A Daughter of No Nation

by A. M. Dellamonica

  A uniformed slave was waiting to hand her down to the green, but Rees Erminne strode up suddenly, offering his arm. “There’s a corner around the rear gate where the bonded don’t serve,” he said. “We pariahs socialize there. Will you come?”

  She weighed the options unhappily and decided she might as well. She could have a tactful word with him about Cly’s plan.

  If in fact there is a plan …

  Fenn confirmed it. How much proof do you need?

  Uncertainty assailed her. Cly hadn’t known her long, but he couldn’t possibly think she’d consent to marry some guy she’d known for a day.

  She was working herself up for nothing.

  The young are scripped to obey.

  Cly said “betrothal” and Fenn confirmed it.

  He’s not that dumb, he’s not. He’s socially agile.

  “Thanks,” she said, choosing Erminne over the butler. Mirelda startled and rushed to follow, making a quick detour to grab a couple sandwiches for herself off a silver tray.

  All the spellscribes were turned out as Autumn was, clad in tight leotards and surrounded by the scarves that preserved their modesty. The air was filled with the scent of cooking stews and something that reminded Sophie of chili. “This must be a good climate for growing peppers,” she said, randomly, and Erminne nodded. Five seconds later they rounded a curve in the trail—all the trails were curved, there were no corners here at all, as far as she could see—and there was a pepper garden, enclosed by a low brick wall, containing about ten different species: jalapeños, sweet peppers, bananas, habaneros, and two varieties she didn’t recognize.

  She felt Rees chuckle against her at the coincidence.

  Okay, I’m not going to freak out. We’re not getting married, we’re not. Cly isn’t planning anything. Observe, she told herself. Whatever you do, don’t say the wrong thing. Beatrice’s freedom is almost in the bag.

  “How do you get into the buildings?”

  “Much of the institute is underground,” he said. “The entrances to the study spheres are beneath them.”

  “It’s incredible.” She’d always been a sucker for monument-scale art. Mom and Dad had taken them to the Valley of the Kings and she’d bawled, for sheer joy, when she saw the Great Pyramid. Her father had almost panicked, she’d cried so hard. “I don’t know about practical.”

  “The institute was constructed in the first days of real Sylvanner wealth; we were showing off.”

  “Conspicuous consumption.”

  He shrugged. “They have a certain irresistible charm. And the scribes say it’s restful to draft spells in them. Contemplative, you know. Good acoustics.”

  “I can see why Mirelda would want to work here.”

  “Each of the institutes is a marvel. One day you’ll have a chance to see Winter District’s,” he said. “Your father has ties there.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t see myself coming back to Sylvanna after this is over.”

  “No?”

  “Ever,” she said, underlining it just in case.

  If her assertion was bad news, he kept it to himself.

  As they walked, people raised their glasses to them. Erminne responded with an upraised hand and a smile. Another turn brought them to the brick-fenced edge of a perfectly round pool that abutted the edge of one of the smaller, bungalow-size spheres.

  “Alligators,” he said. “Do you have them in the outlands?”

  She nodded, nevertheless peering over. The alligator in question seemed morphologically identical to those she’d seen in Florida; there was no reason to assume there were any differences at all.

  A betrothed couple—two boys, as it happened—walked by, hand in hand. They were a little puffed out, like roosters, proud to be adults. They were also maybe fifteen. Erminne’s eye lingered on their sashes.

  Ten years older than them, and Rees isn’t married—not an adult, she thought. Because he’s an abolitionist? And his mom’s a widow, which has to be troublesome, too.

  This is a stupid, stupid society.

  “Sophie,” he said, “there’s an urgent matter I must discuss with you before you leave.”

  Her anxiety spiked. “Now?”

  He shook his head. “At the giraffes.”

  “You have giraffes?”

  They rounded another sphere, this one seated in a pond and made entirely of ice, a great circular piece with chill wafting off it, covered in condensation and carved with the images of fish and mermaids. Streams of iced water drizzled off the mermaids’ outstretched fingers—Erminne took a cup from a nearby tree and filled them each a drink.

  Little kids frolicked in the shadows around it, squealing when the chilly streams touched them. A shadowy figure moved within the sphere.

  “The icemaker,” Erminne explained. “An important profession in this climate.”

  “They’d be scribed, I guess. Transformed.”

  “To drive the heat out of things, yes,” he said. “It’s a complicated spell—has to be written in the depth of a cold night, in total darkness. The transforms have been known to die of exposure. Taking the cold to the marrow, it’s called.”

  She thought of Bram’s superhero comics, one of his first rebellions against Dad and the canon of English literature. One of those had an icemaker mutant, didn’t it? X-Factor?

  She indicated the glinting, condensation-covered fish. “Do the icemakers sculpt?”

  “They make blocks for sculptors. Our most prominent ice shaper, here in Autumn, is married to this maker. It’s a great partnership, as all marriages should be.”

  “While we’re on the topic—”

  “Ah, here we are,” he said.

  “Here” was next to a giraffe enclosure, a paddock with three lemon-colored giraffes with garlands of flowers around their necks. The grove around them was planted with acacia and, on this side of the fence, was a convex flower garden, patches of red, yellow, and orange blooms. A table of meats, fruits, and vegetables had been set out next to a bonfire. The idea, obviously, was to skewer yourself a shish kebab and DIY your dinner on the campfire.

  All right. It was time to stop freaking out and find out what was going on. She followed Erminne’s lead in spearing a bunch of fruit and meat and let herself be led to the fire. The meat went into the flame with a sizzle. Lamb, she thought, from the smell.

  “Cly’s cousin, Fenn, said something about your estates adjoining each other.”

  He nodded. “Turtle Beach is barely beyond the boundary of His Honor’s—”

  “She seems to think the two of them—your mother and my—”

  “Your Honor!”

  It was a warning. Cly was gliding toward them with Fralienne Erminne, arriving at her elbow before they could discuss matters further. “Finish up,” he said. “The feast is beginning. You’re all at the Fleet table.”

  “My meat’s too rare,” Sophie said.

  “It’s what you get for presuming to cook. The two of you are getting along?”

  “Why are you asking that?”

  Cly gave her a quick, innocent look she didn’t buy at all. “You’ve been deducing things again, haven’t you?”

  Holy crap, he was smiling.

  “I haven’t deduced anything. Fenn is all over telling me what you’re up to. She’s scared you’re going to bankrupt her, and—”

  The flick. “Oh, Fenn.”

  “Don’t pish posh me. Are you seriously considering—” She couldn’t say it, just gestured at Erminne and Fralienne.

  “Not this year, obviously.”

  “Not this year?”

  “What’s going on?” Erminne said. “Mother?”

  “You’re not in on it, Rees?” Sophie said. “You just said we had to talk.”

  “About the turtles,” Erminne said. “What are you talking about?”

  “Child—” Fralienne began.

  “Oh, you are unbelievable, Cly.”

  “I thought you’d be happy,” Cly said.

  “
How could you possibly believe that?”

  Her voice had risen, and people drifted closer. This is the gossip gold mine of the year, I bet.

  “Your lamb is burning.”

  She pulled the skewer out of the fire, blowing on it furiously.

  “It’s true, Rees,” Fralienne said. “His Honor and I have been discussing whether next year, come betrothal time, we might entwine Low Bann with our estate.”

  “Really?” he said. And then it seemed to sink in. “Oh. Sophie, before you—I think you’ve—”

  “Did he tell you I’m promiscuous?” She said it loudly, and the whole garden fell silent. You’d think she’d dropped a bomb at their sexually conservative feet.

  “Sophie!” Erminne said. “Please.”

  She was turning bright red, and her voice was shaking, but why stop now? “No, seriously. We outlander girls? We get around. Practically the first thing I did when I got here was find myself a Tiladene guy. Lais is his name, horse breeder, quite the stallion himself, actually.” By now, she had that feeling of having climbed way out onto a branch that wouldn’t hold her weight.

  Commit, commit, commit.

  “Of course, I haven’t seen Lais in weeks. But maybe you’d like a go—”

  She turned, panned the crowd, got a look at Cly’s expression of frozen horror—

  That’s an emotion, right? Tick in the “not a sociopath” column.

  —and, behind him, she saw Bram, Verena, and Garland Parrish.

  A shocked laugh broke from her—she covered her mouth. “I’m gonna go hug my brother now,” she announced, starting for Bram with as much dignity as she had left.

  Cly seized her arm as she passed. “Our agreement was that you wouldn’t embarrass me.”

  “Yeah? What agreement did I sign that says I get to be sold into frigging marriage?”

  “Fralienne and I were discussing the possibility of marrying each other,” he growled.

  “What?”

  He gave her a little shove in her brother’s direction. “Tell your mother to enjoy incarceration.”

  Oh. Sophie’s knees buckled and she stumbled past Parrish. Why did they have to bring Parrish?

  Bram caught her.

  “Well done, Ducks. That was classic.”

  “You’re laughing, you bastard.”

  “So are you.”

  “At least I didn’t use the word ‘slut.’”

  “That would’ve been over the top,” he said. “Let’s get you out of here before they stick you in a convent, okay?”

  They began the incredibly long walk of shame, out of the Spellscrip Institute, down from the ridge’s lofty heights to the port below.

  CHAPTER 19

  Nightjar’s sails always had just a hint of pearliness to them, a shine like the inside of an oyster’s shell, and in the setting sun of a warm Sylvanna evening, they looked like an oil painting about the romance of the sea. Sophie couldn’t help smiling at her first sight of her; she was, she realized, almost hungry to be aboard again.

  Sylvanner parade floats were making their way uphill to the Spellscrip Institute as she and the others headed down, moving against the flow of traffic.

  She buttonholed Bram as her walking companion, switching to English—it was a relief, after weeks of hearing only Fleetspeak and Sylvanner. Verena and Parrish seemed only too happy to stroll on ahead of them. “So. Catch me up. Why’d you decide to come?”

  “Are you kidding? After you said Cly might be sociopathic? Is he, by the way?”

  “Jury’s still out.”

  “Well, thinking you were off alone with a remorseless killer was more than I could take.”

  “I’d have done the same.”

  “Convincing Verena that you and Cly would come to loggerheads and pooch Beatrice’s bail after she concealed the slavery thing wasn’t hard—”

  “Funny thing, that’s just what happened.” She fought back the guilt. Cly would hang on to Low Bann now—Sophie signing the birth certificate was enough for that. But Beatrice was back at square one, and it was all her fault.

  “Has it occurred to you that he’s maybe been looking for an excuse? He could have told you what was up. People here … sometimes it seems they’re bent on hiding their cards. Setting you up to fail.”

  “Someone set me up to fail, all right, but it wasn’t him. His cousin saw me jumping to conclusions. She decided to tell me all my paranoid fantasies were justified.”

  Bram frowned. “Why would anyone do that?”

  “Revenge, I’m pretty sure. She lost position, her son got into serious trouble with Cly. When I started to freak out she took the chance to stir up trouble.” She told him about Mervin’s prank on Zita and its fallout.

  By now they had arrived at the port. Parrish and Verena broke out of the hush-voiced consultation that had occupied them since they left the festival; then Parrish went on ahead, without a word, to charter a ferry out to Nightjar, leaving the three of them to wait for Sophie’s trunks to arrive from Low Bann.

  Verena looked miserable. “Annela’s going to have me decapitated.”

  “We’ll try something else,” Sophie said.

  “Like what?”

  “We’ll give Cly another reason to take his claws out of Beatrice.”

  “Such as?”

  “He’s a big shot within the Fleet,” she said slowly, turning over everything she had learned. “And he loves that. But his position here on Sylvanna is shaky. If we learned something that endangered his reputation as the mighty duelist-advocate, maybe he’d do another deal just to keep from losing everything.”

  Verena’s eyes stuttered to Nightjar. “I don’t know if we can get Parrish to agree to extortion.”

  “Can’t you just order him?” When she’d thought she was Gale’s heir, she’d bossed him around all the time.

  “No. It turns out Gale left him the ship but asked him to keep sailing me around. He and I have to agree on a course of action.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s nice—it’s good that she did. I don’t want to be his employer.”

  “Fair enough. But he and Gale used to bribe and blackmail … what, warlords? Didn’t they?”

  “Warlords? Is this an episode of Xena?” Bram muttered.

  “They did that for the peace, not for personal gain. And I don’t think they went actively digging for dirt.”

  Sophie wondered if that was true or if Verena had Parrish up on a pedestal. “Okay. So we tell him there’s some hope Cly actually misstepped in his career, and … oh! What if we say we’re looking into why he married Beatrice? If it was for false pretenses or something, maybe we can throw the whole marriage contract into question. We can get that lawyer, Mensalom, to look at it and talk to some people who knew him then.”

  Verena weighed it. “Annela should be willing to choke up the original contract documents. And if there’s a way to annul the marriage to Cly, then Beatrice isn’t a bigamist. But they must have examined this all those years ago, when she got pregnant.”

  “Sofe,” Bram said. “You’ve joined team Dad is bad now? He wasn’t trying to marry you off, remember?”

  She felt something stick in her throat. “It’s possible he … I think maybe he screws his slaves.”

  His eyes widened. “Okay. Dad is bad. I am so on board. But, jeez, Sofe, are you sure?”

  “No. What was I gonna do, ask? Anyway, Beatrice is still in this crazy legal tangle and I have to try sorting it out.”

  “It’s gone beyond a tangle. Sylvanna’s Convenor has been telling every journalist who’ll listen how hard done by their illustrious judge has been.” Verena threw a rock into the sea. “After a lifetime of putting the Fleet first, poor Cly’s on a spike, expected to rise above while irresponsible Verdanii witches turn his stolen daughter against him.”

  “Great.” No wonder Verena looked miserable. First her mom got jailed, then she had job trouble, and now there was a sprawling family crisis in the news.

  “We’ll lo
ok into the early days of Beatrice and Cly. If we find anything we can use, that’s when we’ll worry about any scruples Parrish may have.” She found herself feeling unaccountably happy. “It’s gonna be okay, guys. The three of us are unstoppable.”

  “Mmm,” Verena grunted.

  The harbor was all but deserted; everyone was at festival parties. A few patrol types watched the docks, protecting them from nothing more hazardous than a scattering of opportunistic gulls and the occasional stray dog.

  An hour passed, then another.

  Finally her bags arrived. There was more luggage than she’d expected: Cly had apparently sent a big trunk. She cracked it open: all the pseudo-science texts and the accounts of the five legal disputes were in there.

  Poor Krispos, she thought, fingering the throttlevine case. I wonder what Cly will do with him?

  By then, Parrish had summoned a harbor ferry and porters to carry them to Nightjar.

  They trooped aboard. Sophie saw Tonio give Parrish an inquiring glance and get a minuscule head shake in return. “Raise anchor,” Parrish told him. “We’re Fleet bound.”

  Sophie’s last sight of Sylvanna was the hill that housed the Autumn District Spellscrip Institute. The party was reaching a pitch as the sun went down, and a great glowing image was taking shape over the rise; fireworks enhanced by enchantment forming a single tall tree, green-leaved as befitted the height of summer.

  * * *

  The course Nightjar set from Sylvanna was north-northeast; the Fleet was sailing toward them and they expected to rendezvous within days. Tonio was the one who sketched out their route across the map of Northwater; Parrish seemed to be avoiding her.

  Sophie told Bram everything she’d seen on Sylvanna, starting with wildlife species and agricultural practices. She told him about Erminne and his abolitionist family, Turtle Beach and the methodology for the experiment she’d suggested to help sort out that case.

  She told him about the time at sea with Cly, the attack by, or on, the bandits, and the one man, Kir Lidman, whom they’d managed to save amid the chaos.

  “What happened to him?”

  “Sent to await trial at the Fleet, I think,” she replied. “They wouldn’t let me talk to him. Said he was depressed.”

  She told him about Low Bann and the awful cousins and the swamp, throttlevine, and slaves, and Zita’s accident. She started to tell him about the Spellscrip Institute before ending with: “Well, you were there.”