Clariel: The Lost Abhorsen (The Abhorsen Trilogy Book 4) (3 page)

At least not until she worked out how to get them . . .

“There is one other matter,” said Harven cautiously. He was gazing over the railing now himself, which was a slight improvement from staring at his shoes, though he still wouldn’t look her in the eye. “Well, a few other matters.”

Clariel lost sight of the seagull, who had joined the flock and been absorbed by it, all individuality gone in an instant.

“Yes?”

“This school . . . uh, the Academy . . . it doesn’t teach Charter Magic.”

“And this means?” asked Clariel, encouraging the bad news out. Her father’s smile was spreading across his face again, so obviously there was more unpleasantness to come.

“Apparently it’s not the fashion these days, or something,” muttered Harven. “The best people don’t practice Charter Magic, they hire people to do it for them, if absolutely necessary.”

“These ‘best people’ sound rather lazy and stupid,” observed Clariel. “Do they get awfully fat from not doing
anything
for themselves?”

She herself was slim, and up until relatively recently, could easily pass for a boy. She still could, with a bit of preparation and the right clothes. It was quite useful, and had made it easier to follow the truffle-hunting pigs, tickle trout in the Wael River, hunt the small puzzle deer, or do any of the things that she liked but weren’t proper for a well-brought-up child of the merchant elite. She thought this potential for deception might come in handy in Belisaere as well. Particularly for leaving the city.

“No, don’t be silly,” said Harven. “In any case, your mother wants you to further your Charter Magic studies—”

“Why?” asked Clariel. “She never wanted me to before. Is it something to do with grandfather?”

Her mother was a Charter Mage, and certainly used her magic in her goldsmithing, but she made no display of it outside her workshop. This was presumably because she was estranged from her family, the Abhorsens, and the Abhorsens were very much a living embodiment of some aspects of the Charter and tended to be powerful Charter Mages. In fact, Jaciel’s father was the current Abhorsen, but Clariel had never met him, because of a never-spoken-about rift that had occurred when Jaciel was young.

“Possibly, possibly,” muttered Harven, which suggested to his knowing daughter that it probably
didn’t
have anything to do with the Abhorsens. But he seized upon it as a possible explanation to her, adding, “The Abhorsen or the Abhorsen-in-Waiting do come to Belisaere upon occasion, there are ceremonies and so on, so we might well have to meet either your grandfather or your aunt—”

“My aunt is the Abhorsen-in-Waiting?” asked Clariel. “I didn’t even know Mother
had
a sister!”

Her parents never talked about Jaciel’s family, so this was all interesting information. She hardly knew anything about the Abhorsens really, apart from the childhood rhyme everyone learned about the Charter:

Five Great Charters knit the land

Together linked, hand in hand

One in the people who wear the crown

Two in the folk who keep the Dead down

Three and Five became stone and mortar

Four sees all in frozen water

The Abhorsens were the “folk who keep the Dead down,” which as far as Clariel knew meant they hunted down necromancers, and banished Dead spirits that had somehow returned from Death to Life.

Abhorsens could walk in Death themselves and like necromancers used Free Magic bells to command and compel the Dead, though the Abhorsens’ bells were somehow not Free Magic as such but bound to the Charter.

Not that the Abhorsens did much keeping the Dead down in the present era, as far as Clariel knew. She’d never heard of the Dead causing any trouble in her lifetime. Nor for that matter did the Clayr, the fourth of the Great Charter bloodlines, seem to see very much into the future. If they did, they kept it to themselves, just as they kept themselves remote in their glacier-sheltered fortress far to the north. Even the King, head of those “who wear the crown” didn’t do much ruling anymore, though Clariel had never really been interested in who ultimately was in charge of the various institutions that effectively managed the kingdom.

Abhorsens, Clayr, the King: they all seemed to be relics of a bygone past, just as the “stone and mortar” of the rhyme meant very little in the present day. This referred to the Wall to the south, to Clariel merely a curious landmark she’d heard about but never seen; and to the Great Charter stones she knew only as they were depicted in a mummer’s play: big grey man-size puppets painted with gold representations of Charter marks. In Estwael they had become part of a comic turn in the Midsummer Festival, tall rocks that crashed into each other, fell over, got up again, and then repeated the whole process numerous times to gales of laughter.

“Of course you knew about your mother’s sister,” said Harven, as if they talked about Jaciel’s family all the time, instead of never. “Anyway, we may be seeing her or your grandfather, and then there’s the King, who is your mother’s second cousin after all, and they all are . . . well . . . you know, very big on Charter Magic.”

“I thought you said the ‘best people’ don’t do Charter Magic anymore because it’s too much like hard work or they’ll get their fingers scorched black or something. Are the King and the Abhorsens not the best people?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Harven. “They’re more . . . more kind of separate, particularly these days. Out of the way. Modern times, you know, and different ways and means, things change . . .”

“What
are
you talking about, Father?” asked Clariel.

“You are to have lessons in Charter Magic,” rallied Harven, getting back to the subject at hand. “We have arranged for you to take afternoon lessons with a Magister Kargrin, whose house is on the hill below us, possibly you can see it from here, I believe it is quite distinctive—”

Clariel looked over the railing. There were hundreds of houses on the western slope of Beshill, and many more beyond, all crowded together.

“Where?” she asked.

“Somewhere downhill,” replied Harven, waving vaguely. “The house with the sign of the hedgepig on the street of the Cormorant . . . anyway, your guard will lead you there—”

“My guard?”

“I thought I told you about the guards already?”

“No you did not,” replied Clariel sternly. “What guards?”

“The Guild has sent us some guards, for the house and the workshop, and also to . . . look after us. The family.”

“Why do we need guards?”

“I don’t think we need them particularly,” said Harven, but he was looking at his shoes again. “It’s just something they do here. In any case, one will be guarding you. To and from the Academy, and so forth. His name is . . . um . . . well, it’s slipped my mind for a moment. He’s waiting to meet you downstairs. Also your mother wants Valannie to help you with your clothes.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” asked Clariel. She was wearing what she wore most ordinary days in Estwael, basically her own version of a Borderer’s uniform: a short-sleeved doeskin jerkin over a knee-length woolen robe with long sleeves dyed a pale green with an inch of linen trim at the wrists and neck; woolen stockings and knee-high boots of pig leather, made from the first boar Clariel had hunted and killed herself, when she was fourteen.

Admittedly, leather and wool was a little too heavy to be comfortable in Belisaere. The sun was hotter and the winds warmer here by the sea, compared to Estwael, which was situated in a high valley and surrounded by the wooded hills of the Great Forest. There was a term used disparagingly in other parts of the kingdom—when it was unseasonably cold, they called such days an “Estwael Summer.”

“Women wear different things here,” said Harven. “Valannie will help you buy whatever you need.”

Valannie was Clariel’s new maid. She had been waiting for them at the new house, and like it, had been provided by the Guild rather than being hired by the family. Jaciel didn’t care about choosing her own servants, particularly since Valannie was immediately competent and useful. But Clariel had refused her help as much as possible so far. She was determined to do without a maid, since she could not have the help of her old nurse, Kraille, who had chosen to retire to her son’s farm outside Estwael, rather than brave the horrors of the city.

“So you need to come down,” said Harven.

Clariel nodded, without speaking.

“I’m sorry, Clarrie,” said her father. “But it will all be for the best. You’ll see.”

“I hope so,” said Clariel bleakly. “You go, Father. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Clariel’s new guard was standing in the courtyard, near the front gate, watching two of Jaciel’s workmen stacking sacks of charcoal. She was rather surprised to see he was both shorter and even thinner than she was, and much older, probably at least thirty, if not more. His eyes were hooded, and he did not look at all agreeable. As Clariel left the stairs and walked closer, she saw he had a Charter mark on his forehead, the baptismal symbol that was the visible sign of a connection to the Charter. So he was at least capable of wielding Charter Magic, though the forehead mark itself meant little without a lifetime devoted to learning and practice.

But the guard’s forehead mark was mostly concealed by the red bandanna he wore, and would be totally hidden when he put on the open-faced helmet he held at his side. His surcoat showed the golden cup of the Guild, but it was done in a dyed yellow thread, not even a part-gold alloy. The hauberk of gethre plates he wore under it was short, reaching only to mid-thigh, and did not meet his knee-high leather boots. A sword hung in its drab scabbard on the left side of his broad belt, and thrust through the belt on the right side was a narrow club of some dark, heavy wood.

He turned as Clariel approached, bowed his head and snapped to attention.

“Good morning, milady,” he said, without a flicker of emotion in his eyes or face. “My name is Roban. I have been assigned by the Guild to guard you when you go about the city.”

“Thank you,” said Clariel. “Um, why do I need to be guarded? We got here without any guards.”

“Actually, we were with you from several leagues outside the High Gate, milady,” replied Roban. “Incognito, being as the Lady Jaciel wasn’t yet admitted to the guild.”

He didn’t look at Clariel, but at a point somewhere above her right shoulder. It almost felt like he wasn’t talking to her, but reporting to some invisible officer who was hovering above her head.

“Did you really follow us in?” asked Clariel. “Why?”

“Orders, milady,” replied Roban, not actually answering the question.

Before Clariel could continue, she was interrupted by the bustling arrival of Valannie, who was always bustling, constantly on the move, busy doing something or organizing other people to do things. She was probably only ten years older than Clariel, and certainly did not
look
prematurely aged, but there was something about her which made her seem much older than anyone else around. She reminded Clariel of her grandmother, her father’s mother, who had been just such a managing person.

“Lady Clariel, I am so sorry to keep you waiting,” she declared, pausing only to insert her arm through the crook of Clariel’s elbow. “Everything is arranged. We will go to Parillin’s first, for cloth, then to Mistress Emenor, she has by far the best dress-cutters. Then Master Blydnen for shoes, or perhaps Kailin’s, and I think Ilvercote for some scarves and suchlike. Oh, that reminds me. Take this for the time being. Don’t worry, you’ll soon have something more fetching.”

She held out a blue shawl of some shimmering cloth. Clariel looked at it, but didn’t take it.

“What’s this?”

“A silk scarf, milady!” exclaimed Valannie. “To cover your head.”

“I have hair for that,” replied Clariel. “And a perfectly good hat inside I can get if you think it’s going to rain. It doesn’t look like it to me.”

“No, no, no! Hats are for ordinary folk! You must wear a scarf, Lady Clariel!”

Clariel opened her mouth to say something about no one wearing scarfs on their heads in Estwael, but stopped as she saw her mother come out of the workshop door, trailed as always by apprentices and forge hands. She was not wearing her simple linen working clothes and leather apron, with its pockets full of files, hammers, pincers, rules and the like, but a kind of layered robe of blue and pale gold silks. She also wore a blue headscarf, though Jaciel’s was embroidered with small golden coins that caught the sunshine and flashed it back, proof of real gold.

The lack of an apron was a bad sign, thought Clariel, because if Jaciel was not working, then she might take an interest in her daughter.

This proved to be the case. Jaciel stopped in mid-progress toward the men who were unloading the charcoal and changed direction, coming straight at Clariel. As she approached, Roban stood even more stiffly at attention, and Valannie quickly put the scarf over Clariel’s hair, pulled it down to cover the Charter mark on her forehead, and knotted the ends under her chin.

“Clariel. You have come down.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“No more tantrums then?”

“I wasn’t having—” Clariel started hotly, before biting her lip. She never could seem to have a normal conversation with her mother. “That is, I am quite reconciled to my fate, thank you.”

“Your fate?” asked Jaciel. “Rather portentous, don’t you think? In any case, I am pleased. I see you are about to go and purchase your new clothes. Make sure you pay attention to Valannie.”

She turned her imperious gaze to the maid and continued. “Please see that Clariel has everything appropriate that she will need for the Academy and the house, Valannie. Do not let her pursue any . . . sartorial whimsy.”

“Yes, milady,” said Valannie, with a curtsy.

“And you are Roban?” Jaciel asked the guard. “The senior of the detail assigned by the Guild?”

“Yes, milady!” snapped Roban.

“Formerly of the Royal Guard, I see,” said Jaciel. How she knew that, Clariel couldn’t tell.