Centauriad 1 - Daughter of the Centaurs (26 page)

“How does Longshanks get the skins to hold such brilliant dyes, I wonder?” Theon says.

“He’s not about to let you steal his secret,” Mather says.

“Well, Zephie, my sweet,” says Theon, “I think we’ve come up with our theme.”

“Oh, good,” says Zephele, “because I am bereft of inspiration. What is your idea?”

“We have Malora to thank again, this time for our inspiration instead of our lives. The theme is—are you ready for the absolute brilliance of it?
The bush!
”

“The bush?” Zephele says, puzzled but interested.

“The bush! We’ll decorate the upper gallery with trees and rocks and logs, and each guest will come dressed as an animal of the bush. Malora can be a lioness and wear the velvet fringed wrap, along with a pair of undyed calfskin breeches and boots. Mather will make the mask.”

“Mather makes masks?” Malora asks. She has taken out her honed butter knife to sharpen her quill.

“Sculpting is my Hand, but I enjoy making masks,” Mather says. “I’ll make yours with real lion skin and stones of topaz, and I think I’ll make you a tail with a fur tassel since you don’t have one of your own. I wonder if I can lay hands on a
real
lion’s tail? Minus the rest of the lion, of course.”

“Neal Featherhoof will probably have one,” Brandle says.
“He’s got all sorts of wild-animal bits and pieces down in that squalid little shack of his.”

Surrounded by the cheery chatter of the centaurs, Malora suddenly feels anything but lonely.

Before they leave, Mather sidles up to Malora and says, “Does Orrie know you carry that knife?”

Malora nods. “It is a tool, not a weapon.”

He eyes it thoughtfully. “But it could just as easily serve as a weapon, no?”

From the moment Malora awakens, she does everything with special care. She takes a long, hot, fragrant bath and washes her hair. She braids it tightly, as Zephele has taught her to do, and ties the end with a velvet ribbon. She wears the green-and-blue wrap with the watery pattern and her bud-green calfskin trousers and matching green boots with silver buttons up the side. She is careful to leave the butter knife behind, just in case the Apex’s powerful eyes can see through kidskin.

“I need more Breath of the Bush,” Malora says, handing the flask to Orion when he comes to take her to the Apex.

He looks surprised. “Really? So soon?”

“I use it every night,” she says.

“I’m glad you have taken to it,” he says with a gratified smile as he tucks the empty flask into his pouch.

They pass out of the servants’ quarters into the receiving
gallery, with its bunches of crystal grapes and its flock of rosy-cheeked putti.

When Ash meets them outside the big white double doors with the handles shaped like lions’ paws, he nods and says, “She cleaned up very nicely, Your Excellence.”

“How is his mood this morning?” Orion asks.

Ash rocks his hand. “He hasn’t been what you’d call Himself lately, ever since young Featherhoof delivered the Empress’s call for volunteers. The Apex turned the Empress down, as you know, but the decision isn’t sitting well with him, and his digestion’s been poor of late.”

Malora is prepared this time for the sight of herself in the Hall of Mirrors. In contrast to the disheveled, feral creature she once saw there, she is pleased with the transformation. The Apex is pawing through his scrolls and doesn’t even look up when she enters, but Herself does, and registers immediate approval of the change.

“Very nice,” Herself says.

The Apex is scowling down at papers, swaddled in black, and Herself wears dove gray with a matching gray cap decorated with the speckled feather of a guinea hen.

Orion says, “She does look dashing, doesn’t she, Mother?”

Herself nods. “And is that Theon’s work I see in the wrap?”

Malora speaks up. “He made me several very beautiful ones.”

“Theon is most accomplished at his Hand,” says Herself. “He wove this wrap of mine, as it happens.”

“That is very nice, too,” Malora says dutifully, although to her it seems dull. “I like the guinea hen—”

“Enough!”
booms the Apex, waving away the small talk. He brings his steely gaze to bear upon Malora. Malora is shocked at the difference in his face since the last time she saw him. He looks old and careworn. The skin around his eyes is loose and ashen. But his voice has lost none of its vigor.

“I am told,” he says in a voice that rumbles down to the tips of Malora’s toes, “that after lengthy and careful consideration, you have finally decided upon a Hand.”

Orion clears his throat. “She has, sir. Malora Ironbound has, fittingly enough, declared her Hand to be ironwork.”

“What an eccentric choice!” Herself exclaims. “I like it.”

The Apex shoots his mate a stormy look and turns back to Malora. “Tell me what you like about this Hand.”

Malora says carefully, “Well, I like the heat of the forge and the heft of the hammer in my hand. I like the way the heated iron can be molded to make all manner of things.”

His eyes narrow. “What manner of things?”

“Well …,” Malora says, hedging, “decorative finials and gates and hinges and—”

“Swords and spear tips and arrowheads?” the Apex finishes for her, his eyes fierce and triumphant.

Malora looks quickly away and sees her face in the mirror, blushing scarlet. She wants to say,
Actually, I just want to make a little knife
, but realizes this would amount to what Honus might call a tactical error.

She turns back to him and opens her mouth to deny his charge. Then she realizes that Veracity has taken up a firm place in her heart and won’t budge. Instead, she merely closes her mouth and stares at him.

Orion whispers strenuously in her ear, “Tell him you have no intention of making weapons.”

But Malora can make no such claim. And she is so angry at this moment that she wishes she could stalk down to Brion’s forge and work up an entire armory of weaponry.

“I thought so,” says the Apex with a satisfied nod of his great gray head. “Petition denied!”

“But, Father,” Orion says, “she would no more make these implements than Brion the blacksmith would. I assure you, she has the capacity for the work. You should have seen her with the big hammer. She had no trouble swinging it.”

“I have no doubt as to her
capacity
,” the Apex says pointedly. “I suspect it is bred in her bones. Ironwork was my Hand, so I understand its attraction even if few other centaurs these days do.”

Malora finds her voice. “If this Hand is so unpopular, isn’t that all the more reason why I should take it up?”

The Apex’s brows lower like twin thunderheads. “It is not!” he says.

Malora’s blood simmers, and she begins to move toward the Apex. “No?” she says. “You would deny me this? You, who took away my herd, would now deny me this one thing that I want so badly?” She feels Orion’s hands holding her back.

“It is precisely your driving passion to do this that prompts me to deny you your wish,” Medon says with sudden weariness.

Herself puts in gently, “Honus tells us that you have many skills. You can sew, and you can count with great facility.”

“There you go!” says the Apex. “Let her play to her strengths and embroider and count threads.”

Malora says quietly, “Honus also says what good would learning be if we concentrated only on what we already knew? It is only by learning those things that come to us with some difficulty that we truly gain wisdom.”

Herself puts in, “The human makes a good point.”

The Apex slams his fist down on the table. “I have made my decision, and I will not be tripped up by slippery arguments and fancy citations. You have had your audience. I have bigger problems to deal with these days than the Hands of interloping Otherians.”

Malora continues to level a hard look at the Apex.

“It’s no use,” Orion whispers in her ear. “It’s his right. Wait for me outside. Please.”

Malora turns on her heel and walks out, slamming the door behind her.

Ash’s neck snaps as he wakes up and sputters, “Don’t take it to heart, missy. Didn’t I tell you he’s been in a vile mood lately?”

“Oh, really?” Malora blows out. “How can you tell?”

“Ha! Good point. He was fine until Honus and that rascally Flatlander told him about the wild centaurs. He’s been mad as a buffalo stuck in a hippo wallow ever since. Had you petitioned him three weeks ago, he might have treated your case with more favor.”

Malora crosses her arms over her chest and scowls, for that is exactly when she would have petitioned the Apex had Orion and Honus listened to her.

Orion soon emerges, looking pale. He takes her elbow and steers her down the hall toward Honus’s rooms. Twani on ladders, polishing the crystal grapes in the chandeliers like so many wingless putti, look down upon them as they pass.

“He is afraid,” Orion explains, his voice grim. “And his fear colors all his decisions.”

“Afraid of me holding a hammer?” she asks. “Or of me forging weapons of revenge?”

“He is afraid, frankly, of the unrest among the Flatlanders. Of the wild centaurs. Of the looming specter of conflict,” Orion says. “He respectfully suggests you reconsider embroidery.”

Malora grinds her teeth. “Never,” she says.

“What about woodworking? You said you liked it.”

“No!” Malora says firmly.

They enter Honus’s big room. “Honus!” Orion calls out anxiously, but there is no answer. “Oh, look, he has left a note.” Orion gestures to the scrivening table.

The note is addressed to Malora. Orion stands aside so she can read it, which she does out loud, haltingly: “Dear Malora, There is cheese in the crock. I have gone to the …” Malora doesn’t recognize a word, so she points to it.

“Salient,”
Orion says. “Oh, yes. I forgot. The monthly meeting of the Salient is this afternoon. Honus always attends. He copies down what is said. That was very good reading, by the way.”

“The Salient is the lawmaking body, is it not?” Malora says. “Perhaps I should approach the Salient about granting my petition.”

Orion frowns. “They would never dare to go against the Apex, especially on as trivial a matter as this.”

It is not trivial to me, Malora thinks as she looks around. Where is Zephele? Perhaps she can enlist Zephele to cajole the Apex into changing his mind. Zephele could talk a rhino into flying off a cliff. Malora looks out on the terrace, but there is no Zephele sprawled on her reading couch, embroidering, or holding bread crumbs on her hand for the birds to nibble.

“Where has your sister gone?” she asks.

“Sometimes she accompanies Honus to the Salient and listens in on the discussions. Honus makes of it a lesson in civics.” Orion bites his lip, looking uncannily like his sister. “Look. I’m afraid I must go down to the rose houses. The moon is full tonight and the rose petals are being harvested, and I cannot let the Twani overwater them or the harvest will be wilted and spoiled. Shall I send West to keep you company?”

Malora flares up again. “What’s the matter? Afraid of leaving the distressed Otherian unmonitored?”

Orion reaches for her hand. “I know you are distraught—”

She wrenches her hand away. “I am
not
distraught! I am angry! If it weren’t for the Apex, I would be down in Brion’s shop, learning my Hand! And now—now I don’t know what I will do.” She sags, sapped by her anger.

“You had set your heart on ironwork, I understand, but you will find another Hand. I promise you that my father will put up no impediments to it,” he says.

“How can you promise for your father?” she says bitterly.

“I cannot,” he says. “But
he
can. And he did.”

Malora lifts her shoulders and lets them fall. “It doesn’t matter. I want no other Hand but ironwork.”

Orion sighs. “Perhaps you should sit here and think about that. There is a whole world of Hands equally worthy of your skills and talents. When Zephele returns, you can go with her and resume your tour of the studios and ateliers.”

After he leaves, quiet sifts over the place. Malora realizes that, for the first time since she has come to Mount Kheiron, she is absolutely alone. She doesn’t feel truly alone, because her anger is like a simmering presence. Then hunger comes to tug at her stomach like a nagging child.

She goes to the crock and lifts out the cheese, pulls her knife from her belt, and cuts a slice. She grabs a loaf of bread from the covered basket next to the fireplace, breaks off a corner, and eats it with the cheese. She chews hard and swallows, but even after she has finished half the loaf of bread and nearly all the cheese, her stomach still complains. It seems that cheese and bread are not enough to fill her today. It is as if her anger with the Apex has made her ravenous.

Malora goes over to the shelves where Honus’s toys roost among the books. There is a beautiful jeweled statuette of a lizard. She winds it up the way she has seen Zephele do it. The lizard’s ruby tongue darts out and eats a jewel-work fly, then swallows it. She moves to the elephant and winds it up. It raises its trunk and gathers emerald leaves to take into its mouth. The jeweled monkey peels a yellow-jeweled fruit and eats it. The ring-tailed dove opens its mouth and sings,
“Ma-lo-ra! Ma-lo-ra!” A sapphire squirrel sits up and holds a pearly nut between its paws. The sound of the sparkling little toys fizzes around her as an idea takes form in her head. She has seen fat squirrels scampering on the walls outside the house, where they eat the stale bread crumbs Zephele leaves for them. West has said that the squirrels are too fast for the Twani to hunt, and so they have proliferated in recent years. There is a spool of silver thread sitting on the shelf. She unwinds thread from the spool and cuts off a piece. She grabs some bread, slips the knife back into her belt, and heads down the hall toward the servants’ entrance.

Rain and Lemon are propped against a blue-and-white pillar, sleeping soundly as she steals past them onto the service road. The road is deserted. She crosses it to the low wall that borders the road. At the foot of the wall, Malora lays out a long trail of bread crumbs, leading to a stick that she props against the wall. At the top of the stick, against the wall, she places a big pile of crumbs. Then she ties the silver string and rigs a snare, which she arranges near the top of the stick. She goes off a ways and sinks down beneath a tree, letting herself go absolutely still. She has just begun to doze, when she hears a thrashing sound. She opens her eyes. A big, fat squirrel is struggling with its head in the snare. Grabbing the squirrel by its tail, she dashes its head against the wall, then removes the snare from its neck. She loses no time rigging another snare. It isn’t long before she has caught herself a second squirrel. Skinning them both, she skewers them on green sticks and carries them past the Twani at the gate, who have slept through her small game hunt.