Seraphina: A Novel Part 9

Orma was on his feet in an instant. "Saar Basind," he said. "What brings you to St. Ida's?"

Basind fished around in his shirt, then in his pants, finally locating a folded letter addressed to Orma. Orma read it quickly and held it out to me. I put the door back in its place, grasped the letter with two fingers, and read: Orma: You will recall Saar Basind. We find him useless at the emba.s.sy. Apparently the Ardmagar owes Basind's mother a favor for turning in her h.o.a.rding husband. Basind should never have been permitted to come south otherwise. He needs remedial human behavior lessons. Given your family history, and your own ability to pa.s.s, it occurs to me that you might be the ideal teacher.

Give whatever time you have to give, recalling that you are in no position to refuse this request. In particular, persuade him to keep his clothes on in public. The situation is that dire. All in ard, Eskar.

Orma uttered no cry of dismay. I exclaimed for him: "St. Daan in a pan!"

"Evidently they're anxious to get him out from underfoot while they prepare for the Ardmagar's arrival," said Orma evenly. "That's not unreasonable."

"But what are you to do with him?" I lowered my voice, because anyone could be on the other side of the bookcases. "You're trying to pa.s.s among the music students; how do you explain being saddled with a newskin?"

"I'll devise something." He gently removed a book from Basind's hands and put it on a high shelf. "I might plausibly be homebound with pneumonia this time of year."

I didn't want to leave until I was sure he was all right, and I particularly didn't want to leave him with the newskin, but Orma was adamant. "You have a lot of other things to do," he said, opening the door for me. "You have a date with Prince Lucian Kiggs, if I recall."

"I had hoped for a music lesson," I griped.

"I can give you homework," he said, infuriatingly oblivious to my dismay. "Stop by St. Gobnait's and observe the new megaharmonium. They've just finished it, and I understand it puts into practice some intriguing acoustical principles, hitherto untested on so large a scale."

He tried to smile, to show me he was fine. Then he closed the door in my face.

I strolled to the cathedral, as Orma suggested, having no desire to return to the palace yet. The sky had drawn a thin white veil across the sun, and the wind had picked up. Maybe snow would come soon; it was five days till Speculus, the longest night of the year. As the saying goes: when the days lengthen, the cold strengthens.

The Countdown Clock was visible all the way across the cathedral square. Apparently it changed numbers midmorning, about the time Comonot would be arriving. I appreciated that kind of pedantry, and stopped to watch the mechanical figures emerge from little doors in its face. A bright green dragon and a purple-clad queen stepped forward, bowed, took turns chasing each other, and then hoisted a drapery between them, which I a.s.sumed represented the treaty. There was a grinding and clunking sound, and the ma.s.sive clock hand pointed toward three.

Three days. I wondered whether the Sons of St. Ogdo felt pressed for time. Was it difficult to organize rioting? Did they have enough torches and black feathers? Enough rabid speechifiers?

I turned back toward St. Gobnait's cathedral, feeling some curiosity about Viridius's protege. He had certainly made an interesting clock.

I felt the megaharmonium before I heard it, through the soles of my feet, through the very street, experiencing it not as sound but as vibration and a peculiar oppressive weight of air. Closer to the cathedral, I understood a sound was present but would have been hard-pressed to identify it. I stood in the north transept porch, my hand upon a pillar, and I felt the megaharmonium to the center of my bones.

It was loud. I did not yet feel qualified to offer a more nuanced opinion.

I opened the door into the north transept; the music nearly blasted me back out again. The entire cathedral was packed with sound, every cranny, as if sound were some solid ma.s.s, leaving no air, no medium to move through. I could not enter until my ears adjusted, which they did surprisingly quickly.

Once I had ceased to be terrified, I was awed. My paltry flute had made the building ring, but that thin sound had risen like candle smoke; this was a conflagration.

I worked my way toward the Golden House at the great crossing, wading through sound, then pressed on into the south transept. I saw now that the instrument had four manual keyboards, gleaming like rows of teeth, and a larger one for the feet. Above, around, and behind it, pipes had been fitted in neat rows, making a palisade fortress of chanters; it looked like the unnatural offspring of a bagpipe and a ... a dragon.

A large man in black dominated the bench, his feet dancing a ground-ba.s.s jig, his broad shoulders affording him a reach like a Zibou rock ape. I wasn't short but I could not have reached in so many directions at once without straining something.

There was no music on the stand; surely no music had yet been written for this monstrosity. Was this cacophony his own composition? I suspected it was. It was brilliant, the way a thunderstorm across the moors or a raging torrent is brilliant, insofar as a force of nature may be said to have genius.

I was judging too hastily. I began to hear structure in the piece, the longer I listened. The volume and intensity had distracted me from the melody itself, a fragile thing, almost shy. The surrounding bombast was all a bluff.

He released the last chord like a boulder off a trebuchet. A bevy of monks who'd been hiding in nearby chapels like timid mice scurried out and accosted the performer in whispers: "Very nice. Glad it works. That's enough testing; we're about to have service."

"I couldt play durink service, yes?" said the big man in a dense Samsamese accent. His head, close-cropped and blond, bobbed submissively.

"No. No. No." The negative echoed all over the transept. The big man's shoulders slumped; even from the back, he looked heartbroken. A pang of pity surprised me.

Surely this was Viridius's golden boy, Lars. He had designed an impressive machine, taking up an entire chapel with its pipes and tubes and bellows. I wondered which Saint had been evicted to make room for it.

I should greet him. I felt I'd glimpsed his humanity, a piece of his heart in his playing. We were friends; he just didn't know it yet. I stepped up and gently cleared my throat. He turned to look at me.

His middling chin, round cheeks, and gray eyes shocked me speechless. It was Loud Lad, who piped and yodeled and built pergolas in the garden of my mind.

"h.e.l.lo," I said calmly, my pulse racing in excitement and plain terror. Would all my grotesques, the entire freakish diaspora of half-dragons, walk into my life one by one? Would I spot Gargoyella busking on a street corner and Finch in the palace kitchens, turning the spits? Maybe I wouldn't have to go looking for them after all.

Loud Lad gave courtesy with Samsamese simplicity, and said, "We hev not been introduced, grausleine."

I shook his enormous hand. "I'm Seraphina, Viridius's new a.s.sistant."

He nodded eagerly. "I know. I am calledt Lurse."

Lars. He spoke Goreddi like his mouth was full of pebbles.

He rose from his bench; he was taller than Orma, and as ma.s.sive as two and a half Ormas, at least. He seemed simultaneously strong and soft, as if he had ended up with a lot of muscles rather by accident and didn't care about keeping them. He had a nose like a compa.s.s needle; it pointed with purpose. He pointed it toward the quire, where the monks had begun cheerful hymns to St. Gobnait and her blessed bees. "They are havink service. Perheps we can ..." He gestured past the Golden House, toward the north transept. I followed him out, into the hazy glare of afternoon.

We walked to the Wolfstoot Bridge, a shy silence hanging over us. "Would you like lunch?" I said, gesturing toward the cl.u.s.tered food carts. He said nothing, but stepped up eagerly. I bought us pies and ale; we carried them to the bridge's bal.u.s.trade.

Lars hefted himself up with unexpected grace and sat on the bal.u.s.trade with his long legs dangling over the river. Like all proper Samsamese, he dressed gloomily: black doublet, jerkin, and joined hose. No ruffs or lace, no slashing or puffy trunk hose here. His boots looked like he'd owned them a long time and could not bear to give them up.

He swallowed a bite of pie and sighed. "I hev needt to speak with you, grausleine. I heardt you at the funeral and knew you were my ..."

He trailed off; I waited, filled with curiosity and dread.

River gulls circled, waiting for us to drop the smallest crumb. Lars threw bits of pie crust over the river; the gulls swooped and caught them in midair. "I start over," he said. "Hev you noticedt, perheps, thet an instrument can be like a voice? Thet you can tell who plays it just from listenink, without lookink?"

"If I am very familiar with the performer, yes," I said carefully, unsure what he was getting at.

He puffed out his cheeks and looked at the sky. "Do not think me mad, grausleine. I hev heardt you play before, in dreamink, in ..." He gestured toward his blond head.

"I didt not know what I was hearink," he said, "but I believedt in it. It was like crumbs on the forest path: I followedt. They leadt me here where I can buildt my machine, and where I am less the, eh, vilishparaiah ... sorry, my Gorshya not goodt."

His Goreddi was better than my Samsamese, but vilishparaiah sounded like a cognate. The "paraiah" part did, anyway. I did not dare ask him about being half dragon; as much as I hoped that was the link between all my grotesques and me, I did not yet have proof. I said, "You followed the music-"

"Your music!"

"-to escape persecution?" I spoke gently, trying to convey sympathy and let him know I understood all about the difficulties of being a half-breed.

He nodded vigorously. "I am a Daanite," he said.

"Oh!" I said. That was unexpected information, and I found myself reevaluating everything Viridius had said about his protege, the way his eyes had gleamed.

Lars stared intently at the remains of his lunch, a veil of shyness drawn over him again. I hoped he hadn't mistaken my silence for disapproval. I tried to coax him back out: "Viridius is so proud of your megaharmonium."

He smiled but did not look up.

"How did you calculate the acoustics for that contraption?"

He raised his gray eyes sharply. "Acoustics? Is simple. But I needt somethink to write with." I pulled a small charcoal pencil-a draconian innovation, rare in Goredd, but very useful-from the pocket of my surcoat. His lips twitched into a little smile and he started scrawling an equation beside him on the bal.u.s.trade. He ran out of room to write as the notation approached his b.u.m-he wrote sinister-handed-so he stood up on the railing, balancing like a cat, and wrote leaning over. He diagrammed levers and bellows, ill.u.s.trated the resonant properties of types of wood, and elucidated his theory of how one might emulate the sounds of other instruments by manipulating wave properties.

Everyone turned to look at the enormous and unexpectedly graceful man balancing on the bal.u.s.trade, doubled over writing, gabbling about his megaharmonium in intermittent Samsamese.

I grinned at him and marveled that anyone could possess such single-minded pa.s.sion for a machine.

A cadre of courtiers approached the bridge on horseback but found it difficult to cross with all the merchants and townspeople gaping at Lars's antics. The gentlemen made a ruckus with their horses; people scampered out of their way to avoid being trampled. One courtier, dressed in rich black, smacked dawdling gawpers with his riding crop.

It was Josef, Earl of Apsig. He didn't notice me; his eye was fixed on Lars.

Lars looked up, met the earl's fierce glare, and went white.

Goreddis claim that all Samsamese sounds like cursing, but Josef's tone and body language left no doubt. He rode straight for Lars, gesticulating and shouting. I knew the words mongrel and b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and guessed the obscure halves of some compound words. I looked to Lars, horrified for him, but he stoically took the abuse.

Josef drove his horse right up against the bal.u.s.trade, making it difficult for Lars to keep his balance. The earl lowered his voice to a vicious whisper. Lars was strong enough to have pitched scrawny Josef right off his horse, yet he did nothing.

I looked around, hoping someone would come to Lars's aid, but no one on the crowded bridge made any move to help. Lars was my friend, for all that I'd known him two hours; I'd known Loud Lad for five years, and he'd always been a favorite. I sidled up to the horse and tapped at the Earl of Apsig's black-clad knee, gingerly at first and then harder when he ignored me.

"Hey," I said, as if I could talk to an earl that way. "Leave him alone."

"This is not your affair, grausleine," Josef sneered over his starched ruff, his pale hair flopping into his eyes. He wheeled his horse, driving me back. Unintentionally-perhaps-his horse's hindquarters swung around and knocked Lars into the freezing river.

Everyone took off running then-some for the river's edge, some to put as much distance between themselves and this fracas as possible. I rushed down the steps to the quayside. Rivermen were already shoving off in rowboats and coracles, extending poles over the choppy water, shouting directions to the flailing figure. Lars could swim, it seemed, but was hindered by his clothing and the cold. His lips were tinged blue; he had trouble getting his hands to close around the proffered poles.

Someone finally hooked him and reeled him in to sh.o.r.e, where old river ladies had hauled piles of blankets off their barges. A riverman brought out a brazier and stoked it high, adding a tang of charcoal to the fishy breeze.

I felt a p.r.i.c.king behind my eyes, moved by the sight of people pulling together to help a stranger. The bitterness I'd carried since morning, since the incident at St. Willibald's Market, melted away. People feared the unfamiliar, certainly, but they still had tremendous capacity for kindness when one of their own- Except that Lars wasn't one of their own. He looked normal, except for his height and girth, but what lay under his black jerkin? Scales? Something worse? And here were the well-meaning, easily terrified townsfolk about to strip off his soaked clothing. He was shyly evading an old woman's helping hands even now. "Come, lad," she laughed, "ye need not be bashful wi' me. What hain't I seen, in my fifty years?"

Lars shivered-big shivers, to match the rest of him. He needed to get dry. I could think of only one thing to do, and it was slightly mad.

I leaped up on one of the wharf piles, cried, "Who wants a song?" and launched into a stirring a capella rendition of "Peaches and Cheese": The vagabond sun winks down through the trees, While lilacs, like memories, waft on the breeze, My friend, I was born for soft days such as these, To inhale perfume, And cut through the gloom, And feast like a king upon peaches and cheese!

I'll travel this wide world and go where I please, Can't stop my wand'ring, it's like a disease.

My only regret as I cross the high seas: What I leave behind, Though I hope to find, My own golden city of peaches and cheese!

People laughed and clapped, most of them keeping their eyes on me. It took Lars a minute to grasp that this was all the cover he was going to get. He turned modestly toward the river wall, a blanket draped over his shoulders, and began peeling off his clothes.

He needed to move faster than that; this song only had five verses.

I remembered the oud strapped across my back, pulled it around, and launched into an improvised interlude. People cheered. Lars stared at me again, to my irritation. Had he not believed I could play either? Thanks for all the faint praise, Viridius.

Then, however, it was my turn to stare at Lars, because he appeared not to have anything odd about him at all. I spied no trace of silver on his legs, but he quickly covered them up with borrowed trousers. He kept the blanket draped across his shoulders as best he could until it slipped. I ogled his torso. Nothing.

No, wait, there it was, on his right bicep: a slender band of scales running all the way around. From a distance it looked like a bracelet in the Porphyrian style; he'd even found a way to inlay it with colorful gla.s.s gems. It might be taken for jewelry, easily, by anyone not expecting to find scales.

Suddenly I understood Dame Okra's irritation with me. How easy life must be if that slender band was your only physical manifestation! And here I'd stood up in front of everybody and risked myself, when he'd barely anything to hide.

I'll ask my true love, and I'll hope she agrees, How could she not, when I'm down on my knees?

My Jill, say you will, and don't be such a tease.

When it's time to eat, I say sweets to the sweet, My love, let your answer be peaches and cheese!

I finished with a flourish. Lars was decent, in mismatched riverman's garb only slightly too small. The crowd called for more, but I was done, my rush of panicked energy spent. All that remained was to figure out how to get off my perch; looking down now, I wasn't sure how I'd gotten up. Desperation gives you a longer leap, apparently.

A hand reached up to help me; I looked down to see the dark curls and merry eyes of Prince Lucian Kiggs.

He smiled at the sheer absurdity of me, and I could not stop myself smiling back.

I leaped down, not quite nimbly. "I was heading up to Castle Orison with the evening patrol," said the prince. "Thought we'd stop and see what the commotion was-and the singing. That was nicely done."

Many people had cleared out with the arrival of this small party of Guardsmen; those who remained told our tale with gusto, as if it might replace Belondweg, our national epic. The eponymous Brutal Earl of Apsig victimizes an innocent clod on the bridge railing! A fair maidy tries to save him, heroic townsfolk fish him out of the drink, and then-triumphal music!

Prince Lucian seemed to enjoy the tale. I was just glad I didn't have to explain what I'd really been doing; it had seemed perfectly logical to everyone. Lars stood quietly, ignoring an officer who was attempting to question him.

The frustrated officer reported back to the prince: "He has no interest in pursuing justice for this incident, Captain Kiggs."

"Find Earl Josef. I'll speak to him about this. He can't go knocking people into the river and riding off," said Prince Lucian, waving a dismissal. His deputies departed.

The sun was beginning to set and the breeze along the river had picked up. The prince faced my shivering friend. Lars was older and a head taller, but Prince Lucian stood like he was Captain of the Queen's Guard. Lars looked like a little boy who wanted to sink into his boots. I was amazed at how far he succeeded.

The prince spoke, his voice unexpectedly gentle: "You're Viridius's protege."

"Yes," said Lars, mumbling as a man must who's sunk into his footwear.

"Did you provoke the earl in some way?"

Lars shrugged and said, "I was raisedt on his estate."

"That's hardly a provocation, is it?" asked Prince Lucian. "Are you his serf?"

Lars hesitated. "I hev spendt more than a year and a day away from his landts. I am legally free."

A question took root in my mind: if Lars had grown up on his estate, might Josef know Lars was half dragon? It seemed plausible, and Josef's hostility made sense in light of his att.i.tudes toward dragonkind. Alas, I could not ask in front of Lucian Kiggs.

Prince Lucian looked disgusted. "Maybe a man can hara.s.s his former serfs in Samsam, but that is not how we conduct ourselves here. I will speak with him."

"I'dt rather you didt not," said Lars. Prince Lucian opened his mouth to protest, but Lars cut him off. "I can go, yes?"

The prince waved him along. Lars returned my pencil, slightly soggy, and held my gaze for a moment before he turned to go. I wished I could have embraced him, but I felt a peculiar reluctance to do so in front of the prince. We shared a secret, Lars and I, even if Lars didn't know it yet.

He climbed the stone steps up the Wolfstoot Bridge without a word. His broad shoulders sagged, as if under the burden of whole worlds we could not see.

"But of course I might say anything, because you are quite far away just now," said Prince Lucian, who had apparently been speaking to me for some time.

"Sorry." I tore my eyes away from Lars and gave the prince full courtesy.