Seraphina: A Novel Part 12

How could he still think well of me after I'd been so awful to him? A warm wash of guilt rolled over me. "I-I'm sorry-"

"No harm done." He waved off my confusion. "In fact, this has turned out very well. You and I appear to be working toward a common purpose. Now that we know, we can help each other."

He thought I was apologizing for the lie; I'd already done that. "I'm, uh, also sorry for what I said to you. Yesterday."

"Ah!" He smiled at long last, and a knot of anxiety in my chest released. "There's the other half of your hesitation. Forget it. I already have."

"I was rude!"

"And I was offended. It was all very by-the-book. But let us set that aside, Seraphina. We're pulling in the same team." I wasn't buying such easy forgiveness; he noticed my doubt and added: "Selda and I had a long talk about you. She spoke quite eloquently in your defense."

"She didn't say I was p.r.i.c.kly?"

"Oh, she absolutely did. And you are." He looked vaguely amused by whatever expression sprawled across my face. "Stop glowering. There's nothing wrong with letting people know when they've stepped on your tail. The thing to ask ourselves when you bite is, why?"

Bite. Tail. I crossed my arms over my chest.

"Selda has observed that you dislike personal questions, and certainly I was getting a bit personal. So. My apologies."

I looked at my feet, embarra.s.sed.

He continued: "In this particular case, I think there was more to it than that. You honestly answered my question." He sat back smugly, as if he'd solved a difficult riddle. "I asked what it's like to be so talented, and you gave me a straightforward comparison: like being a b.a.s.t.a.r.d! And with a little extra thought, I get it. Everyone gawps at you for something you can't help and did nothing to deserve. Your very presence makes other people feel awkward. You stand out when in fact you'd rather not."

For the merest moment I couldn't breathe. Something inside me quivered, some oud string plucked by his words, and if I breathed it would stop.

He did not know the truth of me, yet he had perceived something true about me that no one else had ever noticed. And in spite of that-or perhaps because of it-he believed me good, believed me worth taking seriously, and his belief, for one vertiginous moment, made me want to be better than I was.

I was a fool to let myself feel that. I was a monster; that could never change.

I almost snapped at him, almost played the monster in earnest as only I could play it, but something stopped me. He wasn't some dragon, coldly observing me. He was offering me something true about himself in return. It shone like a diamond. That wasn't trivial; that was generous. If I knocked this gift out of his hand, I wasn't getting another. I inhaled shakily and said, "Thank you, but ..." No, no buts. "Thank you."

He smiled. "There's more to you than meets the eye. I've observed that more than once. Which of the Porphyrian philosophers do you favor?"

It was such a non sequitur that I nearly laughed, but he kept talking, finally at ease with me again. "You recognized that quote the other evening, and I thought, 'At long last, someone else who's read Pontheus!' "

"I'm afraid I haven't, much. Papa had his a.n.a.lects-"

"But you've read other philosophers. Confess!" He leaned forward eagerly, elbows on his knees. "I'd guess you like ... Archiboros. He was so keen on the life of the mind that he never bothered to determine whether his theories worked in the real world."

"Archiboros was a pompous a.s.s," I said. "I preferred Necans."

"That morose old twig!" cried Kiggs, slapping his leg. "He takes it too far. If he had his way, we'd all be nothing but disembodied minds, floating and ephemeral, completely disconnected from the matter of this world."

"Would that be so awful?" I said, my voice catching. He'd hit upon something personal again, or else I was so raw I could be hurt by anything, no matter how innocuous.

"I'd have thought you preferred Pontheus, is all," he said, examining an invisible speck on the sleeve of his doublet, giving me a little s.p.a.ce to collect myself.

"A jurisprudence philosopher?"

"Clearly you've only read his early work. All his genius is in his later writings."

"Didn't he go mad?" I was aiming for supercilious, but the look on his face told me I'd missed and landed squarely on amusing.

"If it was madness, Phina, it was such a madness as you or I could only dream of! I will find you his last book." He looked at me again and his eyes shone in the lamplight, or with the inner light of delighted antic.i.p.ation.

His enthusiasm made him beautiful. I was staring; I looked at my hands.

He coughed and rose, tucking the coin into his doublet. "Right. Well. I'll take Orma's coin to Eskar tomorrow morning and see what she says. With my luck, she'll conclude we're harboring criminals; I don't think she's forgiven me for letting that newskin get hurt-or for dancing with her, for that matter. Ask your teacher about the details the knights gave you; I'd appreciate that. If we could identify this rogue, that might impress upon the emba.s.sy that we are making a good-faith effort to ... I was going to say 'maintain order,' but it's a bit late for that, isn't it?"

I said, "Until tomorrow, then." Of course, it was up to him to dismiss me, not the other way around. I cringed at myself.

He seemed not to register the breach in manners. I curtsied to make up for it. He smiled and opened the tower door for me. My mind was racing, scrambling to think up one more thing to say to him before I left, but it came up empty. "Good evening, Seraphina," he said, and closed the door.

I heard his footfall grow faint as he climbed the tower steps. What did he do up there? It was none of my business, to be sure, but I stood for a long moment with my hand upon the oaken door.

I stood so still, for so long, that I nearly jumped out of my skin when a voice said, "Music Mistress? Are you ill?"

I looked behind me; there stood one of my musicians, the scrawny sackbutist whose name I never remembered, who had apparently been pa.s.sing by and spotted me looking catatonic. He stepped toward me hesitantly. "Is there anything you need?"

"No," I croaked, my voice as rough as if I were breaking a years-long vow of silence. "Thank you," I added. I bent my head, skirted him meekly, and headed back up the hallway toward my rooms.

The next day was the last before Comonot arrived, and Viridius planned to rehea.r.s.e us within an inch of our lives. I rose extra early; I needed to contact Orma first thing so I could let Kiggs know what he said. I played our chord upon the spinet and waited, scalding my tongue on my tea and wondering where I might find Kiggs this time of day. He had an office near the main guardroom, I knew, but he also spent a lot of time in the city.

When the spinet kitten finally spoke, it startled me so much that I almost lost my teacup. "Can't talk," buzzed Orma's voice. "I'm babysitting Basind."

I'd forgotten all about the newskin. "When can you talk?"

"Dinner? The Mallet and Mullet? Six?"

"Fine, but make it seven. Viridius intends to flog us until we bleed today."

"I'll see you then. Don't eat that!"

I looked to my cup of tea and back. "Don't eat what?"

"Not you. Basind." The kitten crackled, and he was gone.

I sighed, pushed back from the instrument, and heard the great clock above the central courtyard chime. There was more than enough time for my morning routine and breakfast. I was running early, which was just as well. Viridius would find no fault with me today.

I arrived at Castle Orison's vast great hall early and alert. Carpenters were swarming all over the stage, which could not be a good sign, and I saw neither hide nor wispy hair of the gouty old man. Musicians were everywhere, like ants, but no Viridius. Finally his phlegmatic manservant, Marius, crept up with a message for me: "The master's not here."

"What do you mean he's not here? This is dress rehearsal."

Marius cleared his throat nervously. "To quote him precisely: 'Tell Seraphina I leave everything in her more than capable hands. Don't forget to rehea.r.s.e smooth entrances and exits!' "

I bit back the first word that occurred to me, and the second. "So where is he?"

The man ducked his gray head; apparently my tone had been ungentle. "At the cathedral. His protege was having some problem-"

"Lars?" I said. Someone with keen hearing stopped in his tracks behind me. I lowered my voice. "What kind of problem, exactly?"

Viridius's man shrugged. "The master wouldn't say."

"The usual, no doubt," sneered Earl Josef, at my back. "Brawling, bringing his filthy radt-grauser into the cathedral, getting drunk and smashing up his own machine."

I understood "red-women." "They wear black and yellow stripes here in Goredd," I said, trying to plaster over my agitation with a joke. "But I expect you know that firsthand."

The earl ran his tongue over his perfect teeth and tugged his lace cuffs. "Normally I wouldn't bother, but I like you, grausleine. Stay away from Lars. He's a Daanite and a liar and trouble incarnate. He's barely human."

"Viridius trusts him," I said.

"Master Viridius has taken a dangerous fancy to him," the earl said. "Neither of you understands what he is. I pray every day that St. Ogdo destroy him."

I wanted so badly to say I knew exactly what Lars was and did not hold it against him, but the closest I could manage was "I don't care what you say. He is my friend. I will hear no more of this slander."

He snaked an unwelcome arm around my waist; I tried to pull away, but he had a grip like a lobster. "You are the sweetest and most innocent of grausleiner," he murmured. "But there are people in this world who commit horrifying and unnatural acts beyond anything your naive imagination could conceive. He is your worst nightmare. Heed my warning and stay away from him. I fear for you otherwise."

He leaned in and kissed my ear as if sealing my compliance, but he drew back abruptly. "What is that odd perfume you wear?"

"Let go of me," I said through clenched teeth.

Josef gave a haughty sniff and released me, stalking off without a backward glance.

I beat back a wave of panic. He'd smelled me. Had he recognized the smell as saar?

I gathered what dignity I could muster after being so unpleasantly manhandled, and approached the gathered herd of performers, prepared to go full Viridius on them. They expected nothing better, after all.

The stage was beautiful but turned out to be unsound over the trapdoor in the center, as we learned to our dismay when five ba.s.sos disappeared at once. I yelled at the carpenters and drilled the choir on the other side of the hall while they made modifications. Then the curtain mechanism didn't work, the stilt walker's costume fell off mid-jig-funny, under other circ.u.mstances-and Josef's viola solo kept drifting flat.

I took no satisfaction in the last; in fact, I suspected it was a ploy to make me look at him. I grimly kept my gaze elsewhere.

That was very little gone wrong for a dress rehearsal, but it was more than my mood would support. I growled bearishly at everyone, deservedly or not. The itinerant performers seemed alarmed, but my palace musicians found me amusing; I made an unconvincing Viridius, even at my crankiest. s.n.a.t.c.hes of my praise song drifted in my wake as I stormed past, making it difficult to keep scowling.

Evening came at last, and my musicians decided it was high time they refused to work. This, of course, meant they set up a ma.s.sive session in the great hall playing reels and jigs for fun. Music is only work if someone else makes you do it. I'd have liked to join in-I'd more than earned it, I felt-but Orma was waiting. I bundled up and headed downhill into town.

The warmth of the Mallet and Mullet was welcome, although I never felt quite comfortable in the presence of strangers and smoke, chatter and clatter. The fire and lamps provided too little light. It took me some time scanning the tables to realize Orma had not yet arrived. I claimed a place near the hearth, ordered myself some barley water, to the barmaid's scornful amus.e.m.e.nt, and sat down to wait.

It wasn't like Orma to be late. I sipped my beverage, keeping my eyes to myself, until a commotion by the door grew too loud to ignore.

"You can't bring his kind in here," snarled the tapmaster, who had come out from behind his bar, dragging a muscular cook with him as backup. I turned around to look; Orma stood in the foyer, unfastening his cloak clasp. Basind lurked behind him, his bell tinkling plaintively. Patrons near the door made St. Ogdo's sign or pressed fragrant sachets to their noses as if warding off disease.

The tapmaster folded his arms over his dingy ap.r.o.n. "This is a respectable establishment. We've served the likes of Baronet Meadowburn and the Countess du Paraday."

"Recently?" said Orma, widening his eyes mildly. The tapmaster took that for disrespect and puffed out his chest; the cook fingered the edge of his cleaver.

I was already on my feet, slapping a coin onto the table. "Go back outside!"

The open night air, when I reached it, came as a relief even if Basind's slouching silhouette did not.

"Why did you bring him along?" I said crossly as we stepped into the empty street. "You should have known they wouldn't serve him."

Orma opened his mouth, but Basind spoke first: "Where my teacher goes, I go."

Orma shrugged. "There are places we can eat."

Places, maybe, but only in one part of town.

Quighole was closed after sunset, technically. Only two streets led into what had once been St. Jobertus's Close; each had been fitted with a tall wrought-iron gate that the Queen's Guard, with great ceremony, padlocked every evening. Of course, the buildings facing the square had back doors, so one had simply to walk through a shop, a tavern, or a house full of quigs to get in and out-and there were always the tunnels below. Disgruntled saarantrai characterized Quighole as a prison; it was a porous prison, if so.

Old St. Jobertus's had once been a church; when the parish outgrew the building, New St. Jobertus's had been built across the river, where there was more room. After Comonot's Treaty, some dragons had aspired to run a little collegium to help fulfill Comonot's proposed interspecies knowledge exchange. Old St. Jobertus's was the largest unused building they could find. While bell-exempt dragon students such as Orma sneaked around studying our mysterious ways, other scholars, fully belled and graduated, came to St. Bert's (as it was now called) to teach their sciences to backward humans.

They got few students, and fewer who would admit to being students. St. Bert's trained the best physicians, but few humans wanted a doctor practicing spooky saar medicine on them. A recent scandal over the dissection of human cadavers hadn't helped matters. Riots all over town had nearly turned into a bloodbath; people demanded vengeance against the saarantrai-and their students-who dared paw through human remains. There had been a trial, with my father right in the middle of things as usual. Dissection was forbidden and several dragons were sent back to the Tanamoot, but physicians continued to train in secret.

I had only been to Quighole once, when Orma took me with him to fetch my itch ointment. It was not a place respectable young girls should be seen, and my father had been adamant that I should avoid the neighborhood. As many of his objections as I had overturned or disregarded, I'd willingly abided by this one.

Orma took us up an alley, reached over top of a gate to unlock it, and led us into someone's muddy kitchen garden. Dead marrow vines squished underfoot. A pig grunted in one enclosure; another was full of rotting vegetables. I feared the house's owner would come after us with a pitchfork at any minute, but Orma walked straight up to the door and knocked three times. No one answered. He knocked three more times and then scratched the flaking paint with his nails.

A little hatch window opened. "Who is it?" asked a scratchy voice.

"It's the polecat," said Orma. "I've come to nix the mink."

An old woman with a wide toothless grin opened the door to us. I followed Orma down the stairs into a fetid semidarkness. We arrived in a humid, stenchy cellar lit by a wide hearth, small lamps, and a hanging light fixture in the shape of a mermaid with antlers, her bosom bared to all the world, brandishing two candles like swords. Her eyes bugged out at me as if she were astonished to see a sister monster.

My eyes adjusted. We were in some sort of underground public house. There were rickety tables and a variety of patrons-human, saarantrai, and quigutl. Humans and saarantrai sat at the same tables here, students engaged in deep discussions with teachers. Here was a saar demonstrating principles of surface tension-just as Zeyd had taught me before her special tutorial in gravitation-by holding a gla.s.s of water upside down with only a slip of parchment between his rapt students and a drenching. In another corner I saw an impromptu dissection of a small mammal, or dinner, or both.

No one came to Quighole who didn't have to; I had more personal dealings with saarantrai than most people, and I'd only been the once. I had never seen both my ... my peoples together like this. I found myself a little overcome.

The human students did not interact much with the quigutl, but it was still remarkable how little fussed they were at the presence of the creatures. n.o.body sent back food that had been touched by quigs-there were quig servers!-and n.o.body shrieked upon discovering one under the table. Quigutl had affixed themselves to the rafters and the walls; some cl.u.s.tered around tables with saarantrai. The global stench undoubtedly came from quig breath, but the nose falls asleep quickly. By the time we found a table, I barely smelled anything at all.

Orma went to order us dinner, leaving me with Basind. Our table was covered in chalk equations. I pretended to look at them while studying the newskin sidelong. He gaped vapidly at a nearby table full of quigs.

I couldn't talk to Orma in front of Basind, but I didn't see how to get around it.

I followed Basind's gaze to the next table and gasped. The quigs there had their tongues out and sparks were flying. It was hard to see through the gloom, but they appeared to be altering the shape of a bottle, melting the gla.s.s with focused heat from their tongues and pulling it like taffy. The long fingers of their dorsal arms-the twiglike, dexterous limbs they had in place of wings-seemed impervious to heat. They pulled gla.s.s as thin as thread, heated it again, and looped it around into lacy structures.

Orma returned and set down our drinks. He followed my gaze to the gla.s.s-spinning quigutl. They'd made a hollow, basket-sized egg of green gla.s.s threads. "Why don't gla.s.sblowers hire them?" I asked.

"Why don't goldsmiths hire them?" said Orma, pa.s.sing Basind a cup of barley water. "They don't follow instructions willingly, for one thing."

"How is it that you saar don't understand art?" I said, marveling at their gleaming creation. "Quigs make art."

"That's not art," said Orma flatly.

"How would you even know?"

His eyebrows drew together. "They don't value it the way a human would. There's no meaning to it." One of the quigs had climbed onto the table and was attempting to sit on the gla.s.s egg. It shattered into a thousand shards. "See?" said Orma.

I thought about the human-faced lizard in my purse; I wasn't sure he was right. That figurine spoke to me somehow.