Juliet McKenna - The Swordsman's Oath

“And anyone can learn how to do these things you mention?” Vahil was gaping, his meal forgotten.

“Misaen marks some folk for his own, for some reason, and they cannot; but most people can learn the lesser tricks of Artifice, if they care to.” There was a serious undercurrent to Guinalle’s light tone. “It is a question of scholarship, of applying oneself. The demands become greater the more complex the tasks that are undertaken and so, inevitably, fewer people find they have the mental aptitude for such rigorous study.”

“But you do.” Temar looked at her, wondering if she ever stepped down from the lofty heights of such learning to tread a measure in everyday dances.

“I have found so.” There was appropriate modesty in Guinalle’s reply but no hint of apology. Her eyes met Temar’s across the candles with a hint of a challenge.

He smiled at her, sufficiently intrigued not to be daunted by her talents or her relations. “I think you will be a valuable addition to our expedition, as well as one of its leading ornaments.” He raised his glass gallantly.

“You’d better not let my sister hear you saying that!” Vahil laughed robustly. “Elsire’s determined she’s going to be the leader of beauty and fashion; I reckon it’s the only reason she’s coming, to get away from the competition at court.”

“Never mind that,” Maitresse Den Rannion looked around the table. “If everyone’s served, let us eat.”

It must have been the touch of salt in the air, muddy though it was; I realized I had been dreaming of home when a servant’s discreet knock woke me the following morning. It was a strange dream, though; something felt not quite right about the city, but as I opened my eyes the thought evaporated. I smiled as I shaved at an elegant marble washstand; my father would certainly be impressed with the quality of Relshazri stonecutting, for all that the city was largely built on little better than a mire.

“Good morning.”

I turned to see Livak watching me, fresh in a pale-lemon linen tunic over a loose divided skirt in something like the Aldabreshi style that was fashionable in the summer seasons last year back home. The soft folds paradoxically revealed her shapely legs in a more tempting fashion than her usual breeches and the color set off her red hair nicely.

“You look very elegant,” I said approvingly.

Livak smiled briefly then wandered over to the window where she began to finger the ornaments catching the early sunlight. She looked unusually ill at ease and I began to feel a little concerned. Mellitha, a woman of tact as well as discernment, had given us rooms not only adjacent but with their own connecting door; when I had woken alone, I had simply assumed Livak had returned to her own bed.

“Who’s Guinalle?” she asked abruptly.

“Who?” This meaningless question was a complete surprise.

Livak turned a searching emerald stare on me. “Who is Guinalle? That’s a Formalin name isn’t it? You were muttering in your sleep last night, I heard you mention her.”

I shook my head before realizing I still had my razor in my hand and cursed as I nicked myself.

“Yes, it’s a Formalin name, but I don’t know anyone called that.” I hastily ransacked my memory; it rang of the sort of outdated elegance a whore might fancy as a working name. No, I couldn’t remember any past conquest or purchase calling herself that.

Livak shrugged. “No matter, then.”

I was not so sanguine. “Really, I don’t know anyone called Guinalle.”

Livak dropped her eyes. “I couldn’t remember what your sister’s name had been.”

I caught my breath on a sudden memory of that face, twelve years burned on her pyre but still vivid in my mind. “No,” I said shortly. “Her name was Kitria.”

“So why would you be talking about someone called Guinalle?”

I was relieved to hear the taint of jealousy in Livak’s tone turn to puzzlement.

“It must have been a dream.” I shook my head, the razor held at a safe distance this time.

We both stood still at that remark and our eyes met again in mutual uncertainty. This time it was me who turned away, pulling my shirt over my head, not wanting to pursue the implications of that idea.

“Don’t mention it to Shiv,” I warned Livak. “I honestly don’t remember anything and I’m not at all sure I want any aetheric magic getting inside my head again, Archmage’s orders or no.”

“He won’t hear about it from me.” Livak slipped her hand in mine as we went down the stairs, sympathy in her comforting grip. She knew better than anyone else what a foul invasion that cursed sorcery could be. Shiv, being unconscious for much of our captivity by the Elietimm, had escaped having his memory turned inside out by the bastards but, as Livak had memorably commented, no bodily rape could ever equal that violation of the mind.

Mellitha was working her way through a stack of letters at the breakfast table, smiling with satisfaction over some, frowning at others in a manner that I suspected promised retribution of special significance. She was dressed today in the sober style befitting her position, formidable in dark-blue linen, high-necked and firmly laced.

“I sent someone out to make enquiries yesterday,” she announced without preamble as Shiv entered the room. “It’ll take a couple of days to weave the whole tapestry, but I have heard the market in Formalin antiquities is unusually busy; prices are rising and dealers are starting to look around for anything connected to the House of Nemith the Last. I’ve let it be known I’d like to be made aware of anyone who’s buying and of anyone new in the city who’s selling.”

“You’re sure no one will think it strange that you’re asking questions about these people?” Viltred was evidently still worried.

“I’m putting together a tender for a new contract at the moment,” Mellitha reassured him. “Everyone in the business will be asking questions about anyone and everything.”

“We can ask around as well.” Livak looked at Halice, who nodded her agreement, temporarily silenced by a mouthful of excellent, soft white bread and glossy cherry preserve.

“No, we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves,” frowned Shiv, his fingers busy reducing a sweet roll to an inedible heap of sticky fragments. “I don’t want anyone going off on their own just yet, either.”

Livak scowled. “I thought the whole point of my being here was getting Viltred’s little trinkets back! I’ve got the contacts to track down the Elietimm for you and I’m the one who’ll be cracking the shutters to get them back. If I’m risking my neck for Planir again, I’m the one who’s going to be cracking the whip as well.”

“When we’re looking at trying to take back the goods, then of course you’ll be the one to do the planning.” Shiv pushed away his plate. “There’s someone I want to talk to before then, someone who might be able to help in other ways.”

“I take it you mean Kerrit Osier?” Mellitha finished her meal and her hand hovered over the silver bell by her glass. “He’ll be in the Temple today. He’s got an appointment with the priestess of Maewelin.”

Shiv stared at her. “How did you know who I meant?”

Mellitha stood up and pulled an ocher silk shawl over her shoulders, the splash of color adding an interesting touch to her outfit.

“I keep a weather eye on mages visiting the city.” She smiled at Shiv with complacent superiority. “I like to know what stones they’re turning up, just in case something interesting comes to light. He’s been here since Equinox, going through the Archive and talking to the older priests.”