The Exiled Queen (26 page)

Yet sometimes she’d look up, even at dinner, and find those gray eyes fixed on her.

“I thought this place was called the great leveler,” she said to Amon as she closed the book on another long day. It was now eight weeks into the term, the most exhilarating and exhausting eight weeks of her life.

Amon looked up from his engineering drawing. “It is.”

“Then why did Master Askell agree to put us all in the same dormitory? And why did he approve a special curriculum for me, if everyone is treated equally?”

“They are,” Amon said. “Until they’re not.” He returned to his work until the pressure of her glare made him look up again. He sat back, rolling his quill between his fingers. It had become a habit. “Master Askell knows who you are,” he said. “I told him.”

Raisa nearly spit out her tea. “What? Aren’t you the one who said it was so important that nobody know who I am?”

Amon nodded. “Right. It is. But I needed to convince him that we should all stay here in Grindell Hall, which is against policy. Though you’re technically a first year, I wanted you in with fourth years.” The quill landed on the floor, and he bent down to get it. “I didn’t want to be lying awake at night, wondering if you were safe in a dormitory across campus. I wanted someone in authority to know, in case this goes wrong.”

“You trust him?”

“Aye. I trust him.”

Raisa recalled her interview with Master Askell. “That’s why he gave me such a hard time. He expected me to be temperamental and demanding.”

Amon nodded. “Right. He only agreed to what you wanted because he expected you to wash out right away.” He grinned, looking pleased with himself. “He doesn’t know you like I do.”

“He’s been coming to some of my classes,” Raisa said.

“He does that all the time anyway, but especially if he has a question about a particular student.” Amon hesitated, then plunged on. “Taim Askell is the heir to a noble Ardenine family. Remember when he asked you if you’d run away to join the army? That’s exactly what he did. He sailed across the Indio to Carthis and fought in the wars over there, working his way up from foot soldier.

“When he came back to the Seven Realms, he decided he needed schooling to become an officer. He came here. My da was his class commander. Askell thought my da was a jumped-up cake-eater, promoted beyond his abilities. Da thought Askell was an arrogant know-it-all who should shut up and learn something.”

“So what happened?” Raisa asked.

“Da never said, but the story goes they met off campus to fight it out, and beat each other up pretty bad. Then Askell shut up and learned something, and he and Da wrote a book about the Carthian wars that helped Askell get a teaching job here later on. It’s in the library, if you want to take a look.”

“What was it like, coming here to school under Askell?” Raisa asked.

“He gave me hell the first two years,” Amon said, grinning. “I saw a lot of him in my classes, too. But it ended with him making me class commander.”

A MEETING

WITH THE DEAN

In the days following the dean’s dinner, Han was so focused on charm-casting that he fell behind in his other classes. He had to prioritize, with so much to learn. He was especially keen to learn charms that would keep buildings from falling on him.

Because they were newlings, the Bayars, the Manders, and Han shared every class. They were a constant distraction.

The class on healing seemed useless to Han. The clans had hired him to kill, not to heal, and the people Han would have liked to heal were already dead.

Master Leontus was a gifted middle-aged healer with missionary zeal and a shiny bald head who did his best to interest his students in his chosen profession.

It was a tough sell. Most charmcasters were weaned on power and privilege—not tenderhearted to start. And poor Leontus was cursed with relentless honesty.

“Gifted healers take on the illnesses and injuries of their patients. This involves considerable pain, suffering, and expenditure of power.” Leontus paused and looked over his spectacles. “But there are strategies that can be used to minimize the damage to your body and regain strength after a healing session. With proper care and education, there is no reason why a gifted healer cannot achieve a normal life span.”

As Leontus rambled on about the sacrifices and rewards of the healing trade, his students daydreamed about more appealing topics, or did their homework for other subjects. Han’s attention repeatedly strayed during lecture and recitation.

The lectures on amulets, talismans, and magical materials were delivered by a wizened old clansman named Fulgrim Firesmith. Firesmith reminded Han of the insect carcasses he sometimes found along the trails in summer—brown, crispy, and shriveled.

Creation of magical objects was the province of the clans, outside the abilities of wizards. So it was more of a history class than anything else—a survey of magical devices of the long-ago past compared to those available today. It only stoked the frustration of students who resented the limitations of modern magical tools.

Firesmith’s lectures were terminally boring yet hard to ignore. Firesmith was deaf as a post, so he yelled out his lectures full volume.

He taught from an ancient text so fragile that he had the students parade past to view its yellowed pen-and-ink drawings rather than risk lifting it from its stand.

Han felt a relentless urgency, an impatient desire to focus on material that could be immediately applied. He already had a powerful amulet. He wanted to know more about the charms and hexes that would enable him to use it. He would have preferred to double up on the charmcasting classes and forget the rest.

Not that he fancied spending more time with Gryphon.

His mind kept drifting to Crow and his offer of mentorship. Learning spellcasting from Crow seemed far more appealing than suffering under Gryphon. If Crow could be trusted.

Dancer, however, seemed fascinated with Firesmith and his dusty old books. He scribbled lines and lines of notes and asked detailed questions about theory and craft until Fiona rolled her eyes and smothered yawns behind her hand.

“Are you really interested in all that?” Han asked Dancer as they crossed the quad for the midday. It was raining again, a dreary, cold downpour from a fish-belly sky. A bone-chilling wind drove raindrops into their faces like needles of ice. “I couldn’t stay awake. There’s so much to learn, and there’s nothing practical we can we do with that.”

“I am interested,” Dancer said, scuffling through soggy leaves. “Remember? Before all this happened, I’d hoped to apprentice to Elena Cennestre to be a flash metalsmith.”

“I know.” Han swung around to watch a pretty girlie splash across the lawn, laughing, lifting her skirts to expose a fine pair of legs. She ducked under one of the galleries and disappeared. He turned back to Dancer. “Have you ever made anything magical?”

Dancer nodded. “When I was younger. Simple pieces, but they seemed to work.”

“But — now you’re a charmcaster,” Han said. “And wizards can’t —”

“I’m still clan,” Dancer said, lifting his chin. “I don’t care what the Demonai say. I haven’t given up on my chosen vocation.”

“But — how would you learn to work with magical materials?” Han said. “Elena won’t teach you, even if you have the gift of flash metalsmithing.”

“Firesmith says the library here has the best collection of texts on magical materials in the Seven Realms,” Dancer said.

They climbed the steps to the dining hall, taking shelter under the porch roof. Dancer shook his head, flinging water in all directions, then stepped to the side, out of earshot of the other students streaming into the hall.

“But clan artists learn by apprenticeship,” Han said. “Firesmith won’t teach you either, if he knows what you’re up to.”

“He doesn’t want to know what I’m up to,” Dancer said. ”He’s thrilled to have a student that’s actually interested. I signed up for a special project with him next term.” Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he strode on. “I’ll teach myself if I have to.”

Dancer has a hard spine in him that would be easy to overlook, Han thought. He chooses his battles and plays to win.

Just then a Southern Islander in Temple dress spotted them. She broke away from a group of her fellow students and strode across the porch toward them.

It was Cat Tyburn, but Han might not have recognized her had she not opened her mouth. Her mass of wiry curls had been tamed down and woven into a long plait that fell over her left shoulder. She wore white trousers and a long white overtunic split up each side for easier walking. She was cleaner than Han had ever seen her—except for the stained leather belt she’d strapped on overtop, her knife jammed into it. She still wore silver in her ears and nose and on her fingers. Between that and her blade scars and the thief marks on her hands, it was an odd marriage of sacred and profane.

They hadn’t seen her in two weeks, though not for lack of trying. Several times they’d visited the temple dormitory, but had been told she was unavailable. And she hadn’t come to see them, either.

Han stumbled into speech. “Cat, you — uh — you’re — I don’t think I’ve ever—what happened to you?”

“They stuck me in a bath, and while I was scrubbing off, they stole my clothes and left me with these.” She tugged at the hem of her tunic. “They told me I had to stay seques — holed up in the Temple School for a fortnight, and think about my vocation.” She made a face. “It don’t take that long. It’s not like I got a lot of choices.”

As they got into line in the dining hall, Cat continued her litany of complaints. “The sun an’t even up when this bell starts clanging and we get out of bed and go to morning meditations. Then it’s bells, bells, bells, and class, class, class all day. For hours. Reading and writing and mathematics.” She pinched two apples and an orange off the line and stuffed them into her carry bag. “After lunch is better. There’s music class and dance and drawing.”

Ladling soup into bowls, they carried them to a long table.

Cat used her belt knife to whack off hunks of brown bread from a loaf in the center of the table. “I liked the school at Southbridge. You only had to go when you felt like it.”

“How often did you feel like it?” Dancer asked, dunking his bread into his bowl.

“I was there near every month,” Cat said, slathering her bread with butter.

“She means once a month, on the day they gave out cinnamon bread,” Han said, and received a scowl from Cat.

“You an’t been there for years,” Cat retorted. “Not since you was streetlord.”

Well. He’d been there the one time. He’d been beaten half to death by Mac Gillen and his bluejackets and had taken refuge with Speaker Jemson in the temple. Corporal Byrne had tried to take him prisoner, and Han took Rebecca Morley hostage. It seemed a lifetime ago.

“I’m not used to sitting in a classroom either,” Dancer said. “In the camps, we learn by apprenticeship—one teacher, one student.”

“Why’d you come here, then?” Cat asked, keeping her eyes fixed on her bowl. “I an’t seen no other copperheads here.”

“They don’t teach clan vocations here,” Dancer said. “There’d be no point.”

Cat shrugged. “From what I heard, you all spend your time stealing babies, hexing animals into monsters, and making poisons and witch pieces.” She licked butter off her bread. “It’s no wonder people don’t like it when you come down to the flatlands.”

“Shut up, Cat,” Han growled. “Don’t rattle on about things you know nothing about.”

“The clans are gifted in magical materials, healing, and earth magic,” Dancer said to Cat. “High magic—the kind wizards use—that’s not a clan vocation. That’s why I had to come here.” His face remained untroubled, as if Cat’s digs and insults slid right off him.

“Some people say Southern Islanders ought to stay in the islands,” Han said, feeling the need to stick up for Dancer, since he wouldn’t stick up for himself. “We all got to make the best of it. There must be something about the Temple School you like.”

Cat gnawed on her fingernail. “I do like the music,” she said grudgingly. “All you want. There’s basilkas and flutes and harps and organs and harpsichords. Choirs singing. Recitals all the time. Mistress Johanna gave me another basilka all to myself, said I could keep it long as I’m at school. She said they got masters can give me lessons on any of the other instruments, too. My choice.” She crammed a handful of grapes into her mouth. “She keeps pestering me to do some recitals. Play in front of people. I don’t know if I want to do that.”

That Mistress Johanna is smart, Han thought, if she already figured out that the way to Cat was through music.

“You’ve been accepted and come this far,” Dancer said. “You should take advantage. I’d love to hear you play.”

Cat twitched irritably, twisting a lock of her hair between her thumb and forefinger. “I just don’t know how long I’m going to be here. No point in getting all tangled up in something that won’t last. People begin to think they own a piece of you.”

Han flung his napkin onto the table. “There’s nothing you’re in a rush to get back to, is there? That’s why we’re all here. We got nothing and nobody at home.”

“You got no idea who I am or why I’m here,” Cat said. She stood and stalked out of the dining hall.

“That’s true enough,” Han said, looking after her, shaking his head. He turned to Dancer. “You don’t have to put up with her ragging about the clans, you know.”

“She’s all right. It’s nothing worse than what I’ve heard in the Vale.” Dancer pushed his bowl away. “Want to go to the library now?”

Han shook his head. “Later. After dinner, maybe. I’m going to stop by Hampton and drop off my books, then I have to go see Abelard.” He rolled his eyes. “I an’t looking forward to that.”

Han crossed the quad to Hampton Hall. The dormitory seemed deserted, all the students either in the dining hall or in class. He loped up the four flights of stairs to the top floor. When he reached the landing, a stench hit his nose. Excrement. Pressing his sleeve over his face, he looked up and down the corridor. The door to his room stood open. Drawing his blade, he soft-footed down the hallway, his other hand planted firmly on his amulet. Keeping his body canted to one side, he eased his head around the door frame and looked into his room.

It had been completely trashed. His clothing had been dragged out of his trunk and sliced to pieces, his books yanked from the shelf and shredded, his lamp smashed on the floor, the oil soaking into the wood. His bedclothes were ripped from his bed, torn apart, and scattered. It appeared that a number of brimming chamber pots had been dumped on top.

A gout of anger flamed up in him.

The protective charms he’d laid had done no good whatsoever. And he knew exactly who was responsible. Someone who knew Han would be down in the dining hall. Someone Han didn’t remember seeing there.

Micah’s words came back to him. I know where you live, Alister, and I’ve got plenty of time.

Turning, he swung around the corner into the stairwell, heading for Micah Bayar’s rooms on the second floor. Two steps down, he tripped and went flying, head over heels down the stairs, slamming into the wall at the bottom of the first flight and bouncing down a second flight of stairs.

Han should have been dead, but he knew how to take a fall. He bounced once or twice on the way down, which slowed him down some, and he managed to wrap his arms around his head before landing painfully on his right shoulder on the landing at the bottom, his head hanging over the top step. He’d narrowly missed tumbling down the third and final flight. His knife flew out of his hand and landed with a ping down below.

He blacked out momentarily. When he came to, the wind was totally knocked out of him and black spots swam before his eyes. His right arm was numb, his shoulder aflame with pain. Blood trickled into his eyes from a gash on his forehead.

Han heard footsteps approaching, but for the moment, he couldn’t move.

“Is he dead?” somebody asked, his voice trembling with fear and excitement. “He’s got to be. I never thought—he really landed hard.” Han recognized his voice. The thin Mander — Arkeda.

“Let’s hurry before somebody comes.” Someone bent over him, groping at his neckline. The plush Mander — Miphis.

“Don’t touch it,” a third person muttered in Fellspeech. “Roll him over and lift it by the chain.” Unmistakably Micah Bayar.

The spots cleared and Han saw a pair of fine blueblood boots next to his head. He grabbed the groper’s calf with his good hand and yanked. Miphis shrieked and went down, thudding down the last flight, landing hard on the stone floor at the bottom.

Han screamed like a mad tom, curling his body protectively around his amulet. He heard swearing, running feet, doors slamming, Blevins bellowing out questions that grew louder as he got closer until he was kneeling next to Han and screeching in his ear.

“Great hounds of the demon, boy, what happened to you?”

Han spit out blood from his bitten tongue, along with a fragment of tooth. Rolling onto his side, he sat up, cradling his right arm close to his body, supporting his elbow with his left hand.