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

“Yes, milady.”

“Then I must presume you to be adequately trained,” continued Jaciel. She turned back to Clariel.

“In addition to your clothes, Clariel, you will need to purchase a small gift for the King. We have an audience in three days.”

For the first time, Clariel saw emotion on Roban’s face, a flicker of surprise at this announcement. Valannie actually looked stunned, her eyes widening for a moment before she managed to school her face into its normal, attentive guise.

“We do?” asked Clariel. She didn’t know much about King Orrikan, save that he was very old, and the gossips in Estwael said he had become a recluse since the death of his wife and the disappearance of his granddaughter and heir, Princess Tathiel. According to common wisdom, he saw no one and now played almost no part in the governance of the kingdom. Which, Clariel had heard said, was an improvement from when he had taken an occasional interest. “Why do I have to buy him something?”

“Because you are his youngest kinswoman,” said Jaciel. “The kin-gift is a tradition, when you first call upon him.”

“But what can I get for the King?” asked Clariel. “I mean he can have whatever he wants, can’t he?”

“Something small and personal, as is befitting for a gift from a young lady,” replied Jaciel. “I’m sure Valannie will advise you.”

Valannie looked surprised. Clearly some things were outside her otherwise vast sphere of competence.

“Uh, milady, I am well versed in the fashions of the Governor’s court, but the King, I really don’t, I mean he’s hardly even been seen these last five years—”

“I’m sure you will find something,” pronounced Jaciel. “Now, where is that Allin?”

“Here, milady!” called one of the senior apprentices, quickly moving to the front of the small crowd that had been waiting a few paces behind Jaciel.

“I am going to look at your design for a long-handled spoon now, Allin,” said Jaciel. “Come to my study. Rowain, Errilee, you will come too. Bring your workbooks and drawings. The rest of you, be about your duties.”

There was a sudden whirl of activity, with apprentices and workers moving quickly back to the huge, arched door of the workshop on the other side of the courtyard, and Jaciel and her chosen apprentices going to the smaller of the two doors on the house side, that led directly to the chambers that Jaciel and Harven had taken for their private offices. Jaciel’s, of course, was by far the larger room.

“Well, I suppose I had better go and find a gift for the King,” said Clariel. “Where do you suggest we start, Valannie?”

Valannie frowned.

“I really don’t know, milady,” she said. “As I said to your mother, if it was a gift for the Governor, or one of the councilors, that would be a different matter. Who knows what small thing the King would like?”

“He likes fish,” said Roban. “Or he used to like fish.”

“To eat?” asked Clariel. She liked fish too, particularly trout she had tickled herself from one of the creeks that ran into the Estwael. Bled immediately, filleted, and pan-fried with wild garlic and shallots on a campfire, fresh-caught trout was one of her favorite meals. Yet another thing she would miss now they lived in Belisaere.

“No, bright fish from far away,” said Roban. “Alive. He has them swim inside huge glass orbs. He likes . . . or he liked . . . to watch them.”

“And you saw this when you were a Royal Guard?” asked Clariel.

“Yes, milady.”

“Why did you leave?” asked Clariel, before immediately regretting the question, as Roban’s neck tilted back and he once again looked up and past her shoulder at his invisible officer. Perhaps he was dismissed, she thought, for drunkenness or some dereliction of duty. “Oh, I’m sorry, that is a . . . a silly question.”

“I didn’t leave as such, milady,” said Roban slowly. “When the guilds took over our duties in the city and beyond, most of the Guard was disbanded, there only being a few score needed for the palace alone. Quite a few of us joined up with one or other of the guild companies.”

“I didn’t know about that,” said Clariel. “I suppose I don’t know much about the city and . . . everything. Uh, why did the guilds take over from the Guard?”

Neither Roban or Valannie answered, but Clariel detected a kind of tension within them, as if both would like to speak. But Roban continued to stare at the sky, and Valannie reached up to make a quick and barely noticeable adjustment to Clariel’s scarf.

“Well, it’s useful to know about the fish, thank you,” said Clariel, into the silence. “Do you know where I could buy one . . . or some . . . of these bright fish?”

“The fish market does sell live fish and unusual catches,” said Valannie, wrinkling her nose. She looked at Roban. “Is it safe today?”

Roban nodded.

“Safe today?” asked Clariel. “What do you mean? And no one has told me why I need a guard in the first place.”

“There is some unrest in the city, milady,” said Roban. “Disaffected workers and the like. There have been some . . . minor disturbances . . . and the fish market is close to the Flat, where the day workers live.”

“Day workers?” asked Clariel.

“Those who do not belong to guilds and are hired—or not—by the day,” explained Roban patiently.

“Nothing to do with
us
and nothing to worry about,” added Valannie brightly. “The guilds look after their own. Oh dear, that scarf still isn’t quite right. Please, allow me, milady.”

Clariel reluctantly lowered her head and let Valannie retie the scarf. It was clear to her there was a lot going on in the city that she didn’t know about, and probably needed to know, but neither Valannie nor Roban were going to tell her about it.

Not that she intended on staying in Belisaere for a moment longer than was necessary. Not once she had worked out how to get back to Estwael, and how she might be able to live with only limited support from her parents. Or perhaps no support at all, for she was reluctantly coming to the conclusion that they would never countenance her ambitions. She would have to devise her own plans for the future.

“Very good,” proclaimed Valannie, interrupting Clariel’s thoughts of independence with a last, tiny tug on the corner of her scarf. “By tomorrow, milady, with the right clothes, I believe you will be a credit to your family and the High Guild of Goldsmiths.”

“Good,” mumbled Clariel, just for something to say, since she didn’t care about clothes or being a credit to anyone. “I suppose we had better go and buy these clothes, then. But first, a bright fish for the King.”

Chapter Two

COLORFUL FISH AND COLORFUL CLOTHES

T
he fish-buying mission was not a success. Clariel almost couldn’t bear the crush of people in the fish market, the noise, the swift traffic of carts laden with fresh-caught fish, and the overpowering smell. Even with Roban leading the way, his presence somehow making people move aside despite his small stature, it was hard to proceed along the narrow alleyways that were lined with booths selling all manner of fish, crustaceans, seaweed, and who knew what else. Everywhere there was constant shouting from the sellers, and shouting back from the buyers, and yelling from the cart-pushers, a cacophony of sound such that Clariel had never experienced before.

To cap it all off, there were no bright fish. Such things were sold from time to time by the fish merchants at the northern end of the market who specialized in live eels, fish, and exotic fare like rays. But none of them currently had the bright yellow or orange fish that Roban said were the ones the King favored. Indeed, it was unclear where such fish came from, save that every now and then a sailor or a fisherman would come in with one or two, and more often dead than alive.

“You could try over at the Islet,” said one of the sellers, who wore a bronze badge above his ringmail apron that identified him as an Undermaster of the Guild of Fishmongers. “They pick up oddities from time to time. In any case, I’ll spread the word.”

“I need one soon,” said Clariel. “It’s to be a gift for the—”

“Oh, look at that eel!” screeched Valannie, pointing at a huge, toothy eel that was flicking and coiling itself out of a nearby barrel. At the same time, Roban said, “We’d best be getting on, milady. It’s almost noon.”

“Uh, yes,” said Clariel. “Thank you. I will try the . . . uh . . .”

“The Islet,” said the fishmonger. “It’s a little rocky island, not far past the South Tower. Outside the walls. Bit rough and ready, but safe enough in daylight.”

“Thank you,” Clariel repeated. “If a fish does turn up here, please let me know.”

The fishmonger inclined his head. Before Clariel had even turned around he was shouting at one of his workers, “Get those eels sorted, you lazy gudgeon!”

It was a little quieter outside the fish market, but still much noisier than Estwael ever was, even on its biggest market day, during the harvest festival. And the people walked fast, as if whatever they had to do could not wait a moment. Clariel felt that if it were not for Roban, she would be swept up by the tide of hustling, shoving, catcalling people and carried away into some crammed alley, to be trapped there for all time.

“Shall we go to the Islet now?” asked Clariel. She was very tempted, because it was outside the walls, and anywhere outside the walls had to feel better than being within them.

“Oh, no time for that now,” said Valannie. “We simply must get you some proper clothes!”

Clariel sighed and nodded, and held to the thought that this was all only temporary. Soon enough she would be free of all the people, the noise, the smells, and be back in the cool green world of the forest. She just had to figure out how she could earn her own living. She was honest enough about her skills as a hunter, and the difficulties of that life, to know she might survive a summer well enough, but winter would be another matter. Besides, bare survival had little charm. She would need at least a moderate sum of coin to get herself set up, with title to a lodge or a cottage on the forest edge. Her parents could well afford to purchase this for her, of course—

Roban interrupted her daydreaming with a hand on her elbow, as she almost put a foot through an iron grille covering the access way to a sewer below. Despite being well-flushed with water from the aqueduct that bordered the fish market, the tunnel below carried with it a noisome mass of fish guts, offcuts, and scales, and she could easily have broken her ankle in the broad mesh of the grille.

“This way, milady.”

Roban led them up the broad avenue of Summer Street, which Clariel was slightly heartened to see was lined with trees, though they were thin, bare, and grey compared to those in the forests she knew. The trees were some kind of ash, she thought, but neither Roban nor Valannie could identify them to Clariel.

They left Summer Street before it began to climb through the somewhat elevated valley between Beshill and Coiner’s Hill, turning east instead into a narrower way. A hanging sign at the intersection there showed a faded picture of something unidentifiable, which Valannie assured Clariel had once depicted three needles and some thread.

“Three Needles Street,” she explained. “Merchant Tailors Guild territory. We’ll go down to where it crosses Shearer’s Lane, which is Clothworker’s, that’s where Parillin’s shop is. The best shops for cloth and the best tailors are all around the cross.”

The street was busy, though not nearly so busy as the fish market. Most of the traffic was on foot, for horses were forbidden in the city for all but a few special purposes. But there were palanquins being carried by sweating porters, and many of the ubiquitous handcarts, though here they were loaded with bundles of clothes, rolls of uncut cloth, barrels of buttons, and giant spools of thread, and did not reek of fish and the sea.

The street broadened again as it continued west, and the houses grew larger, and began to have signs indicating the businesses within, most of them tailors. Unlike at the fish market, Clariel also started to see other people accompanied by guards, wearing the livery of various guilds.

“Am I supposed to say hello?” Clariel asked Valannie doubtfully, as she caught the eye of one imposing-looking woman coming down the street toward them, who was wearing the only other blue headscarf Clariel had seen, though many women wore scarves of other colors. This woman was also preceded by a bodyguard, resplendent in a surcoat bearing the mortar and pestle sign of the Apothecary’s Guild.

“No, no, you’re not dressed yet!” replied Valannie quickly. “Look the other way! Don’t give her a reason to notice you.”

“But I am dressed,” protested Clariel.

“Not properly!” hissed Valannie. She moved to interpose herself between Clariel and the apothecary. “Just keep walking!”

Clariel kept walking, but peered at the apothecary as she passed, just to see what on earth Valannie was talking about when she said she was not properly dressed. She’d seen women wearing all sorts of clothes, some like her own. But the apothecary was wearing what looked like several tunics of differing length. The main outer one was a dark yellow silk, but with at least three others of different colors beneath, the layers showing at the knee and wrist.

Belatedly, Clariel realized that this was pretty much what her own mother had been wearing that morning, but in different colors again.

“Do the colors mean something?” she asked. “And the blue scarf?”

“Of course,” replied Valannie. “Guild colors for the two outer and two inner dresses, in the right order, and the blue scarf without embroidery means a close relative of the guild, a spouse, son, or daughter, not a Guild member yourself.”

“Different colors for every guild?” asked Clariel. “How many are there?”

“Seventy-four guilds,” replied Valannie. “And the five Great Companies. Don’t worry, milady, you’ll learn to recognize all the combinations at the Academy.”

Clariel was about to say she probably wasn’t going to be in Belisaere long enough to bother, when she was suddenly grabbed by Roban and thrown violently to one side. An instant later, she saw the bright blur of a blade swish through the air near where she’d been, wielded by a man whose face was hidden by his shabby hooded robe.

Before he could strike again, Roban was on him, grabbing the man’s knife-hand at the wrist with his left hand as he punched him in the stomach very quickly twice, accompanied by a gasping wheeze from the young man as he arched back, avoiding the main strength of the blows.

Then Roban twisted and threw the attacker across his hip, sending him sliding across the road, between several astonished bystanders. The knife went clattering, more people started shouting and screaming, and Clariel added to the tumult with a scream of rage as she leaped after her attacker, the slim knife from her boot in her hand, though she had no recollection of drawing it.

The man was still on the ground as she stabbed at his thigh, her knife deflected at the last moment by the surprising intervention of Roban’s sword, blades screeching as he forced her strike aside.

“No, milady!” he said urgently, distracting her just long enough for the attacker to roll away under a handcart, his hood falling away from his face. Clariel saw him clear for a moment, a handsome young man with fair hair. Their eyes met, hers so brown they were almost black, his as blue as a painted sky. He winked at her, crawled under the cart, sprang up, and fled down a side alley.

Roban kept Clariel’s knife engaged with his sword and his hand gripped her elbow. She twisted against his hold, and tried to disengage her knife, a red rage filling her with a violent strength, so strong Roban had to fully exert himself to hold her back.

“Milady!” he shouted. “No!”

Clariel heard his shout as if from far away. She ignored it, and turned into him, her knife slipping under his blade, coming up again to gut him, fast enough he had to release her and step back, ready to parry or even riposte, and then her blow faltered as the viciousness suddenly left her.

She slowly lowered her knife, but Roban did not step closer.

“I had him!” she protested. “Why did you stop me!”

“Everything isn’t always what it seems,” said Roban quietly, watching her with wary eyes. “I didn’t know you had a knife. Or that you could use it.”

“I’m a hunter!” spat Clariel, too loudly, the force of her words helping rekindle the anger she had tamped back down. She took a breath, slowly releasing it, expelling the rage as her lungs emptied. This anger came upon her rarely, but she knew she had to be careful of its consequences. She had kept it suppressed since she was old enough to realize what it could lead her to. In the rage, Clariel was not herself.

“I see,” muttered Roban. “Are you all right?”

Clariel knew what he really meant was “Have you got yourself under control?”

“Yes,” she said, sheathing her knife back in its special place inside her boot. Her hand was trembling, and she felt strangely weak, as if her knees might fold and she would tumble to the ground. She took a deep breath and managed to stand fully upright, but she was very wobbly on her feet.

Only then did Roban come closer. He put his hand under her elbow to steady her and leaned close to whisper.

“Just go along with this for the moment. All right?”

“Only if you explain why you stopped me.”

“Later,” he said hurriedly. “Not safe here.”

“Oh, milady,” cried Valannie, hurrying over. She was the only one heading toward Clariel. The previously crowded street was emptying fast. People were disappearing into shops and houses, or retreating back up the street, a tide of humanity most definitely on the ebb.

Valannie looked at Roban, who gave a slight nod, filled his lungs, and shouted.

“Goldsmiths! Goldsmiths! To me! A Guard! A Guard!”

His cry was answered swiftly. Far more swiftly than would usually be the case, thought Clariel. Shouts came from several directions, repeating his words, and within a few minutes the heavy tramp of many boots upon the paved street could be heard, accompanied by the clatter and jangle of arms and armor.

“What is going on?” asked Clariel. She could feel her strength returning, and stepped away from Roban’s supporting hand.

“A vicious attack upon a goldsmith’s daughter,” said Valannie. “Terrible it is. You were lucky not to be killed.”

“No I wasn’t,” protested Clariel. “It was a—”

“Shock,” interrupted Roban urgently. His right eye half closed in a desperate, slow wink. “You’ve had a nasty shock. But you’re safe now. Look, here come the Guard.”

“Faked,” whispered Clariel, low and to herself. The cut had missed her by a body’s width at least. If the young man had really wanted to hit her, he would have stabbed her in the back. And if Roban had really thought he was an assassin, he would have had his sword drawn and through the man in an instant, instead of punching and throwing him, and he certainly wouldn’t have blocked Clariel’s own attack.

She was wondering what this was all about as two score or more of armed soldiery came around the corner, marching in step. Though all wore hauberks of mail or gethre plates, their surcoats varied, showing different guild insignia. There were gold coins for the goldsmiths, stylized ships for the merchant adventurers, bright blue drops for the dyers, upright swords for the weaponsmiths, and other blazons Clariel did not immediately recognize.

They were led by a tall and imposing man of middle age, who wore a long, very white surcoat over a hauberk of gilded mail, not gethre plates. The surcoat was embroidered with the tower and aqueduct symbol of the city of Belisaere, with a smaller badge above his heart, the coins of the goldsmiths again. It was cinched tightly at the waist by a very shiny belt of gold, supporting a gold scabbard that held a rather impractical-looking but very decorative sword with swan wing quillons and a jewel in the pommel. He looked to be forty or thereabouts, and no doubt had been very handsome when younger, as much of it still remained in his even features and thick, dark hair. But as he drew closer, Clariel noted his eyes were narrow, sharp, and distrustful, the eyes not of a hunter, but of a vicious predator. He reminded her somewhat of a stoat. A sleek and powerful stoat.