Cold Magic (12 page)

Jeers and curses greeted his cry.

“See how you like the mud when you freeze yer pale white arse in it!”

“Tip ’em over! Tip ’em over!”

Maybe my teeth were chattering. “What are you going to do?” I demanded.

His hands stilled. He’d shut his eyes!

Even cats can’t see through wood. Nor could I. But I saw a spray of sparks, like Han fireworks spitting gloriously in five colors. A blue sizzle landed in my glove, as if it had spun right through the carriage walls, and it burned not hot but deadly
cold
as it seared my skin. Men screamed, more in fear than in pain, and the mob scattered as the vehicle lurched forward, throwing me sideways so I hit my shoulder and bit down a yelp. I would not cry in front of him.

My husband said, quite clearly, in his precise, cultured voice, “A pox upon that cursed wraith!”

We rolled on. The blue sizzle
popped
and vanished.

“You are uninjured?” he asked stiffly. A spark pricked the darkness and expanded into a wan cold light by which he examined me with a frown.

I was shaking, and my shoulder ached, and I clung to the seat strap, wanting Bee beside me to face him down and wishing Aunt was there to smooth my hair and offer me a cup of hot chocolate, but…

But.

But.

But the truth was that I was trembling too hard to get anything out of my mouth.

I heard a chant rise in our wake like a nest of hornets maddened by smoke:

“Better to perish by the sword than by hunger!”

“Let princes and lords rot in their high castles with none to serve them!”

“Into the mire with them magisters and their foul cold magic!”

“I trust you are not too rattled,” he said in a clipped voice. “Once we are out of the city, it’s unlikely we will have to endure any more such unfortunate disturbances.”

I thought of a hundred terribly clever and scathing rejoinders I might make to a man who could sit there thinking of nothing but his own comfort. Instead I kept my expression as detached as that of an actress returning flowers sent her by an unsuitable beau.

“Yes,” I said, managing an airy tone of unconcern. I could speak as pedantically as he did! “Some say the trolls have contaminated the restless city laborers with their peculiar ideas. I suppose that out among the bucolic fields and villages ruled by the Houses, we need fear no unpleasantness.”

“Is that what you think?”

Since it was not, I said nothing; I had already said too much.

“I’ve never met a troll,” he remarked, “nor even seen one close up.” He looked thoughtful, and as his face relaxed, it was as if I glimpsed a different man. Then he realized I was staring at him, and his expression closed and the light snapped out.

“Was there something else you wanted to say?” he asked behind the veil of darkness.

“No.”

We clattered on, swung hard around a corner, and rolled through a quiet neighborhood where I heard the splash of water tossed onto stone, a kitchen maid emptying the wash water, perhaps. We rocked to a halt amid the balm of calm voices. His door was opened from outside and he disembarked. Shaking and aching, I emerged blinking into the pleasant courtyard of a compound lit not by gaslight but by the unmistakable hard white glow of cold fire oozing from ceramic bowls hanging from brackets set under the eaves and from pairs of elaborate stone cressets mounted on stands beside the doors and gates.

A pair of men armed with crossbows and swords shut the gates behind us. Two exceedingly well-dressed and proud-seeming personages—one male and one female—met us with cups of water, which we drank, then handed empty to waiting servants.

“We expected you before this, Magister,” said the man without preamble, in the manner of an equal.

My husband looked taken aback by the baldness of this greeting. “I was delayed.”

“We were told to expect the mansa’s sister’s son,” said the woman, looking him rudely up and down, “but you do not resemble him whatsoever, so I suppose you must be that other one we’ve heard spoken of.”

“I must be,” he said icily.

I shivered, as if it had actually gotten colder, and maybe it had.

“I suppose that explains the delay,” she added. “Have you ever traveled to a city before? It must seem very strange to one such as you.”

“I trust the inconvenience has not disturbed the smooth running of this establishment.” His always-arrogant expression shaded toward anger.

“Of course not!” she retorted with the indignation common to the proud. “We know our duty and will discharge it and maintain the highest degree of quality appropriate to Four Moons House, as is expected of and understood by those who grew up within the family.”

These deadly currents I could not navigate or even comprehend, so I was grateful when the male attendant indicated a waiting ancilla, who led us down a corridor and past a flight of stairs. I was ushered into a parlor that overlooked a garden through expensive paned windows and was shown to a well-made chair placed next to a side table polished to a fearful gleam. The woman followed, bringing warmed water in a basin and a warmed cloth so I could wash my face and hands. An open door on the far side of the room revealed a sleeping chamber beyond, fitted with a capacious bed draped with hangings.

I knew what marriage entailed, but at that moment, with the cloth squeezed so tight in my hands that drops of water stained my dress, I comprehended that, in fact, I knew nothing that mattered.

What had the Hassi Barahals owed to Four Moons House that Aunt and Uncle must pay in the coin of my flesh?

My husband had not come in after me.

Despite the cold outside, the chamber breathed warmth, but of course I saw no hearth, no fire, no coal-burning stove.

“You will want to change for supper,” said the woman.

“I will?”

Her smooth countenance slipped, and she looked at me as if I had turned into a toad. Then she smiled without a sliver of sincerity and, with the same frigid courtesy, indicated the sleeping chamber. I rose, trembling, and followed her past the bed and into a closet almost the size of the bedroom I shared with Bee. There lay my trunk. An unknown hand had opened the lid to reveal the hastily packed garments within. Two dinner dresses lay draped over the back of a dressing chair.

She considered my perfectly respectable clothing as she might a serpent. “You will have to use one of these garments. And no time to iron out the wrinkles. Still, with such a costume, wrinkles are the least of the offense. I will send a girl to help you dress.”

She left before I could punch her with the strong left hook noble young Maester Lewis of the red-gold hair had taught to Bee and me. Tears pricked and burned, so I thought of ice and did not cry. Waiting, I tugged off my boots to stand barefooted on the plank floor, expecting its cold pinch to shock away the last of the tears. But the floor oozed heat. Ah! It was glorious.

The door clicked open, and I turned with a start.

The girl had strawberry hair and blue eyes, a blandly pretty face as uninteresting as the blandly tasteful décor, and most importantly she had deft hands with buttons and laces. I tried to draw her into conversation, since she looked about my age, but she might as well have been mute. Or she might actually have been mute. Given what Bee and I heard about the cruelties and whims of the Houses, it would not have surprised me if they had cut out her tongue. I chose the celadon crepe, my best dinner gown. It was not perhaps at the height of fashion, but it had good line, as Aunt would say.

Aunt, who had handed me over without blinking.

The woman entered and shooed the girl away. She eyed me critically. “I suppose that is the best you have. I can see why the mansa did not wish to saddle his nephew with you.”

Better not to reply. I stared at her, hoping she thought I was stupid.

“We will take supper now,” she added.

I kept silent as I walked behind her through the sleeping chamber and the parlor, into the hall, and across it to a finely appointed room whose windows looked out onto the lit courtyard. She sent me in ahead of her, alone.

A table set for four with china, silver, and glass graced the center of the room. Two bowls hanging from brass tripods poured cold light on the scene, and two pairs of candlesticks bled threads of cold light from their placement on each sideboard. A small side table placed beside the window held a platter on which rested an unusual, large-veined stone and a glazed earthen vessel scored with a geometric pattern in whose belly rested a spray of white flowers.

I turned as my husband walked in. He now wore a long dinner coat tailored from stunningly expensive “king’s cloth,” the color so rich a gold that the eye melted in ecstasy just to look upon it. According to my father’s journals, a mystic symbology was woven into the very pattern of the cloth, but because the Houses guarded their secrets with firmly closed mouths, no outsider knew what these signified. He sported also a knotted kerchief at his neck in the style known as “the diaspora,” so complicated in its magnificent folds and falls that I blinked in admiration.

His dark eyes narrowed. “I thought you brought appropriate clothing.”

“I did!”

“Why are you wearing this, then? To appear so, when they already think me—”

He broke off before I could further lose my resolve not to speak, for the two proud attendants—I knew no one’s name here except my own—entered the supper room, looking, like him, as pleased as if they had been asked to drink salt water. He walked to the sideboard, where we all washed our hands in a bronze basin. He poured from an open bottle into five cups, then took the offering cup to the window, poured a few drops onto the stone, and set the cup on the table beside the vessel. Returning to the sideboard, he handed out the other cups, first to me and then to the others.

We drank. The mead was honeyed and rich, burning down my throat to my empty belly.

“Not promising. I expected better.” He set down his cup and, before I realized what he meant to do, plucked the cup out of my hand. “You won’t want that, Catherine.”

My mouth opened, and then I remembered Aunt’s words and closed it. Our companions pointedly said nothing, but neither did they drink more.

A young male servant pulled out the chairs. We sat. The first course was carried in by four silent servers: a clear-broth fish soup, several lamb and chicken dishes swimming in bright sauces, platters of gingered beans, gingered rabbit liver, roasted sweet potato, and a pair of savory vegetable stews fortified with millet. How I wanted to display my offended dignity by spurning the food, but I was so very, very hungry, and it smelled so very, very good.

They set down the plates, and the woman spooned lamb in red sauce onto his plate for his approval. He tasted it and winced.

“Absolutely not.”

The chicken with an orange sauce.

“I can’t be expected to eat this.”

“I would be willing to try it,” I said in a low voice, but although the woman glanced at me, my husband ignored my words.

The lamb in gravy, the gingered rabbit liver, the beans, and the vegetable stews met with the same scorn.

“Is this all your kitchen can manage? It is not what we are accustomed to at the estate, but perhaps you’ve been so long away tending house here in the city that you’ve forgotten.”

I winced, trying to imagine what Aunt would say if she ever heard me speak so ungraciously. The servers carried away the offending dishes. I wanted to weep. I would have scraped the smears of sauce off his plate, just to get some flavor on my parched tongue. He considered the clear soup and the bland orange potatoes with disdain.

“These are so simple they can, one hopes, offend no discriminating appetite. Very well. Can I hope there might be a suitable wine, a vintage better than that sour mead? A cheese, perhaps, and sliced fruit?”

The woman’s expression was as emotionlessly correct as his was disdainful. “I will ask personally in the kitchens, Magister.”

She deserted the chamber.

“I have certain things I need,” said my husband.

“All that was requested is ready,” said the man in a tight voice.

“Is it?” my husband replied in a tone thoroughly insinuated with doubt. “I’m relieved to hear it, after this supper.”

The room lapsed into an awful silence. For the longest time he merely sat, looking out the frost-crackled windows into a dark courtyard. The heat rising from the floor warmed my feet and legs, but my shoulders were cold as I stared at the bright slices of potato and the cooling soup with its pure broth and moist, white fragments of fish floating among scraps of delicate cilantro. I thought I might really and truly start crying when my stomach rumbled.

“But after all,” said the man abruptly, as if his chain had finally snapped, “I’ll just go to the workshop and make sure.” He rose and left.

Without looking away from the window, my husband hooked the bell and rang it.

The young man who had maneuvered the chairs entered the chamber, quite flushed, and touched the fingers of his right hand to his heart. “Magister?”

His voice softened slightly. “Serve the soup and potatoes to the maestra, if you please.”

“Yes, Magister.” The attendant looked relieved.

So I supped on potatoes and on soup, which even lukewarm was spectacular, subtle and smooth and perfectly seasoned, although my husband did not deign to touch it. Afterward, the woman returned wearing a mulish expression and carrying a tray with six bottles, eight varieties of cheese, and fruit. He sampled the wines—pouring a few drops into the offering cup before each tasting—and the cheeses and rejected them all, while finally accepting a single apple, sliced at the table and shared between us, and one precious hothouse mango, prepared likewise.

Yet when he rose, thereby announcing that our supper was complete, I was still famished.

“If you’ll show me to the workshop,” he said to the woman.

“Of course, Magister.”

They left the dining chamber as if they had forgotten I existed. I sat there too tired to rage, and just as I had begun to contemplate actually stealing the bits of food placed as an offering on the platter next to the stone, the girl appeared to save me from an act so disrespectful I was ashamed even to have thought of it. She escorted me through my parlor and into the sleeping chamber, where she helped me out of my celadon supper dress and into my nightdress.