“Ridiculous. If the Scrow were in allegiance with the Emperor, would they be scraping his emissaries? Or are the Yunamata lying?”
“Look at them. Could they lie?”
“Don’t be soft. Of course they could. The most purring of cats can still kill a bird within half a purr.”
“I suppose I believe them,” said Sister Apothecaire, “because they admit to their capacity for vengeance. But they also have told me that this is the season of the jackal, and out of wariness of the moon’s opinion, they take a vow of gentility. Babies born under the jackal moon are considered lucky. Babies born in Restwater are luckier still.”
“Are you sure you’ve understood correctly? Throughout Oz the season of the jackal is considered dangerous.”
“Perhaps it’s a kind of propitiation,” said Sister Apothecaire. “They mentioned the Old Dowager, a kind of deity who harvests souls. She sounded a bit like Kumbricia. Do you remember Kumbricia, from your schoolgirl lessons in antique lore? Kumbricia, the oldest witch from the time of creation? Source of all venom and malice?”
“I turned my back on such things when I entered a unionist mauntery,” said Sister Doctor. “I’m surprised you remember such poppydegook.”
“I don’t know if we’re getting a meal,” said Sister Apothecaire, gesturing, “but look, it appears we’re getting a pipe of some sort.” A delegation of Yunamata was approaching with a communal smoke.
“A vile habit,” snarled Sister Doctor, but she determined to do her best at being sociable, and stomach such barbaric customs as courtesy required.
3
NO ONE AT THE MAUNTERY, Candle included, knew enough about musical instruments to appreciate the domingon she arrived with. It was made of seasoned wrenwood by a master from the Quadling Kells, and Candle had first heard it played at a summer festival. The master himself performed, using his fingers as well as a fiddle bow and a glass emulant that he kept tucked under his bearded chin when not required. Now Candle recalled that the domingon had been fitted out with a feather, though at the time Candle had thought it merely ornamentation—and a sexy fillip at that.
She had thought she was in love with him, and had slept with him before dusk, but a few days later she realized it was the music she had loved. What she heard in its music: a coaxing, an invitation to remember, to disclose. Perhaps because her voice was small and high, she couldn’t project, and she imagined it would be more gratifying to play music than to speak. Mercilessly she pestered her uncle to circle back and buy her the domingon; she’d been surprised when he obliged.
Candle was not simple, not in the least, but her debility had made her a still person. She listened to church bells, when they pealed, trying to translate; she watched the way the paper husks of an onion fell on a table, and examined the rings of dirt that onion mites had left in parallel rows on the glossy wet inside. Everything said something, and it wasn’t her job to consider the merit or even the meaning of the message: just to witness the fact of the message.
She was therefore a calmer person than most, for there seemed no dearth of messages from the world to itself. She merely listened in.
For a week now she’d been playing the domingon until her fingers ached, watching and listening for the language of Liir’s recovery. It wasn’t unusual that she had had experience with men; Quadlings were a casual sort in matters of sexual prudence. The carnal experience had neither scarred her nor much interested her. Through it, at best, she had learned something of the human body, its hesitations and reservations as well as the surge of its desires.
In the infirmary, as her eyes moved from the instrument to the invalid, she felt she was picking up some news. Was it some minor language of olfactory signals, an arcane pattern of eye twitches, a hieroglyph etched in the beads of his sweat? She didn’t know. She was sure of this, though: Liir’s body seemed the same in temperature, comportment, and color. But he was going through a phase of crisis, and would either awaken for sure or die at once: no middle ground.
She didn’t know if she should go get the Superior Maunt or if she should stay at her post. She was afraid if she left, if she dropped the domingon on the floor even for the twenty minutes it might take to find the Superior Maunt and get counsel, she would lose Liir for good. Wherever he was, he was lost, and the music of her instrument was his only hope back.
So Candle stayed seated and played till her own fingers bled, in ripples of waltz, as if nothing were wrong. The blue of the sky thinned till it was pierced with star prickers, and then the jackal moon rose and slowly lumbered over till it could look in the window and watch for itself. Watch, and listen, as Candle played Liir through his memories.
“SHE’LL BE THERE,” said Liir.
“Who? Where? Are you talking about Elphaba?” said the Scarecrow.
“Of course not. I’m talking about Nor. The girl I knew. Maybe my half-sister, if the Witch really was my mother and Fiyero my father, as some have guessed.”
“In Southstairs? A girl?”
“Can you tell me why not?”
The Scarecrow didn’t answer. Liir thought: Maybe he imagines that someone as insignificant to the mighty Wizard of Oz—a mere girl, no less—hardly merited imprisonment. Maybe he thinks she might as easily have been murdered, or tossed onto the streets to drift and starve. How long had it been anyway since she had been taken from Kiamo Ko? Two years? Three? But then Princess Nastoya had implied that Nor might have survived…
They had circled the canals a bit longer and found a place to berth underneath some rotting trees by the side of a pub. “I can’t stay with you for much longer, you know,” said the Scarecrow. “I only came to give you the Witch’s broom, and to wish you well, and to protect you from the clearing of Dirt Boulevard. I have my own path to follow. I would see you safely to the other side of the gates of this troubled city if I could. If you would let me.”
“I’m not going,” said Liir. “Not without Nor. Or not without finding out what has happened to her.”
At a crossroads, unwilling to move, they sat disconsolate.
“Look,” said Liir, at graffiti dashed sharply and sloppily on the pub’s side wall. It said HAPPY ENDINGS ARE STILL ENDINGS. “You’ve done your work, you’ve kept your word to Dorothy. I have the broom. But I won’t be ushered out of harm’s way. What’s the point? I have no happy ending—cripes, I’ve had no happy beginning, either. The Witch is dead, and Dorothy is gone, and that old Princess Nastoya has asked us for help. As if I could! Just because Elphaba would have!”
“You needn’t fulfill some promise Elphaba made. If you’re not her son, you have no obligation there.”
“Well, there’s Nor, too. Call it a promise to myself.”
The Scarecrow held his head in his hands. “The Tin Woodman has left to cultivate the art of caring. He has his work cut out for him, poor sod. The Lion is suffering severe depression; his cowardice was his sole identifying trait, and now he’s pitiably normal. Neither of them can help you much, I’m afraid. You should get yourself out of here while you can. Start over.”
“Start over? I never started the first time. Besides, it’s not getting out that I need to do. It’s getting in.”
The Scarecrow pushed a hand against his heart and shook his head.
“Into Southstairs,” said Liir.
“I know what you meant,” said the Scarecrow. “I’m not stupid. Now.”
“You’re the one I need to keep on my side—”
The Scarecrow interrupted with a brusqueness that might have been meant kindly. “Don’t bother to look for me. You won’t find me. Save yourself for someone you might recognize. I’m not in your story, Liir. Not after this.”
So they took their leave, with little fanfare or fuss. The friendship between them was no larger or more hopeful than the shape of a scorched broom, which Liir waved halfheartedly as the Scarecrow loped out of sight, once and for all.
The boy sat in the bobbing blunt-boat and listened to the sound of laughter spilling out
the open windows of the pub. The smell was of beer and vomit, and old urine splashed against the wall. The moon was invisible behind the clouds. The sound of a tentative waltz, beguiling and minor, hung over the stinking waters of the canal and the desolate boy there.
THE NEXT MORNING, Liir presented himself at the servants’ entrance of the town house he’d passed the night before.
“We don’t give handouts and we don’t need another coal shoveler, so get yourself out of here before I assist you with a boot in your behind,” said the houseboy.
“If you please, I’m not looking for food or work. Sir.”
The houseboy smirked. “Toadying bastard. Call me sir again, and I’ll beat the crap out of you.”
Liir couldn’t follow. “I meant no disrespect. I just want to know how I can get an audience with Lady Glinda.”
The houseboy’s sneer needed rearranging with a good swift kick, Liir decided, but when the houseboy guffawed, his voice was less hostile. “Oh, a simpleton. Pardon me, I didn’t realize. Listen, the very Margreave of Tenmeadows, Lord Avaric himself, hasn’t been able to get her ladyship’s attention. She’s got her hands full, what with the goings-on in the Wizard’s Palace. The people’s Palace now. Or should be. Or will be. What, you want to fling yourself in her lap and call her mother? More urchins have tried that already than you could fit on a barge and drown in Kellswater. Now get off with you.”
“Whatever mother I don’t have, it certainly isn’t her.” He held up the broom and shook it in the houseboy’s face.
“What’s that then?”
Liir said, “You tell Lady Glinda that a boy at the back gate has the Witch’s broom. Tell her Dorothy gave it me. I don’t care how long you take, I’ll wait.”
“That thing? That’s a corpse of a broom. Not fit for kindling.”
“It’s been through a lot. That’s how you know it’s the real thing.”
“You’re a stubborn bugger. I can’t be standing here chewing the fat all day. Tell you what. Do me some magic with that broom and I’ll see what I can do for you.”
“I can’t do magic. And the broom isn’t a magic wand. It’s a broom. It sweeps.”
“Sweep a floor with that thing, you’ll leave char marks, and I’ll be the one cleaning up after you. Get out of here, now. Go on.”
Liir raised the broom again and tilted it forward. The houseboy shrank back, as if afraid flecks of scorch would fall on his livery. Noticing this, Liir decided it would be worth his while to wait around and see what happened.
His instincts proved sound. The houseboy wasn’t able to resist gossiping about his conversation with Liir. Just before noon, a housekeeper came out, tucking her apron strings in and wiping crumbs from her lips. “Love a grouse, you’re still here, and that’s a good thing!” she gabbled. “The houseboy’s been docked a month’s pay for being silly-headed! Get over here, Her Haughtiness wants to see you at once! You reek, haven’t you washed? The pump, there, boy, scrub your grubby armpits and wipe that smirk off your face. This is Lady Glinda that lives here, not some cow-mistress. And hop smart, you. She’s waiting.”
HE WAS BROUGHT TO a lady’s parlor and told to behave and touch nothing.
He could look, though, and he did. He had never seen an upholstered chair before. He’d never seen one chair face another chair that looked identical. Cushions everywhere, fresh flowers, and gleaming crystal bubbles set on little stands. A collection of commemorative baubles, he guessed. To what end?
A fire of aromatic woods burned in the dainty hearth. Why a daytime fire in such a well-built mansion, when the citizens outside couldn’t get close enough to a brazier to warm their hands, let alone soften their supper bricks of congealed molasses?
He wandered to the window to open it, let in some air. It looked out over the canal where he and the Scarecrow had drifted the night before. From this height, he could see the rooflines of the fancy houses. Palaces, almost, or palaces-in-training. Beyond the chimney pots, beyond the roof gardens, the cupolas and spires and domes, two more massive buildings rose: the domed Palace of the Wizard, in the dead center of the City, and off to the right, the steep bluestone ramparts of the prison known as Southstairs.
It was like looking at a picture in a book—not that he’d seen all that many books. Only the Grimmerie, and that only from a distance. Here, the etched rooflines seemed like a hundred man-made hills. Set here and there to delight the eye with infinite variety in depth and perspective.
Under every roof, a story, just as behind every brow, a history.
He hardly believed he had summoned the nerve to come here. But it was all he could think of to do. The Princess Nastoya had promised, in exchange for his helping her, to listen for news of Nor. But why work backward? The Princess would have to be scrubbing the news of the Emerald City to learn about Nor. Whereas now—he was here already—so let Princess Nastoya work out her troubles for herself. Liir had all the City before him. He would be forthright and claim what he wanted for himself. On his own terms.
“The Lady Glinda,” announced a man’s voice. When Liir turned, the door was already being drawn closed behind her, and Lady Glinda came near.
It was like being approached by a decorated holiday tree tiptoeing in jeweled slippers. Lady Glinda was the most exceedingly dressed person Liir had ever seen. He almost flinched, but knowing that Lady Glinda had been a friend of Elphaba’s stiffened his nerve. “How do you do,” she was saying, in a voice like a piccolo blowing soapsuds. She tilted her head. Was it an upperclass gesture, like a genuflection? Ought he pivot his head in reply? He remained upright. “Liir, is it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He had never called anyone “ma’am” in his life. Where had that come from?
“They said it was Liir. I thought I might have misheard. Please, won’t you sit—” She took a better look at the state of his clothes and changed her mind. “Would you permit me to take a seat? I’m not resting well these days, and it’s a strain.”
“Of course.” He realized he was to remain standing, though he drew a little nearer. Settling gingerly on a chaise longue upholstered in peppermint stripes, she arranged a bolster at the small of her back, and then reclined, lifting one ankle up from time to time. Maybe she had a twitch.
“I’m told you have something to show me, a talisman of some sort. You’ve got it wrapped in that shroud. A broom, a witch’s broom. The broom? The broom of the Wicked Witch of the West?”
“I didn’t call her that,” he said.
“How did you come by it? Last I heard of it, that Dorothy Gale was humping it around the Palace like some sort of a trophy, brandishing it for all to see.”
“I’m told she’s gone,” said Liir.
“She is.” The tone of authority was convincing. Tired, regretful, convincing.
“Gone the way old Ozma is gone? Disappeared? Done in?”
“Gone is gone,” said Glinda. “Who knows, maybe Ozma herself will be back someday. I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
“And maybe Dorothy, too? Or is she gone too far to come back?”
“You ask bold questions of a lady you’ve just met,” said Glinda, and she looked at him sharply. “And you haven’t answered mine. How did you come by Elpha—I mean the Witch’s broom?”
“You can say Elphaba to me.” Liir unwrapped the broom and held it up for Glinda to see.
Glinda didn’t look at the broom. She was staring at the Witch’s cape. She hoisted herself to her feet and reached to touch its hem. “I’d know this anywhere. This is Elphaba’s cape. How did you come by it? Answer me, thug—thief—or I’ll have you thrown in Southstairs.”
“Fair enough, I’m headed there anyway. Yes, it’s her cape. Why wouldn’t it be? I took it when I left her castle. I’m her—”
He couldn’t say son. He didn’t know. “I’m her helper. I came from the castle with Dorothy. When the Witch melted, all that was left was the broom. The Scarecrow brought it back to me after Dorothy vanished. No one else wanted
it.”
“It’s a burned stick. Throw it on the fire.”
“No.”
Glinda reached out a hand, and Liir took it. She wanted help getting up. “Let me look you in the eye, young man. Who are you? How did you come to be at Kiamo Ko?”
“I don’t know, and that’s the truth. But I served the Witch and saw Dorothy safely to the Emerald City, and I need your help.”
“You need my help? What for? Bread, cash, a false identity to help you slip sideways through the cracks? Tell me what you need, tell me why I should help, and I’ll see what I can do. In memory of Elphaba. You knew her.” Her head tilted again, but up, this time, and it was to keep the sudden wetness from spilling into her carefully colored false eyelashes. “You knew my Elphie!”
He would not indulge in cheap grief. “I want to find out what happened to a girl kidnapped by the Wizard’s men a few years back. She lived at Kiamo Ko when we got there.”
“We?”
“The Witch and I…”
“The Witch and you.” Her hands reached out hungrily for the cape and rubbed its hem, as if it were leaves of thyme or hyssop. “What girl might that be?”
“Her name is Nor. She is the daughter of Fiyero, one-time prince of the Arjikis, and his wife, Sarima, also kidnapped that very day. You knew Fiyero.”
“I knew Fiyero.” It was clear Glinda did not want to speak about him. “Why should I bother with you?”
“Nor was his daughter. She was my—” Again, he couldn’t say half-sister. He didn’t know. “My friend.”
Glinda reached out and took the charred broomstick and cradled it. “I know about friends.”
“Friends have children,” Liir said carefully. “If you can’t help your friends, you can help their children. Do you have children?”