Banner of the Damned

  “There was no time for that.” He dashed his sleeve across his eyes, then said, “One thing I’m curious about is this book you apparently found in time to smooth the way for that Marloven prince. The Grand Herald gave me the briefest summary, and it seems they all think you have an eye to making money through Tiflis and the book sellers, but unless you’ve changed more than I expected, it doesn’t seem like you.”

  “You’re the only one to say that. Even Halimas thought I wanted to make some money of my own. The queen called it laudable.”

  “She called it laudable because of the laudable outcome,” Birdy said. “Ah, I am so tired. But we are here.” Birdy looked around the familiar anteroom to the staff dining area, plain cream-wash on the walls, arched accesses. He breathed in and smiled at me. “You have no idea how good it is to be home—”

  He fell silent as a very new, young page scudded up to us with a breathless summons for me from Seneschal Marnda. I took my leave of Birdy, rejoicing in the knowledge that he was back, and not angry with me for my sixteen-year-old obliviousness, as I followed the little page back to the west wing.

  From that my mind leapt to the astonishing nature of the queen’s orders. I had agreed because what else does one do? But doubt and then dismay assailed me. How was I to learn what I must know?

  “Did the queen speak with you, Scribe Emras?” I was startled by Seneschal Marnda’s voice.

  I made a swift Peace, then said, “I am ordered by the queen to learn about magic. If Norsunder is truly allied in some way with the Marlovens, then I am to tell the princess or you. I remember one of the senior scribes saying that when the queen was young, she attempted the study of magic. Has she some books that I might borrow?”

  Marnda rubbed the bridge of her nose. “The queen was only instructed in theory, I remember, for it was part of my duty to fetch and return the books the mage sent. She always commented about them before she sent them back.”

  “How much magic did she learn?”

  “None. They would not send a teacher unless she would give over more time than she was willing.”

  “Why?”

  Marnda opened her hands. “They said only that one must train the mind to the consequences of power as much as one is trained to use power. Even when a girl, the queen knew she was already learning those lessons. But the Mage Council was adamant: one must learn slowly and must be tested often by their methods, or not at all.”

  I left, resolved to comb through the archive though without much hope. My studies had made them familiar to me, and I knew what they held.

  So I turned to the one person I knew could help me, my brother. Even so, I had doubts, for I remembered what he had said about magic studies—corroborated by Marnda.

  I hesitated over the wording, partly for this very reason. The queen did not entirely trust mages. My brother, once a scribe, was now a mage, and he’d made his loyalty clear. So I worded it generally, asking for referral to any text from which a scribe could learn about the presence of dark magic—and I said it was a research question asked on behalf of the princess.

  To my surprise, I received an answer from Olnar as I was readying myself for Tiflis’s ceremony.

  It was written in evident haste:

  Em,

  Would you ask a glass-blower for a text on how to parrot a thousand line poem in Old Sartoran? Especially if it was full of political significance whose false interpretation might break treaties? Your princess knows better, if you will forgive my bluntness—plain speaking being the prerogative of family. If she has any kind of question about dark magic, then she should send an inquiry to the Sartoran Mage Council, who are certain to send a properly trained mage to consult with, or to investigate, if the matter is serious.

  I could hear his voice, the fond exasperation, for he did not mean to patronize. But I had to find a way to follow my orders, or the queen might replace me. My position was already anomalous, with the princess leaving the kingdom.

  I was in a sober mood as I picked up the net of golden lily blossoms I’d ordered and took a boat to the Crown Gate—or, rather, as close as I could get. All the book sellers seemed to be there. As the city carillons sounded the chords of Hour of the Harp, I tried to squeeze close to the rail to see Tiflis’s lily-decorated barge sail through—but so did everyone else. I only succeeded in glimpsing heads and shoulders. I flung my blossoms when everyone else did, and the shower of gold petals was lovely in the light of the glow globes, first glittering and tumbling in the air, then alighting on heads and shoulders and hands.

  As the crowd broke up, most walking toward Alassa Canal, small children threaded among us and gathered lapfuls of petals to cherish or to shower over one another.

  On Alassa Canal, every window in Pine House glowed with golden light. The double doors stood wide. I reflected everyone’s Peace as I entered, returning smile for smile until I found my cousin in the central place in the room at the owner’s right hand, resplendent in plum brocade over carnation and sea green panels.

  Tiflis greeted me ecstatically, then presented me to the room. “Here is my cousin, Royal Scribe Emras, who was the finder for my mastery work.”

  The entire circle finger-tapped their palms in approbation. Caught completely without a clue to the proper response, I made The Peace generally.

  “What happened with the warriors?” the book seller asked.

  “Was there really a pitched battle with the Chwahir?” someone else asked.

  “Did they truly attack the palace itself?”

  I began assembling words, but Tiflis forestalled me. “She will only say what the heralds cried in the streets at the Hour of the Bird. Even in the family, you may as well be talking to a wall as to a Royal Scribe for real news.”

  They laughed and returned to their small groups as Tiflis drew me toward the banquet table to press into my hands a gold-rimmed cup full of the best honeyflower wine. A pure white petal floated on the surface.

  “I’m moving tomorrow,” she said, raising her own cup to me. “It’s not on Skya Canal, but—”

  A tall young woman with hair dyed shades of flame slid her arm around Tif’s shoulders and bent to kiss the tip of her ear. Her robe featured a capelet of pointed layers in ruddy shades. Here was the fashion the queen had mentioned: The fox’s ruff.

  “—but it’s a splendid little place,” this newcomer said, turning a smile to me. “And we have a fine view of Alassa Canal from the parlor.”

  Tif caught up her lover’s hand and kissed it. “This is Kaura,” Tiflis said to me. “My artist partner, and my partner in art.” Her hands shaped the heart symbol on the word “art,” her manner and their immediate laughter making it plain that this was a standing joke between them.

  Kaura’s brown eyes rounded. “I was the first to read the book. I could hardly believe they were real people! But Inda was a prince—they don’t lie, do they?”

  “How can they,” Tif answered, “when all it takes is a herald to poke his beak into their portrait gallery, if not their archive?” She turned to me. “Kaura thought of that design,” she said proudly. “The Venn knots make the book!”

  Kaura blushed. “If the chirps are true, and the princess is going to marry the Prince of Marloven Hesea, how will she manage in such a kingdom?”

  Surprised, I said, “I do not know.”

  Tiflis put her head back and sighed. “Em. Everybody is talking about the match. It’s hardly a secret!”

  My cheeks burned. “I meant, I don’t know anything about his kingdom, except that that book is about a time four hundred years past. They must be more civilized now.”

  Kaura said with a friendly smile, “I’m certain everything will settle out sooner or later. Right now, I want to thank you for thinking of Tif.”

  “Yes,” my cousin said, setting down her cup. “We need to settle on our own part. You got my note, of course.”

  Once again I found myself without a clue to expected behavior. From the way others gathered around, I sur
mised that this was the negotiation Halimas had talked about—begun in Tif’s letter to me on the road—and further, that it was important to her. If I left the amount to Tif, would it be perceived as an insult, as if I was too superior to care? I said slowly, “Yes, I got it. I did not answer as my hand was still resting from all that copying I had done.”

  Everyone exchanged a look, and I heard an “Ahhh,” behind me.

  “All of which had to be corrected by us,” Tif said. “But I honor you for the excellence of your work.”

  So like a court negotiation for place—establishing who must defer to whom. Now I knew how to respond. “And you were my first thought, as soon as I began reading the scroll that Prince Macael Elsarion loaned me,” I replied.

  Tiflis flushed with pleasure. “To be the first choice of a Royal Scribe honors not just me but our House.”

  After a few more complimentary exchanges like that, Tiflis referred to Kaura’s talent in designing the book to catch the eye, to which I answered that I’d had to translate the scroll from Sartoran to Kifelian. I expected that to be dismissed—translation in and out of Sartoran had been part of childhood training—but those gathered around acknowledged it with little signs, and soon Tiflis offered me a full finger—ten percent—of her earnings.

  Once we sealed the agreement by finishing the honeyflower wine, her fellow book makers gradually closed into their own groups. Tif saluted me. “I’d hoped to negotiate you to a flit.” She lifted her little finger. “But when you mentioned that Prince Macael, I had to come up.” She lifted her longest finger. “He’s already got a reputation. Everybody on the canal will be chirping by morning. And long may the birdies sing.”

  My heart thumped as I leaned toward her and murmured, “Instead of paying me, perhaps you could locate and buy something for me?”

  Tif’s eyes rounded, and so did her mouth. Is that apple-faced? I wondered, distracted.

  “I need a book on magic. As good as you can get.”

  “Magic?” Kaura repeated. “Why?”

  “It’s an assignment. For understanding.”

  Tif pursed her lips, hands at the angle of Surprise. “Magic! Why you, a scribe? Can’t your princess summon a herald or two?”

  “Not on the road. I need to understand the process of magic… if I travel.”

  Kaura’s feathered fan touched her eyebrow in Discretion, and Tif took her bottom lip in her teeth.

  “I have a cousin whose lover teaches something or other about elementary magic to the heralds,” Kaura said doubtfully.

  “Elementary is perfect, actually,” I said gratefully. I was thinking that the description of magical history for the heralds would be less about politics and theory and more about how it was used, when and why, which seemed closer to what the queen wanted.

  Kaura’s lips parted, then Tiflis said swiftly, “If you, on your… travels… find any good books, you’ll remember me, won’t you? Of course you will. You already did.” Then, in a low voice: “You’re a good cousin, Em—like a sister. When I think back to what a brat I was, how jealous I was that you were so much quicker at learning, well, you’re better than I deserve.” She gave me a strong hug. “You’ll get your book.”

  I hugged her back, wishing her success and happiness. Lightning flickered in the distance; I made my excuses and departed.

  ELEVEN

  OF SECRETS AND EMPTY ROOMS

  F

  rom then until the wedding the memories come in splinters. The clearest is fan practice in the early mornings, now that Birdy was back. I’d retreated to the staff area as Lasva was either with her sister or her betrothed, or involved in the many tasks of readying for the move. Birdy and I spoke little, as others were always present. It felt good just to have him next to me, to be falling into our old rhythms, even though he’d grown two hands taller in the time he was gone. From time to time I remembered Tiflis’s promise, and tried not to fret, for none of my other avenues of research turned up anything useful.

  For a few days fan practice was the only time Birdy and I saw one another, but gradually, during brief free moments, I’d find him at a meal, and it seemed natural to sit by him and continue catching up on each other’s our lives.

  “No juggling?” I asked one day, after he dug his fingers into his pocket, and I expected to see the old silken bags. But instead, out came a note. He frowned at it, replaced it in his pocket, then looked up, his mouth awry. “Is that relief on your face? Ah-ye, do not answer. Everyone else was relieved. No more juggling, not after the ambassador forbade it that first winter, when we were all shut up together.”

  Though I had maintained a scribe’s reserve—perhaps because I did— he made a comical grimace. “You too? Nobody liked my juggling.” His tone shifted. “That’s because I never got any better at it.”

  “Would it offend to request enlightenment on why you did it?”

  “I don’t require formality, Emras. Before I came to scribe school, my Uncle Issas, who is a player, told me that juggling makes the hands sensitive and clever. Something a scribe needs. But I never got better at it. Partly because…” He looked away, then back. “Because I wanted to keep my hands busy, especially when my mind wandered where it shouldn’t. So I thought no one would mind music. I bought a tiranthe. But I haven’t any better musical sense than I do juggling sense. So then I tried carving. That one lasted two weeks, until I tired of the sting of ink in the cuts on my fingers.”

  I accepted that with The Peace, wondering what he’d been about to say. But it felt intrusive to ask.

  “Trousers,” he said a few days later at a staff meal. He turned on his cushion and wiggled his legs. “They look so simple, but if you don’t manage them right, I hate to tell you what they do to your parts. If you have ’em.” He grinned at my kitchen friend, Delis.

  A young journey-scribe sitting across from us said, “I always wondered about that. Can’t you just wear a robe?”

  “You don’t want to know what happens to the hem of a robe in the stable.” Birdy touched his nose. “There’s a reason stable hands wear trousers, and it has nothing to do with guild commonality.”

  After the laughter died, Delis said, “Is it a demotion, going from herald to stable?”

  “I like to think of it this way.” Birdy’s fingertips sketched Shared Empathy. “There are no openings for heralds or scribes just now, but among the horses, there are. I like their company just fine! They don’t waste ink, and they never dictate boring letters or require me to make diplomatic speeches.”

  There was another laugh, and as he went on talking about the horses’ personalities, people returned to their own conversations.

  So it seemed natural to wander in the direction of the stable if I had free moments, and—if I found Birdy—to share a meal, or talk, or do fan practice. I did not think we met often or for long; every meeting was interrupted by either a page, a bell, or both, and our conversations, though friendly, could easily have been carried on in public. The queen, however, had something to say when she finally called us back. She dictated a few orders concerning the journey, then finished with this: “Apparently you two are friends.” Her fingers flickered in the old-fashioned Silken Screen mode, left from the days when people ate behind portable folding walls. “But I do not want my plans ruined. Curtail your public socializing, at least until we know that Lasva is safe, and that the rumors are mere rumors. There is no use in a stalking-horse if he’s being ridden by the very scribe who is supposed to be inconspicuous.”

  She dismissed us. Birdy was silent as we walked out.

  I had reached the second landing before the implication hit me. “Ridden?” I protested.

  Birdy turned deep red. “You know how people are. If they’re twistling, they see pairs everywhere.”

  “Ah-ye,” I breathed. “If that’s what people are thinking, then I guess the queen is right.” I said wistfully, “I’d looked forward to sitting next to you in the carriage.”

  “I’d looked forward to tha
t, too. We could practice our Marloven,” Birdy said.

  “That’s right!” I said. “We’ve another language to learn! But how? From what I see, the Marlovens hold to themselves.”

  “It will be a very long journey.” Birdy signed Rue with his fingers.

  Two days before we left, a hired courier was waved upstairs, where she picked her way past all the boxes and piles and bags, moving from person to person until she found me kneeling before my trunk, trying to reduce its few components and wondering in despair why our archive was so scanty on the important subject of magic, for I’d spent most of my time sifting the relevant shelves only to come away empty-handed.

  In surprise I took the package, and handed the courier the last of my spare coins. When I had my room to myself, I opened the neatly wrapped package and discovered a book, newly bound, the ink so fresh I could smell it.

  On a strip of pink paper was Tif’s scrawl in out-of-practice Old Sartoran: Here is the best we could do in so little time. Remember us! I paged carefully through the book and gazed in gathering puzzlement.

  Question, discovery of magic; wait for “Women/indigenous beings” questions. What spells do you think asked for first, why?

  Second lesson: Question, what are angels? Indigenous beings—forms of living being—forms taken to communicate with humans—magic and power.

  What questions?

  This was less than we were taught! Where were the explanations?

  When I encountered the words First lesson in basics, with a list of abbreviated cautions and warnings, I paged impatiently farther along to find no historical details, no maps or explanations, just columns of code, sometimes with odd drawings next to clusters of words. These drawings were brief, cryptic, with arrows, not unlike notes on fan forms.

  I turned over a handful of pages, by training too careful to fling them over, though I wanted to. It made no sense! For a time I tried decoding the marks in some of the old archival scripts that we’d had to learn, and then the truth became a possibility: this was not a record.