“All right,” said Hazel, waving him away. She stood and went to look out the window. The sky was overcast, with great blotches of dark gray. A galoshes and umbrella kind of day. Hazel went to her armoire. Olo was off today and Rascha adamantly refused to participate in Hazel’s errand, so she would have to fend for herself. As she perused her options, her eyes fell upon a square of paper propped on one of the shelves where she kept her jewelry boxes. It was the note someone had slipped in The Little Mermaid on New Year’s Day. Rascha made Hazel keep it to remind her the world was a dangerous place. She picked it up, holding the paper by its edges.
Spiders weave and Spiders lie
in wait for easy prey,
but we can spin a web ourselves
and catch you any day.
With love,
the Butcher, the Baker, the Candlestick Maker
Such a strange note. Such strange names. There was something inherently creepy about ancient nursery rhymes. Whenever she read the note, she was tempted to throw it out. But she never did—it would only make Rascha angry.
Once she had dressed, she went into the common room, where she found Violet at a window, nibbling toast and watching the regiments far below. It was Saturday, but Violet was dressed formally. She was always formal now. And serious. Hazel set Merlin on the breakfast table.
“Good morning.”
Violet made a face. “Do you have to put him there?”
Hazel shrugged. She was tired of tiptoeing around Violet. Isabel came bustling out of her room, still brushing her black tangles. Violet glanced at her boots.
“You’re going riding?”
“Why not?” said Isabel. “My leg’s good as new.”
“It’s going to rain.”
Isabel peered out at the sky. “I’ll chance it. Why don’t you come? We can race to Kirin Point.”
“I can’t,” said Violet. “There’s a war council. And you aren’t to go anywhere near there.”
“Why not?”
“It’s right by the Lirlanders’ embassy.”
“Are they going to chase me on seahorses?” Isabel said, laughing. “I can outride them any day.”
Violet closed her eyes. “Just do what I tell you to do. For once.”
Isabel took a piece of toast. “And why would I start doing that?”
“Because we’re declaring war this afternoon.”
“What?”
Hazel and Isabel had exclaimed in unison. The latter dropped her toast.
“It’s not official yet,” said Violet. “But it will happen at today’s council. Two more ships were attacked last night. Grandmother’s been biding her time, but she can’t hold off anymore. The evidence against the Lirlanders is overwhelming. Protests are breaking out all over Impyrium. Martial law’s been declared in Ana-Fehdra. If we don’t act, there will be a revolution. We have no choice.”
“What happens if we declare war?” said Hazel. “Lirlanders live below the sea. We can’t march an army against them.”
“No,” said Violet. “We’d tear up the Red Winter Treaty and summon them using truenames. Or try to. Rulers like Prusias are too powerful to call against their will, but the Promethean scholars think we could bind some of the lesser lords within summoning circles. They’re already inscribing them.”
“And then?” said Hazel.
“We hold them hostage,” said Violet. “The Lirlanders will have to make peace and reparations, or surface to fight a war.”
“What do you think they’ll do?” said Isabel.
“Fight,” said Violet. “And why not? They outnumber us mehrùn.”
“But we have lots of soldiers,” said Isabel. “And our navy—”
“Is useless,” Violet interrupted. “Our weaponry is outright primitive. I’m told our ship’s cannons were popular centuries before the Cataclysm.”
“Doesn’t the Workshop have anything useful?” said Isabel.
“We don’t allow them to develop anything useful!” snapped Violet. “Do you remember telling me how wise Grandmother has been to keep the Workshop on a short leash? That advanced technologies threatened mankind’s existence? Well, hooray for us. We’ve done such a good job restricting it that we’re in no danger of destroying ourselves. Others can do it for us.” She shook her head in disgust.
“No one’s going to destroy us,” said Hazel quietly.
Violet looked at her. “How reassuring. Are you going to fight the Lirlanders, Hazel?”
“If it comes to that.”
“Ah, yes,” said Violet drily. “I forgot you’re our secret weapon. A taloned pig foot would wreak havoc upon the demons. Let’s pray we don’t have to call upon you.”
Hazel stared at her. “I think that would be wise, sister.”
“Back to reality,” said Isabel. “If the Lirlanders have become stronger than we are, why haven’t they revolted before?”
“The Red Winter Treaty was signed in the presence of Mina the First,” said Violet. “She shattered Prusias’s crowns. She helped defeat Astaroth. And she was merciful to all who surrendered. The oldest Lirlanders regard her as a sacred being. They believe a terrible curse will befall them if they break the treaty.”
“But they’ve already broken it,” said Isabel.
“Lord Kraavh insists they haven’t,” said Violet. “He says they haven’t attacked a single ship bearing a Lirlander Seal. It’s nonsense, of course. They all had one.”
There was a knock and Sigga entered the room. She bowed to Violet and Isabel before turning to Hazel.
“Are you ready?”
“Where are you two going?” said Violet.
“Master Montague’s office,” said Hazel. “I want to see if Mr. Smythe can get a job at Rowan.”
Violet slipped the Impyrial signet ring on her finger. “Well, that’s perfect. I’m attending a war council while Isabel goes horseback riding and you find work for an unemployed page.”
“If you want to abdicate, I’m right here,” said Isabel.
Violet strode past Sigga to the vestibule, where her bodyguard was waiting. “Don’t tempt me.”
Hob was waiting for them on a bench beneath an elm in Old College. It was always strange seeing him out of uniform. He wore a dark suit of decent quality, but made for colder weather. He did not see them right away, for he was busy watching a regiment shooting at targets along the cliffs. Once he caught sight of them, he popped to his feet and removed his cap.
“Good morning, Mr. Smythe,” said Hazel.
“Good morning, Your Highness. Where’s Dàme Rascha?”
“Taking her ease. She doesn’t quite approve of this excursion.”
“I see,” said Hob.
Sigga was surveying the regiment. “How’s their aim?”
“Fair enough,” said Hob. “Don’t like those carabines, though. No range. I can’t see why they bother with them.”
“Carabines are easier to handle,” said Sigga. “Range isn’t as important for a guardsmen as the rate of fire.”
“A rifle’s plenty fast,” said Hob.
The Grislander turned to Her Highness. “What time is Master Montague expecting us?”
“Nine o’clock.”
The agent glanced up at Old Tom, which showed a quarter to. “Your Highness, could you indulge me for a few minutes?”
Hazel was intrigued. “Of course.”
She and Hob followed as Sigga made for the drill instructor, a sergeant wearing a crested helmet and crimson coat. Upon seeing them, he held up his hand for the soldiers to hold their fire. He bowed low to Hazel.
“A pleasure, Your Highness. What can I do for you?”
“Who’s your best marksman?” asked Sigga.
The sergeant didn’t hesitate. “Private Carver.”
“We’d like to see Private Carver fire three shots as fast as he can at the target.”
The private was in his twenties and, like almost everyone in the guard, a perfect physical specimen. At his sergeant’s command, he fac
ed his target and brought up his carabine.
Crack, crack, crack.
Three shots, three small puffs of smoke on the distant target. The private lowered his weapon, looking satisfied.
“Do you have a proper rifle, Sergeant?” said Sigga.
Hazel did not know the difference between a carabine and a rifle until the sergeant retrieved another gun from a case. It had a longer barrel.
“Just this one,” he said. “But it’s not really a soldier’s weapon. I use it for hunting.”
Sigga glanced at Hob. “Have you ever used one of these?”
Hob looked at the gun. “It’s not a Boekka, but it’s close enough. What am I doing?”
Sigga merely smiled and turned to the sergeant. “I’ll wager five lunes the boy can shoot this rifle faster and more accurately than Carver and his carabine.”
The sergeant smiled like one who’s just heard a bad joke. When it was clear Sigga was serious, his amusement dwindled. Evidently, he found the proposal insulting.
“Carver’s a professional, Agent Fenn. I’d be taking your money.”
“Let me worry about that.”
The sergeant glanced at Hazel to see if she disapproved of the contest. She did not. On the contrary, Hazel found firearms rather interesting. Not in themselves—blasting holes in things held little appeal—but for the fact that they were the most muirish objects she could think of. They were taboo for mehrùn to use, but muir seemed to prize them above all else.
The sergeant set the terms. Sigga agreed to all, except the distance. She said Hob would fire from an additional fifty paces farther away. The entire regiment broke into disbelieving grins.
If the wager made Hob anxious, he did not show it. Throughout the exchange he remained stoic, his eyes fixed on Sigga. He appeared more interested in why she proposed the wager than the wager itself.
Once the bet was made, he took the unloaded rifle and examined it. He slid the bolt mechanism back and forth and pressed his finger lightly on the trigger as though gauging its sensitivity. He looked up at the sergeant.
“Can I take a practice shot? It’s been a long time.”
The sergeant turned to Private Carver, who said the boy could have ten if he pleased. But Hob only loaded four rounds into the cartridge before marching off another fifty paces.
The spectators moved well off to the side while a fresh target was set up. Taking up a stance, Hob brought the rifle slowly to his shoulder.
Crack!
Hazel turned much too late to see anything. One of the guardsmen elbowed his neighbor. “Missed.”
They watched as Hob examined the rifle a second time. The sergeant chuckled. “A poor craftsman always blames his tools.”
Again, Hob brought the rifle to his shoulder and took aim. This time, Hazel glued her eyes to the target’s red circle.
Crack-crack-crack!
The shots rang out so fast it was like firecrackers going off all at once. A single puff of smoke rose from the target’s center and dissipated on the breeze. The sergeant applauded.
“Well,” he said genially. “He’s uncanny quick, Agent Fenn, but accuracy matters. Carver hit the target three times. The lad only hit it once.”
“Let’s see the target,” said Sigga.
A guardsman fetched the paper. The sergeant held it up, revealing three overlapping holes that formed a shape like a clover. He turned to look at Hob, who was walking toward them with the rifle on his shoulder.
“Who is that boy?”
Sigga smiled. “Exactly who I thought he was.”
“I don’t follow.”
“No need to, Sergeant. Pay up.”
While the unhappy sergeant scrounged the coins, Hob shook hands with Carver, who was admirably gracious in defeat. As he returned the rifle, he exchanged a curious, almost defiant look with Sigga. Hazel got the impression the two were playing some private game.
The rain, which had threatened all morning, finally began to fall. The drops were light and rather pleasant as the three left the regiment and walked toward Old Tom. Hazel was still processing the extraordinary display of marksmanship she’d just witnessed.
“Sigga, how did you know Mr. Smythe could shoot a gun like that?”
“A hunch, Your Highness. They found a golem not long ago at a dig site in the Sentries. Someone fired five rounds into it with a rifle—a Boekka—before they blew its head off. That’s not interesting. What’s interesting is that the shots were grouped uncommonly tight and penetrated to the exact same depth.”
“What does that mean?” said Hazel.
“All five were fired in a fraction of a second. Only a gifted marksman could do that.”
Hazel laughed. “Mr. Smythe, have you been shooting golems in the Sentries?”
“Impossible, Your Highness,” said Sigga. “Mr. Smythe was already in Impyria when this occurred. But I suspected he could shoot. The Sentries are dangerous country and its people learn to handle guns at an early age. And don’t forget Mr. Smythe once killed a Cheshirewulf. With a creature like that, there are no second chances. You shoot fast and straight or you die. Guardsmen are mostly city boys who learned to shoot for sport. I had no doubt our Mr. Smythe would win. Incidentally . . .”
The Grislander paused at Old Tom’s steps to drop four of the coins in Hob’s palm. He did not pocket them right away.
“What’s this for?” he asked.
“A rainy day. Soldiers earn a pittance.”
“Mr. Smythe doesn’t have to be a soldier,” said Hazel. “He can be a teacher.”
Sigga handed over the fifth coin.
Old Tom was quiet. The only people they passed were a few graduate students and scholars, who used weekends as a quiet opportunity to further their research. Master Montague’s office was on the third floor, at the end of a long hallway lined with portraits.
He answered on the second knock, pipe in hand. To Hazel’s astonishment, he was dressed in a blue sweater, gray trousers, and shoes that looked suspiciously like slippers. She’d always assumed masters wore their robes day and night, never removing them even to bathe.
The master took out his pipe and bowed. “Good morning, Your Highness. Agent Fenn.” He looked inquisitively at Hob, who introduced himself.
The master said he was very happy to meet him and stood aside, admitting them into a large office whose walls were lined with cluttered bookcases and ancient maps. The air was heavy with the smell of exotic plants that overflowed from hanging pots or loomed in corners like spiny reptiles. Along the far wall, Hazel noticed an array of cages, terrariums, and alchemical equipment.
A hoot came from Hazel’s pocket and Merlin clambered out. With a flap of his wings, he circled the room and alighted atop a bookcase, where another homunculus reclined like a drowsy cat. The master laughed.
“I see your charge is thriving.”
“I hope so,” said Hazel. “I’m not really sure. He doesn’t speak, but Isabel’s never shuts up. I’ve been a little worried something was wrong.”
“No,” said the master, closing the door. “Your Merlin is exactly as he ought to be. He and Lady Isabel’s specimen received different solutions during their development. But I assume you didn’t come to discuss homunculus breeding, Your Highness. What can I do for you?”
At his invitation, Hazel sat in one of the chairs before his mammoth desk. She had worked out what she wanted to say beforehand, but the master often left her flustered. Sitting across from her, he knit his fingers and chewed his pipe stem. Like the Spider, he too was comfortable with silence.
“Well,” said Hazel. “As you know, I had some trouble with your class . . .”
She went on to explain how Hob was a palace page who tutored her on the Muirlands.
“I see,” said the master. “Well, your arrangement was unorthodox but not unproductive. You’ve made great strides, Your Highness. I’m very pleased with you.”
Hazel flushed pink. Perhaps the master was not so horrid after all. “Thank you. B
ut the reason I wanted to talk with you is because Mr. Smythe is no longer a page. He’s looking for a new position, and I think he’d make a fine addition here.”
The master’s bushy eyebrows rose. “At Rowan, Your Highness?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In what capacity?”
“I don’t know,” said Hazel. “Perhaps he could assist you. I think he’d make an excellent teacher someday.”
Those eyebrows climbed even higher. The master glanced at Hob and then back to Hazel with the air of a man weighing how best to explain something that should not have to be explained. Hazel shifted uneasily. Perhaps this had been a mistake.
“I have four research assistants,” said the master. “I selected them from hundreds of qualified applicants. While I commend your desire to help Mr. Smythe, Rowan could not possibly offer him work in an academic capacity. If he wishes to be a kitchen boy or servant—”
“But he’s smart,” said Hazel. “Really smart. He just needs an opportunity.”
“Don’t we all,” said the master, but not unkindly. “Why doesn’t Your Highness employ him?”
“I spend much of my time studying Mystics,” said Hazel. “Mr. Smythe can’t help me with that. But he could help you, Master Montague.”
The master sighed and turned his attention to Hob. “Where’s home, Mr. Smythe?”
Hob spoke up. “The Northwest, sir. A village in the Sentries called Dusk. Most people haven’t heard of it.”
The master nodded. “Are you Hauja?”
“My mother is, sir.”
“Interesting,” said the master. “I don’t suppose you have their tribal markings.”
“I do,” said Hob.
“So you’ve sat séyu.”
Hazel was impressed the master knew so much about a tribal people who lived so far away.
“Yes, sir,” said Hob.
The master tamped a pinch of tobacco in his pipe. “Someday, I’ll have to hear the tale. I’m quite familiar with the Sentries, Mr. Smythe. If I were thirty years younger, I’d be there now. There’s been a find of tremendous importance.”
Hob cleared his throat. “Oh?”
The master’s eyes twinkled with boyish enthusiasm. “They’ve found Vancouver, and not too far from where I predicted. Evidently, my theories on Cataclysmic drift have some merit.”