Circle Opens #03: Cold Fire

by Tamora Pierce

  Quietly she turned onto her side, away from them. The events of Sunsday night returned in all their fear and sorrow. Her own natural clearheadedness came with it. Yes, she ought to have sent the baby with someone else: who would that have been? Every adult had at least two other children in charge, and the handicap of water-soaked covers to manage. If she hadn’t held the fire, slowing her own escape to do so, it would have broken through on the ground floor and killed everyone inside, including the two babies who had lived while the woman who carried them began to die on the stair.

  What had started this disaster — a kitchen fire? Overturned candles, a popping log on a hearth? The gods were cruel, to make such a tragedy from a stupid accident.

  Real or set? asked that very determined part of her mind.

  Daja bit her lip. She wished the others were here — Sandry, Tris, Briar. She didn’t have them, but she did have Frostpine. She could have lost him: they put themselves in danger when they agreed to enter the house. Their magics wouldn’t have prevented their being crushed by falling timbers.

  The clock chimed downstairs; Nia’s eyes popped open. A moment later Frostpine emerged from his trance. “Very good,” he told Nia. “You’ve come a long way.” He rubbed out part of the circle. The protections around them collapsed and flowed into his body like a plume of smoke returning to its chimney. He helped Nia to stand, then dragged himself to his feet, using the bed as a crutch. He was stiff.

  “You’re awake!” Nia said happily to Daja. “Hungry, too, yes?”

  Daja sat up. “Starved,” she admitted.

  “I’ll tell Anyussa,” Nia said, but for a moment she didn’t move, looking at Daja with huge brown eyes. “I could never do what you two did,” she said. “Walk into a burning house … I couldn’t.”

  “You don’t know what you can do till you’re tested,” Frostpine said. He leaned down and kissed Nia’s forehead. “Wait until you are, before you judge yourself.”

  Nia glanced up at Frostpine and gave him a tiny smile, then left the room, shaking her head.

  Frostpine leaned back, hands on hips, stretching. Daja looked at him, worried. His skin was ashy over the brown; his few wrinkles seemed deeper. Did he have more white hairs now, or was it just that she hadn’t noticed how many he had before this? “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Better than when they fetched us back here,” he admitted. He threw several chunks of wood on the fire and poked up the embers so they would catch. “I had it easier,” he said. “Mine were adults. Once I got their attention, they did as they were told. I lost two,” he admitted, his full lips pinched. “Old people, stuck in beds. The others would have left them. You don’t see people at their best, times like this.”

  Remembering the women who appeared to stop thinking at all when faced with peril, Daja nodded. “You tried to get them out?” she asked softly.

  He went to her wardrobe, opened it, and began to take out clothes. “Smoke got them,” he said. “I think they died as I carried them out. Everybody always worries about burns, not smoke. Usually they’re dead before they know they’re in danger.”

  Daja looked at the clothes he laid out for her. “I can’t put those on till I wash,” she pointed out. Someone — Matazi and the girls, she hoped — had cleaned the worst grime from her skin while she slept, since her nightshirt wasn’t too dirty, but she smelled of fire, and there was ash in her hair. “I need the steam room.” East Namorn lived for its huge, steamy bathhouses. Normally Daja hated the things, preferring nice, clean baths, but right now she felt grime in her pores. Steam would scour it out.

  “I’ll help you to the steam room after you’ve eaten,” he promised.

  “How many died?” she heard herself inquire. She shouldn’t ask — she knew she didn’t want an answer — but she had to know.

  “Twelve,” said Frostpine in a dull voice. “Seven dead right away. Five after, including people who fought the fire. Three more — no one’s sure if they’ll make it. It could have been worse. They were having a children’s party and a supper party, with all kinds of extra servants. Fifty in the house. Olaksan Jossaryk is dead. He saved his wife and supper guests first. The last he was seen, he was on his way to the nursery wing.”

  “The whole town is exclaiming over the coincidence,” Heluda Salt announced from the open door. Anyussa and Jory, each carrying a loaded tray, filed in past her. They put the dishes on a small round table before the hearth. When they finished, Anyussa towed the obviously curious Jory out by the arm. Heluda closed the door behind them. “I see I visited at just the right time,” the mage remarked coolly. “We must talk.”

  “I’m only wearing a nightshirt,” Daja said in apology.

  “Oh, of course you should wash and dress and put off eating to save me the sight of you in a nightgown,” retorted Heluda, amused. “Don’t be ridiculous. Once you’ve helped your daughter give birth to your first grandson, believe me, things like proper dinner wear aren’t important.”

  Daja threw off her covers and stood with a lurch. If anything, she was stiffer than Frostpine. He helped her to one of the fireside chairs. Daja’s stomach growled as she saw fresh bread, ham, stewed spinach, and custard. It wasn’t Trader cooking or Trader spices, but it smelled just as good right now. “Excuse me,” she said. Grabbing a spoon, she got to work on a pork soup with pearl barley and sour cream.

  “What coincidence is the town exclaiming over?” Frostpine asked as he poured tea for each of them. He and Heluda took chairs across from Daja.

  “Sunsday, Bennat Ladradun told the Alakut Island council that the confectioner’s shop fire proved he needed more money and more people to train in firefighting. The council said all it proved was that he’d trained those people he had poorly.”

  Daja looked her question over a mouthful of barley; Frostpine asked it for her. “Yes, but what’s the coincidence? There are fires all over the city in winter.”

  “Yes, but this was Jossaryk House.” The magistrate’s mage looked from Frostpine to Daja. “I keep forgetting you aren’t local,” Heluda said wryly. “Chiora Jossaryk is Romachko Skuretty’s mistress.”

  Frostpine and Daja traded baffled looks.

  Heluda shook her head. “Romachko Skuretty is the head of Alakut council. The one that turned Ladradun down.”

  Frostpine grimaced. “I could happily spend the rest of my life without such coincidences.”

  Daja nodded, inspected her bowl. It was empty, but there were bits of meat and barley and sauce. She tore apart a rye-and-wheat roll and mopped up the rest.

  “What of our counterfeiter?” Frostpine asked. “I’m able to go out.”

  Heluda shook her head. “Our people are sitting on every brass supplier, with spectacles magicked to see through illusion,” she told him. “Sooner or later our friend, or his people, will come for supplies. Once we track them home, we’ll need you. We may not be equal to a truly powerful illusion-mage who tampers with coins, but my trackers can follow quarry through blizzards. We’re fine for now.” She drummed her fingers on her chair for a moment before she said abruptly. “I’m here on another matter, actually.”

  She got up, paced to the door and back, then stopped, frowned, and went to Daja’s worktable, where the iron glove forms stood upright. “What in Vrohain’s name are these?” She leaned in to inspect the forms, then took something from her pocket and screwed it into her right eye. It was a lens spelled for magical vision: Daja could see gleaming silver runes on its rim. “It’s been made with magic, but these aren’t magical in and of themselves. Are you building an artificial man?” She wriggled one of the hinged fingers.

  Daja had started on a plate of pirozhi stuffed with salmon and sturgeon. She gulped a mouthful, drank some tea, and said, “They’ll be gloves, covered with metal that isn’t much affected by fire.” She absently rubbed the brass mitt over her left hand. “For Ben Ladradun. I thought it would be good to make him gloves so he can push open burning doors and the like. I thought I’d make a whole
suit for him, but I need to think about that a while.”

  Heluda put her eyepiece back into her pocket. “You craft-mages have the oddest ideas,” she remarked, shaking her head.

  Frostpine cleared his throat. “You said you came about something else. I’m going to expire of curiosity.” He picked up one of Daja’s rolls, ripped it in half, and buttered a piece.

  Heluda walked back to her chair and flopped into it. “Jossaryk House. My people laid the inspection spells as soon as the remnants cooled. The fire wasn’t accidental. It was set,” she told them.

  Daja’s fork slipped from suddenly cold fingers, clattering on her plate.

  Frostpine sighed. “Have you suspects?”

  “Only at least three for each servant and ten for each guest,” replied the magistrate’s mage. “There’s always that many people who wish someone ill, and they all must be questioned. Tracking the firesetter by his traces was a waste of time,” she growled. “Whoever did it burned all he used, so what we did find, the fire scoured clean. What’s maddening? No one saw him, but he must have done it while guests were arriving for those parties. Look.” Clearing a space on the tablecloth, Heluda sketched the ground floor of the house with a fingertip, her magic turning the lines to inklike streaks. “The front of the house, that looks over the cliff? In winter it’s closed — it takes the brunt of the wind off the Syth. The servants store whole carcasses — pig, cow, sheep — in it, it’s that cold. In summer, of course, it’s lovely. Our firesetter broke in there. He walks up the cliff road, which no one uses for the same reason the house’s front is closed off — he may as well have been invisible.”

  “Could you track him on the cliff road?” Frostpine wanted to know.

  “He had two pairs of boots,” said Heluda. “Our trackers followed one pair down to a fire the hired sleigh men use to keep warm on the Kadasep side of Alakut. None of them saw anyone throw cloth boots into their fire, of course. Then he walked away in clean boots.” She grimaced and passed her hand over the drawing. It vanished. “Curse him, rot his teeth, may he drop through thin ice,” she growled. “He laid a fuse to a good-sized fire, lit it, and left. By the time anyone knew the front of the house was burning, it was too late to stop it. The winds were like oil on the flames.” She looked at Daja. “If you or Ravvot Ladradun have any ideas about this naliz, let me know. As soon as we’ve bagged our counterfeiter, this one’s mine.”

  “I don’t know what ideas I could have,” Daja said. “Ben’s the one who’s studied all this.”

  “But you’re a mage, and in his company. You —”

  Someone rapped on the door and opened it without waiting. It was a housemaid; behind her was a man in magistrate’s colors. “Viymese Salt, we’ve got a possibility,” he said breathless. “Bought twenty sheets of brass. We tracked him.”

  Frostpine levered himself out of his seat as Heluda stood. She frowned at him. “Are you up to this?” she demanded. “You look half dead.”

  “Magistrate’s mages, so pessimistic,” Frostpine replied, walking to the door. “I prefer to think I am half alive. And I know the marks of his power. You need me.” Looking at Daja he said, “Rest.”

  Daja nodded. “Bundle up,” she replied, thinking the kaq who mucked with money would discover he was no match for Frostpine.

  She dragged on a robe, gathered her clean clothes, and doddered down the servants’ stairs to the steam room. Once she washed and rebraided her many braids, she slept again. She woke to the clock’s chime at midnight and got up, feeling stronger. Someone had cleared the fireplace table of the remains of her supper. Downstairs she went to raid the kitchen. The urge to go out caught her as she piled strawberry preserves on bread. Still eating, she went to the slush room and pulled on her winter clothes. Once that was done, she picked up a torch and her skates, and went outside.

  She didn’t need a torch: several burned around the basin, though they would be out soon. Daja buckled on her skates, then began to exercise doggedly. She kept one eye on the ice, alert in case her tired muscles decided to give way. Instead, the skating seemed to help both her muscles and her spirits. She speeded up, gliding this way and that across the basin. The icy night air was calm, with no breath of the wicked Syth in it. It was clean and unburdened with soot, ashes, smoke, or smells. It brushed her face like a blessing — a bitterly cold blessing, but a blessing all the same.

  12

  Despite her skating session, Daja woke at her usual hour, feeling better physically, though sad yet. She had dreamed about the maid, clutching her figure of Yorgiry as she died.

  Once dressed, her Trader staff and the staff she used to train with Jory in hand, Daja went upstairs to the schoolroom. To her surprise and pleasure, Jory was there practicing her forms. It had to be boring, but from what Daja glimpsed before Jory noticed her and stopped, Jory had made progress. Her staff movement and hand and feet placement matched the marks Daja had made for them perfectly.

  “We’re ready for the next step,” Daja announced, leaning her staves against the wall. She stepped into an open space and positioned Jory there, then traced the outlines of her feet with a piece of charcoal. That done, she used her Trader staff to draw a protective circle around them both, and raised her barriers to enclose them. She was looking forward to this, she realized. Her protections weren’t as strong as usual — Daja hadn’t recovered from her efforts at Jossaryk House — but they would hold any power Jory might throw off.

  “Stand here,” Daja told her. “Eyes forward, your staff in the middle block position. I’ll walk around you; now and then I’ll strike. Keep your eyes straight ahead. No looking at me, no turning your head, until you actually have to move to block me. Block only. No strikes.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jory replied. “If I can’t follow you —”

  “You have to be ready,” Daja said. “Open your senses, magic and all. Act only when you must. If you start thinking your foot itches, or your hair needs to be washed, if you want your breakfast, I’ll hit you.”

  “You’re going to hurt me?” Jory asked, horrified.

  Daja sighed. “Now there’s a silly question. No, but I will tap you. You have to know you were wrong.”

  “What if you hit my back?” Jory wanted to know. “I can’t stop you then!”

  “Trust I won’t do it till you’re good enough to anticipate it. Now take the position.” Daja paced in front of Jory as old Skyfire did with his students. “Stop following me with your eyes. Look straight ahead. Wait. Listen. Relax. Your hands aren’t in the right position. Stop winking; I haven’t hit you yet. Twitching your eyes won’t protect your face.”

  Jory instantly threw up a high block, expecting a strike from Daja’s remark about her face. Daja tapped Jory’s ribs. “Don’t listen to what I say,” she told her student again, pacing once more. “Forget the cold, or breakfast, or —” Daja shifted her body. Jory’s head whipped around; she blocked low, and Daja tapped her skull. “Don’t try to outthink me,” ordered Daja. “Maybe you can one day, but not today. I’m in my center, in my empty space, and I go where I like.” Another high strike. Jory’s block glanced off Daja’s staff: she was a breath too late. Daja thumped her head lightly.

  For an hour Daja walked her staff up and down Jory’s body, talking or silent, always in motion. At first it seemed as if she had overestimated Jory as the girl got angry, then sulky, then stubborn. Each time she lost her temper Daja saw Jory’s magic flare away from her in spikes. Once, angry, she struck at Daja’s head. Daja disarmed Jory, sending her staff flying against the barrier. It bounced back, nearly hitting the girl.

  Daja nudged the staff with hers. “Pick it up,” she ordered.

  “You’re not human,” Jory grumbled as she obeyed.

  “More silliness. Come on, let’s go,” Daja urged. They began again.

  When the house clock chimed, Daja, in the right-hand corner of the younger girl’s vision, snapped a middle strike at Jory’s ribs. Jory’s power swirled and soaked into her s
kin as she blocked Daja squarely.

  Jory’s jaw dropped. She looked at the staff, and at Daja. “I did it!” she gasped. “I did it! I — I felt it, it was like, being everything.”

  “Good,” Daja said, wiping out part of the circle with her boot and retrieving her power. “But we won’t know if you really have something until you can do it all the time, not just once.”

  Oh, Daja,” moaned Jory, “you sound just like my parents.” She ran from the schoolroom.

  “Well, there’s no reason to insult me,” muttered Daja, half offended.

  After a hearty breakfast, she returned upstairs to do the physical work of fitting the living metal to the gloves, making sure it was anchored to an iron rod as well as the other pieces. There was just one more thing to do after that, but it had to wait. Simple tasks like protective circles for the twins were easy enough, and she needed no magic to fix the living metal onto the forms. For anything bigger, her magic felt weak and floppy, as her arms might after she lifted something far too heavy for her.

  She collected her Trader staff and went down to midday when the bell rang, but she didn’t return to her room when she finished. She had things to do that involved no magic, but she wanted to skate. Staff in hand, Daja headed for the slush room. As she passed the servants, they bowed and got out of her way — they’d done so at breakfast too. Obviously they had heard tales from Jossaryk House.

  They’ll get over it, Daja thought as she donned coat and scarves, picked up her staff, and slung her skates over her shoulder. A few quiet weeks and they’ll treat me like a human being again. If only she could hope there would be no more excitement for a few weeks!

  Outside, she donned her skates. Gathering her courage, she skated out of the basin, under the bridge, and onto Prospect Canal, balancing the staff in her hands. The canal was as busy as any street with skaters and the large, heavy sleighs that carried supplies, pulled by horses shod for ice walking. Passenger sleighs kept to the dirt streets, owners not liking the expense of ice shoes and the risk to their horses if they were not specially shod.