The Witch's Daughter (Lamb & Castle Book 1) (4 page)

Chastised and more than a little nervous, Amelia sat very still, with her hands laid out in front of her on the table. She didn’t think she’d been ‘
gesticulating wildly
’ at all. But then, what did she know?

“Now,” said Meg, “picture a fire. Just a small one, mind. Don’t close your eyes, dear, or you won’t be able to see what you’re doing… And when you’re quite ready, gesture like
so –
” she flicked her fingers out in one very swift and fluid motion, “– in the direction of that candle over there.”

Still fearful and inclined to close her eyes, Amelia squinted at the candle and flicked out her hand. A bright green spark leapt from the tip of her forefinger with a loud snap that hurt and made her squeak in surprise. Meanwhile, the spark shot across the room and hit the wall several feet from the candle. Amelia sat and stared, absently rubbing her sore finger.

Meg pursed her lips. “Hmm. Don’t do that, dear,” she said absently, stilling Amelia’s hands.

“Not at all bad, for a first attempt,” said Percival gallantly.

Meg ignored him, looking over the top of her spectacles at her anxious student. “
Green
fire, Amelia?”

Amelia offered a nervous smile. She’d been thinking of her pet fire sprite, Stupid, whose company she had begun to miss. As far as she’d been able to ascertain, emerald green indicated a cheerful, contented fire sprite.

“Again,” said Meg. “Try for a more conventional colour if you can, but more importantly, try to improve your aim. That poor old gentleman at the next table nearly lost his hat last time.”

Amelia scowled, too busy concentrating to answer back. Having been instructed that Stupid was not a suitable mental image of a small fire, she found it impossible to think of anything else.

By her fifth attempt she managed to hit the target, and Meg nodded in approval, for all that the candle cast a distinctly green light.

Amelia wasn’t enjoying her first magic lesson as much as she’d hoped she would. Most of the tea house’s patrons took little notice of the flashes of green fire emanating from the booth, but a group of young men who’d had a bit too much to drink took it as free entertainment, making bets on what she would hit next, cheering each shot and shouting for more. She felt certain that at least a few others patrons were not so amused, and that it was only a matter of time before the whole lot of them – Amelia, Meg, Percival, rowdy young men and all – were forcibly ejected from the tea house. One well-dressed gentleman in particular stared at Amelia. He had very dark eyes, flat black and dull. She looked away, but at the edges of her vision she glimpsed him pointing her out to his companion – a man who wore an identical shirt and vest and black coat, and an identical face, for that matter. “My fingers are getting sore, Miss… Meg,” Amelia whispered across the table. “Might we continue later, please?”

“I think that’s a good idea, Meg,” Percival put in, his voice low. “Perhaps not for the best to be giving the girl magic lessons in such a public place.”

“Can’t a woman teach her daughter magic if she wants to?” said Meg, loudly. “Magic’s a perfectly respectable occupation, done within the confines of the law.”

“However, there are a couple of fellows over there who look like they might disagree with you,” said Percival.

Meg glanced over her shoulder at the two identical well-dressed gentlemen. “Oh. All right, then,” she said, taking the rings and bracelets and slipping them back onto her own hands. “Well, Amelia. It looks like you have some natural talent for it, at least. There are a couple more simple tasks I want you to try out, but I s’pose it can wait ‘til we have less of an audience.”

Without the rings, Amelia’s hands felt as if they suddenly belonged to her again, light and free. Gratefully, she ate the meal that Meg had bought her. In all the fuss over the clockwork dragonette, she’d quite forgotten about breakfast until hours later, and then been too shy to ask about it. Meanwhile, Meg and Percival debated what to teach her next. Percival’s suggestions of dry theory appealed to Amelia in the wake of her first practical lesson, but fell largely on deaf ears. Only one thing kept Meg from running off at once to fetch her old set of conjuring rings: she had her eye on a slice of carrot cake.

Unable to follow the esoteric subject of the conversation, Amelia’s mind wandered off on another tangent. The thought struck her that while she assumed the gleaming suit of armour was occupied by a man, she’d seen neither hide nor hair of him since he and Meg had arrived at the tower. Her imagination ran riot, fuelled by battlesnails and other fantastic beasts. Why, he could be almost anything underneath all that plate metal. He could be a minotaur, or some other animal-headed being. He could be nothing more than a voice, animating the suit of armour by pure magic. He could be a hideous ogre, or an elf too beautiful to risk mortal women laying eyes on him, for fear of being mobbed. Well, perhaps that last idea was a bit silly, but nonetheless an
interesting
notion…

“Besides, what good is
‘Malthrosia’s Primer on Alchemical Functions’
going to do her when –” Meg stopped and lowered her voice, “when the other side catch up with us?”

“If they catch up with us before long, I doubt practical
or
theoretical lessons will do a whit of good,” said Percival, gloomily. “Don’t you think we should get moving again?”

“In a minute.”

“We really would be safer on the move,” he pressed.

“A life without desserts,” said Meg, “is scarcely a life worth living.”

Percival made a discontented noise. “And Malthrosia wrote on the theory of leyline distribution, not alchemy,” he said, carrot cake very obviously beneath him.

“Oh, Perce… You’re such a terrible know-it-all.”

To Amelia’s relief, the identical well-dressed gentlemen seemed to have returned to their own conversation. There was definitely something odd about them, though. Was it only that they were twins? Amelia had heard of such things, of course, but never seen a set before. Could two people really be
completely
identical? The one on the left leaned with his elbows on the table and kept rubbing his eyes sleepily, to the irritation of his twin, who sat up straighter and looked more proper.

“Don’t do that,” said the twin on the right. While the words reminded Amelia of Meg, the tone had been quite different; emotionless.

“My eyes itch,” said the left-hand twin.

“They’re dry. Drink your tea.”

The left-hand twin sipped his drink obediently, and Amelia felt a pang of loneliness. Odd though they might be, they made her think how nice it would have been to have someone familiar accompanying her on this strange journey, giving her courage.

“If I were a lizard, I could lick my own eyes,” mused the left-hand twin.

His brother considered this. “Perhaps something to that effect can be arranged upon our return. In the meantime, allow me to lick your eyes.” And, leaning swiftly across the table, he did so.

Amelia nearly gagged, but nobody else seemed to have noticed, the act had been carried out so quickly and in such a natural manner.

The left-hand twin blinked owlishly. “Thank you, that appears to have improved the situation somewhat.”

“You’re welcome. It seems likely that your script has been damaged,” said the right-hand twin. Then, with a hint of worry to his flat tone, he added “do not inform Commander Breaker.”

Script?
What did he mean by that? But even as Amelia pondered the peculiar exchange, she realised that she had eavesdropped too long; intruded on a moment of peculiar intimacy. The two identical gentlemen had taken notice of her again, their four black eyes narrowed into two identical expressions of suspicion and dislike.

Amelia looked away again hastily. Clearing her throat, she leaned close to Meg. “Who, exactly, are the other side?” she whispered.

“Bad people, dear,” said Meg. Not deliberately patronising, Amelia thought – simply much more interested in her cake. “They want to stop us getting to where we’ve got to go.”

The back of Amelia’s neck prickled. “When you said they wanted me out of the way
permanently
, did you mean…”

“Since I don’t know who they are yet, I can’t say exactly what they’ll do if they catch us. Perce is right though – best not talk about it right now. How’s your sticky bun, dear?”

“Lovely,” said Amelia, feeling faint again. She’d always thought it romantic when girls in books fainted, and had been disappointed to find that she herself was not prone to swooning. Now, however, she began to see the benefit in being more robust than all that. Amelia wished Meg didn’t have her back to the strange gentlemen, but didn’t want to point them out to her again and risk… whatever consequences might result.

Mercifully, Percival caught on. Behind the gleaming visor no-one would have seen him looking at the two well-dressed strangers. “I think Amelia might be on to something, Meg,” he said quietly. “Something distinctly off about those two fellows over by the hearth.”

Meg nodded, as if he had only remarked that it looked like rain. “All right. We’ll be off in a minute, but let’s not be too hasty about it.” She leaned across the table to pinch the last piece of Amelia’s sticky bun. “Oh, that
is
lovely, isn’t it? Well I can’t make do with just one piece – I’ll have to have one to myself. How about you, dear?”

Amelia shook her head mutely, her stomach churning. The right-hand gentleman tapped his twin on the hand, giving him a meaningful look. The staring stopped then, at least.

“What’s that dear?” Meg asked. “Again? You really shouldn’t have had all that tea this morning! Dandelion will do that to you. Come along then…” and she hurried the sheepish and blushing Amelia out of the booth and towards the lavatory.

“But what about Percival?” Amelia asked, as Meg shepherded her past the lavatory and out round the back of the tea house, but he wasn’t far behind them.

“Your concern for me is appreciated, but unwarranted in this instance. Meg, have you had any thoughts about alternative means of transportation?” Percival asked, as they walked away from the tea house.

“Mimi and Tallulah have got us this far,” said Meg. “And besides, you know the rules.”

“I didn’t like the look of those two…”

“I’m not running from everyone who looks the slightest bit suspicious,” said Meg. “If I did, I’d never stop. If it was them, they had their chance to attack, and they didn’t. But if it puts your mind at ease, there’s not much chance of them following us on from here.”

Amelia looked at the signpost, and the five roads leading away from the tea house. Lannersmeet would be a good place to lose anybody who had been following them, if only the snailcastletank weren’t so slow and obvious…

Everyone knew the story of the Flying City that fell to earth. Hundreds of years later, the wreckage of it could be seen from miles around, in the wastelands to the south. It completely obliterated the town below, its ruins becoming the headstones of ten thousand graves, and nobody on the ground below would ever trust the Flying Cities again.

Not all of the Flying Cities gone from the skies had met such violent ends. Although more than half of the original Flying Cities had been destroyed over the millennia, some had been known to simply vanish. In modern times, Iletia was one of the few Flying Cities that lived on, home to a thriving community of mages, artisans and merchants. It was also home to the Antwin Academy, a preparatory school for young ladies wishing to pursue a career in politics, law or espionage. Constructed from a butter-coloured stone that almost glowed in the sunlight, the school was an outstanding example of Flying City architecture, if in need of some repair. Like many City institutions, it had seen better days, but the standards to which it held its students remained as high as ever. To wear its stiffly starched grey uniform was to command more respect than most young girls even dreamed of. Sometimes people commented that the quality of the students had declined over the years, and that the Academy readily accepted girls of common blood so long as their families could pay the steep fees somehow, but the Antwin Academy generally held such snide remarks below contempt.

The gates of the Academy swung open soundlessly in the twilight, and a girl stepped out into the fresh breeze that stirred the summer sky. Whereas the ideal Antwin girl should be tall, pale and elegant, Elizabeth Castle was short, skinny and dark. The topaz pin on the high collar of her grey blazer marked her as a second year. That made her thirteen years old, and judging by the way she held her head high, well aware of the part she would one day play in shaping the world around her. Nonetheless, she still had five years of hard study ahead of her before graduation.

The curfew bell for the younger girls had already rung, and it was strange to see anybody leave the Academy’s main gates so late, but a Master accompanied the second year. Any citizen of Iletia would recognise his heavily scarred face and his stiff straight posture, and he always had his sword at his side. Master Greyfell – a close personal friend of the Headmistress and her husband – taught history, elementary potions and modern warfare at the Academy. As Master and student left the Academy, the streetlamps were just coming alive, moths swooping in the velvet blue grey of the sky. On foot, it took a little less than half an hour to cross from one side of Iletia to the other at its broadest point. In that half an hour, the character of the City varied wildly: from the grandeur of the town hall and fine tall terraced houses overlooking the central Keystone Square, to the temples and market streets, to the outskirts of the City, where cramped dwellings piled in every which way and everybody lived on top of everybody else. The confines of the Walls barely gave Iletia room to breathe, let alone grow, and yet the poorer Iletians had continued to build, right into the inner sides of the walls, crude little houses precarious and fragile as birds’ nests. The girl passed them by without a glance, deliberately disregarding the expression of disdain which briefly passed across the Master’s face. Her family still lived in some of those audacious nests.

The sound of the docks grew closer – the shouts and thumps, the laughter of the drunks – and the two emerged into the light of bright gas lamps. A number of skyships bobbed gently in the air currents, and the sky above the dock platform bristled with a forest of masts and flagpoles, tiny courier dragonettes swooping and darting like swallows amongst them. The dragonettes flashed as their glistening scales caught the lamplight, their antics distracting as they whistled and chirped overhead.

Master Greyfell turned to address his young charge. “Now, Elizabeth –”

“We’re not in the schoolroom any more, Greyfell,” she said. “You can call me Bessie.”

“I don’t think that’s appropriate at all, Miss Castle. And besides, I think you’ll find my duties have changed very little. You still have a great deal to learn.”

Miss Castle sighed. “When I’m queen, I’m going to insist that everyone call me Bessie.”

“Black Queen Bessie. Well. That will certainly lend an air of poetry to the history books. And as I said: you have a very long road ahead of you yet.”

Just for a moment, the girl looked uncertain. “If only they could have waited a few years…” she murmured.

“
‘If only’
, indeed,” said Greyfell, without much apparent sympathy. “But the White Queen is on the move, and we must act now or lose everything.”

“Yes, but…”

“But nothing, Elizabeth. The enemy is not obliged to make this easy for you. Rest assured I will do what I can to continue your tuition, albeit in a somewhat unorthodox manner.” This was an almost unprecedented display of kindness from Master Greyfell, and after it he cleared his throat uncomfortably and swiftly struck off towards a nearby skyship. Bessie hurried after.

The skyship was of middle size: large enough to be robust even in rough skies, but not so large that she would be slow and cumbersome. Her lines were sleek and sure, and her furled sails a brilliant yellow, impossible to miss at any distance. Bessie felt sure that Greyfell couldn’t have overlooked this fact, and chose not to question him on it. The name on the skyship’s side had been painted in bold, sweeping letters, which Bessie recognised instantly as the language of the Argeans, the race who built all the best and fastest skyships.

“
Sharvesh
,” she said, quietly and to herself. Like most educated people, she could read a little Argean. The Argeans’ magnificent skyships had opened up the whole world for them to trade in, and a lot of people could converse in the language, no matter how awkwardly. “But what does it mean?”

“
Sharvesh
?” said Greyfell. “I haven’t the faintest clue. I’d hazard a guess that it’s a given name.”

“So… the captain will be an Argean, then?” Bessie asked carefully, noting Greyfell’s slight expression of distaste – all the answer she needed.

“We’ve no need for an Argean skysailor,” he said. “I know my way well enough around a skyship.”

They caught the captain’s attention as he lounged on the upper deck, watching the clouds drift across the darkening sky, and he let down a ramp, welcoming them aboard.

Bessie Castle was not the kind to have irrational fears: not the type of girl to shriek at the sight of a spider or a snake. No, Bessie Castle only permitted herself purely rational fears (assassins, border disputes, etc…). Having grown up in a flying city five thousand feet above the ground, she
certainly
couldn’t be afraid of heights… Nevertheless, as she ascended the narrow ramp up onto the skyship, she was exceptionally careful to look straight ahead. She would not allow herself to look down, to where the manor houses and grand halls of the town of Evensbridge lay like toy building blocks scattered on a counterpane.

~

The Argean captain, who introduced himself cordially as Bryn, invited them to inspect the skyship at length. Bessie left that to Greyfell, while she discreetly observed the Argean. Bryn was as tall as a man, but appeared more closely related to a cat. His stance was two-footed, but balanced by a long prehensile tail. He was covered head to toe with tawny fur, his eyes were bright gold, and the delicate membranes of his huge sail-like ears flickered with every sound, constantly on the move in the busy dock. From an appropriate distance, Greyfell took the opportunity to give his student an impromptu lesson on the Argean race, from the perspective of an Antwin Academy Master.

“Observe his enviable sense of balance,” said Greyfell quietly. Bryn was crouched on the railings, careless of the great height of City and skyship over the land. “See the way his tail provides an extra measure of grip and support? Argeans are deeply dependent on their tails for their sense of balance. Cut off an Argean’s tail in combat and he’s all but immobilised.”

Bryn’s enormous sail-like ears flicked back. Even some distance away, he could clearly hear Greyfell’s commentary. “Excuse me?” said the subject of the lesson, nervously.

“Ah, yes,” said Greyfell to Bessie. “And of course, the Argean’s ears may also be considered a strength and a weakness. Very sensitive.”

“Excuse me,” said Bryn again. His ears had folded right back and his golden eyes gone as round as saucers. “What are you talking about?” He might not be human, but Bessie recognised the tension of his posture, his muscles tightly bunched and ready for fight or flight. She didn’t need Greyfell to point out the claws and fangs that would make an Argean a deadly opponent in unarmed combat.

“May I apologise on behalf of my escort, Captain,” she said, with a polite smile. “He means no offence.”

“I’m just a skysailor, Miss,” said Bryn. “I’m not looking for any trouble.”

“Neither are we. If you’d come down from there, we’d like to draw up a contract now.”

“Not yet,” Greyfell interrupted. “We haven’t seen the ship’s soulchamber yet.”

Bryn descended warily to join them on the deck. “
Sharvesh
has no soulchamber,” he said.

“Don’t be preposterous,” said Greyfell.

The tip of the captain’s fluffy tail twitched back and forth. “I am telling you truthfully Sir: no soulchamber.
Sharvesh
is… different.
Special
,” he amended. “Very, very special.”

Greyfell narrowed his eyes, viewing the Argean with even greater suspicion than before. “Do you expect me to believe that this ship has no soul?”

Bryn beamed; an enormous white-fanged grin. “Sir. My lady. Step back, and allow me to demonstrate.”