The Traitor and the Chalice

by Jane Fletcher

  “I went there to take my oath and stayed a few months, but I came back as soon as I could.”

  Jemeryl shook her head in bemusement. “You like it here?”

  “Mostly. Some bits aren’t so good. I’ve got to help Tapley with his precious ravens this afternoon.”

  “It can’t be worse than working in the hospital.”

  “It is. Believe me, it is.” Vine groaned for effect. “You’re free this afternoon. Why don’t you take my place and find out?”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve arranged to meet someone in town.” The words drew an immediate reaction. Too late, Jemeryl realised she had been careless. Anything told to Vine would be circulating the entire school by sunset.

  “Known them long?”

  “We met on the boat from Lyremouth.” Jemeryl lied. She certainly could not let Vine know they had been sent together by the Guardian’s orders.

  “A, er...good friend?”

  Jemeryl shrugged, not wanting to answer. Vine was on the trail of gossip. Fortunately, the dispensary was at hand, curtailing the conversation.

  As they reached the door, Vine stopped abruptly. “You’ve not met Orrago yet?”

  “No.”

  “She’s not...” Vine hesitated. “She’s old. She used to be principal, but her wits are going and she had to resign. She looks after the dispensary now. Sort of. She’s not really up to the job. You’ll see what I mean.”

  Vine knocked softly. “I wouldn’t want to wake her if she’s asleep,” she explained, but an elderly voice called out indistinctly.

  An obstacle prevented the door opening fully, and Vine had to slip in sideways. Jemeryl followed dubiously. She came to a halt just inside the room and stared around.

  A sweet, acrid smell pervaded everywhere. Mounds of dried vegetable matter littered every horizontal surface, stacked between precariously balanced bottles. Several crates stood in the centre of the room. It had been one of these blocking the door.

  Vine was making her way towards a high-backed armchair positioned in the sunlight beside a tall window. She beckoned Jemeryl to follow. Great care was required not to dislodge anything, but Jemeryl managed to squeeze safely past the overflowing ledges.

  The chair’s occupant was an old woman wrapped in a thick woollen blanket. Wispy strands of hair made a halo in the sunlight. Her face was deeply lined, as was the sunken skin between her knuckles.

  Vine spoke slowly. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’ve come to collect some things and want to introduce you to Jemeryl. She’s been sent here to study herbalism.”

  The watery eyes examined them uncertainly. Yet Jemeryl could sense the remnants of great power. In her day, Orrago had been one of the Coven’s foremost sorcerers. “You’re like...what’s her name...young Iralin.” A frown crossed the lined face. “I haven’t seen her for a while. Ask her to pop in and see me.”

  Jemeryl opened her mouth and then closed it again. Finally, she said, “I think you’re confused, ma’am. Iralin is a senior sorcerer at Lyremouth. She was my mentor.”

  “Oh, no. She’s a young thing, here to brush up her herbalism.”

  Vine spoke softly. “No, ma’am. Jemeryl is right. It’s a long time since Iralin was here.”

  Orrago’s gaze drifted away, and a pained expression crossed her face. Her hand tightened on the arm of the chair. “Maybe, maybe. People are getting to be like that.”

  Vine stepped into the silence. “Neame has given us a list of drugs she needs.” She held out the slate, but Orrago brushed it aside.

  “Let Frog see to it.” Orrago’s voice rose to a high-pitched waver. “Frog, come and be useful.”

  A large speckled toad hopped down from where it had been basking, unnoticed, in the sun. It crossed the floor in a waddling walk and then leapt onto the elderly sorcerer’s lap to examine the slate.

  “Frog will sort it out. I want to rest.” Orrago’s eyes closed, and she snuggled into her chair.

  With obvious affection, Vine tucked the blanket around the ancient sorcerer. Orrago’s features relaxed. Her hand reached out and squeezed Vine’s before returning to her lap.

  The two young sorcerers manoeuvred to the other end of the dispensary, where Frog was buried under a pile of papers. Only its webbed feet were visible, splaying out behind. A period of scrabbling followed before it re-emerged, dragging a vial of yellow liquid. Jemeryl watched as it then lurched across the desk and disappeared again into a half-open drawer.

  “Why does Orrago call him Frog? Surely she knows it’s a toad?”

  Vine glanced down the dispensary. From Orrago’s chair came soft, rasping snores. “It’s a joke of hers. She’s aware she gets people confused. She’ll probably call you Iralin next time you meet. She named him Frog because she didn’t see why a small amphibian should be the only one in the school she addresses correctly.”

  A succession of bumps and a forlorn croak came from the drawer. Frog crawled onto the bench with a small bag, which it laid beside the vial, before heading off again. While awaiting its return, Vine demonstrated how to enter items in the dispensary record. Before long, Frog’s task was complete. It regarded them with moist, bulging eyes, croaked a mournful goodbye, and then waddled back to its spot in the sun.

  Once they were outside again, Jemeryl asked, “How long has Orrago been like that?”

  “She retired as principal six years ago, but her mind had been going for some time. Most of us hoped Neame would take over as principal. She was deputy to Orrago, but Bramell got the post.”

  “Why not Neame?”

  Vine merely shrugged in answer.

  Back in the ward, Neame had been busy. Already, the patient was more alert. His eyes followed her every move. In fact, all the conscious patients were watching from their cots. Jemeryl knew Neame was admired by everyone who worked in the hospital. In the patients, she inspired a devotion that could only be called love. Jemeryl understood the reaction. Neame was able, by her mere presence, to lighten the oppressive atmosphere of the wards.

  Jemeryl and Vine supported the patient while he drank the contents of a tumbler. Once he was back on the cot, Neame turned to the two younger sorcerers. She picked up the vial and embarked on a lesson.

  “You see how the effervescence fades off through the shadow axis.” She indicated a strand of the fifth dimension.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Vine nodded quickly.

  Jemeryl was less certain.

  “This is what we need to de-skew the synthesis. Watch how the auras combine...”

  *

  Tevi stood with the noisy squad of mercenaries awaiting assignment outside the customs office. Half her mind was listening to the chatter, the rest was watching seagulls fighting over a fish head. In a world that could seem so alien, the seagulls were reassuringly the same as those of her childhood. A shout recalled her to the present.

  “Hey, Tevi. You’re with us. We’ve got the holds.”

  The speaker was Faren, one of the older customs officers. Tevi joined the other mercenaries in his small group. “How many ships?”

  “Three set to go on the tide. We’re going to be busy.”

  Tevi grinned. There were worse jobs. They set off for the moorings, but before they had gone twenty yards a burst of muffled laughter made her glance back. An overweight young man was talking to the remaining mercenaries. One of them pointed in her direction. Tevi waited as the man approached.

  “What is it, Zak?” Faren got his question in first.

  Zak looked confused, but then his attention returned to Tevi. “Chel...I heard she...I’m...Do you...?”

  At the rate he was going, Zak would not have completed a question by the time the tide turned. Tevi decided to give what was presumably the information he was after. “She attacked a man. She’s been taken to the harbour lockup. You need to go there if you want to see her.”

  “What will happen?”

  “That’s up to the judge.”

  “About me?”

  Tevi frowned, confused
in more ways than one. She did not have a clue what Zak was after—she wondered if he did either. He was clearly not very bright, nor was he good looking. In fact, it was hard to imagine that anyone would think him worth fighting over.

  “You can find someone else,” Faren answered, clearly more in tune with Zak’s thinking.

  Zak smiled coyly at him. “Would you—”

  “No. Piss off.”

  “I was just—”

  “We’re on duty. You know better than to start pulling tricks.”

  “When you’re off duty, I’ll be at the Navie.” Zak’s smirk took in all four mercenaries before fixing again on Tevi. “Chel, you know she’s—”

  “I told you to shove it.” Faren broke in again.

  Zak took a step back. He looked as if he was trying to think of something to say, but then gave another weak smile, turned, and trotted away.

  The customs officers continued towards their destination. One of them nudged Tevi. “I’d say you’re in with a chance with Zak.”

  “She’s still breathing and she has two copper shillings to tap together. Of course she’s in with a chance,” Faren said. “But he ain’t worth the bother.”

  “Is that experience talking?”

  Faren’s shoulder’s twitched, as if at an unpleasant memory. “I was desperate. But he’s just as pathetic in bed as he is out of it. He wants someone to play Mummy and wipe his nose clean.”

  The mercenaries laughed. Tevi joined in, although on Storenseg, men were expected to be simpering weaklings, needing women to take care of them. That’s what men are like, the voice of her childhood said, but Tevi did not say it aloud, and she no longer believed it anyway.

  It was Lorimal’s fault. The shipwrecked sorcerer had been washed ashore on islands that had never seen a magic user. In their absence, physical strength counted for everything, and the islands were dominated by violent, patriarchal warrior clans—until Lorimal created the strength potion that resulted in the islands becoming dominated by violent, matriarchal warrior clans.

  Tevi could not help thinking it would have been much better if Lorimal had found some way to create an equal society, more like the mainland. Although being imprisoned, tortured, and killed by the men who captured her may have given Lorimal an understandable desire for revenge.

  “Are you going to meet Zak in the Navie?” One of her colleague interrupted Tevi’s thoughts.

  She shook her head. “Not my type.”

  “Why not?”

  Tevi’s grimace raised a laugh. Luckily no other answer was required. He’s male, she could have said, but that would not be understood on the mainland, where the only significant difference between people was the ability to work magic. An exclusive sexual preference for one gender would be as strange as having an exclusive sexual preference for people whose favourite colour was green.

  Tevi did not wish to get into explanations of the island culture, where men and women were believed to be, in some way, opposite. People would think it bizarre. Tevi was starting to agree, though this reappraisal of her upbringing had not made any impact on her deeper emotions.

  Faren patted her shoulder. “Good call. He likes playing games of being helpless.”

  As they reached the ship’s gangplank, Tevi glanced back. Zak was still visible, hanging around the customs office. For a moment she was tempted to run over to him and tell him to head west, across the Protectorate, over the Aldrak mountains and out across the Western Ocean. There he could find islands where the women would treat him like an infant for the rest of his life. Acting helpless would be a desirable trait. Perhaps he might be happy there. Or perhaps the attraction of the game would pall once he had no options.

  *

  Midday was approaching by the time the treatment was finished. While Neame worked, the squares of light falling through the window had edged across the floor. They now lay as thin bars of dazzling silver on the windowsill. Someone had opened the door at the end of the ward to allow a breeze to circulate. Sounds of waves and birds drifted down the room. The docker was sleeping peacefully. The skin around the bite was still swollen, but the bloodless sheen was gone, and his breathing was soft and even.

  “Did you follow the final stages?” Neame asked.

  Vine nodded enthusiastically.

  Jemeryl frowned. “I saw how you bound the auras together, but I’m not sure I’d be able to do it myself.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to. It needs practice. But you saw why I was doing it?”

  “Perhaps if I read up on it...” Jemeryl trailed off optimistically.

  “You must make sure you understand. Someday, people’s lives will depend on you, and books are no substitute for experience.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jemeryl sighed. Whatever else, experience was not in short supply at the hospital.

  Neame patted her arm. “Don’t worry. We’ve done enough for now. If you tidy things away”—she indicated Vine—“you, Jemeryl, can take a message to Bramell. Tell him I’ll have to miss the meeting this afternoon. I’d like to stay with this patient.” Neame nodded in dismissal but then added, “Oh, and can you have the cook send my lunch over?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  At the exit, Jemeryl paused and looked back. Neame stood by the bed making ineffectual attempts to poke stray wisps of hair into place. At the same time, her astral projection was soothing the tangled strands in the docker’s aura like a parent wiping the forehead of a sleeping child. The morning’s work had been long and complex. Jemeryl was tired from just watching. It was amazing if Neame could still see straight, yet her attention was fixed on the sick man. This was what the patients sensed: the depth of her commitment.

  If Neame’s compassion is felt so keenly, is it surprising the villagers spotted my own disinterest? The thought was an uncomfortable jab to Jemeryl’s conscience. She left quickly and set off to deliver Neame’s messages. The sun was warm and the breeze carried the scent of fragrant plants, but her mood took longer than usual to pick up.

  The path terminated at a small courtyard just inside the main gates. Straight ahead was the imposing archway to the central square, where all of the most important buildings were situated. Jemeryl paused in the shadow of the arch and considered the open grassy quad, colonnaded by stumpy trees. On the far side rose the white walls of the library, three stories high. To the north, a long, low building housed the senior sorcerers’ residence. The other two sides were filled with academic and administration facilities, including her destination, the principal’s chambers.

  When Jemeryl arrived, a solitary witch was on duty in the scriptorium outside Bramell’s office, supervising the work of three animated pens.

  “Is Bramell in his office?”

  “Of course.” The witch glanced over his shoulder. “You didn’t think he’d be off looking at potions or something, did you?”

  “I admit I didn’t bother searching the hospital for him.”

  “Wise. The only thing he’ll happily doctor are the accounts. That’s why they’re so healthy.”

  The joke was a variant on one Jemeryl had already heard. Much of the junior washroom graffiti was concerned with Bramell’s lack of interest in herbalism. Whatever his talents as a sorcerer, the man had the heart of a bureaucrat.

  The principal looked up from the neatly arranged papers on his desk when Jemeryl entered. He regarded her with steady blue eyes. The first impression he gave was of confidence and efficiency. Middle age added authority to his natural good looks. The second impression was of inflexibility and aloofness. Even sitting, he seemed to be looking down his nose. Jemeryl tried not to fidget; something in Bramell’s manner always made her feel like a misplaced child.

  “What is it?” Bramell’s voice matched his appearance, firm and well balanced.

  “Excuse me, sir. I have a message from Neame. She won’t be able to attend the meeting after lunch. She sends her apologies.”

  The news clearly annoyed Bramell. His lips tightened in a line, but he
said nothing. Criticising a senior sorcerer in Jemeryl’s presence would be inappropriate.

  “Would you like me to take a reply, sir?”

  “No. You may go.” The blunt dismissal left no doubt of her junior status.

  Once outside again, Jemeryl weighed up the idea of Bramell as the renegade sorcerer. She knew the principal was respected but not admired. He ran the school with scrupulous attention to the rules, but he lacked vision. Despite appearances, Jemeryl suspected that he possessed no inner strength. Jemeryl could not picture Bramell as the culprit; he lacked both the courage and the imagination.

  An onslaught of noise shattered Jemeryl’s deliberation as a group of apprentices burst from a doorway. Shouting and laughing, the young witches and sorcerers streamed past, jostling among themselves in a reasonably good-natured way. Jemeryl followed more sedately, as befitting one wearing a sorcerer’s black amulet. Training healers was one of the school’s most important functions. Jemeryl just wished it could be accomplished at a lower volume. She was certain that her classmates in Lyremouth had not been so loud.

  The apprentices were soon out of sight, heading towards their dormitories. School accommodation was granted according to rank. Apprentices and servants lived in barracklike blocks on the edge of the site, whereas witches were two or three to a room. As a junior sorcerer, Jemeryl had her own bedroom, although she shared a study with Vine. The seniors got whole suites to themselves—plenty of space to carry out forbidden research. Jemeryl frowned. Her mission would be far easier if she could simply search the seniors’ quarters.

  Jemeryl arrived at the refectory. Through the open doors, she could see servants preparing for the midday meal, laying out baskets of bread on the long tables. The adjacent kitchen doors were also open, allowing cool air to enter and sound and smells to leave. From twenty yards away, Jemeryl caught the aroma of roasting meat and heard the cook bellow.

  “You, girl! Stop playing with the onions, or I’ll take the meat clever to you!”

  The threats continued non-stop until the moment the cook caught sight of Jemeryl. Mid-sentence, his manner switched to self-abasement, complete with cringing posture and sickly smile.