The Cracked Slipper

by Stephanie Alexander

  The child swept her hand through the air. Rosemary nodded encouragingly, and the girl continued.

  “Although Cartheigh is a small country with not so many people, and surrounded by larger countries with lots and lots of them, Cartheigh has kept control of the Dragon Mines for three whole centuries, which is a very long time. There are few dragons left in the world, and no other mines in any of the kingdoms surrounding Cartheigh. We, the Witches of Afar Creek Abbey, send our thanks to King Casper and your husband Prince Gregory for ensuring the continued prosperity of our beloved kingdom.”

  Eleanor clapped, then stood and hugged the girl. She laughed when embarrassed orange steam floated out of the child’s ears.

  They visited the sorceresses last, on the top floor. Witches hunched around glowing fires and kettles of bubbling liquid, or sat mumbling while smoke or light swirled around their heads. So many smells filled the air, Eleanor could not pick out any one. Their enthusiastic guide, called Alesson, explained the work of her colleagues.

  “Over there,” said the young sorceress, “she’s trying to remove contaminants from water. It will help in the Fringe, where sickness runs rampant when the Clarity is low. Those two over there are channeling their minds to put words to paper without writing them. Imagine how much faster the scholars could work!” She nodded at one of the witches enveloped in pearly light. “We’re so close to finishing this spell. It will be a magical breakthrough. She’s trying to slow her heartbeat enough that she feels no pain. We hope to transmit the spell to our patients, and eliminate the need for opiates.”

  “How fascinating. What about her?” Eleanor asked.

  Alesson colored. “Not so noble. She’s trying to brew a magical sweetener. Some of us are quite addicted to the Abbottess’s chocolate truffles and marzipan balls, and it’s starting to show.”

  Late in the afternoon Eleanor shared a cup of tea with Rosemary in a comfortable parlor. “I’m impressed,” she said. “I never grasped the depth of the work you do here. I don’t know if the rest of the city knows either.”

  “I think the common folk understand,” Rosemary said.

  “Well, the king certainly doesn’t.” Eleanor remembered his comments at Faust’s disastrous dinner party last summer.

  “We’ve always done our work with little fanfare. It’s in our nature.”

  “Fine,” said Eleanor, “you don’t need bugle calls, but you could use money.”

  Rosemary laughed. “Our wealthier patrons pay for our services, but the cost of supporting the poor of this city drains the fees the teachers and public healers bring in. We have to compete with the Godsmen for patronage, and while we help each other where we can, there is never enough to accomplish everyone’s goals.”

  “And the magicians are flush with money from the state treasury,” Eleanor said with a scowl.

  Rosemary shook her head. “We have no quarrel with the magicians. There are many fine men in the Coveys doing important work. Their magic is just as vital as ours. Still, we wouldn’t turn down some new beds for the sick rooms, or ink pots. Do you have any idea how much ink we use?”

  Eleanor jotted notes in a ledger. None of Rosemary’s requests were exorbitant or out of the ordinary, just practical items to ease the witches’ burden. She didn’t think she would have too much trouble convincing the visiting courtiers to open their change purses, and she couldn’t help but feel gratified their donations would irk Ezra Oliver to no end.

  Dorian could name most of the bearded men glaring down at him from the white walls of the Council Hall. Kings, dukes, magicians, royal relations, scholars; all captured for eternity in life-sized oil paintings. Apparently nothing about the Council Hall had changed in several hundred years, as the décor in the portraits mirrored the furnishings in front of him. The same long rectangular table, the same high-backed chairs, the same tapestries from the mills in the Harveston with their traditional geometric patterns. Huge windows let in floor-to-ceiling light. Unlike most of the rooms in the palace, there were no draperies. According to Gregory, the lack of shade was intentional. One could not fall asleep during a lengthy review of cattle inventories or trade policy with sunlight streaming into the room and glaring off the polished table. While Dorian found the Council meetings fascinating, even his analytical mind wondered at times. A pack of wolves couldn’t make him admit it, but he sometimes imagined where his own solitary likeness might fit into the portrait collection.

  Only the men at the table were different, save one. As Ezra Oliver had been at Eclatant for ninety years, his face appeared in several paintings of the full High Council. With every depiction his somberness increased. In the most recent painting he stood beside Dorian with a positively grim expression. Dorian assumed a direct correlation between mood and position. He knew his habit of voicing his opinion drove Oliver mad.

  They were three hours into session when Oliver stood and delivered his final report on upcoming criminal trials. He read the names and supposed crimes of the accused. The Council asked a few clarifying questions but they appeared anxious to return to their meat and wine.

  “Lastly,” said Oliver, “the proprietor of Clarity Fine Jewelers has been accused of selling false jewels to the crown. He has admitted wrongdoing and will seek a plea bargain.”

  Gregory had not said much throughout the meeting, but he was suddenly interested. “Selling false jewels?”

  Oliver nodded. “Yes, he has offered to repay any losses—”

  “As in false jewels in a necklace bought for the Talessee queen last summer? As in jewels Thomas Harper Rowe admitted to stealing before his untimely tossing off Ramlock Face?”

  Oliver’s mouth hung open for a moment, but Gregory had no such difficulty finding words. When he stood, his chair caught in the thick rug and tick-tocked precariously on its legs. It tipped over and hit the black and white marble floor with a resounding whack.

  “Nothing to say, Oliver? Nothing to say about throwing an innocent—”

  “I’d say we’re finished, gentlemen,” interjected the king. “You’re all dismissed. Except you, Oliver.”

  The other members of the council gathered their papers and cloaks and said hurried good-byes. Dorian made to go with them but Gregory stopped him. “Stay here, Dorian.”

  “As you wish.” Dorian turned around, draped his cloak over his chair again, and stood beside Gregory.

  When the room cleared the king spoke. “Sit down.” Gregory didn’t move. “Gregory! Sit down.”

  Gregory left his own chair on the floor and sat in the one next to it. Dorian sat beside him. The king asked Oliver to explain himself. “Did Clarity Fine Jewelers have anything to do with that necklace for the Talessee queen? The one you said had false jewels, false jewels put there by Thomas Harper Rowe?”

  Oliver nodded, and shuffled his papers with his eyes on the desk. “I’m sorry to say, sire, yes. The proprietor included the necklace in the list of tampered items.”

  Gregory’s fist hit the table. “You dragged me up on that cliff, you made me watch that disgusting display…like a pack of animals…and you were not even sure Rowe was guilty?”

  “Sire, I truly thought—”

  “HighGod in tears, Oliver! That’s what your tactics get us! An innocent man tortured and murdered…I haven’t been able to sleep for—” He stopped abruptly. Oliver’s eyes darted between Gregory and his father, as if hoping for salvation from his sovereign.

  He did not get it. “Shoddy work, Oliver,” the king said. “By the Bond, there will be some conciliations to be made if the Harpers find out we gave one of their kinsmen the ax under false confession. My son is right. We expect more from you. It will be on your head to sort this out if it comes to light.” He wagged a finger in front of Oliver’s nose.

  Oliver’s face now resembled like an overripe tomato. His usual eloquence disappeared. “Sire…when we suspected a thief in the government ranks I indeed suspected Rowe…uh, we never had proof but the necklace…set an example…followed your
plan to the last letter.”

  Dorian caught a few wisps of hostile gray light seeping from under the table before Oliver sucked them back into his hands. Gregory continued his diatribe. “If you think you will be allowed to run amuck like this when I am king you are sorely mistaken, Oliver. Sorely fucking mistaken.”

  It seemed a good time to intervene. Dorian spoke up. “You’ve said your piece, Greg. Why don’t we let your father sort this out?”

  Gregory stood and Dorian followed him. He caught a last glimpse of Oliver’s bulging eyes as the two of them left the Council Hall. Gregory kept fuming down the passageway, through the Great Hall, and up the staircase to his chambers. He yelled at Melfin to shut the study door behind Dorian and poured himself a hefty goblet of wine. All the while he muttered under his breath. “Time for a change…a hundred years is long enough.”

  “Peace, Greg,” said Dorian. “Your face is the same shade as your hair.”

  Gregory whirled around. “Spare me your impudence, for once. You have no idea…” He gulped his wine.

  “In fact, I do,” said Dorian. “I was on the cliff, remember?”

  Gregory poured Dorian a glass of whiskey, perhaps to make up for going off like an ogre with a toothache. “I’m the future king.”

  “You are that.”

  “I won’t tolerate sloppiness, or hold onto servants who have outlived their usefulness.” Gregory started to put a hand to his hair, but stopped himself and twisted the Fire-iron ring on his right index finger instead. He’d let Dorian try it on in their younger days. It had belonged to Caleb Desmarais’s grandson, Gregory the First. He would be the Second.

  Dorian could almost hear the king’s words ringing through Gregory’s head.

  My son is right…we expect more…

  Gregory’s chest swelled, even as his right hand closed in a tight fist. “My opinions will be heard.”

  Eleanor sat on a throne, under a pavilion, observing her first magicians’ joust. It was nothing like an ordinary joust, as it involved no horses but did include a plethora of whizzing fireballs. Two martial magicians, each dressed in the color his magic assumed (in this case bright yellow and purple), hid behind Fire-iron shields and flung enchanted projectiles at one another. Yellow and purple fireballs spun around the arena like out-of-control, overgrown hummingbirds. The crowd pressed in as close as safety allowed, and Eleanor was one of the few with a clear view. Ironic, as she found the whole scene distasteful.

  The gathered courtiers screamed and cheered any time one of the fireballs found its mark. Eleanor winced as blood and sweat flew from the combatants’ faces and swinging arms. Gregory had left his throne. He paced the bit of open space in front their seats, shouting profane encouragement at the yellow magician.

  The sight of men with such rare abilities reduced to sparring partners saddened Eleanor. She turned to Rosemary in the wooden lawn chair beside her. “Why do the magicians participate in this ridiculous display? It’s like a magical cockfight. There’s no dignity in it.”

  “I agree,” said Rosemary, “but martials are a strange breed. Magic is not beauty to them. They see it as a means to a living, nothing more.”

  “Sometimes I wonder why magicians and witches don’t rule us all.”

  Rosemary never coated any answer with sugar. “I think HighGod had a plan in creating magical beings. Perhaps ten magical children are born in Cartheigh in a given year. We are simply to few to hold power, even with our talents.”

  After another interminable thirty minutes the match came to an abrupt end. The purple magician flung two desperate fireballs at his opponent’s knees, but yellow dropped to a crouch. Both purple balls ricocheted off yellow’s Fire-iron shield and catapulted back into their creator’s face. He was blasted into the air and landed on his back ten paces away.

  As the crowd went wild Eleanor leaned closer to Rosemary. “What in the name of HighGod was that?”

  “Fire-iron repels magic.” Rosemary almost shouted to be heard over the yellow magician’s supporters. “And no magic is as dangerous to the conjurer as his own turned against him.”

  As Eleanor stood and applauded politely Margaret appeared at her shoulder. “Walk with me?” her stepsister asked.

  “Gladly,” said Eleanor, and they curtsied their way past the mob and into the autumn sunlight. Anne Iris joined them on the edge of the crowd.

  “Margaret, I noticed you’ve been walking with Raoul in the garden,” said Eleanor, after they passed a few words about the weather and the joust. “How is he?”

  Margaret blushed, and smiled. “He’s well. He…he took my hand yesterday, and asked me to visit with his parents at their townhouse in Maliana.”

  “How sweet!” said Eleanor.

  “No more Mister Roffi?” asked Anne Iris.

  “I’ve grown bored of the idea of him,” Margaret said with a shrug. “He’s never spoken of his supposed affections, or acted on them.”

  Eleanor wondered if Margaret was thinking about their night in the Ogre Bar. In truth she was relieved. The idea of Margaret and Roffi had always seemed as natural as a witch and a magician setting up house and raising triplets. “Raoul is a good man,” Eleanor said.

  “If only Mother thought so.” Margaret sighed. “She never tires of discussing Roffi. She always wants to know if he comes to your chambers to visit me. How often does he visit? Does he stay long? What does he talk about? I’ve told her he’s about nearly every day but she won’t let it be. She even asks about his friendship with Gregory. Of course anyone close to the crown fascinates her.”

  “Imogene isn’t known for her tolerance, but perhaps his full purse makes up for his unbecoming accent,” said Eleanor with a laugh. “You should explain how Roffi comes to teach us all about Svelya. I’m sure her interest would wane at the mention of anything academic.”

  “Eleanor,” Margaret said, with sudden seriousness. “I would discuss my mother with you. Our last conversations have not only revolved around Roffi, but around you.”

  “Indeed,” said Eleanor. For some reason this brought her no surprise.

  “Yes, she often asks after you and Gregory. How well you get on, if you’re happy. She asked me if you’d shown signs of pregnancy.”

  Anne Iris scowled. “The nerve. How did you respond?”

  “I called her a nosy, spiteful gossipmonger,” said Margaret.

  “Margaret, you didn’t!” said Eleanor. “By the Bond, sister, you aren’t yourself these days.”

  “In all sincerity, Eleanor, you must take care. Remember, my mother was not so different from me, or Sylvia, or even you. She had an old name and no funds to shore it up. The fifth of five daughters. She didn’t even have a dowry, just her face and her charm. She never loved my father. He was a drunk, and a mean one at that, but she married him with the hope of bearing a son and securing some of the Easton money. When he died after gambling away the little we had she survived alone for five years. She bundled us from house to house, distant relation to more distant relation, before she married your father. She got another roof over her head, but no boy to go out and secure a fortune.”

  “Just another leftover girl,” said Eleanor.

  Margaret nodded. “Sylvia was always her great hope. Her one chance for safety. It’s why she always hated you so, I’m certain. It must have driven her mad, having Sylvia’s greatest competition under the same roof. I think she saw it from the first moment she laid eyes on you. For all those years she kept you close and strangled your spirit to make room for Sylvia’s. I couldn’t be what she needed.”

  Eleanor took her hand. “Thankfully.”

  Margaret smiled and went on. “So now she’s climbed higher than we had any right to expect, on Sylvia’s coattails. But it will never be enough for her.”

  Margaret stopped, and Eleanor and Anne Iris had to stop with her. “Somewhere in her heart I believe she wants the best for me and my sister, but if that means the best for herself all the better. Look how she forced Sylvia to marry t
hat old man. I tell you this because I fear she’ll never put aside her anger. She’ll never forgive you for stealing the crown she hoped to put on Sylvia’s head.”

  It was a long speech for Margaret. Perhaps she had written it down to ensure she remembered all that needed to be said. “Thank you,” Eleanor said. “Your words have fallen on alert ears, and a grateful heart.”

  Margaret excused herself to find Raoul, and Anne Iris took Eleanor’s hand. “You were right, dearest,” she said. “Margaret Easton has many admirable qualities.”

  Eleanor enjoyed Roffi’s lessons about his country. Relations between Svelya and Cartheigh had always varied between suspicion and outright hostility, and Eleanor felt her previous education on the subject therefore tainted with Carthean bias. Roffi brought her Svelyan literature and history books, and even had the cooks make Gregory and Eleanor a bragga, the traditional Svelyan rabbit stew.

  “Ugh,” said Gregory as he spit out a small bone.

  “Shhh,” whispered Eleanor. “You’ll hurt his feelings.”

  “I’d rather hurt his feelings than choke to death.” Gregory pushed his plate aside.

  As always, Eleanor wanted to share her new interest with Dorian, so she asked Roffi to join the two of them in Eclatant’s cavernous library. His presence had the added effect of preventing Eleanor and Dorian from being alone. Roffi began turning up every day, and soon all three were equally engaged in the discussion. They rattled on for hours under the flickering chandeliers, sipping pear juice and coughing when flipping pages threw old dust into their faces.