There was nothing ostentatious about Threpe, but he was a noble born and raised. It probably didn’t even occur to him that I didn’t have any fine clothes. I didn’t blame him for assuming that. The vast majority of the students at the University were at least modestly wealthy. How else could they afford tuition?
The truth was, I’d like nothing better than a fine dinner and the chance to interact with some of the local nobility. I’d love to banter over drinks, repair some of the damage Ambrose had done to my reputation, and maybe catch the eye of a potential patron.
But I simply couldn’t afford the price of admission. A suit of passably fine clothes would cost at least a talent and a half, even if I bought them from a fripperer. Clothes do not make the man, but you need the proper costume if you want to play the part.
Sitting behind Threpe, Stanchion made an exaggerated nodding motion with his head.
“I’d love to come to dinner,” I said to Threpe. “I promise. Just as soon as things settle down a bit over at the University.”
“Excellent,” Threpe said enthusiastically. “I’m going to hold you to it, too. No backing out. I’ll get you a patron, my boy. A proper one. I swear it.”
Behind him, Stanchion nodded approvingly.
I smiled at both of them and took another drink of metheglin. I glanced at the stairway to the second tier.
Stanchion saw my look. “She’s not here,” he said apologetically. “Haven’t seen her in a couple days, actually.”
A handful of people came through the door of the Eolian and shouted something in Yllish. Stanchion waved at them and got to his feet. “Duty calls,” he said, wandering off to greet them.
“Speaking of patrons,” I said to Threpe. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask your opinion about.” I lowered my voice. “Something I’d rather you kept between the two of us.”
Threpe’s eyes glittered curiously as he leaned close.
I took another drink of metheglin while I gathered my thoughts. The drink was hitting me more quickly than I’d expected. It was quite nice, actually, as it dulled the ache of my many injuries. “I’m guessing you know most every potential patron within a hundred miles of here.”
Threpe shrugged, not bothering with false modesty. “A fair number. Everyone who’s earnest about it. Everyone with money, anyway.”
“I have a friend,” I said. “A musician who is just starting out. She has natural talent but not much training. Someone has approached her with an offer of help and a promise of eventual patronage. . . .” I trailed off, not sure how to explain the rest.
Threpe nodded. “You want to know if he’s a legitimate sort,” he said. “Reasonable concern. Some folk feel a patron has a right to more than music.” He gestured to Stanchion. “If you want stories, ask him about the time Duchess Samista came here on holiday.” He gave a chuckle that was almost a moan, rubbing at his eyes. “Tiny gods help me, that woman was terrifying.”
“That’s my worry,” I said. “I don’t know if he’s trustworthy.”
“I can ask around if you like,” Threpe said. “What’s his name?”
“That’s part of the issue,” I said. “I don’t know his name. I don’t think she knows it either.”
Threpe frowned at this. “How can she not know his name?”
“He gave her a name,” I said. “But she doesn’t know if it’s real. Apparently he’s particular about his privacy and gave her strict instructions never to tell anyone about him,” I said. “They never meet in the same place twice. Never in public. He’s gone for months at a time.” I looked up at Threpe. “How does that sound to you?”
“Well it’s hardly ideal,” Threpe said, disapproval heavy in his voice. “There’s every chance this fellow isn’t a proper patron at all. It sounds like he might be taking advantage of your friend.”
I nodded glumly. “That was my thought too.”
“Then again,” Threpe said, “some patrons do work in secret. If they find someone with talent, it’s not unknown for them to nurture them in private, and then . . .” He made a dramatic flourish with one hand. “It’s like a magic trick. You suddenly produce a brilliant musician out of thin air.”
Threpe gave me a fond smile. “I thought that’s what someone had done with you,” he admitted. “You came out of nowhere and got your pipes. I thought someone had been keeping you hidden away until you were ready to make your grand appearance.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said.
“It does happen,” Threpe said. “But strange meeting places and the fact that she’s not sure of his name?” He shook his head, frowning. “If nothing else, it’s rather indecorous. Either this fellow is having a bit of fun pretending to be an outlaw, or he’s genuinely dodgy.”
Threpe seemed to think for a moment, tapping his fingers on the bar. “Tell your friend to be careful and keep her wits about her. It’s a terrible thing when a patron takes advantage of a woman. That’s a betrayal. But I’ve known men who did little but pose as patrons to gain a woman’s trust.” He frowned. “That’s worse.”
I was halfway back to the University, with Stonebridge just beginning to loom in the distance, when I began to feel an unpleasant prickling heat run up my arm. At first I thought it was the pain of the twice-stitched cuts on my elbow, as they’d been itching and burning all day.
But instead of fading, the heat continued to spread up my arm and along the left side of my chest. I began to sweat, as if from a sudden fever.
I stripped off my cloak, letting the chill air cool me, and began to unbutton my shirt. The autumn breeze helped, and I fanned myself with my cloak. But the heat grew more intense, painful even, as if I’d spilled boiling water across my chest.
Luckily, this section of road ran parallel to a stream that fed into the nearby Omethi River. Unable to think of a better plan, I kicked off my boots, unshouldered my lute, and jumped into the water.
The chill of the stream made me gasp and sputter, but it cooled my burning skin. I stayed there, trying not to feel like an idiot while a young couple walked past, holding hands and pointedly ignoring me.
The strange heat moved through my body, like there was a fire inside me trying to find a way out. It started along my left side, then wandered down to my legs, then back up to my left arm. When it moved to my head, I ducked underwater.
It stopped after a few minutes, and I climbed out of the stream. Shivering, I wrapped myself in my cloak, glad no one else was on the road. Then, since there was nothing else to do, I shouldered my lute case and began the long walk back to the University dripping wet and terribly afraid.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Principles
“I DID TELL MOLA,” I said as I shuffled the cards. “She said it was all in my head and pushed me out the door.”
“Well, I can only guess what that feels like,” Sim said bitterly.
I looked up, surprised by the uncharacteristic sharpness in his voice, but before I could ask what was the matter, Wilem caught my eye and shook his head, warning me away. Knowing Sim’s history, I guessed it was another quick, painful end to another quick, painful relationship.
I kept my mouth shut and dealt another hand of breath. The three of us were killing time, waiting for the room to fill up before I started playing for my typical Felling night crowd at Anker’s.
“What do you think is the matter?”Wilem asked.
I hesitated, worried that if I spoke my fears aloud it might somehow make them true. “I might have exposed myself to something dangerous in the Fishery.”
Wil looked at me. “Such as?”
“Some of the compounds we use,” I said. “They’ll go straight through your skin and kill you in eighteen slow ways.” I thought back to the day my tenten glass had cracked in the Fishery. Of the single drop of transporting agent that had landed on my shirt. It was only a tiny drop, barely larger than the head of a nail. I was so certain it hadn’t touched my skin. “I hope that’s not it. But I don’t know wh
at else it might be.”
“It could be a lingering effect from the plum bob,” Sim said grimly. “Ambrose isn’t much of an alchemist. And from what I understand, one of the main ingredients is lead. If he factored it himself, some latent principles could be affecting your system. Did you eat or drink anything different today?”
I thought about it. “I had a fair bit of metheglin at the Eolian,” I admitted.
“That stuff will make anyone ill,” Wil said darkly.
“I like it,” Sim said. “But it’s practically a nostrum all by itself. There’s a lot of different tincturing going on in there. Nothing alchemical, but you’ve got nutmeg, thyme, clove—all manner of spices. Could be that one of them triggered some of the free principles lurking in your system.”
“Wonderful,” I grumbled. “And how do I go about fixing that, exactly?”
Sim spread his hands helplessly.
“That’s what I thought,” I said. “Still, it sounds better than metal poisoning.”
Simmon proceeded to take four tricks in a row with a clever card force, and by the end of the hand he was smiling again. Sim was never really given to extended brooding.
Wil squared his cards away, and I pushed my chair back from the table.
“Play the one about the drunk cow and the butter churn,” Sim said.
I couldn’t help but crack a smile. “Maybe later,” I said as I picked up my increasingly shabby lute case and made my way to the hearth amid the sound of scattered, familiar applause. It took me a long moment to open the case, untwisting the copper wire I was still using in place of a buckle.
For the next two hours I played. I sang: “Copper Bottom Pot,” “Lilac Bough,” and “Aunt Emme’s Tub.” The audience laughed and clapped and cheered. As I fingered my way through the songs, I felt my worries slough away. My music has always been the best remedy for my dark moods. As I sang, even my bruises seemed to pain me less.
Then I felt a chill, as if a strong winter wind was blowing down the chimney behind me. I fought off a shiver and finished the last verse of “Applejack,” which I’d finally played to keep Sim happy. When I struck the last chord, the crowd applauded and conversation slowly welled up to fill the room again.
I looked behind me at the fireplace, but the fire was burning cheerfully with no sign of a draft. I stepped down off the hearth, hoping a little walk would chase my chill away. But as soon as I took a few steps, I realized that wasn’t the case. The cold settled straight into my bones. I turned back to the fireplace, spreading my hands to warm them.
Wil and Sim appeared at my side. “What’s going on?” Sim asked. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”
“Something like that,” I said, clenching my teeth to keep them from chattering. “Go tell Anker I’m feeling ill and have to cut it short tonight. Then light a candle off this fire and bring it up to my room.” I looked up at their serious faces. “Wil, can you help me get out of here? I don’t want to make a scene.”
Wilem nodded and gave me his arm. I leaned on him and concentrated on keeping my body from shaking as we made our way to the stairs. No one paid us much attention. I probably looked more drunk than anything. My hands were numb and heavy. My lips felt icy cold.
After the first flight of stairs, I couldn’t keep my shaking under control any longer. I could still walk, but the thick muscles in my legs twitched with every step.
Wil stopped. “We should go the Medica.” While he didn’t sound different, his Cealdish accent was thicker, and he was starting to drop words. A sign he was genuinely worried.
I shook my head firmly and leaned forward, knowing he’d have to help me up the stairs or let me fall. Wilem put an arm around me and half-steadied, half-carried me the rest of the way.
Once in my tiny room, I staggered onto the bed. Wil wrapped a blanket around my shoulders.
There were footsteps in the hallway and Sim peered nervously around the door. He held a stub of candle, sheltering the flame with his other hand as he walked. “I’ve got it. What do you want it for, anyway?”
“There.” I pointed to the table beside the bed. “You lit it off the fire?”
Sim’s eyes were frightened. “Your lips,” he said. “They’re not a good color.”
I pried a splinter from the rough wood of the bedside table and jabbed it hard into the back of my hand. Blood welled up and I rolled the long splinter around in it, getting it wet. “Close the door,” I said.
“You are not doing what I think you’re doing,” Sim said firmly.
I jabbed the long splinter down into the soft wax of the candle alongside the burning wick. It sputtered a little bit, then the flame wrapped around it. I muttered two bindings, one right after the other, speaking slowly so my numb lips didn’t slur the words.
“What are you doing?” Sim demanded. “Are you trying to cook yourself?” When I didn’t answer him, he stepped forward as if he would knock the candle over.
Wil caught his arm. “His hands are like ice,” he said quietly. “He’s cold. Really cold.”
Sim’s eyes darted nervously between the two of us. He took a step back. “Just . . . just be careful.”
But I was already ignoring him. I closed my eyes and bound the candle flame to the fire downstairs. Then I carefully made the second connection between the blood on the splinter and the blood in my body. It was very much like what I’d done with the drop of wine at the Eolian. With the obvious exception that I didn’t want my blood to boil.
At first there was just a brief tickle of heat, not nearly enough. I concentrated harder and felt my entire body relax as warmth flooded through me. I kept my eyes closed, keeping my attention on the bindings until I could take several long, deep breaths without any shuddering or shaking.
I opened my eyes and saw my two friends looking on expectantly. I smiled at them. “I’m okay.”
But before I got the words out, I began to sweat. I was suddenly too warm, nauseatingly warm. I broke both bindings as quickly as you jerk your hand away from a hot iron stove.
I took a few deep breaths, then got to my feet and walked over to the window. I opened it and leaned heavily on the sill, enjoying the chill autumn air that smelled of dead leaves and coming rain.
There was a long moment of silence.
“That looked like binder’s chills,” Simmon said. “Really bad binder’s chills.”
“It felt like the chills,” I said.
“Maybe your body has lost the ability to regulate its own temperate?” Wilem suggested.
“Temperature,” Sim corrected him absently.
“That wouldn’t account for the burn across my chest,” I said.
Sim cocked his head. “Burn?”
I was wet with sweat now, so I was glad for an excuse to unbutton my shirt and pull it off over my head. A large portion of my chest and upper arm was a bright red, a sharp contrast to my ordinarily pale skin. “Mola said it was a rash, and I was being fussy as an old woman. But it wasn’t there before I jumped into the river.”
Simmon leaned close to look. “I still think it’s unbound principles,” he said. “They can do bizarre things to a person. We had an E’lir last term that wasn’t careful with his factoring. He ending up not being able to sleep or focus his eyes for almost two span.”
Wilem slouched into a chair. “What makes a man cold, then hot, then cold again?”
Sim gave a halfhearted smile. “Sounds like a riddle.”
“I hate riddles,” I said, reaching for my shirt. Then I yelped, clutching at the bare bicep of my left arm. Blood welled out between my fingers.
Sim bolted to his feet, looking around frantically, obviously at a loss for what to do.
It felt like I’d been stabbed by an invisible knife. “God. Blackened. Damn.” I gritted out between my clenched teeth. I pulled my hand away and saw the small, round wound in my arm that had come from nowhere.
Simmon’s expression was horrified, his eyes wide, his hands covering his mouth. He said s
omething, but I was too busy concentrating to listen. I already knew what he was saying, anyway: malfeasance. Of course. This was all malfeasance. Someone was attacking me.
I lowered myself into the Heart of Stone and brought all my Alar to bear.
But my unknown attacker wasn’t wasting any time. There was a sharp pain in my chest near the shoulder. It didn’t break the skin this time, but I watched a blotch of dark blue blossom under my skin.
I hardened my Alar and the next stab was little more than a pinch. Then I quickly broke my mind into three pieces and gave two of them the job of maintaining the Alar that protected me.
Only then did I let out a deep sigh. “I’m fine.”
Simmon gave a laugh that choked off into a sob. His hands still covered his mouth. “How can you say that?” he demanded, plainly horrified.
I looked down at myself. Blood was still welling up through my fingers, running down the back of my hand and my arm.
“It’s true,” I said to him. “Honestly, Sim.”
“But malfeasance,” he said. “It just isn’t done.”
I sat down on the edge of my bed, keeping pressure on my wound. “I think we have some pretty clear proof otherwise.”
Wilem sat back down. “I am with Simmon. I would never have believed this.” He made an angry gesture. “Arcanists do not do this anymore. It is insane.” He looked at me. “Why are you smiling?”
“I’m relieved,” I said honestly. “I was worried I’d given myself cadmium poisoning, or I had some mysterious disease. This is just someone trying to kill me.”
“How could someone do it?” Simmon asked. “I don’t mean morally. How did someone get hold of your blood or hair?”
Wilem looked at Simmon. “What did you do with the bandages after you stitched him up?”
“I burned them,” Sim said defensively. “I’m not an idiot.”
Wil made a calming gesture. “I’m just narrowing our options. It probably isn’t the Medica either. They’re careful about that sort of thing.”