The Thinking Woman's Guide to Real Magic (24 page)

Of course, Inristian already had an estate of her own, however poor. “Maybe you shouldn't feel so much pressure to get married,” Nora said to Inristian one day, as they were coming back from a visit to the shops. Behind them trudged the palace footman who had to escort them every time they went outside the palace walls. “You could take more time and find someone who's really right for you.”

Inristian didn't understand what she meant. “Oh, all the young men that I've met are right!” she said. “Some men at court do have very bad reputations, it's true, but my uncle would never introduce me to them. He is careful about that, I will say. It's only that he's so lazy, he won't do anything more than introducing me. It's as though he expects me to negotiate my own marriage!”

“Well, couldn't you arrange the marriage yourself, if you had to? That's what we do in my country.”

Inristian looked both amused and nonplussed by Nora's naïveté. “Oh, you know,” she said finally, “a marriage is not just between a man and a woman; any prospective husband of mine will want to know, well, how my family and friends can help him.”

“A dowry, you mean?”

“More than that. Politics, you know.”

Nora had opened her mouth to reply when it suddenly struck her that for all the evident shortcomings in Lady Inristian's method of finding a husband, it was better than Nora's. After all, hers had also been a political marriage of sorts. Even with only an apathetic uncle to oversee the process, the countess was unlikely to find herself married to someone who turned into a flying reptile during the day. “I hope you find a good husband,” Nora said. “I'm sure you will.”

“Well, you know,” Inristian said with a giggle, “this is quite shocking, but I am almost certain that Lord Morasiv tried to catch my eye last night. He has a very nice estate in the south, smallish, but warm enough for a vineyard, is that not interesting? Of course wine can be quite lucrative. I think his chin is rather handsome. And I do like yellow hair. Have you seen him?”

Nora shook her head with a smile. But she remembered Lady Inristian's description, and that evening, as she was passing through a crowded room in the palace, she saw a man who matched it: blond, a stalwart chin. His eyes looked a bit like grapes themselves, green and bulgy. He was talking to someone else that Nora recognized: the young man who had arrived too late for dinner a few nights before.

Nora had seen Inristian just a few minutes ago. She retraced her steps, meaning to alert Inristian. Perhaps the uncle could be torn away from his game to make an introduction.

Starting down a staircase, Nora recognized the hard, high tones of one of Lady Inristian's friends, Baroness Fulvishin, coming from below. Then she heard her own name.

“So how did this thing Nora get the scars on her face?”

Nora's first thought was that her command of Ors was getting to be quite good. Effortlessly, she had registered the grammatical mistake in the baroness's question. It was an error in word choice: using a demonstrative pronoun meant for inanimate objects or animals to designate a person. That is, Nora.

But the baroness had not made a mistake, Nora reflected. She had heard courtiers use that construction a few times in the past few days, to refer to servants or peasants. She hesitated, wondering: Do I really want to hear this?

“—an accident,” Inristian said.

Another person said something else that Nora couldn't quite catch, but that provoked a small storm of giggles.

“Honestly, Soristia!” said a fourth voice, laughing. “Aren't you being a little—”

“Well, he murdered his wife, everyone knows that. This poor Nora thing, she must not have pleased him enough.”

“Or maybe that's how she pleases him.”

More laughter, agreeably shocked.

“No, but to be serious.” Inristian's voice. “At first I assumed she was, but she has shared my bedroom every night. And she has said nothing to indicate that she is his whore.”

“Oh, don't be naive, sweet! Besides, I know what a sound sleeper you are.”

“Isn't it obvious? He sent her off to separate lodgings so that he can sleep with other women while he's here!”

“But he is so ugly. What woman would ever—?”

“Wizards can make anyone fall in love with them. And my grandfather says there used to be all kinds of stories about him. Even the queen—remember the portrait the other night, the one that came alive?”

“Oh, that was so boring. I wanted the dwarfs to come back—I've never laughed so hard in my life.”

“You know the old saying ‘Never trust a wizard'? My grandfather says that it's because of Lord Aruendiel.”

“Did he really murder his wife?”

“Yes. And her lover.”

“Then she was a slut, what did she expect?”

“Well, I feel sorry for Nora, having to—you know—with a man like that.”

“I feel sorry for
him
. She's nothing to look at, even if you don't count the scar. And her clothes!”

Nora had heard enough. Gathering her skirts, she moved back up the staircase as quietly as she could. She tried to summon a smile at the lurid spectacle of herself and Aruendiel playing out some kind of sadomasochistic sex game. It would be easy enough to go downstairs and tell them how wrong they were. But why? She was a thing, not a person to them, no matter how often she'd gone ribbon-shopping or played
ben
with them.

She wandered into an adjoining gallery and sat down on a bench, attempting to give her full attention to the musicians piping nearby.

It didn't matter if they thought she was sleeping with Aruendiel, Nora thought angrily. First, because she wasn't. And second, why should it matter? At home—the real world, Nora thought—having sex out of wedlock didn't make you a whore. That was something she'd never liked about nineteenth-century novels: All those fallen women—Hester, Tess, Maggie, Hetty—one slip and they were ruined. Lydia, too, if not for Mr. Darcy. It was one thing to read about a society obsessed with female purity—quite another to find yourself living in one. Inristian and her friends, they were the real whores, strategizing about how to make their fortunes by luring vineyard-owning noblemen into matrimony.

The music ended, and Nora stood up, so suddenly that the person passing in front of her had to step back. She turned to apologize and found herself facing the ginger-haired man she had spoken to a few evenings ago, the one she'd seen earlier with the presumed Lord Morasiv.

He seemed almost embarrassed to see her. His eyes darted away, and he mumbled something about begging the lady's pardon.

“For what? I'm the one who got in your way just now.”

More signs of distress, then he spoke crisply: “I apologize for my regrettable forwardness the other night. I am very sorry if I caused any offense—it was entirely unintentional.”

“What do you mean? You didn't offend me,” Nora said, surprised.

“I'm afraid I did not realize to whom I was speaking. I hope there was no misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding?” Nora considered him for a moment, then looked down at the unfashionable blue-and-black dress. “Oh, you thought I was a servant, didn't you? Someone's maid. That's why you asked me about getting some dinner.”

He bowed very low, the tips of his ears reddening. “I am terribly sorry. It was a completely absurd mistake.”

“And now you're concerned you're not supposed to talk to a well-behaved young lady without a chaperone, right? Well, don't worry, I'm not a well-behaved young lady.”

Her admission did not seem to reduce his confusion.

“By the way, my name is Nora,” she added.

“I know who you are. And I apologize again. I hope I do not offend the Lord Aruendiel by speaking to you.”

“Offend—? I see.” So he was another one. Nora felt her temper rise. “You and everyone else here assume that I'm screwing Lord Aruendiel, is that right?”

He recoiled slightly at her choice of words. “Listen, I hate to disappoint you,” Nora went on, “but you're wrong. It's not like that at all. I'm not Lord Aruendiel's mistress, and I don't have any desire to be. And my guess is that he's quite happy that I'm not. Is that clear?”

The young man bit his lip. “Yes, that's clear. I—”

“Please don't apologize again.”

For the first time, he smiled. “Then I will not.” For a moment, she saw the affable young man she had met the other night, and then his face grew serious again. “But I should explain myself. Lord Aruendiel is a notorious rakehell. He has an extremely bad reputation where women are concerned.”

“I've heard something on that subject since I came to Semr,” Nora said. “A little more than I wanted to know. Although, frankly, these stories surprise me. I have lived in his household for months, and it's as quiet as, well, as a tomb.”

“Well, if he hasn't made you his mistress, you're fortunate.”

The young man's sober tone struck her. “Because of what happened to his wife?”

“What do you know of that?”

“I've heard talk.” She frowned, trying to follow a silky wisp of memory from the Faitoren court. “Is it true? Did he kill her?”

The young man returned her gaze steadily. “He stabbed her. She was pregnant.”

It was Nora's turn to flinch. “Ugh.” She was silent for a moment, picturing the scene. “And what happened to him? Was he tried for murder?”

“Technically, Lord Aruendiel was within his marital rights,” said the young man. “So he wasn't subject to the king's justice.”

“Ugh,” Nora said again. So this was how Mrs. Toristel's story about the errant wife ended. “Because she was unfaithful?”

He gave a brief, stilted nod. “But very few men would have been as brutal as Lord Aruendiel was. I'm saying this not to slander him, but because you should know these things, if you are living in his household—even if not quite in the manner that everyone thinks.”

“Well, yes, I will be careful,” she said. “Though the thing is,” Nora added, with a sudden, harsh laugh, “as bad as Lord Aruendiel was to his wife,
my
husband was worse.”

N
ora pulled the door of the palace kitchen shut. The greasy hubbub behind her diminished slightly, but she could still hear the noise through a solid inch of oak. She sighed. “Now I remember why I left restaurant work,” she said aloud as she mounted the staircase, back to the upper regions of the palace.

Nora had gone to the kitchen with the intention of asking for a job. She'd lasted about an hour. The chaos, the heat, the noise, were all familiar to her from her earlier life as a cook. But here it was trebled. Rats scrabbled in the corners over scraps of spoiled food, the chickens destined for tonight's dinner ran around clucking underfoot, and a quarrel between two of the cooks exploded into a sudden knife fight. A flurry of spectacular jabs, and then the loser exited cursing, a reddening napkin held to his face, while the rest of the staff jeered. Nora finished chopping her onions, took off her apron, and made her escape.

It might be safer to live with one murderer than to work with a whole staff of likely ones, she thought.

Passing by a window, she saw that Lady Inristian and her friends were playing
ben
on the lawn, but she felt no interest in joining them.

She heard quick, purposeful steps behind her. Nora turned. It was Hirizjahkinis. Nora had seen little of her since the banquet. “Mistress Nora! Good day to you. I am glad to have the chance to say good-bye.”

“Good-bye? Are you leaving?”

“No, but I believe you are. Have you not seen Aruendiel yet?”

So he
had
returned as he had promised, even if he had not bothered to inform Nora. “He came back last night, and is leaving today,” Hirizjahkinis said. “I have tried to persuade him to stay longer, but he is implacable. I suspect he worries that the king will ask him to be the new chief magician. Me, I will stay in Semr a little while longer. I am getting plenty of work.” She laughed, shaking her head, and the gold beads at the ends of her braids clicked together. “Ilissa has been very good for my reputation. I must thank her the next time I see her.”

“And after Semr?”

“Oh, I will return home, certainly before the winter comes. I have no wish to experience another northern winter, ever. And I mean to attend the autumn sacrifices at Gahz. I used to care nothing for such things, but”—she shrugged—“I am becoming sentimental as the years pass.”

Nora asked her about the autumn sacrifices, and decided from Hirizjahkinis's description that they sounded more like a large-scale barbecue than anything else. Then Hirizjahkinis began to question Nora about her own world: how people traveled, what they ate, what gods they worshipped, what demons they feared, and most of all, how they got along without magic.

Answering Hirizjahkinis's queries made Nora feel homesick. “Do you know anything about traveling between worlds?”

Hirizjahkinis shook her head. “I have never studied that kind of magic, myself. This world is wide enough for me.”

“You'd like my world,” Nora said impulsively. “I think you'd fit right in. Maybe even better than you do here.”

“Better?” Hirizjahkinis raised her eyebrows.

“Well.” Nora stalled for an instant. “There are more educated, self-sufficient women, like you. And people of all different skin colors and”—Nora paused, unable to translate “sexual preferences” into Ors—“women who take women as lovers, or men who take men as lovers, can do so openly. Most of the time.”

Hirizjahkinis blew air out of her cheeks, a puff of pure incredulity. “I make no pretenses about whom I invite into my bed. And in my country, let me tell you, there are no white people. I fit in very well.” She shrugged her shoulders under the Kavareen's pelt. “Furthermore, I am a magician. Of course I am self-sufficient. It goes without saying.”

“I'm sorry,” Nora said. “I hope I haven't offended you.”

“No, no. It is true, there is no one
exactly
like me here. Plenty of women practicing a little ignorant country magic, but very few who are trained magicians.”

“How did you become a magician?” Nora asked curiously.

“I started out as a witch—a nun of the order of the witch priestesses of Kirajahn Alanafar Muris, the Holy Sister Night. My parents dedicated me before I was even born, as a thanks offering for a prayer that was granted. So I learned the chants and the rituals, and worshipped the goddess, and grew to be quite a strong witch, in my way. Of course, all that was almost useless, after I had to leave the order and the goddess withdrew her blessing. I did not learn to wield real magic until I studied with Aruendiel.”

Hirizjakinis's account raised more questions than it answered. “How did you get Aruendiel to teach you magic?”

“Oh, it was a kind of trade. He was interested in some of the spells that I had learned in the order.” She added, after a moment's reflection, “There is always this kind of exchange going on among magicians. There is always something to learn, even from bad magicians. At least you can learn what not to do.”

An idea bloomed rapidly in Nora's mind as Hirizjahkinis was speaking. She thought: I bet Hirizjahkinis would teach me magic. And I'm sure she never stabbed anyone to death. How hard is it to learn magic? How long before you get to be really good? Nora pictured herself, grave and puissant, lifting a hand with lazy grace to summon a thunderstorm or—better yet—making Ilissa cower.

But Hirizjahkinis didn't know the magic to send Nora home again. And as for becoming a magician—how much do I want to believe in this stuff, Nora thought rebelliously. There was
something
there, you couldn't deny that. But was it really magic? Whatever magic was.

She wanted to take up a number of questions with Hirizjahkinis, not the least of which was the little matter of Aruendiel's wife. But just then, a servant came up to them to say that Lord Aruendiel had requested that the ladies meet him at the south gate, and Nora had to go to her room to gather up her things. She changed, with some regret, out of her borrowed dress back into Mrs. Toristel's brown one, and wrapped
Pride and Prejudice
inside her gray smock for discretion and safekeeping.

Making her way to the gate, she found Aruendiel looking rather tired but obviously in good spirits as he talked to Hirizjahkinis. The reason, she gathered, was that he had just been paid. It was compensation for the job he had done for the merchant cursed by the sea god. One of his client's ships had arrived in Semr with a full cargo the day before; Aruendiel had collected a purseful of gold for the share promised to him.

“You see,” said Hirizjahkinis, “it was a very good idea to come back to Semr. Otherwise you would have missed the ship and, I am sure, forgotten all about collecting your reward.”

“He would not dare to let the debt go unpaid,” Aruendiel said with a crooked smile. “The consequences would be regrettable.”

“Only if you remembered that he owed you the money. So you will not stay here longer? It is late to be setting out; it is almost midday.”

“No, there is a banquet tonight, and I have no desire to be pressed into service to amuse a roomful of tipsy fools a second time. Although that ridiculous episode has had an interesting sequel,” he added. “Both Savo and Tirinist asked me to work the portrait spell for them. Savo wishes to see his first wife again, after thirty years. And Tirinist possesses an antique portrait of an unknown woman, with whom he wishes to become better acquainted.”

“You would have many more such commissions, you know, if you occasionally took the trouble to remind people of what a powerful magician you are.”

“Commissions? I said no to both.”

“No! Tell me you didn't. Tirinist, at least, is a very rich man.”

“I will not work that spell again.”

“Then you must teach me the spell, and I'll do it,” Hirizjahkinis said. To his raised eyebrow, she added, “I came to Semr to work. One travels lighter with a full purse. Would you have refused Savo and Tirinist if your purse were not so full?”

“Yes,” he said shortly. “But if you wish, I will tell you how to do the spell. It comes from Duisi Tortor's
Concerning Necromancy and Other Reversals of Fate
(although there is almost no true necromancy in the entire book). It's an elaboration of an ordinary testimony spell, the kind of charm you'd use to get any stone to speak. So you work the summons on the painting itself. The trick is to push it hard, and perhaps help it along with an awakening charm or a manifestation sequence. But the paint is fragile, so you need a fat wick. Tortor used to sacrifice a baby.”

“That's a great deal of power.”

“More than really necessary,” Aruendiel agreed. “Fire or water work just as well.”

The spell he'd described almost made sense in a general way, Nora thought. But then Hirizjahkinis asked a string of questions that were too technical for her to follow. Aruendiel answered them in equally obscure terms.

“Did you resolve the little problem of the queen's aunt—her unexpected death?” Aruendiel asked, lifting his travel bag and easing it onto the shoulder that stood slightly higher than the other.

“With great success. And no, I did not raise the dead, you will be pleased to hear,” Hirizjahkinis said. “Although the queen's uncle
thinks
that I did. Fear loosened his tongue amazingly.”

Aruendiel looked at her for a moment. “Good for you, Hiriz. You always find a way.”

“Peace be your friend, Aruendiel.”

“And yours.” He turned away.

Nora said swiftly to Hirizjahkinis, “Thank you for everything. I hope that I'll see you again.”

“Well, I do not come north very often these days—but I would like that, too. Be safe, little one.” She raised her hands briefly to lay them against Nora's hands, a formal dab of leave-taking, and then Nora ran to catch up with Aruendiel.

The magician's gray gaze slid toward her as, out of breath, she fell into step beside him. “So you do not wish to remain in Semr?”

“No.”

“Why not? It will be dull for you, back at the castle, with no one to talk to except Mrs. Toristel.”

“That's true enough,” Nora said stolidly. “But I've had enough of court life.”

The answer seemed to please him; at least, his mouth curled for an instant and he stopped questioning her. He led the way downhill through the tangle of streets until they entered another marketplace, bigger and shabbier than the one that Nora had visited with Inristian, with a greater variety of goods. The narrow shop fronts and the open stalls were piled with ceramic pots and plates; copper kettles and pans; harnesses and saddles; iron tools, some recognizable, some not; bolts of cloth; animal hides; wheels of cheese; crates of live chickens, frogs, and doves; casks of beer and wine; glass beads; glass bottles; spices; salt; knives, swords, and shields.

Aruendiel picked his way through the maze of stalls and then ducked into a small, dark storefront that, unlike the other shops, had a lettered sign above the door. Nora remained outside for a moment, carefully sounding out the letters, then followed Aruendiel inside. He was talking to an immensely fat man whose girth had been poured into an equally massive leather-sided chair. Behind the fat man shelves and boxes overflowed with books, scrolls, and maps in various stages of dogearedness.

“. . . 
The Augur's Companion
just came in, but I don't think it's to your lordship's taste, is it?” the fat man was saying. “You've never bought a single book of divination from me.”

“That's because they're all claptrap,” Aruendiel said.

“Not everyone's of your mind, thank the gods. Most popular magical books I carry. What else? I have Ostr the Younger on strategy. No? Let's see, there's your own book on transformations—you wouldn't be wanting a copy of that, I suppose.”

Aruendiel frowned briefly. “Burn it,” he said. “I knew nothing when I wrote it.”

The fat man shook his head. “You should do an updated edition. It still sells quickly enough, when I get hold of a copy. What else can I tempt you with? Well, I have some of Ierbe Norinun's notebooks, that's something you don't see every day.”

Aruendiel inclined his head, and the fat man pulled himself upright to rummage on one of the bookshelves. His chair, Nora noticed, shrank to more normal dimensions as soon as he was out of it. After a minute, the shopkeeper turned back to Aruendiel with a half-dozen books bound in green cloth.

“How did you get your hands on them?” Aruendiel asked, opening a volume. “I thought that—what's that wizard's name?—Ruenc, Kelerus Ruenc had bought them all up years ago.”

“Oh, he did. But now—” The fat man clutched an imaginary glass and tilted the imaginary contents toward his mouth, then gave a sagacious nod.

“Ah,” said Aruendiel, still leafing through the notebooks. “Well, he's not parting with the best stuff yet. This is very early, pure juvenilia.”

“Oh, your lordship should look more closely,” the fat man protested smoothly. “I'm no wizard—or magician—but there was another magician in the shop last week, could hardly tear himself away. Ice demons, he was interested in. And some unusual weather magic.”

“Who was it?” Aruendiel asked, sounding bored.

The fat man's laughter took a few seconds to ripple through his huge body. “Your lordship knows I have to be discreet about my customers.”

“Obviously he didn't buy them. You must be asking far more than they're worth.”

“Ten gold beetles for the lot. Yes, it's steep, but it's a fair price for such a treasure, your lordship. I had to pay almost that much to the wizard Ruenc.”

“How much to have them copied?”

The fat man laughed again, even more heartily this time. “I never have original manuscripts copied, as your lordship well knows. If you buy them, you can be assured that no other magic-worker will have access to their secrets.”