Or you could marry. This was the one entirely legitimate way out of the Lorg. The school sponsored two Love Carnivals a year, when the Sisters dropped their teaching, gardening, wine-making and catfish cultivation to become frenetic, full time matchmakers. One of these started in just three days: by then Thasha wanted to be far from the Lorg. Her timing had enraged the Mother Prohibitor. Someone had heard her shout in the vestry: “Three hundred men seeking Love Conferences, and she renounces? What are we to tell the nine who put her at the top of their lists?”
(Nine suitors, girls had whispered behind Thasha's back. And she's only sixteen.)
As the Sister who taught Erotic Dance had told them yesterday (exhausted into something like honesty; her skills were in great demand this time of year), one needn't be rich to attend the Lorg. The school also recognized merit—that is, beauty. Thasha's classmates included a number of exceptionally lovely girls from modest households. Not a bad investment for the Lorg: what their families could not pay, their future husbands would gladly make up for in matchmaking fees.
It was a thriving enterprise. The girls nearly always consented. Marriage to a wealthy stranger felt like charity once you believed you deserved nothing more than contempt.
The Mother Prohibitor was a lanky, quick-moving old woman; in her red rector's cloak she put one in mind of a scarlet ibis looking for dinner among the tanks of newly hatched fish. When Thasha opened the door of the glass house enclosing the tanks she looked up sharply, and gestured with a dripping hand-net.
“My eyes begin to fail me,” she said, in her surprisingly deep voice. “Look at their tail spines, girl. Are they yellow?”
Thasha gathered her cloak and knelt by the tank. “Most are yellow-tailed, Your Grace. But there are some with green stripes. Very pretty fish, they'll be.”
“We must catch them. Those green ones. All of them, right now.”
She held out the net. Thasha noted the great emerald ring on the woman's pale hand. Girls gossiped about that ring: it bore the words DRANUL VED BRISTÔLJET DORO—Where thou goest, I follow fast—in silver Old Arquali script about the priceless gem. Some girls thought the phrase a magic charm. Others held that it was the motto of a secret order, not the Lorg merely but some guild of crones scattered across the world and elbow-deep in the plots and schemes and stratagems that ruled it. Thasha felt the old woman watching her. She took the net from her hand.
The tank was shallow, and Thasha caught the dozen or so green-tailed hatchlings in a matter of minutes, dropping them one by one into a bucket next to the Mother Prohibitor.
“They will not be pretty fish, Thasha Isiq,” said the old woman when she was done. “They will not be any sort of fish much longer. The Accateo now specializes in bili catfish, these yellow-tails. A more succulent meat, they have. They fetch an excellent price, and the Slugdra ghost-doctors will also pay for their intestines, which they use in love potions. There, Sister Catarh has brought your street clothes.”
Thasha looked up quickly at the Sister in the doorway, who set down a bundle tied with string, bowed and withdrew.
“I will thank you not to grin like an imbecile,” said the Mother Prohibitor. “Get up! So you're leaving. Did you meditate this morning on your tragically altered fortunes?”
“I did, Your Grace.”
“You're lying, naturally,” said the old woman, her tone matter-of-fact as she churned the water of the tank with her cane. Thasha bit her tongue. Legend held that the Mother Prohibitor felt a needle in her side whenever a girl lied in her presence. Thasha hoped for a few more opportunities.
“Failure,” the Mother Prohibitor was saying, “is not an accident. Not a thug who grabs you in an alley. It is a liaison in a darkened house. It is a choice.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Be still. The bane of that choice will pursue you. Though you flee to the ends of the earth, it will dog your heels.”
Really, thought Thasha. We live just nine blocks away.
The Mother Prohibitor took a letter from her robe and studied it, as one might a fruit gone suddenly and swiftly rotten. “Failure withers the lives of those who choose it. That is why it has no place in our curriculum. Only two girls this century have left in disgrace. I praise your good father”—she raised the letter—“that he has kept you from becoming the third.”
“He sent for me!” The words burst out of Thasha before she could stop herself.
“While you wear that robe you are a Lorg Daughter, and will obey me,” said the Mother Prohibitor. “Yes, he sent for you. Do you know why?”
“Perhaps he misses me, Your Grace. I know he does.”
The old woman just looked at her.
“Are you of the faith, child?” she asked. “Do you believe that there is a Tree in Heaven, the Milk Tree as we name it, and that this world of Alifros is but one of its fair fruits that in time must ripen and fall, or be picked by Rin's own hand?”
Thasha swallowed. “I don't know, Your Grace.”
The old woman sighed. “The truth will find you, if you are half the young woman you seem. Go now with our blessing, and know that the voices of your sisters old and young will be raised in song, that the Angel who guides all honest pilgrims will bring you safe to distant shores.”
Stunned, Thasha lowered her eyes. She had expected curses, humiliation. In the school hymnal, the canticles for dropouts read like death sentences. To invoke the Angel of Rin …
“Do you see that box on the workbench? Bring it here. I have two gifts ere you depart.”
Thasha fetched the box, about the size of a hatbox. At the old woman's command she untied the string and lifted the lid. Inside was a buckled leather pouch, and within the pouch, a book. Thasha turned it in her hands. The book was old and very thick: four inches thick, but not heavy in the least. Its smooth black leather bore no words at all.
Thasha was struck first by the paper, which was so thin she could see her hand through a page if she lifted it alone, but sharp and white when laid against the rest.
“Dragonfly-wing leaf,” said the old woman. “The thinnest paper in the world.” Taking the book from Thasha, she opened it to the first page and held it up:
The Merchant's Polylex: 5,400 Pages of Wisdom
13th Edition
“You will remember the number thirteen,” said the Mother Prohibitor. Then she ripped out the page. Greatly confused, Thasha watched her tear it into many pieces and drop them into the bucket with the dying catfish. “Have you seen a Polylex before?” the woman asked.
“Lots of them,” said Thasha. “My father has—”
“The newest edition. Of course he does. Every sailing man of means owns a Polylex, if he owns any book at all. It is a traveler's companion—an encyclopedia, dictionary and history of the world, written and rewritten over centuries and published anew every twenty years. What are you thinking?”
Thasha blushed. “I'm sorry, Your Grace. My father says the Merchant's Polylex is full of rubbish and rot.”
The Mother Prohibitor frowned, so that her eyebrows met like crossed knives. “This particular copy is rare. Some would call it priceless. Keep it near you—and read it now and again, girl. Decide for yourself what is rubbish, and what is gold. Now put it away, and show me that hand of yours.”
Thasha knew which hand she meant. The old woman turned it palm-up and traced the old wound with her fingers. Thasha's mind was a-whirl. Why would the Mother Prohibitor make her such a gift when she had barely dodged disgrace? Why were they talking at all?
“Somewhere in the Polylex,” said the Mother Prohibitor, “you will find a legend from the old kingdom of Nohirin about another girl with a wounded hand. She was called Erithusmé, and she was born without fear. She laughed at earthquakes, crawled under elephants' feet, ran into burning fields to admire the flames. But on her sixteenth birthday the king of Nohirin came with his warriors and took her away to the north of that land, a place of ice-sheathed mountains, and ordered her to enter a high cave and fe
tch out what she found there.
“The king knew well what she would find: a magical weapon called the Nilstone, one of the great horrors of history. None knew whence it came. Out of the gullet of a dragon, said some. Fallen from the moon or a wander-star, others claimed. But all agreed that it was evil. The king's own great-grandfather had hurled it into the cave, and for a century no one who ventured within had returned alive. But fearless as ever, Erithusmé went in, braving pits and ice-weirds and darkness, and at last she found the Nilstone.
“It lay surrounded by frozen corpses—all the men the king had sent before her, slain the instant their fingers touched the cursed device. But when the girl lifted it she felt only a tiny pinprick on her hand. And when she took it from the cave she was possessed of powers beyond any mage in Alifros. With a word she scattered the king's army; with a snap of her fingers she called up a gryphon to bear her away. For three years Erithusmé flew from land to land, working magic such as none had ever seen. Here she quelled a plague; there she made springs flow where sandstorms had raged the day before.
“But all did not go well. She stoppered a volcano, and three others exploded nearby. She drove the old king of Nohirin from power, and nine evil princes fought for his throne, begging her aid to slay one another. And she found that the stone had begun to burn her palm where she held it. Confused, Erithusmé flew to the sacred isle of Rappopolni, and entered the Dawn Temple there, and knelt before the high priestess.
“Extending her hand, she said, ‘I can work miracles; why can I not heal this little burn?’ The priestess replied: ‘Because even you, my daughter, are not entirely free of fear. No man or woman can be. Through fear the Nilstone is poisoning you, and turning your good deeds to ruin. Your choices are but two: cast it away and become yourself again, or keep it and die.’”
The Mother Prohibitor still held Thasha's hand. Thasha waited, barely breathing.
“A legend,” the old woman said at last. “And a warning, for some. You may look up the ending in your spare time. Now then, my other gift is a reminder. A Lorg Daughter is never alone. On the path you are doomed to tread, one of us at least will be near you. Remember, Thasha: in dire need you may call upon her; she cannot refuse. Now I must work. Is there anything you would ask me?”
Thasha blinked. To her amazement, she felt like crying. “My P-Promissory Tree, Your Grace. Must I kill it, with my own hand?”
Every girl entering the Lorg planted a cherry tree in the Promissory Orchard, which filled half the compound and was now in radiant bloom. Dropouts had to uproot their saplings and chop them to bits.
The Mother Prohibitor looked at her for a silent time. Then she raised her hand and made the sign of the Tree over Thasha's head.
“It has taken root, child,” she said at last. “I think we must let it grow.”
She turned her back without another word. Thasha left the hatchery, nearly blubbering. She loved them! Which was madness! She couldn't wait to be gone. Was it possible the old woman realized that kindness would hurt longer than cruelty as a parting gift? Or was she, Thasha, so plainly ugly inside that she saw even peace gestures as attacks?
Did they know her better than she knew herself?
Almost running, she made her way through the Great Hall. Earlier that day she had sent her belongings by coach, and made her goodbyes, which were bitter. The few friends she had told Thasha she was abandoning them. Could she deny it?
At the gatehouse the ward-sister let her into a small changing room. Alone, Thasha dried her eyes and untied her bundle of clothes. She laughed: there were the man's shirt and breeches, and even the longshoreman's cap. She had worn all these to the gate two years ago, in protest at her banishment. They were a little snug now.
When she had changed, she stepped out of the room and surrendered her school cloak.
“I'll keep it safe for you,” said the ward-sister.
This was taking ceremony too far, Thasha thought. But she bowed her thanks, and the woman unlocked a small door in the fanged gate, and Thasha stepped out, free, into an exquisite summer evening and a breeze off the Ool.
She took three happy steps—and froze. A thought struck her like a boot to the shins.
She walked back to the gate. “Ward-sister!” she called. “You say you'll keep my cloak safe? What for?”
The woman looked over her shoulder. “Don't be obtuse, child. For wearing.”
Thasha drew a deep breath. “Yes, Sister, for wearing. I apologize for my imprecision.”
“Quite so. Good night.”
“Sister, please, I meant to ask, who are you keeping—”
“Whom!”
“Whom, whom, yes,” said Thasha, squeezing her eyes shut. “Whom are you keeping it for?”
“For whom is preferable, of course. Whatever is the matter, child—are you ill? We shall keep it for you.”
“But I'm not coming back.”
The Sister clucked impatiently. “The letter from your father's, your father's … from the Lady Syrarys announces quite plainly his request for your temporary removal from—”
“Temporary!” shouted Thasha.
“With the aim of improving your manners, no doubt!” snapped the ward-sister. “Three feet beyond the gate and she starts interrupting! May the Angel forgive you! A charwoman's girl would know better, but not the ambassador's daughter, no, she—”
“Ambassador!”
“Miss Thasha, you are screeching my words back at me like a circus macaw! For the last time I bid you good night!”
Thasha ran as she had not run since fleeing the constable, the leather pouch under her arm. All the bright life of Etherhorde—laughing boys in a fountain, old men throwing knackerballs on a close-trimmed lawn, a sourdough heat from the baker's door, Nunekkam flutes in the shadows like whistlers in a cave—all this she barely noticed despite two years of longing for it. Suddenly the evening made a horrid kind of sense. They meant to send her back! Thasha knew it had never happened before: the Accateo did not grant leaves of absence. It had to be her father. Only he could be influential enough to challenge seven centuries of rust-rigid practice.
Eberzam Isiq was a retired admiral, commander of not just a ship but a whole fleet that had swept down the Chereste Coast five years ago, from Ulsprit to a place called Ormael. What was it all about? Killing pirates, some said. Killing rebels, traitors to the Imperium, said others. Her father had just chuckled and said it was a matter of opinion.
But everyone seemed to agree that it had been a mighty victory, and that her father was the hero of the campaign. At banquets, fat dukes and generals pressed their wine-sour lips to Thasha's cheek. Such an elegant girl! Eberzam has the Gods' own luck! They said her father would make Prefect of Etherhorde one day, or perhaps governor of one of the greater Arquali territories. It made little difference to Thasha. All she knew was that her father had come back wounded—struck in the head by a fragment of cannonball—and that his illness began shortly thereafter.
He was better now, or so the letters from Syrarys claimed (Eberzam himself had written just twice, on her birthdays). But an ambassadorship? That meant sailing beyond the Empire, didn't it? And why send an old warrior across oceans to speak for Arqual?
Obeying a sudden impulse, Thasha crossed the road, climbed a low fence and dropped into Gallows Park. It was darker under the park's old oaks and conifers, but it would save her five blocks. She ran downhill, barely glancing at the famous wishing-well (some girl was always crying there, ostentatiously), or the melted iron lump that was a monument to the Heroic Blacksmiths, or the glowing webs of the torch spiders luring moths into the trees. At last she reached the Ool, flanked here by a ruined wall left over from days when bandits still dared to cross the river into Etherhorde. A few fishermen crouched among the gloomy stones. Otherwise the park looked deserted.
If it was her father who wrote to the Lorg, Thasha decided, it was Syrarys who put the pen in his hand. Every year they were together her influence over the admiral grew. And
although she had never spoken of it, Thasha was all but convinced that Syrarys was behind the decision to send her away in the first place.
How long had they told the Sisters she would be gone? A month? A week?
I'll change his mind, she thought. I have to, I—
“Pah! Too easy!”
An arm caught her broadside across the chest. From the corner of her eye she saw a tall man step through a gap in the ruined wall. The arm that had stopped her slid to her throat and jerked her toward the gap.
No time to think. Thasha drove an elbow into the man's side, twisted out from under his arm and flung herself backward and away. Her fists were raised to strike him again. But she was off-balance, winded by his first blow. Some root or stone caught her heel, and she fell.
Instantly the man was on her. A knee pinned her legs to the ground. A dagger! In the fastest act of her life Thasha flailed at the blade as the man stabbed downward. But she was not fast enough. It was over, and she'd barely felt it. The knife was buried to the hilt in her chest.
“Dead,” said the man. “Dead for a five-penny sweet.”
One shock chased another: she was still breathing, she felt no pain, she appeared unharmed. Strangest of all, the face of her attacker belonged to a friend.
“Hercól! You monster!”
“You are quick,” said the man, “and stronger than I recall. But carelessness trumps both speed and muscle. It is one thing to scurry through a park at night, another to do so with your mind in a fog.”
“I was so anxious to get home.”
The man's eyebrows rose. “If you dare make excuses to me.”
“No excuses. I'm sorry, Hercól, I failed. May I get up now?”
The man lifted a hilt without a blade from her chest, then rose and helped her to her feet. He was a slender, elfin-eyed man in middle years, with unruly hair and somewhat threadbare clothes. Now that he was no longer attacking her he assumed a cordial air, folding his hands behind his back and smiling fondly. Thasha looked at her chest: bits of a glittering something clung to her blouse.
The Red Wolf Conspiracy Page 7