by Jill Archer
The first day of the first week of Fyr, Nightshade, Fara, Virtus, Nova, and I clambered up onto the Rockthorn Gorge train platform to await the next train back to New Babylon. By then, the trees were bare and specks of snow and ash dotted the air. On the leeward side of the platform a steel-drum fire pit burned, and on the windward side, a vendor hawked apple cakes and cranberry tarts.
Minutes before our train was scheduled to arrive, a man carrying an enormous crate approached us. I tensed, immediately recognizing him as one of Cliodna’s beefcake craftsmen. He set the crate down in front of me, withdrew a crowbar from his utility belt, and cracked open the crate. Inside was a table.
“Her ladyship left instructions that, in the event of her death, I was to deliver this to you and finish it according to your wishes.”
The round pedestal table appeared to be an eleventh-century reproduction pieced together from planks of unfinished oak and bits of greenish-black rosewood – the chewed-up and spit-out remnants of my former dormater’s table. There was no paint, stain, or varnish on it, although that didn’t mean the table wasn’t adorned with something else.
“I can’t accept it,” I told the craftsman.
“She said you’d say that, and she wanted me to assure you that it isn’t poisoned.”
I raised an eyebrow at him.
“Or cursed.”
I gave him a sardonic look. By this time, everyone but Virtus had gathered around the table and its packing box. Night had a quizzical look on his face, but Fara knew what it was: my ticket back into Megiddo – maybe, if it wasn’t a trick.
Fara frowned and then glanced at me. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but it wasn’t anything good. Still, she confirmed that the table wasn’t cursed.
I nodded. I didn’t feel any magic radiating from it either. I looked at Nightshade. “Is it poisoned?” He leaned toward the table, waved his hand over its top and down its pedestal.
“No,” he said simply.
What was wrong with it, then?
With a dramatic flourish worthy of an Angel, Cliodna’s craftsman pulled a paintbrush, palette, and paints out of his backpack. Even before Fara warned me, I’d already guessed the trio of tools was ensorcelled.
“Let me guess,” I said, “They’re cursed with a spell called Born Yesterday.”
The craftsman smirked. “She said you wouldn’t go for it, but that I should try – for old times’ sake. Melees—”
“Weren’t her style,” I finished for him. “I know.”
He winked in response, reached into the crate, and spun the top of the table.
“Faber est suae quaeque fortunae,” he said. Every woman is the artisan of her own fortune.
29
PRODIGAL DAUGHTER
They’re already in there.” Faustus said. “Third door on your left.”
I nodded to my father’s intake clerk and walked down the hall toward the door.
I’d like to say that by mid-Fyr I was back to my old ways, seamlessly reinserted into the daily rhythms of St. Luck’s, looking forward to finals, and generally enjoying my return to the city, my friends, even Megiddo perhaps.
But I wasn’t.
It had been two weeks since my return, and my future looked bleak. Formal and informal accounts of what had transpired up north had trickled down to the faculty and my father. I’d offered little evidence to refute anyone else’s assessment that I’d acted poorly during my residency, especially with respect to the patron’s death and the week after. St. Luck’s had suspended me and I’d moved back home to dig in my mother’s blackened garden, just as I’d said I would. I thought about giving Miss Bister the unfinished rota fortunae, but I knew she wouldn’t want it. In fact, I knew she would hate it. So I left it in my mother’s garden, which might seem like an odd thing to do, but it fit right in next to the broken mirror and rusting knives that I’d previously left there.
I managed to harvest an entire wheelbarrow’s worth of black onions, shallots, and garlic before the summons came.
* * *
DEMON COUNCIL
OFFICE OF THE EXECUTIVE
* * *
FOR IMMEDIATE DELIVERY
Nouiomo Onyx
Onyx Estate
Etincelle
You are hereby summoned to appear before the executive at noon today to discuss your possible expulsion from St. Lucifer’s School of Demon Law.
The summons commanded that I appear before my father, but that didn’t mean I’d get off easy. The fact that he hadn’t handed it to me over breakfast said as much, although we weren’t much in the habit of chatting over eggs or oatmeal. No, expulsion from a demon law school was, obviously, a huge deal. So I was taking it seriously. I’d left Nova in Etincelle and I’d come dressed in my best cloak. Still…
I wasn’t sure how vociferously I would defend myself. After all, the summons had said we were going to discuss my possible expulsion, not execution.
Maybe I deserved to be kicked out of school…
I knocked on the door and entered.
Inside was a fairly nondescript conference room. One wooden table, six large chairs, and three windows overlooking the delivery boys and bicycles waiting outside the Office of the Executive. I wondered if one of them would soon be delivering a message regarding me.
My father was seated at the head of the table, his signature cloaked and his face expressionless. Three other people were there: Waldron Seknecus, St. Luck’s dean of demon affairs; Ralla Wolfram, my faculty advisor; and Donald Shivel, the dean of student affairs. Shivel was the only Hyrke in the room and I couldn’t help wondering what his presence meant. Usually, MIT matters were handled between my father’s office and St. Luck’s Maegester faculty members.
I nodded to each of the men and slipped into the empty chair opposite my father – the one at the other end of the table. To my surprise, Karanos turned to Shivel and said, “You requested this meeting. You have a quarter-hour to present your reasons.”
The dean looked momentarily taken aback, but his expression settled into a determined look as he turned to face me.
“You may recall, Ms. Onyx, from my welcoming speech during your first-year orientation, that I assured the Hyrke students at St. Lucifer’s that they would be safe – that each and every Maegester-in-Training accepted at the school had been thoroughly vetted, that their previous demon experience was substantial, and that their discipline and self-control were absolute.
“None of this was true for you, however. You were never vetted, you had zero experience before coming to our school, and you’ve always had discipline and control issues.” He cleared his throat and glanced at Karanos. “While I recognize that humans with waning magic must, by law, be trained as Maegesters, there are other schools which may be better suited to you. Other institutions where you can continue your education and training without endangering—”
“—Are you truly suggesting that we expel St. Lucifer’s second-year Primoris? Over what? The death of yet another patron up in Rockthorn Gorge?” Seknecus’ voice was soft, but his signature was as hard as ever.
“Personally, I think Ms. Onyx should be given a commendation for killing one of the rattenkönigs,” Wolfram said. “Although”—he turned to me—“I did make it clear that getting the hydroelectric dam built was your priority. Yannu has now withdrawn his support for the project and Acheron is backing him, which means the people of Myrios—”
My father cleared his throat. Wolfram pressed his lips together, his sense of social responsibility clearly at war with his sense of self-preservation. “This is Dean Shivel’s fifteen minutes,” Karanos said. “Let’s let him have it.”
Shivel narrowed his eyes, perhaps wondering – as I did – if my father was just humoring him. I’d never thought of my father as being in my corner. He’d gone out of his way during my time at St. Luck’s to show his impartiality, but as Shivel’s next words showed, maybe it hadn’t been enough to combat rumors of nepotism.
“Grave al
legations have been brought against your daughter. I was assured, by you, Karanos, that when she declared and we allowed her to remain at St. Luck’s – arguably the most prestigious demon law school in all of Halja – that there would be no favoritism.” My father leaned forward, perhaps to respond, but Shivel doggedly pressed on. “Last year, she killed a fellow student during the Laurel Crown Race. This year, the patron she was working for died under her watch. Multiple complaints have been brought against her. These latest by two of our seniormost northern regulares. The new patron of our country’s most populous outpost accused Ms. Onyx of dereliction of duty, reckless endangerment, breaking the town’s rules of engagement, destruction of property, electoral fraud, and extortion. The overlord of the area’s complaint was simpler, yet more condemnatory. He accused her of ‘willfully ignoring the law.’ Under those circumstances, how can we allow her to stay?”
Shivel’s face was red. I didn’t need to sense his nonexistent signature to know he was fired up. Hearing his take on what had happened, albeit based entirely on the biased correspondence sent to him by the pair of demons I’d most wronged, made it sound as if expulsion would be too good for me. Even if I’d been in the mood to defend myself, what could I have said? Arguably, each of those accusations was true.
“Noon?” That was it. One word – my name. That would be Karanos’ only defense of me. Under the circumstances, it was probably more than I had a right to. My father was offering me a chance to defend myself. Would I take it?
“It’s true,” I began slowly, “that I should have been more aggressive in my search for Displodo. I should have figured out who he was months ago. I should have foreseen that he might try to use the Magna Fax and that catastrophe would be the result. I was reckless, not just on the day the patron died, but also during training. I took risks in shaping unorthodox weapons and sentient creatures… I sidestepped the former Captain of the Guard’s rules of engagement by encouraging my Guardian to cast experimental spells. As for the rest…”
It was all true. I had no defense, only an explanation, and even that would require I tell them more truths than I was willing to share.
“So you admit that you ‘willfully ignored the law’?” Seknecus asked, his tone incredulous.
My father responded before I could. “If she did, then the Council did too. Acheron’s allodial title claim is, quite frankly…” Karanos struggled for a moment before finally finding the right word. “…inconvenient, since it gives him the legal right to prevent the Memento Mori dam project.”
Everyone fell silent. I was fairly certain, in that moment, that Karanos wished I’d burned the Domesday Descriptio, Luck and the law be damned.
“The one demon’s statement we don’t have,” Seknecus said, turning to me, “is the most important one. Would the past patron have agreed with these allegations? If your former employer was here, what would he say?”
I could’ve lied. It wasn’t as if I’d been forced to drink Black Gilliflower. Or that I hadn’t already perfected the art of lying by omission at the end of assignments. But I didn’t want to, any more than I wanted to tell the truth.
Suddenly, my throat closed up and tears threatened.
“He’d say…”
Do I make you happy? Do you love me?
I buried my face in my hands.
“He’d say…” My voice was scratchy and rough.
Noon… you know you can’t ever really go back, don’t you?
I shook my head and looked up, my eyes dry. “He’d say I was ready for whatever comes next.”
Karanos stared at me, his expression a weird mixture of pride and defeat. After a moment, he nodded and said, “Recommendations?”
Shivel wasted no time suggesting – again – that I be expelled.
“Demote her from Primoris to Postremus,” Seknecus suggested.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Wolfram said, his signature pulsing with an emotion that could only be described as Eureka! “Community service.” He grinned at me. His whole demeanor was so at odds with the meeting we’d just had that I instantly became wary.
“Not Adikia, okay?” I said. “I realize beggars can’t be—”
“—Adikia?” Wolfram made a sound of disgust. “Luck, no. Myriostos.”
“Myriostos is a place, not a patron.”
“It’s a place that needs a patron.”
“You’re suggesting I oversee another election? After I’ve just been accused of electoral fraud?”
“No. I’m suggesting you become the patron of Myriostos.”
I stared at Wolfram. “Me?! Aside from all of the other problems with that idea, there’s the fact that I’m human.”
Wolfram shrugged. “So were the first five lords of Rockthorn Gorge. There’s no law that says a patron has to be a demon. That’s just how it usually works. But you never bother with how things usually work, do you?” He turned to my father, completely ignoring the shell-shocked Seknecus and the outraged Shivel.
“Give her until the end of her fifth semester to improve things in Myriostos. She can figure out how to get them clean water and safe electricity. She can find ways to reduce the crime and disease.”
“And if she doesn’t?” Karanos asked.
“Then Dean Shivel can decide her fate.”
Well, that would certainly put an end to Shivel’s complaints of favoritism. Presumably, all options would be open to him. He could decide execution instead of expulsion. Or that I work for the horrid Adikia… for the rest of my life. I shuddered.
Karanos and Seknecus exchanged a look and then my father turned to me. “You said you were ready for whatever comes next. Are you ready to become the patron of New Babylon’s biggest slum?”
The circus had come to town. Or, rather, that’s what I felt we looked like as we waited in front of the gates of Myriostos.
After my meeting at the Office of the Executive, I’d left looking like I knew what I was doing. But as soon as I was out of sight, I had a quiet little meltdown in the alley behind the train station. For two years, I’d trained to be a Maegester. Now I was supposed to become a patron? I had no idea how to solve Myriostos’ myriad problems.
If you were a demon, you’d be the Patron of Reluctance.
Not anymore though, right? A bracing gust of wind and a deep breath had ridden me of most of my panic. The logical place to start was there, I’d decided – in my new home.
So I’d spent the afternoon gathering my unofficial camarilla, borrowing a wagon, buying supplies, and then transporting them from the heart of the city, through Ragland and Paradise, to Myriostos. It hadn’t been easy, even with two mismatched beasts pulling my wagon. We’d traveled twenty-five miles, which is why we’d stopped in front of the gate – to give Nova and Virtus a break.
My wagon was stocked not only with firefighting equipment and other items I’d need, but also food and drink from Marduk’s, which I planned to share with my new neighbors: meat pies, hard cheeses, baked apples, kettle corn, a barrel of wine, and four jars of Thunderbolt. Fitz, dressed outlandishly as always in a punky-looking velvet suit with a flower boutonniere I’d already blackened, had been pushing Ivy since Victory Street to drink one.
“You’ll be able to read over a thousand words a minute.”
“No.”
“You’ll be able to write over a thousand words a minute.”
“No.”
“You’ll be able to—”
“No!”
This time, she’d had enough of Fitz’s prodding. She tossed her Armed Conflict casebook at his head. He ducked and it sailed through the air, nearly hitting an arriving rickshaw. The passenger – a young woman in a red corset, checkered mini-skirt, and striped tights – jumped out. She grinned, waved to me, ran over to Fara, and gave her a big hug.
“Who is that?” Ivy asked.
I laughed, as much from Fitz’s expression as Ivy’s tone. Oh, boy. Francesca Cerise had broken it off with Fitz not four days ago. Even if he hadn’t been reboun
ding hard, this girl would have captured Fitz’s attention.
“Tenacity,” I called, hopping down from the wagon. “What are you doing here?”
“Yannu dismissed me from his court,” she said, picking up the casebook. “But I heard you might be hiring…?”
“Who told you that?”
“Your father.”
“You went to the Office of the Executive to try to find me?”
Her freckled face fell.
Ah. “You didn’t go there looking for me, did you? Who were you hoping to work for?”
“Ionys,” she said, biting her lip. Ionys was the Patron Demon of Wine, Winemaking, and Vineyards. He had three hundred formally trained Angels on his payroll. I didn’t think she’d pick up many skills working for me that would help her land a job with him, but nor did I think either one of us should be underestimated.
“The accommodations won’t be what you’re used to,” I warned her. “And you’ll have to learn to work with this to get everyone’s attention,” I said, tossing her a jar of Thunderbolt. “No fire-breathing here.”
She caught the jar and nodded, her gaze now glued to the electric bolts flashing inside of it. I walked over to her and traded her three more jars for the casebook.
“Lead the way then,” I said, motioning toward Myriostos’ main street. I stepped back to stand beside Fitz. “Watch this,” I told him, pointing. Tenacity began a series of cartwheels, handsprings, tucks, and aerials – all while juggling the four jars of Thunderbolt. Fitz’s eyes grew as wide as the rising moon.