended to build a proper flying machine of my own, later on, and fly everywhere. I’d already built one somewhat-working model.
“Get inside,” Dad ordered, as the valet opened the door. His voice was sharp enough to cut lead. “I’ll be along in a moment.”
I scrambled up and into the carriage, trying not to jump as the door was slammed closed . Dad really wasn’t pleased. I hadn't seen him so angry since ... since Alana had pulled a particularly nasty practical joke on one of our clients. The poor guy had been badly shocked, to the point where he’d almost broken ties with us altogether. Dad had practically threatened to disinherit her if she ever did anything like that again. And now ...
The bench was cushioned, but it felt hard as I sat. I wished I’d brought a book or something to distract me, but I doubted that anything would distract me. Dad was angry ... and he was right to be angry. I’d inadvertently caused him a serious problem. The butterflies in my stomach were getting worse, even though we were leaving Magus Court. I was tempted to clamber out of the coach and sneak back to school. Dad could hardly get madder at me.
Of course he can, I told myself. You were kidnapped once, from one of the most heavily-warded buildings in the country, and now you’re planning to walk out alone?
I flinched as the door opened. Dad climbed into the coach and sat down opposite me. A moment later, the carriage shook and rattled away from Magus Court. It wouldn't be long before we were back at Jude’s. Unless Dad had somewhere else he wanted to go, or just told the driver to take the long way back to the school. He’d need plenty of time to give me the telling-off of my life.
I sucked in my breath. It was time to face the music.
Chapter Five
“Start from the beginning,” Dad commanded. His eyes were fixed on me. “Where did the sword come from?”
“Magister Tallyman,” I said. I’d told him that already, hadn't I? Did Dad think I’d lied to Akin and his father? Or him? “He said he didn't know where the sword came from originally.”
Dad’s brow furrowed. He didn't look convinced. “And he just gave it to you?”
“He said I could try to repair it,” I told him. “And if I succeeded in repairing the sword, I could keep it.”
“I see,” Dad said, in the same tone he’d used when my sisters and I had tried to talk ourselves out of trouble with a wild and unbelievable story. “And you had no idea it belonged to them?”
“There wasn't a crest on the sword,” I recalled. “Dad ... it could be his mother’s family sword, not his father’s.”
“They’d still have a claim on the blade,” Dad said. His voice hardened. “Why didn't you tell me?”
I winced. “I ... I didn't want to write it down,” I said. “I planned to tell you after ... after the hearing. I didn't think Akin would tell his father.”
Dad gave me a sharp look. “And would you not have told me, if things had been reversed?”
I made a face. Would I have kept my mouth shut if I’d rediscovered a long-lost family heirloom? And a sword, blood-bonded to my family? A sign of our bloodline as well as a weapon of tremendous power? I wanted to think I wouldn't have betrayed my friend for my family, but I was honest enough to admit that I might have had no choice. Fundamentally, Akin’s father had a point. The sword was theirs.
“I might have done,” I said. “I ...”
“You should have done,” Dad said, sharply. “An Object of Power that belongs to us, by rights? Yes, you should have told me. And Akin should have told his father. And that allowed him to blindside me.”
I lowered my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“So you should be,” Dad said. He sounded more reflective than angry. I wasn’t reassured. “You do realise that this changes everything?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“There are thousands of broken Objects of Power lying around,” Dad added. “How long will it be before their owners start asking you to repair them?”
I said nothing. It was sheer luck I’d been able to repair the sword. If the spellform had collapsed violently, when the gemstone had been removed, the remainder of the sword might have been rendered irreparable. Another Object of Power might be impossible to repair, assuming I could figure out how to repair it. I’d been able to work out how to save the sword, but some of the other Objects of Power? It would take months, perhaps years, to even work out where to begin.
Dad had another concern. “And merely repairing one or more of those broken Objects of Power will shift the balance of power,” he warned. “There are factions that would react violently to any suggestion that they should be repaired.”
I swallowed, hard. “We ... we could just give them the sword.”
My father snorted, rudely. “I suspect they wouldn't want us to just give them anything,” he said. “They’d be happier finding a way to force us to surrender it. The obligation we could demand in exchange for the sword ...”
He shook his head. “You are not to let them have it, understand? “
I hesitated. If I simply gave the sword to Akin ...
Dad tapped my shoulder. “You are not to let them have it,” he repeated. “Not until we work out a way to use it, or at least defuse the problems mere possession of the sword will cause us. Perhaps we can work out some form of trade.”
He met my eyes. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Dad,” I said, sullenly.
I took a breath. “Dad ... this feud needs to stop.”
Dad made a strangled sound. It took me a moment to realise he was trying not to laugh.
“I quite agree,” he said. “But, right now, we’re on top. They will never be satisfied being second best.”
He leaned back against the wood. “The sword changes things,” he said. “If we just give them the blade, as you suggested, it will imply that they’re supplicants, coming to us for succour. It will practically make them our clients. They will want - they will need - to find a way to balance the scales. But what can they give us that matches the sword?”
“Perhaps they have a broken Object of Power I could repair, one they could give to us in exchange,” I said. “Would that not maintain the balance?”
“Perhaps,” Dad echoed. “But there’s another problem. Tensions have been rising, as you are well aware. We may be looking at another House War. And if we are ... I really don't want to give them the wretched sword!”
I swallowed, hard. “They’re not going to fight us!”
“They’re an immensely competitive family,” Dad said, wryly. “They’re not going to accept us as their betters indefinitely.”
I wanted to argue, but I knew he had a point. Isabella was immensely competitive, even after I’d bested her in a duel. And Akin wasn't so showy about it, but he was competitive too. I didn't want to believe that he’d continue the feud, if he succeeded his father as patriarch, yet he might not have a choice. Too many of his relatives and clients would demand that he make a bid for supremacy.
And if they had the sword ...
I felt sick. I didn't know precisely what the sword could do - its full powers would only manifest for its wielder - but I knew what other such blades could do. Cut through wards as if they didn't exist, slice through armour as though it was butter, slash hexes and curses out of the air ... even protect their wielder from offensive magic. It wouldn't have been a significant threat in the days of the Thousand-Year Empire, but now ... it could give House Rubén a significant advantage. And if the blade had some of the more mythical powers ... it could win them the war.
“It gets worse,” Dad told me. “Remember last year? They believed ... they believed there was something wrong with our bloodline. Our clients were even starting to get cold feet.”
“Because of me,” I said, numbly.
“I’m afraid so,” Dad said. He rested his hand on my shoulder, just for a second. “They thought ... they thought that they had an opening to displace us. Now ... thanks to you ... we are stronger than we�
�ve ever been. But it will take time for that power to manifest. That gives them a chance to bring us down before you can really come into play.”
“They might lose,” I pointed out.
“They will lose anyway, once you start mass-producing Objects of Power,” Dad pointed out, curtly. “Even a handful of new Objects of Power - the really legendary Objects of Power - would change the world. Carioca may not want to start something, but you can bet your allowance that his relatives will. It’s quite possible that one of his relatives was behind the kidnapping, Cat. Akin’s death wouldn't necessarily have been a bad thing for them.”
The Zero Equation Page 5