Grey Sister

  A few of the guardsmen turned to stare at Zole. Nobody had named her to them but perhaps the red of her ice-tribe skin was enough.

  “It’s her!” Figures around the man with the child pointed Zole out, following the guardsmen’s looks.

  “Bless me, Argatha!”

  “I just need to touch her.”

  The mass of people began to surge forward. With an oath Zole turned and ran back along the Vinery Stair.

  “Zole! You don’t have to—” Kettle turned, hand raised, but Zole had quick feet and was gone. The pilgrims sighed with a single voice, disappointment rising.

  “It wasn’t her.”

  “The Argatha wouldn’t run.”

  Ara caught Nona’s gaze, biting her lip, a small shake of her head. “You’re lucky to have her. I’m lucky to have you. Neither of us would want this.”

  Kettle went to examine the child in the man’s arms. He stepped back at her approach, as if sensing the shadow in her, but the crowd held him.

  “I’m sorry.” Kettle lifted her fingers from the boy’s neck. “The Ancestor has your son. He is a link in a chain without end, still joined to you, still joined to everyone who has ever cared for him. We will all be one in the Ancestor. Nothing passes from this world that is not remembered.”

  They left then, walking towards the distant city.

  Ara moved to walk beside Kettle. “Well spoken, sister.”

  Kettle shook her head. “A parent’s grief runs deeper than words can reach, novice. We speak them to help ourselves.”

  * * *

  • • •

  THE MENSIS ESCORT forged a passage through the tight-packed streets of Verity with practised ease. They seemed more confident within the city walls, and in their midst Nona thought she had a taste of what it must be like to be born of money and name.

  She watched the colour and variety of the crowd, the density and energy of it. With no shadow, wholly black eyes, and no apparent talent for disguise, Nona had begun to despair of passing the Shade Trial. But reminded of the city’s chaos the prospect of crossing Thaybur Square unchallenged seemed to inch from totally impossible towards merely very unlikely.

  “The Shade wardrobe doesn’t match this . . .” Nona watched a woman pass by in a cloak of dark green velvet trimmed with fox fur. To stand a chance in the Shade Trial and cross the square unchallenged by her classmates her disguise would have to be perfect.

  “No?” Ara hadn’t yet been introduced to the wardrobe. “I should think the older novices can recognize most of what the Poisoner has in there anyway. A lot of the girls get clothes from outside for the trial . . .” Ara trailed off, presumably remembering Nona’s poverty and complete lack of family in Verity.

  Nona had thought the variety and quality packed into the Shade wardrobe was astounding, but seeing Verity’s streets again she reassessed her opinion.

  “I’ll work something out.” She kept on walking.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE HOUSE THE guardsmen led them to was set back among trees behind a high wall on a street lined with grand homes. Nona had seen buildings to dwarf it: the Dome of the Ancestor, the Academy, and the palace itself, but never a private home. Windows marched for a hundred yards to either side of a great portal of polished redwood. Enormous sandstone blocks had been fitted together to build the walls, each block meeting the next with such precision that even without mortar the smallest insect would find no space to crawl between them.

  A doorman opened the doors as Ara climbed the stairs.

  “I’ll explore the gardens,” Kettle said.

  “You don’t have to, sister.” Ara gestured to the doorway. “Join us. Please.”

  Kettle shook her head, faint shadows flowing like the memory of past bruises. “I’ll be close when you’re ready to leave.”

  * * *

  • • •

  A FOOTMAN LED Ara and Nona through the Mensis foyer. Having spent so much time in the Dome of the Ancestor meant that Nona was able not to gape at the mosaicked floor and towering marble columns. The corridor that led from the foyer was punctuated by niches though and the statuettes and vases within held Nona’s gaze, filling her hands with a longing to touch. She found it hard to imagine that anyone lived here, day by day, striding through these corridors and knowing that they owned it all.

  Nona suddenly felt very drab and dull in her habit and wondered what this high lady would make of her. It felt like little more than a sack compared to the finery she’d seen in Verity’s streets. At the same time she had to admit that Ara somehow managed to look beautiful in hers, the simplicity of it contrasting the gold of her hair, the hard lines of her body evident as she moved.

  The footman knocked on an imposing set of double doors, then entered. “The Lady Arabella Jotsis to see you ma’am, and her companion.”

  Ara strode into the room, a sumptuously appointed chamber strewn with stuffed couches and deep chairs that looked so comfortable they might swallow a person whole. High above them the ceiling had been painted sky-blue and clouds scattered the plaster heavens.

  “Terra! You’re looking wonderful! This is my friend Nona. She’s Shield to the Argatha and she’ll make the best Red Sister the empire’s seen!” Ara spoke with an animation Nona had never witnessed in her before and in the accent she’d brought with her to the convent more than five years earlier, each word clipped short and stressed in strange places.

  There’s something wrong with your friend. Keot ran up her neck, spreading across her scalp beneath the black thicket of her hair.

  She’s fitting in. Shut up and stay hidden.

  “Arabella!” Terra stood from her chair, a tall girl in a sparkling green dress, her hair long and sandy, confined by a gold band, her face pleasant enough, though dominated by an unfortunate nose. “Nona, do sit down.” She glanced around. “I thought we were expecting”—she raised her hands palms forward and shook them in mock adulation—“the Chosen One! No?”

  Ara fell dramatically onto the nearest couch. “No. We discovered her hidden weakness. She’s allergic to being adored.”

  “No matter. In any case, I have a guest of my own to share!” Terra’s pout gave way to a mischievous smile, any disappointment forgotten. Nona found herself liking the young woman. “You brought your warrior—behold mine!” She leaned across to ring a silver bell on a small stand beside her chair and looked towards the main doors.

  “Do they have to do battle?” Ara grinned, following Terra’s gaze.

  Nona shifted in the comfort of her chair, wondering that Terra considered her a warrior. She didn’t seem to realize that Ara could probably defeat any man in her house guard without breaking a sweat.

  It’s hard to see old friends with new eyes.

  What would you know? You don’t have any friends. Nona tried to force Keot down onto her back but abandoned the effort as the doors began to open.

  A tall, darkly handsome man walked in. The black sweep of his hair reached past a starched white collar. His jacket, deepest purple and embroidered with silver wire in the bold designs favoured by Verity’s gentry, must have cost a year’s salary for the average city worker.

  “I know him!” Ara sat up, suddenly interested.

  “You should, he’s one of the empire’s finest ring-fighters!” Terra clapped her hands, excited.

  Nona stared at Ara and her friend. They were discussing the man as if he wasn’t there. She looked back, apologetic, seeing his face properly for the first time. “Regol?”

  “Indeed.” Regol sketched a bow. “At your service, Nona the Nun.” She recognized the sardonic smile and the dark humour in his eyes even if she didn’t recognize the finery he wore now.

  “You’ve met?” Terra clapped again. “Where? You must tell me!”

  “The last time I saw little Nona she was on her back, surrendering to me,” Regol said.

  Terra frowned. “Surely novices aren’t allowed to do that sort of thing?” She grinned again, all curiosity
. “What have you been up to, Nona?”

  “He’d kicked me in the chest then elbowed me in the head.” Nona remembered that it had hurt, a lot. “I reckoned I should let him win and save my strength for someone I really didn’t like.”

  “A big ginger gerant.” Regol nodded. “And technically you did win that fight against Denam.”

  “Denam?” Terra looked shocked. “That man’s a monster. Nona couldn’t have . . .”

  “You were what? Twelve at the time?” Regol shook his head. “Denam never quite lived that down . . .”

  “I don’t believe—” Terra started towards her feet.

  Ara set a hand to her cousin’s leg. “It’s true. But Denam lost by disqualification. He tried to attack Nona outside the ring.”

  Regol came and took the chair beside Nona, uninvited. “From what I hear you could have killed both of us that day if you’d wanted to.”

  Terra stared at him. Regol nodded. “Magic.” He mouthed the word silently and nodded again.

  Terra began to tell Ara about Regol’s victories in the Caltess. Nona leaned back, letting it wash over her. She found herself watching Regol, who in turn kept his gaze on Terra, smiling that smile of his. Nona shook her head. It seemed she and Ara weren’t the only ones with magic at their disposal: Regol appeared able to fascinate the other two just by sitting there, and she’d found herself being drawn into it too, letting her gaze wander the length of him. Perhaps he had a touch of the marjal empathy that Markus had once spoken of.

  In time lunch was served and the four of them went through to a dining room that was even longer, wider, and taller than the Sweet Mercy refectory where fifty novices ate their meals. In the centre stood a long, polished table down which Nona had a sudden urge to slide, sending a dozen candlesticks flying. She suppressed the urge and took a seat opposite Regol at one end. Terra and Ara sat to either side of him. Watching them, Nona realized that Terra must be a good few years older than Ara and herself, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, of an age with Regol. A spike of jealousy drove its way into her: Terra, living her grand life beneath her father’s golden roof, producing Regol as a novelty for the entertainment of her friend.

  If you killed her you could take her house and claim the male.

  Shut up, Keot.

  Nona turned her attention to the bowl of soup that had been set before her. A delicious aroma rose from the orangey liquid. She had no idea what the ingredients might be. Several silver spoons were arranged around the place setting. She took the nearest, a fluted affair, and applied it gingerly to the liquid. The bowl itself was finest porcelain, eggshell-thin and delicately painted with lilacs. Nona took each spoonful in mortal fear that she might somehow damage the bowl.

  “Nona? What do you think?”

  “What?” Nona looked up, suddenly worried she had been slurping. “Yes?”

  Regol, who had asked the question, gave her a puzzled look.

  If you want to breed with him you should just tell him so.

  “I don’t—” I don’t want to breed with him and if you don’t shut up I will force you into my little finger and CUT IT OFF! “Sorry . . .”

  “Is the soup disagreeing with you?” Terra looked concerned.

  “Something was,” Nona said. Then, seeing Terra’s distress, “No, not the soup, it’s lovely. What’s in it?”

  Terra brightened. “Do you know, I’ve never thought to ask. I can summon the cook. It’s persimmon and something, I expect. Everyone is eating persimmons these days. I had one with codfish at Dora Reesis’s the other day! I’ll have Edris get the cook—”

  “No need! It’s lovely.” Nona bent her head and took another spoon, consuming it as silently as a Sister of Discretion.

  What’s a persimmon?

  I have no idea. And shut up.

  Keot slid down the back of her neck, curling towards her stomach, presumably to investigate in person.

  The meal moved from soup to fish, four servants required so that the plates could be simultaneously swept away and replaced. Ara and Terra chattered about this or that lady of the Sis, though Terra’s knowledge of who wore what dress and which colour was in favour at court seemed to wear down even Ara’s tolerance for such detail. At last Ara swept the blonde sheath of her hair over one shoulder and turned those blue eyes of hers on Regol. “Have you beaten any other novices senseless lately?”

  “No.” Regol shook his head sorrowfully. “That’s a treat reserved for apprentices. I get to dance with Gretcha now, and she punches hard!”

  “Yours is a dangerous profession, sir.” Ara pushed her plate back.

  “It has its advantages.” Regol mopped his plate with a hunk of bread, his manners those of the Caltess. “Free lunches, for example.”

  “Where else have you dined?” Ara arched an eyebrow. She looked much older than her fifteen years, Nona thought.

  “It’s where I will dine that interests me most.” A degree of genuine excitement broke through Regol’s habitual mask. “Sherzal herself has requested the pleasure of my company at her palace!”

  Nona sat up at that, almost toppling the exquisite glass they’d brought her water in. “Sherzal!”

  Ara half-raised her hand, a placatory gesture. “Ring-fighters are popular guests at many high tables. Raymel Tacsis made the whole business fashionable and it’s a trend that seems to have outlived him.”

  Terra’s smile had a touch of nerves about it. “I hear Sherzal takes all manner of pleasure in the company of ring-fighters. Keep your guard up, Regol.”

  “Always, lady.” He nodded. “Around Gretcha especially, but hardly less so in the homes of the rich and powerful. Present company excepted of course.”

  They all laughed at that, though probably for four different reasons.

  “And when, pray tell, is Sherzal to have the pleasure of your company, Regol?” Ara asked, every bit the Sis.

  “Just over a month.” Regol dipped his spoon into the soup, clearing it with an admirable lack of slurping. “The feast of . . . Stevvan?”

  “Oh!” Terra clapped. “The feast of Stevvan? You won’t be alone then, Regol dear. Everyone who is anyone is going. Sherzal has sent out invitations by the cartload. I doubt there’ll be a Sis mansion with anyone under fifty left in it that day. I wouldn’t be surprised if she hasn’t invited Durnish princes and Scithrowl warlords! She’s promised something spectacular!”

  “I can hardly wait.” Regol seemed disappointed to learn his meals at the palace would likely prove less intimate than he had expected.

  The main courses arrived: individual peafowls, deliciously roasted and garnished with mushrooms, then redketch, fished from the meltwater rivers off the southern ice. Nona ate with dedication, amazed at the idea that food could be so much better than what was served in the Sweet Mercy refectory, which she had considered to be a paradise.

  Hard on the heels of the servants removing the second set of plates came a maid bearing a tray of porcelain cups each brimming with a fragrant, steaming liquid. Nona peered at hers uncertainly.

  “It’s chai, Nona.” Ara picked up hers. “An infusion of leaves from Gerula. Drunk in all the best houses.”

  Gerula rang a bell, a land far to the east. Nona picked up her cup and sniffed.

  “It’s an acquired taste.” Regol grinned at her across the table. “You have to work at enjoying many of the most expensive things in life!”

  Something hit the door with such violence that the lock burst open. Surprise set Nona’s cup slipping from her fingers. Instinct kicked in and Nona dug into the moment. Even with whatever threat might be exposed as the door continued its swing Nona’s first act was to catch the cup again, intercepting its lazy fall and setting it on the table.

  By the time the door stood wide enough to reveal Sister Kettle, Nona, Ara, and Regol were all on their feet, chairs tumbling behind them. The swinging door banged against the wall.

  “Don’t drink it!” The chairs crashed to the floor as Kettle walked into the room. Her gaze s
eemingly fixed on Regol.

  “Wh—” Terra, still seated with her cup halfway to her lips, blinked and looked around her, astonished to see everyone else standing.

  “Don’t drink it,” Kettle repeated, leaning over the table to take the steaming cup from Terra’s hand.

  Nona followed Kettle’s gaze. Not Regol—the serving maid behind him. Regol, understanding, spun around, but the woman caught him by the wrist and neck, pressing on a nerve cluster to force him to his knees.

  “The chai isn’t poisoned, Kettle.” The woman stood straight, looking less like a serving maid with each passing second.

  She lied to you. With her body. Like your poisoned apple has been trying to teach you.

  “I came to speak with Zole. If I’d wanted your novices dead you would be collecting their warm corpses now.” The woman let Regol go with a shove that sent him sprawling. She was younger than Nona had thought, perhaps as young as Kettle, her hair hunska-black, tied into a tight plait. Dark eyes watched from above high cheekbones. There was a hard beauty to her. And a threat.

  “I know you.” Regol from the floor, rubbing his neck. “You come to the Caltess forging every year and watch the novices.” His pursed lips took on a rueful smile. “My charms failed me last year. And the year before.”

  “Zole’s not here, Safira,” Kettle said, moving to put herself between the woman and the table. “What made you think she might be?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone.” Terra found her feet at last. “I swear it!”

  “I can see she’s not here.” Safira stepped towards the door. “I’ll leave you to your dessert. Your maid’s unconscious in a cupboard in the cold pantry.”

  Kettle moved to block Safira’s exit. Regol gained his feet, wincing,

  Who is this female? You know her too. Keot edged towards Nona’s neck, a red flush rising.

  Safira. She trained Zole for the emperor’s sister. She was banished from the convent years ago when she stabbed Kettle.