The Tethered Mage

by Melissa Caruso

  “All right.” Marcello sighed. “There are more questions I’m supposed to ask you, but we can move on to training instead.”

  Zaira straightened, her eyes glittering. “Oh? You’ll have to loose my fire, if you want me to practice using it.”

  I glanced at Marcello. That sounded like a terrible idea, especially when she said it so eagerly.

  He leaned on his elbows, meeting Zaira’s gaze. “Before we get to any practical training, we have to first build a partnership between you and your Falconer.”

  “Partnership,” she said flatly. “Is that what you call it?”

  “An equal partnership,” Marcello affirmed. “Your Falconer can’t give you orders. Only your superior officers can do that. Some of whom, I will point out, are Falcons.”

  “Oh, so I suppose they can just order their Falconers to come with them whenever they want to leave the Mews?” Zaira raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “They don’t need to order anyone. They can just leave when they want, and their Falconers accompany them. Because they trust each other.” Marcello put his hand over his heart, straining forward as if he could will Zaira to relent and believe him. “The first thing a Falcon and Falconer must learn—the first and most important—is trust. That is the foundation on which any partnership stands. Without it, we can’t move on.”

  Zaira’s lip curled. “I suppose now you’ll expect me to sit here and listen to a lecture on how you can’t count on a Tallows brat like me.”

  Marcello’s brows dug a groove between them, and for a moment I thought he’d argue with her. But he shook his head. “No. I’m saying I can’t expect you to trust someone who brought you here by force. Not yet. We have to earn your trust. By the time we’ve done that, we’ll already know we can rely on you as well.”

  “Well, you’re out of luck, then. Because I don’t trust anyone.” Zaira stood and turned her back on us, staring out the window at the sea.

  “You could learn,” I said.

  “This lesson is over.” Her voice was flat and hard as a dagger blade. “If you want trust, go buy it in the market with your mountain of gold, rich brat. Mine isn’t for sale.”

  Out in the hall, Marcello slumped against the wall like a sail when the wind dies. “She’s impossible. I don’t know what to do.”

  “You must have had this problem before.” I hesitated a moment, then leaned my back against the fine oak paneling beside him. “Surely not every Falcon comes eagerly to the Mews.”

  “No, they come as children. It’s very different. Our challenge is getting the parents convinced this is best for their child, and settling whether the family will move into the Mews too, or if they’ll just visit each other.” A shadow passed through his eyes. “Or sometimes the child has no family, but if that’s the case, usually we’re rescuing them from a situation bad enough they’re thrilled to be here. I’ve never had to deal with a new, uncooperative adult Falcon.”

  “Never, in five years?”

  “The mage mark is usually fully formed by four years old. It’s too hard to hide, and we find them, if someone else doesn’t first. But you’ve seen her eyes—her mage mark is black, and you can barely make it out. She must have hidden it all these years.”

  I let out a long breath. “That’s why she doesn’t have anyone close to her. No friends, no partners, no lovers. Because they would meet her eyes.”

  “Grace of Mercy.” He brought a hand to his face. “That’s awful.”

  “It sounds like a terrible way to live,” I agreed.

  “I don’t know how we overcome that to build a bond between you.” He gave me a rueful half smile. One dimple formed a comma on his cheek, and suddenly the space between us seemed too narrow and too warm. “Especially with you only here for an hour or two at a time.”

  I wanted to protest, but it was the truth. I drummed my fingers against the wall, turning the problem over in my mind.

  “I should take her out of the Mews with me.” It was a daunting notion.

  He ran his fingers through his hair, a worried gesture. “Yes. Graces help us, I think you should.”

  Exsolvo was not a word that came up in casual conversation. But I found myself nonetheless terrified it would somehow slip out.

  It didn’t help my peace of mind that Zaira kept glaring around the market in a manner suggesting frustrated disappointment that nothing was bursting into flame. With canopied wooden stalls overflowing with fruit and vegetables and thick crowds moving between them, there were a disturbing number of flammable objects about. I supposed I wouldn’t have to worry about unleashing Zaira to burn Ardence if she burned Raverra first.

  “This is stupid,” Zaira grumbled, fingering a cluster of honeyfruit. The merchant glanced nervously at her scarlet uniform as he haggled with another customer. “I don’t want to shop for moldy vegetables. I want to go talk to the ragpicker in the Tallows.”

  The vegetables were far from moldy. I didn’t come to the produce market often myself—my interactions with food tended to begin when it arrived prepared at my table—but the lush greens and vibrant reds of the bounty around me shone bright as precious jewels. Scents of peach and fig teased me, and the calls of the merchants made a lively music. The Temple of Bounty loomed benevolently over the square, its columns carved with fruit and flowers; shrinekeepers passed out the merchants’ leftover grain and bruised fruit to the poor on its steps.

  I had to make this work, no matter how grumpy Zaira was. I had no doubt my mother and the doge would both receive reports of this outing.

  “I did ask the lieutenant if we could go find this ragpicker of yours.” I glanced at Marcello, who hovered a few paces away. His eyes shifted from me to Zaira. He’d been watching us closely all morning. “He felt we should start with something simpler.”

  Zaira snorted. “You mean he thinks that if we go to the Tallows, I’ll knife you both and dump you in a canal.”

  “Well, perhaps.”

  “I notice you didn’t have any trouble overruling him when he asked you to wear a uniform.” The black ring around her pupils made Zaira’s stare even more pointed.

  I glanced down at the golden falcon’s-head brooch pinned to my shoulder, the only concession I’d allowed poor Marcello. “On that question, my mother was his invisible opponent. In the matter of the ragpicker, she was his invisible ally.”

  Zaira lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Your mother can turn invisible, now?”

  “Of course not! I meant—”

  “I know what you meant. You meant you’ve got jelly for a spine and always do what your mamma says.” She jerked her head at Marcello. “And Lieutenant Black Eye over there isn’t any better.”

  “That’s not true!” I almost added, If you met my mother, you’d understand. But she might take it as an invitation, and I wasn’t sure I could survive those two in the same room.

  Zaira turned away from the fruit stand, boredom in the slouch of her shoulders. “Of course it’s true. Or we’d be in the Tallows right now, talking to the ragpicker. Come on, I see someone selling meat on a stick.”

  Forcing my annoyed frown smooth, I stepped up beside her so I wasn’t left trailing behind like a servant. Marcello moved in to walk at her other side. When Zaira picked out three hot skewers of chicken and mushrooms, Marcello paid for them from a purse embroidered with the winged horse of Raverra.

  An Ardentine accent in the crowd jolted my memory, spilling other images of Ardence from the cauldron of worry that had simmered in the back of my mind since I overheard the intelligence briefing. The old men fishing off the Sunset Bridge, who told Venasha and me grisly stories of the Battle of the Arden, when the imperial infantry had lured Vaskandar into a deadly trap during the Three Years’ War. The heartbreakingly perfect taste and cloud-light texture of the half-penny summernut pastry from the corner bakery across from the university library. Throwing coins in the Wishing Fountain outside the Temple of the Grace of Luck—Venasha had wished for her baby to be a girl, and I had wishe
d for Domenic to notice me. Neither of us had gotten what we wished for, but were happy enough with the results anyway.

  My sunny bedroom at the Serene Envoy’s Palace, with its window overlooking the garden. Ignazio would be moving out now, to make room for the new envoy. One with a heavier hand at the tiller, whatever that meant.

  Nothing good, I suspected, for the people and places I loved.

  “Be careful,” Marcello murmured, pulling me back to Raverra and the bustling market, his breath tickling my ear. “There may be pickpockets in the crowd.”

  Willing myself not to flush never worked. “Of course.”

  “Our charge possibly among them.”

  I looked more sharply at Zaira. Even in the crowded market, most people left an uneasy space around her bright Falcon’s uniform. A brocaded patrician couple eyed me as well, from a distance; the woman whispered to the man behind her hand, no doubt spreading gossip about the Cornaro Falcon. My mother would like that. Or they could be commenting on my breeches, which my mother would like less, but at least my coat was impeccably fashionable this time, covered in baroque gold embroidery over rich green velvet.

  Not everyone gave Zaira a wide berth, however. She brushed by a shawled gentlewoman whose dreamy attention stayed locked on the mounds of golden apricots she was perusing.

  A moment later, I noticed a dark lump tucked into Zaira’s hand.

  Marcello lunged for her arm, turning it to reveal a small leather purse.

  “Give it back,” he hissed.

  Zaira yanked her arm free. She threw the stolen purse into Marcello’s chest. “Do it yourself.”

  No one in the crowd had noticed anything yet, but from the stubborn lines of Marcello’s shoulders and Zaira’s jaw, this could explode into a full-blown scene any minute. The last thing I needed was rumors flying around that the Cornaro Falcon was a thief.

  “I’ll do it.” I scooped the purse out of Marcello’s hands before anyone could object.

  I hurried to the lady Zaira had jostled, who now contemplated purple-tipped tartgrass, and tapped her shoulder.

  “Excuse me. I think you dropped this.”

  The woman gasped in recognition, and she heaped such profuse thanks on me I had trouble disentangling myself. By the time I made it back to Zaira and Marcello, they were deep in argument.

  “Maybe you should have thought about whether you wanted someone like me in this uniform before you forced me to wear it,” Zaira snapped.

  Marcello turned to me, grimacing. “My apologies, Lady Cornaro. The last thing I intended was to embarrass or endanger you. We should return to the Mews.”

  Zaira’s dark eyes flickered, and she tensed. I had the impression she was ready to bolt off into the crowd.

  Marcello must have thought the same, because he lifted his hand, and all at once four large men surrounded Zaira. A moment ago, they had been part of the crowd: farmers and workmen. They made no move to threaten her. One pretended to point out the spires of the Temple of Bounty to another, while two compared purchased fruit. But they stood between her and any possible escape, poised and ready on the balls of their feet.

  Zaira laughed. “So, I’m not a prisoner, am I?”

  “Apparently you should be, given your behavior,” Marcello retorted.

  “I did it to draw them out.” Zaira surveyed the four disguised soldiers, hands on her hips. “And it worked. Though I’d spotted three out of four. Might want to work on that.”

  I’d had no idea about any of them. I turned to Marcello, biting back anger. “Lieutenant Verdi, I thought we were here to build trust. Was this necessary?”

  He winced. “For your safety, my lady, yes.”

  My hands curled tight at my sides. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

  Zaira had no such compunctions. She rolled her eyes. “Yes, because I’m so terrifying, especially with your stupid jewelry keeping my fires out.”

  “I’m sorry it came to this.” I fought to keep my tone level. “Perhaps we can try again soon, with more honesty on all sides.”

  “I’ve got something better than honesty now,” Zaira said. “Truth. Now I know how to value all your talk about trust and partnership.”

  “And I have your measure as well,” Marcello replied through his teeth. “Now I know how you survived in the Tallows.”

  He didn’t say the word, but it hung silent in the air between them. Thief.

  We took two boats back to the Mews. Marcello and I rode in one, and Zaira and the disguised guards in the other. Marcello must be worried she’d try to heave us out into the lagoon if we sat with her. By the glower on her face, I couldn’t blame him.

  He remained silent at first, as the uniformed oarsman guided us down the Imperial Canal, always keeping Zaira’s boat at our side. Other craft gave the red-and-gold boats space, passengers and oarsmen casting dubious glances at Zaira’s uniform. No one wanted to tangle oars with a Falcon.

  After today, I didn’t much fancy her company myself. Why couldn’t I have put the jess on a nice, willing artificer or alchemist, who could collaborate with me on magical research? But here I was, tethered for life to a surly pickpocket of a fire warlock, with whom the only thing I shared in common was that someday we might bring disaster upon a city I cared for.

  “I didn’t handle that well, did I,” Marcello said at last, his brows drawn down in worry.

  “No. You didn’t.” I wasn’t sure what angered me more: that I hadn’t known about the guards or that they’d been necessary.

  He sighed. “I shouldn’t have kept the guards a secret from either of you. I’m sorry. I hoped Zaira wouldn’t notice, and feel less like a prisoner, but it backfired.”

  “What were you so afraid of, anyway? Did you know Zaira was a thief?”

  “No.” Marcello glanced down into his lap. His rapier hilt and the butt of a flintlock pistol flanked his hips. It must have taken a fair amount of practice to master boarding a boat with the former. “The soldiers weren’t to keep her in line. They were there to protect you.”

  I stared. “Me?”

  “Both of you.”

  “Marcello, I go out in the city without escort all the time. It’s insulting to pretend I need four guards—four secret guards—in a public market in broad daylight.”

  “I know, my lady. It’s excessive.” He rubbed the back of his head. “But your safety is my first priority. If anything happened to you …” He trailed off, glancing away at the canal.

  “Yes?” The end of that sentence mattered. I willed him to finish it.

  “Well, for one thing, I’d probably lose my position.” He laughed, but it was a stiff sound, not his usual free and easy one. “I can only imagine what they’d do to me if I allowed harm to come to the Cornaro heir. And Zaira’s security is critical to the Empire. The doge is after the colonel already, asking if our new fire warlock is safe and sound and ready for duty. And the colonel’s on me to let me know it’s my head if she isn’t. If anything happened to either of you, at best I’d be heading back home to tell my father and brother they were right, and I failed.”

  My lips tightened against his words as if they were sour wine. “I see.”

  For a moment, silence lay between us. It was an uncomfortable thing, heavy and rough, like a wet wool blanket.

  Finally, he met my eyes. “Also, my lady, I consider you a friend. If it isn’t too presumptuous.”

  Something eased in my shoulders. “Not at all.”

  This time, the quiet that fell on our boat was softer, punctuated by the working of the oar and the rush of the prow through the deep green waters of the lagoon.

  “Well,” he said at last, “at least you and Zaira can agree on one thing.”

  “What?”

  His mouth quirked. “That a certain lieutenant is an infuriating fool.”

  “Only sometimes.” I smiled, so he wouldn’t take it too much to heart. “Most of the time, I think we’d still disagree about you most vehemently.”

  The last of m
y anger slipped away as the Imperial Canal fell behind us and our oarsman rowed us toward Raptor’s Isle. But something else crept in after it, growing with the inexorable chill of the shadows that swallowed the canals each day at sunset.

  The doge is after the colonel already, asking if our new fire warlock is safe and sound and ready for duty, he’d said.

  Ready for duty.

  For Marcello, that word meant following his colonel’s orders and keeping his Falcons safe. For me, it meant fulfilling my social obligations and learning to govern the Empire. But for Zaira, duty meant destruction and death.

  She was such a skinny thing, hunched grumpily in her boat, glaring across the water at the Mews. It seemed impossible she could contain so much fire.

  All I wanted on returning home from our disastrous outing in the market was to skulk off to my room and bury myself under the covers with my Muscati spread across my knees, consoling myself with artifice theory and perhaps a rosemary biscuit. But Old Anzo waited for me in the foyer, and diverted me from my path to the stairs with a discreet cough.

  “La Contessa wants you in the drawing room, Lady Amalia.”

  Foreboding lodged in my throat like an olive pit. The drawing room door was closed. That meant Council business.

  “Should I change first, Anzo?”

  He shook his head, sympathy softening the motion. “I believe she wants you now, my lady.”

  Perhaps she merely wanted to ask me how my day had been, and the drawing room door was closed because she had a headache. I straightened my lace cuffs and took a deep breath.

  “All right. I’m ready.”

  Chapter Six

  I wasn’t ready. And if my mother had a headache, it had no bearing on the status of the drawing room door.

  The handful of people gathered in the oak-paneled room had the power to order executions, mobilize armies of spies, or start wars. I’d often heard their voices murmuring downstairs late into the night when I was a child, as golden light filtered in through my bedroom window from the drawing room below. Sometimes, when the voices kept me awake, I’d crept to the long balcony at the top of the stairs to listen, pressing my cheek against the cool marble balustrade. I’d only caught occasional words: snippets of espionage and assassination, machinations and stratagems, negotiations and judgments. To my young ears, those words that governed and shaped the Empire had sounded so impenetrably dull they’d soothed me into sleepiness, like a lullaby.