Year of the Griffin

by Diana Wynne Jones

  He overbalanced with a scream. Corkoran cried out, “Whoops!” and just barely managed to snatch hold of the assassin’s nose as he toppled past. “There,” he said. “All over.” A calming sort of gesture in the opposite direction brought the dome to a grinding stop. Elda could hear cheering coming from inside the dome and distantly from the courtyard, too. “Now put me in through one of the windows,” Corkoran said. “Quickly. I can’t stand any more.”

  Elda had no breath left to speak. She simply sideslipped again until she was level with a window and did more of the beastly hovering while some of the students inside wrestled it open. She watched Corkoran topple inside over the sill, helped by numerous arms, and then toppled herself, in a half glide, down onto the roof of the Spellman Building, to lie there in an aching heap.

  He might have said thank you! she kept thinking, heavy with cramps and with memories of that nasty smell of sweat. She did not feel in the least triumphant. It was more like being racked with bouts of shame. She felt a complete, useless fool. Once or twice, though, she found she was wondering how Corkoran would manage going to the moon if he was that scared of heights. She decided to stay on the roof. Anything else was too much.

  Half an hour later a trapdoor beside one of the chimneys opened, and Ruskin climbed out. Elda did not look, but she could tell it was Ruskin by the clacking of his hairbones. “So there you are,” he growled. “Are you in one piece?”

  “I ache,” Elda admitted. “All over.” In my soul, too, she thought.

  “And I bet he didn’t say thank you, did he?” Ruskin said.

  “No,” said Elda.

  She wanted to go on and explain that it was just that Corkoran was afraid of heights, but before she could muster the energy, Ruskin said, “There you are then. I’m beginning to think there’s not much to choose between wizards and the forgemasters back home. Selfish, overbearing lot, all of them. Think the world’s made just for them. There he is down in the buttery bar, being bought beer and playing the modest hero, and hasn’t even mentioned you! You want to come down now? Claudia’s over in Healers Hall arranging for a herbal steamroom for you. She says that’s what you’ll need.”

  “Oh, yes!” Now, it was mentioned, Elda knew this was the one thing she wanted. Hot steam. Nice smells. Aches easing away. How clever of Claudia. She began to feel better just at the idea.

  “Lukin’s with Olga and Felim down in the yard, ready to help you over there when you’re down,” Ruskin told her. “The question is, can you glide, or shall I let you down on a rope?”

  Elda found she felt a great deal better already. She slewed her head up and around until she could see Ruskin’s wide, short shape above her against the sunset. There was the outline of a coil of rope over one of his massive shoulders. He really had come prepared to take her half ton or so of weight, even though he weighed barely a tenth of that himself.

  “Easy enough with a rope. Dwarfs do this all the time,” Ruskin explained. “Take a turn around a chimney with the rope and pay it out slowly. The others will catch you.’

  A little squawk of a chuckle escaped Elda’s beak. How kind. She really did have friends. But I bet there’s usually a whole team of dwarfs for something of my weight. “It’s all right, Ruskin. I can glide down. Thank you.” She surged to her feet and managed to crawl across to the parapet. When she put her head over and saw the distant faces of three of her friends turned anxiously up to her in the dusk, they seemed so far down and the courtyard looked so small and dark that there was a moment when she almost understood how humans could be afraid of heights. Then she climbed on the parapet and spread her wings, and it was all right. She came down in a smooth, sloping glide, to land just beyond Olga, Lukin, and Felim, almost without stumbling.

  They rushed up to her. “Elda, you were wonderful! Are you all right? Can you walk?”

  “I’ll be fine once I’ve had a steam bath,” Elda assured them. She knew, somewhere behind the ache in her wings and in her forelegs, that what she was really suffering from was disillusionment, but that was something she was not ready to think of yet.

  SEVEN

  THE DAY AFTER Corkoran crammed the last two assassins into a cage designed for two rats and then forgot about them was an almost uneventful one. Everyone went about normal University business in quiet relief. Practically the only event of note was that Melissa met the lofty student after breakfast and purchased eight essays off him for twenty gold pieces. The lofty student got very drunk that evening, but that was hardly unusual. Ruskin grumbled about the food all day, but that was hardly unusual either. Possibly more noteworthy was the way Ruskin collected the forty-odd library books lying on Elda’s floor and explained kindly to Elda (who was lying on her bed, aching rather but fiercely finishing her essay) that he would see to them for her. Then he took them back to the library.

  “These have not been taken out in your name,” the librarian pointed out.

  “My friends asked me to bring them back for them,” Ruskin rumbled. He had discovered by now that if he reduced his voice to a low, grinding rumble, people assumed he was trying to whisper and usually begged him not to. The sound made the library windows buzz and produced irritable looks from the students working at the tables. “Just give me the library slips, and I’ll get out the other books they need,” he grated.

  “Hush. Very well. Hush,” the librarian agreed, anxious only to get rid of him.

  Ruskin left the library with thirty-eight new books. Every single one of them was from the Gastronomic Magic section. This puzzled the librarian a little. Only a couple of Wizard Umberto’s students were doing the food magic option this term, and Corkoran never bothered with it. But there seemed no point in telling Corkoran. He had ignored the librarian’s last note utterly. The librarian shrugged and went back to casting Inventory-spells.

  Ruskin retreated to his own room and got down to some serious reading. Sweet peace reigned.

  The following day the frosty weather gave place to rain. Elda, who had really, truly, and honestly intended to go out flying before breakfast, got up to find rainwater spouting from every gargoyle on the Spellman Building and dripping from the end of Wizard Policant’s pointed nose. There was even a small waterfall sliding down one of the walls of her concert hall. She gave up and went back to bed, marveling at the way Olga still went out rowing in spite of the rain. Olga came back drenched and blue-white, but very cheerful and ravenous for breakfast.

  The refectory smelled, very strongly, of fried onions. “Ooh!” said Olga. “My favorite!”

  Most other people found the smell the exact opposite of what they needed first thing in the morning and contented themselves with toast, even though most oddly there were no onions being served at all. There were, however, some remarkably fine sausages and golden mounds of perfectly scrambled eggs. Olga and Elda, who needed to eat twice as much as a human, anyway, both heaped their plates high and sat down near Ruskin to enjoy eating for once.

  Lukin was one of those who could only manage toast. “Great gods!” he said from the other side of Olga. “What’s wrong with this toast? It’s nice! Usually it’s too floppy to hold and too tough to bite. I’ve always wondered how they got it like that. But this is just right.”

  Olga nudged Elda’s wing and jerked her head toward Ruskin. Ruskin’s plate was mounded even higher than theirs. He had six pieces of toast and a stack of pancakes dripping with syrup and butter lined up for later. He was eating with serious rapture. But his round pink face was just a little too innocent. “Shall I say anything?” Olga murmured.

  Claudia had no doubts. “Ruskin,” she said, “most of it’s lovely. But what makes it all smell of fried onions?”

  Ruskin’s pink forehead wrinkled. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “I’m working on it. I think I’ll have it sorted by lunchtime.”

  “Please solve it soon,” Felim requested. “The smell gives me a headache. I was up far too early finishing my essay.”

  Essays were traditionally to be hande
d in after breakfast on that day. There were shelves in the Spellman Building for that purpose, each marked with a tutor’s name. Tradition handed from student to student described the serious penalties for not getting an essay there in time. For the first offense you could be deprived of your voice for a week, and your hearing as well next time, and, it was claimed, repeated offenders had their magic powers removed. No one knew anyone to whom these things had actually happened largely because no one dared be late with an essay. Nobody wanted to lose the power of speech, let alone anything else. Even the most dissolute of students hurried to turn up with at least one scribbled sheet on time.

  In consequence, there was quite a procession of students trotting through the rain toward the Spellman Building after breakfast, shielding wads of paper under umbrellas, cloaks, waterproof jackets, or damp shawls. Everyone who arrived in the North Lab for Wermacht’s class on Basic Alchemy immediately afterward was chilled and dripping and out of breath.

  “Outer garments on the cloakrack,” ordered Wermacht. He was as spruce as ever, having been protected by some kind of rain-warding spell, and he tramped impatiently to and fro behind his lectern with the hourglass on it, while everyone obediently hung sopping garments on the tall, three-legged stand beside the door or hooked umbrellas to the lead-lined trough by the wall.

  “Today,” proclaimed Wermacht as soon as this was more or less done, “we are going to examine the mystery of the Alchemical Marriage. Write that down. Your small heading under that is ‘The White with the Red.’”

  People scrambled to chairs and snatched out notebooks, and then they were off, writing down the mystery as fast as they could with wet, chilly fingers, until the sand in the hourglass had trickled to the bottom, every grain of it. Lukin, in his hurry, tried to use the golden notebook, but everything he wrote apart from the big heading simply disappeared as fast as he wrote it. He gave up and got out the jaunty little calfbound notebook Claudia had given him instead. After that he was steadily behind with Wermacht’s dictation and still trying to finish when the others surged to their feet and collected their still-dripping garments from the cloakrack.

  Amid the bustle he heard Wermacht say peremptorily, “You with the jinx, come here.”

  Uh-oh, Lukin thought, and kept his ears open and his head down as he scribbled, in case Claudia was in trouble.

  Claudia’s wrap was at the bottom of a heap of others on the same wooden hook, and she had to wait for other students to unhook their cloaks and jackets from on top of it. If it had only been on top, she thought, she would have snatched it and run and pretended not to hear Wermacht. She wondered whether just to run anyhow, but one odd result of her mixed parentage was that she hated rain. Claudia’s mother could never understand it. Marshpeople were supposed to revel in wetness. But the part that had come uppermost in Claudia here was the Empire half, and the Empire was hot and dry. Being wet made Claudia ache. Her wrap was specially charmed to keep her dry and had cost her brother, Titus, most of the taxes from a town. So she was forced to stand there waiting for it while Wermacht came striding up and seized her arm.

  “Please,” Claudia said, pulling away.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Wermacht said, holding on just as if she had not spoken or moved, “about this jinx of yours, and I can see now what’s causing it. I can lift it very easily. Would you like me to do that?”

  “No, thank you,” Claudia said coldly and promptly.

  Wermacht stared at her as if he could not believe his ears. “Do you mind telling me why?”

  Claudia, having been brought up with the very good manners everyone had in the Empire, did not answer, “Because you told Corkoran my spell was yours, you creep!” although she was tempted to. The trouble was that not saying this threw her into confusion. This is often the case when someone is being too polite. Claudia did most desperately want to be rid of her jinx. It caused continual trouble when she went to the Marshes and worse trouble in the Empire. It had made the Senate declare her an Unwanted Person there, in spite of the Emperor’s coming to the Senate in person to intervene. But strongly though she yearned to be rid of it, Claudia knew that this meant someone—probably a wizard—tinkering with her magical powers. And of all the wizards who might tinker, she most passionately could not bear it to be Wermacht. She had almost no idea how to say this politely.

  “Because,” she managed to say at length, “because, er, it’s only due to misdirected power, you know.”

  Wermacht’s outraged glare did not abate. He did not let go of her arm. “Precisely,” he said. “It’s simply a matter of straightening the paths of power and reaming them out a bit. I can do that in seconds.”

  “No,” said Claudia. “Thank you, Wizard Wermacht, of course. But my—my Empire code of morals means I have to do the straightening out for myself.” And in spite of Wermacht’s still hanging on to her arm, she reached haughtily for her wrap with the other hand. “Good morning, Wizard Wermacht.”

  “You are being a silly little thing!” Wermacht said. He shook her arm.

  Lukin snapped his notebook shut and got up to rescue Claudia. This had gone far enough.

  At the precise moment he stood up, a brilliant blue flash exploded from Wermacht’s hand and into Claudia’s arm. For an instant it lit up Claudia herself, her wrap stranded between her other hand and the cloakrack, and even the cloakrack itself, which seemed just for that instant to be made of blue fire. It sizzled blue on the stone ceiling and flashed in the wet footprints leading to the door. But the light had gone before Lukin could get anywhere near.

  “There,” Wermacht said smugly. “That didn’t hurt a bit, did it?”

  Lukin came up and detached Claudia’s arm from Wermacht’s fingers. He turned to Wermacht in his most princely manner. It was not a manner he liked to use much, but he was good at it when he did, far better than Claudia was. “Wizard Wermacht,” he said regally, “that is enough. Claudia has already told you twice that she does not wish anyone to tamper with her magic. Why don’t you take her word for it and leave her alone?”

  Wermacht gave Lukin a puzzled frown. “What’s the matter with you? I was simply lifting the jinx from her. She’ll be much more comfortable now.”

  Lukin stared steadily back. “But she asked you not to.”

  “Female vapors,” said Wermacht. “Female vapors.” And he stalked heavily away through the doorway.

  “Are you all right?” Lukin asked Claudia anxiously.

  She shivered a bit as she dragged her wrap down and slowly draped it around her. “Well, I didn’t feel anything particularly, if that’s what you mean. I don’t feel any different, I think—just a bit shaken.”

  “I’m not surprised. Wermacht’s an overbearing donkey!” Lukin said vehemently. “Come on. You need looking after. Let me buy you a drink.”

  A wisp of a giggle came from Claudia. “Thank you. But what with?”

  “Oh—” A flush surged across Lukin’s face. “You’d better pay, and I’ll pay you back. I might be getting some money soon.”

  “Not to worry,” said Claudia. “Myrna’s lecturing now, and I want to go. Myrna doesn’t make you feel brain-dead the way Wermacht does.”

  “I’ll come with you then,” Lukin said gallantly. He was not much of a one for lectures that you didn’t have to go to, but it was clear to him that Claudia needed company.

  They left the North Lab together, with Claudia saying as they went, “But I’m not going to faint or anything silly like that!” When they were most of the way across the courtyard toward the Spellman Building, the cloakrack swayed on its three legs and began to trundle after them. It staggered over the doorsill and trundled on, lurching, some way across the courtyard. About halfway between the Lab and Wizard Policant, it stopped and stood, looking forlorn and perhaps a trifle bewildered, with raindrops hanging in rows from its curly hooks. The janitor discovered it there just before lunch and put it back inside the lab, muttering, “Darn students! Another of their jokes.”

  Lunc
h was—well—peculiar. In the refectory the smell of onions had gone, but it had been replaced by a potent scent of strawberries, which did not go well with the smell of the usual refectory stew. The stew itself, bubbling in the usual row of cauldrons, looked quite normal but, when ladled out onto plates, proved to be a strident bright green. It had strands in it, too, of darker green, along with khaki lumps and viridian morsels and a general, subtle air of sliminess. “Pond weed!” somebody shouted. “Look out for tadpoles!”

  Most people declined to eat it and lunched instead off strawberry mousse and bread. Ruskin’s friends, knowing a little more than most, each took a plateful. Elda and Felim both had to give up and resort to strawberry mousse and bread, too. As Felim said, it was hard to taste anything but slime through the scent of strawberry, and Ruskin had done a good job on the mousse. Lukin ate most of his, because his mind was still on Claudia. And Claudia, recognizing the dish for Marsh chowder, told Ruskin it was delicious and went back for more. While she was away at the cauldrons, Lukin told the rest of them about Wermacht and the troubling blue flash.

  “Do you think he did it?” Ruskin asked. “Took away her jinx, I mean. And let me tell you, this is the best Marsh chowder I ever ate. You don’t eat it that way, Olga. You sort of suck it in. Brings out the taste.”