The Bartered Brides (Elemental Masters)

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Children rise at the break of dawn,” Sahib interrupted. “We should go to bed too. Good night, my friends.”

  Nan trailed Sarah up to their rooms and bid her friend goodnight at her door. She opened the window for some night air (and to allow Neville to fly off in the morning if he chose) and was asleep almost as soon as she pulled the blanket over herself.

  But her dreams were dark, and full of troubles.

  17

  The Harton School wasn’t just a school for children with budding psychical talents and a few who were Elemental Magicians whose parents did not have the means to have them tutored at home—it was also a school for the children of parents who were currently living and working overseas. Their parents were usually in India, although now and again a child from Africa, as Sarah had been, turned up as well. Common feeling was that the climates in these hot places were bad for British children, and unless the parents simply could not afford a steamship ticket, the poor things were shipped back “home” to boarding schools as soon as they could be parted from their mamas, sometimes even before they could speak coherently.

  Of course, to these children, Britain was not “home.” Britain was an alien, too-cold place, where the food was unfamiliar, the clothing they were put into was uncomfortable and unfamiliar, where the way they were expected to act had changed all out of recognition, and nothing was as it should be.

  Most schools ignored all this, and the children were utterly traumatized by nearly everything they encountered, from corporal punishment to rooms too cold to sleep in. The Harton School did not. There were Indian ayahs for the littlest children, no one was put into harsh, itchy woolen clothing, the rooms were kept as warm as possible in the winter, and most of all, the food was what these children remembered.

  So there was kedgeree for breakfast.

  It had taken Nan a while to get used to this particular food, because unlike most of the children, she had been born and raised in the streets of London. But she had also been so poor that every scrap of food she ate came by fighting for it, so she didn’t turn her nose up at it, either.

  Now the taste of curried rice, smoked kipper and egg brought back memories of the time in her life when her entire existence had turned around for the better, and she had been happier than she’d ever dreamed of being. And although she had awakened with an aching head and the leaden feeling that she had spent all night chasing something that she could never catch, she cheered up a bit over her plate. John Watson had beaten the girls to the table, and was clearly enjoying his breakfast; Mary had looked at it dubiously and opted for oatmeal porridge instead.

  Memsa’b appeared in the dining room like magic, just as they were finishing. “Do you prefer to meet in the study again, or would you rather sit on the terrace in some sunshine?” she asked.

  “Sunshine,” Mary Watson said immediately. “I know it hasn’t been that long, but I feel as if I have been hiding in our flat for months.”

  “Sunshine it is then,” Memsa’b replied. “I’ll get Sahib. The girls can take you to the terrace.”

  Nan took the time to get herself another mug of tea—the school used nice, heavy mugs instead of delicate cups that wouldn’t last long in the hands of children, and although the children were given milky tea, the adults had proper Gunpowder Black that would make your hair stand on end in the morning. She still felt . . . well, depressed. If nothing else, a mug of tea would give her something to do with her hands.

  The furniture on the terrace, rather than being delicate wrought-iron creations, was all in the Indian style and made of—well, Nan wasn’t sure what it was made of. Wicker, reeds, some plant material, softened with cotton cushions. It was very comfortable, and she settled into a chair with a back like a spreading peacock’s tail with a sigh, and took in the view of the lawns and the children’s cricket, croquet, and tennis fields with melancholy pleasure. She sipped her tea, wishing again she was that young again.

  Memsa’b and Sahib appeared about five minutes later and settled themselves into chairs. “All right,” Sahib said, “Now let us hear the full story of what has been going on.”

  Nan let John Watson take the lead on this, only adding details that he overlooked. It all took the better part of an hour to relate, and when he was finished, Watson sighed.

  “I don’t see—we don’t see anything more that we can do,” he said, as gloom settled over everyone but the Hartons. “I don’t know what Mary and I are supposed to do when Alderscroft’s entire Lodge can’t find this cursed murderer. And as Nan’s pointed out, her talents and Sarah’s seem even less suited to discovering anything than ours are. And this blackguard has to be building up his power and forces to do something big. We’re like that fellow with the Sword of Damocles suspended by a hair above his head, and there’s damn-all we can do about it.”

  Nan ducked her head and had a big gulp of tea to get herself under control, but hearing it all laid out like that made her want to sob.

  And then Sahib spoke.

  “I think there are two things you are overlooking,” he said, quite calmly. “One of them is Sarah’s friend Caro. She’s a resource you haven’t yet used except as a contact point with other ghosts, and I think we should consult her to see what else she thinks she can do. We are dealing with a necromancer, after all—so a spirit ought by all rights be particularly useful to us. And the other thing you have overlooked—through no fault of your own—is Sarah herself.”

  Nan’s head came up at that. Sarah’s expression went from astonished to indignant. “But I’ve—” she began.

  Sahib held up his hand. “I said, through no fault of your own. Memsa’b and I have been consulting with some other Elemental Masters that are not in Alderscroft’s immediate circle. The Wizard of London is an admirable man but . . .” Sahib smiled wryly “. . . he’s rather autocratic. And there are those who just would rather not be ordered about unless there is an actual emergency. They tend their own gardens, so to speak, unless something comes up that the Lodge needs help with.”

  “But what has that to do with Sarah?” Nan asked. “She’s not an Elemental Master.”

  “So we’ve all been led to believe,” Sahib countered. “That is, until Maestro Sarasate came into our orbit, so to speak.”

  “The musician?” Watson asked. “I thought he was a Spirit Master—are you saying—”

  “That according to the people we’ve consulted with, so is Sarah.” She held up her hand to forestall everyone talking at once. “Let me walk you through our reasoning,” she continued, as Neville and Grey flew in over the game-fields and landed on chairs of their respective girls. “First, most mediums can see and communicate with spirits, but spirits actively seek out Sarah. That’s not usual. Second, most mediums can convince spirits to move on. Sarah can open a door to the next world and send them through. That’s not usual. Third was the ease, according to Beatrice Leek, with which she learned to step into the half-world of earthbound spirits herself. That is definitely not usual. Fourth is the ability to tell when spirits are bound to objects, rather than haunting a place, even when the spirit chooses not to show itself. Fifth, there is Caro, who has willingly volunteered to serve Sarah, which is absolutely unheard of for a mere medium. And lastly, there is Grey.” Memsa’b transferred her attention to the bird sitting on the back of Sarah’s chair. “Grey, were you given to Sarah because she was going to become a Spirit Master?”

  “Well, yes!” said Grey, and made a rude noise, as if she was amused that the humans had taken so long to figure out something so obvious.

  Memsa’b spread her hands, as if to say, there, you see?

  “Spirit Masters are incredibly rare,” John Watson said into the stunned silence.

  “They are also not by any means the most conventionally powerful,” his wife pointed out dryly. “That would probably be Fire Masters.”

  John stroked his moustache. “I’d have to say, if you’re not a necromancer, Spirit Masters are probably the weakest of the Elemental M
asters. . . .”

  “But they do have advantages that no other Master has,” Mary added. “We’re limited to where our Elementals can go, or the nature of our Elementals is such that without close supervision they aren’t reliable.”

  “Well . . . ghosts often aren’t reliable,” Sarah said reluctantly. “And they’re limited by how far they can go from the point they’re bound to.”

  “But if there’s a sane spirit anywhere near something you want watched? Then you have eyes and ears anywhere within that area,” said Memsa’b.

  “But how does this change anything?” Sarah wanted to know. “We still don’t know where the necromancer is!”

  “Ah—but you and Nan know the general area to search now, and you know you’re not looking for a mere murderer, you’re looking for a necromancer. That makes all the difference,” said Sahib. When Sarah shook her head—and then, suddenly, her expression changed.

  “I’m not looking for spirits,” she said, slowly, “Because he has almost certainly bound the spirits of the girls he killed, and more than likely, they can’t move at all from the place where he’s bound them. In fact, I doubt very much there is a free spirit anywhere around his working space, because he’ll have bound them all. So what I’m looking for is an absence of spirits!”

  Sahib and Memsa’b both nodded, but it was Grey who answered.

  “Ex-actly!” crowed the parrot. “Ex-actly!”

  * * *

  There actually was no place other than the cellars where Sarah could have enough darkness to bring Caro out during the daytime. Everyone agreed that there was no point in trying to cram themselves down there amongst the sacks of potatoes and turnips and whatever else the School cooks had down there in order to speak to her a few hours earlier. Not to mention the mice and rats, Sarah thought to herself with a shudder. And black beetles and spiders. While the School cats probably did a good job with the former, they weren’t going to do much about the latter, and while Sarah didn’t at all mind these creatures in their proper places—where she could see and avoid them—the idea of having something run over her hand or face in the pitch dark gave her the horrors.

  But the mere fact that now they actually had something they could work with and the start of a plan had changed everyone’s mood. By lunchtime the Watsons had both lost that look of dim despair and Sarah actually caught them smiling. Memsa’b persuaded them to go on a nature walk with some of the children, including Suki, who adored Mary Watson.

  As for Sarah . . . she got out her talisman of oak, ash, and thorn twigs bound in red thread, tucked it into her hatband, and persuaded Nan to go on a walk of their own. Of course, Robin Goodfellow probably had too many things on his mind to turn up just to talk to them—but maybe he didn’t. And maybe he would. And maybe he could give them some good advice.

  Nan gave her a sidelong glance when she saw they were headed to the wildest part of the great estate, toward the grassy little bowl that had made a natural amphitheater. That had been the place where they first met Robin, when they had been “playing” Midsummer Night’s Dream with each of them taking half the parts.

  “I don’t know,” she replied to the unspoken question. “But if he does, we can at least find out if he has any advice for me.”

  She had just set foot in that little bowl as she said that, so she was not entirely surprised to hear, from behind her “And what advice would that be, Daughter of Eve?”

  “Advice on being a Spirit Master. Advice on dealing with a necromancer. Hello Robin!” she said, turning.

  They were never quite sure what guise he would be in when he appeared; today he was the youthful Elven Prince, with a lazy smile and nary a hair out of place. Tunic and some sort of trousers of emerald velvet and silk, silver embroidery ornamenting all of it, and a silver circlet around his head, his green eyes glinted with mischief though his sober expression suggested something other than fun.

  “I do wish you’d stop calling us that,” Nan sighed.

  “Calling you what, Wildwood Rose?” he asked, turning the lazy smile on her.

  “Daughters of Eve, although I can’t say I like ‘Wildwood Rose’ any better,” she replied, with her fists on her hips. “You should know better than to try to cozen me.”

  “I suppose I should, but then, that would be very out-of-character for me, wouldn’t it?” he replied smoothly. “Necromancer, you say?” he continued, and shook his head. “I am afraid I have no advice for you. I don’t meddle with human spirits. The best I can assist with is a charm or two, like I gave Sarah, and I doubt that will be of any help.”

  Well, this was an unpleasant surprise. “You didn’t know I was a Spirit Master? At least, Memsa’b thinks I am,” Sarah asked.

  Again, he shook his head. “That is new to me. I told you, I don’t meddle with human spirits. All that I can suggest is that you trust not your emotions but your intellect. In that half-world where the human spirits still tied to earth are, emotions are tricksy things. They’re strong there, and they can lead you astray. Don’t trust your feelings. Trust your head, not your heart. Listen to your ghostly companion. And take your feathered friends with you; they’ll see true.”

  “Well that’s more than I had,” Sarah replied. “Any other advice?”

  His brows furrowed beneath the thin silver circlet he wore. “Remember that nothing is exactly as it seems there. For instance, walls might wall something in, but not wall anything out. What seems familiar may act in unexpected ways. Nothing there is permanent; it’s always being worn away by the real world. Things that appear strong might be weak. But conversely, things that appear weak may be strong. If you see something, never take what you see at face value.” He shrugged. “Your best rule to follow is that if something seems odd, always ask yourself why. All I really know is that the only true things are the spirits, the rest is made of the dreams of spirits and the mortals with power there, and can be true or false. I do not go there, and I am not sure I could.”

  Sarah’s heart fell. She reminded herself that it was always long odds that Puck could help . . . but it was still a bitter disappointment.

  “Mary’s sylphs can,” Nan pointed out.

  “Sometimes the lesser can go where the greater cannot. I don’t know why.” He smiled suddenly. “I did not make the rules, after all.”

  “No, but you break them often enough,” Nan retorted.

  “True, true, but I think this might be one I cannot and should not break. It might be very dangerous for me to be there. It might be very dangerous to me. I can’t say.” He shrugged. Sarah had the feeling he knew a lot more than he was going to tell her. But—that too might be one of those rules he was not able to break.

  “I’m sorry,” Robin said, softly. “I wish I could help more.”

  “When I think about how much you helped with that—thing—that was trying to come into our world, how can I cast blame on you when you say you cannot help with this?” Sarah said firmly. “This is the doing of mortals. It’s up to mortals to deal with it.”

  Puck sighed with relief. “So, you see it.”

  “Much as I hate to admit it,” Nan replied reluctantly, “Yes, I do. We mortals made this mess. We should properly clean it up.”

  “Wise beyond your years,” Puck agreed. “Well then, I’ll give you both a kiss for luck, and Robin’s luck is nothing to be scoffed at!”

  Sarah might have said something, but Puck darted in, kissed her on her right cheek, kissed Nan on her left, and vanished in a puff of leaves and the scent of green herbs and wildflowers. Sarah picked the leaves up. Oak, ash, and thorn, of course.

  Nan looked at her and shrugged. “Well,” she said philosophically. “We tried.”

  But Sarah had the feeling that Puck had bent the rules by telling them more than he properly “should” have.

  I just have to figure out what he meant.

  * * *

  Spencer was not the sort of man to feel glee, but he certainly felt a deep satisfaction. There was no sign what
soever of Sherlock Holmes, and if not even the murder of Mary Watson had brought him out of hiding, there was no doubt that Spencer would have the Professor safely resurrected long before he showed his face in London again. John Watson was also safely eliminated; Kelly reported that he never ventured out of Sherlock’s old flat anymore.

  He’d replaced two of the fading ghosts with girls supplied by Shen Li, and shockingly, neither of the two new ones were Chinese. They also didn’t speak English, but Spencer didn’t particularly care what they were, as long as they consented to marry him. Whatever they were, Shen Li spoke whatever babble they called their native tongue, and they said “yes” at the right moment. That was all that mattered.

  Shen Li had given him more of whatever the drink was that had rendered Xi’er unconscious so quickly; it had cost him extra, but that was negligible given the convenience it afforded.

  Now he was a mere two girls away from having enough power to resurrect Moriarty and have plenty left over when that task was done.

  Moriarty had stabilized, and he had the feeling that Xi’er was the reason for that. Talking to her amused Moriarty no end, and that kept the Professor from getting agitated—or worse, enraged.

  Not having to worry about Moriarty’s stability had given him the leisure to lay the groundwork for other plans. He had forged several notes in Hughs’ hand to his mother, describing his “change of heart” thanks to the change in scenery, and asking her humbly to intercede in a reconciliation with Hughs Senior. He’d arranged for these to be sent from several different villages in the Lake District. The mother couldn’t reply, of course, not knowing where her son was, but when “Hughs” reappeared, everything would be in readiness for Moriarty to become the Prodigal Son Returned.

  And tonight he was taking an evening to discuss future plans with Shen Li.

  The shop was dark when he arrived, but the assistant opened the door to him as soon as he stepped out of the cab. Once again, the assistant led him to the room that served so many functions. Tonight it was set up as a sort of gentleman’s lounge. And tonight, for the first time, Shen Li was dressed as an ordinary English gentleman. Or perhaps not so ordinary; on closer inspection, Spencer realized that his exquisitely tailored suit could only have been bespoke from one of the best tailors in London.