When Clariel joined her father at the head table for dinner, above the mass of apprentices and servants on the longer table below, he didn’t mention the attack on her. She chose not to bring it up for the time being, because she didn’t know what was behind it, or the complications it might lead to, when she wanted to keep everything as simple as possible before she could escape the city. Jaciel, as was not unusual, was absent from dinner, no doubt working on something she did not want to leave.
In any case, there wasn’t much opportunity to talk, with the apprentices becoming rowdy and needing quelling, and Harven’s very vocal dissatisfaction with some of the courses, most notably the grilled eels that were served poking out of a giant pastry shaped as sea coral. Everyone else ate them with relish, while Harven summoned the cook to complain about the spices used, or not used. Clariel didn’t bother to listen, and ate steadily, her thoughts far away as usual, imagining a life in the Forest.
After dinner, Clariel went to the roof garden, to watch the sun set and get away from the organisation of her new wardrobe, which Valannie had entered into with considerable fervour. It had taken all afternoon to buy a vast array of cloth, get tediously measured numerous times, and order what seemed like dozens of items of clothing, in addition to picking up ready-made clothes that Valannie thought would just serve until the new clothes could be made. It all cost a huge amount, more than forty gold bezants, a sum Clariel thought she could have lived on for a year or more in the Forest and so in her opinion was a ghastly waste of money.
‘Milady.’
The whisper came from the top of the stairs. Clariel turned quickly, ready to draw her knife. But it was Roban. He was obviously ill at ease and would not climb the last few steps to the roof garden. He remained in shadow, only his face illuminated by the light from the ancient Charter-spelled lantern of filigreed silver that hung on a tall pole at the stairhead.
‘Only got a minute,’ he said. ‘Watch change in a moment, I’ll be off home. And I can’t tell you much, milady. It’s all politics and plots, beyond my ken. All I know is I was ordered to take part in the mummery with Aronzo –’
‘Aronzo? Is that the name of the young man who attacked me?’
‘Yes, and on no account to hurt him, not that I needed to be told twice, him being Guildmaster Kilp’s son –’
‘His son!’
‘The older one. The younger brother’s an ox, good-natured and not like his father, whereas Aronzo is too much like – fair-looking he is, but as cold and vicious as an eel, and as quick to strike.’
‘I don’t understand this at all,’ protested Clariel. She frowned. As far as she could tell, Roban was speaking truthfully. There was a Charter spell to compel plain-speaking, but she didn’t know it. In fact, she knew very few Charter Magic spells and hadn’t cast even the ones she did know for months. Besides, Roban doubtless would be offended to have his veracity questioned.
‘Kilp has staged similar “attacks” before, making excuses to intervene in the business and territories of other Guilds. I think that’s what it was about … but there might be more …’
He hesitated, and shifted on the step, clearing his throat as if it had suddenly gone dry.
‘What?’
‘I’m only guessing,’ muttered Roban, ‘and smarter folk than I might guess otherwise. But Kilp is Governor because he is Guildmaster of the Goldsmiths, and it is the middle of the Goldsmiths’ turn, with three years to go. But the Goldsmiths have an election coming up this year, and Kilp could be unseated, say by the most famous Goldsmith in the Kingdom. No longer Guildmaster, no longer Governor.’
‘You mean Mother?’ asked Clariel. ‘But she doesn’t give a … a grain of copper … for politics!’
‘Your mother is also the King’s cousin,’ said Roban. ‘In a Kingdom where the King does not care to rule, and none know where his heir has got to, maybe not even the King himself –’
‘Princess Tathiel? I thought she was dead. Years ago.’
‘She may be. Who knows? The King cannot or will not say.’
‘You think Mother wants to be Guildmaster, and Governor, and … and Queen?’
‘I don’t know, milady. But perhaps Kilp thinks she does, and that attack on you was a warning: unless she limits her ambitions, harm will come to those she holds dear.’
‘Holds dear? Me?’ asked Clariel. ‘Mother wouldn’t even notice!’
‘I think you’ll find she would,’ said Roban. ‘Any mother would.’
Not my mother, thought Clariel. She has been lost in her craft my entire life.
‘There is one … other matter … milady,’ said Roban hesitantly. He was watching her carefully now, no longer looking down.
‘Yes?’
‘Begging your pardon, but I’ve seen berserks before, and …’
‘What?’
‘I think you might have the fury, milady. It is oft found in the royal blood, and you’re a cousin …’
‘The fury? Me, a berserk? I’m not old enough to be anything!’
‘Age is of no import,’ said Roban carefully. ‘May I suggest you talk to Gullaine, the Captain of the Guard. The rage can be shepherded, kept in check, and she knows about such things.’
Clariel wrinkled her forehead. ‘I do get angry sometimes, but I’ve never … almost never … completely lost my temper. I’m sure I’m not a berserk.’
‘As you say, milady,’ said Roban. ‘By your leave, I’ll be away to my bed.’
Roban quietly slipped away down the stairs, leaving Clariel to think about many things. She wanted to dismiss the suggestion she was a berserk. They were rare fighters, almost monstrous in their rage, which fuelled them to great feats of arms, shrugging off blows and wounds, exhibiting the strength of several men and the like. And they were always men, as far as she could remember, from the tales she’d heard or read. Clariel had never seen an actual berserk.
But she had experienced a similar feeling of uncontrollable anger years before, when she had been surprised and attacked by a wild sow. It had slashed her leg through her leathers and got her on the ground, which was the worst place to be. Clariel remembered the sudden onset of the fury, starting from a moment of intolerable exasperation at letting herself get in such a predicament. Then the anger blew up like a forest fire. The sow had swung around to come back and attack again, and the next thing Clariel knew she was standing over its dead body, gripping a trotter in each hand, having literally torn it apart. And she’d still been so angry she’d thrown the pieces down, ripped up a sapling and whipped the remains until suddenly coming to her rather appalled senses, followed soon after by a great weakness, not to mention a feeling of revulsion.
So she couldn’t dismiss the notion she was a berserk as easily as she wanted to …
Roban’s other suggestion, that Kilp was sending a warning to thwart her mother’s ambition, was easier to disregard. Clariel very much doubted her mother could have changed so drastically without her noticing. Surely if Jaciel was plotting to become Guildmaster of the Goldsmiths, and Governor, and then Queen, she would have stopped making things, or at least would be less fanatical about her art.
‘I suppose I had better try to talk to Father,’ Cl
ariel whispered to the sky. Unlike in the Great Forest, it was a vast and bare expanse of stars, lacking the comforting shadows cast by the mighty trees. It made her shudder to look upon the cold emptiness above, and shudder again as she dropped her gaze and looked out upon its opposite: the crowded, fettered houses jammed together, mimicking the night sky and its stars with lanterns and Charter lights in a thousand, five thousand, ten thousand windows …
Clariel went down the stairs. Even the cool, dead wood of the stair rail gave some comfort under her hand. It was not a living branch, but it still had some connection with her true home, and it had been cut and shaped by a master. One day, Clariel told herself, she too would fell trees for a house, and take axe, adze, plane and saw to timber, and fashion a dwelling in the greenwood that would enrich her spirit, not leech the life from it, like all the cold, dead stone around her now.
Harven was in his study, his elbows planted amid a pile of papers, his hands close to his face, turning something in his fingers so it caught the light from another ancient Charter light on his desk, this one a cube of translucent stone with the marks set within a central hole inside it, so it gave a softer illumination.
He turned as Clariel entered, smiled and then looked back to the tiny golden object he was studying. His daughter came close, and gazed over his shoulder at the teardrop of gold he held. It was no longer than the nail on his little finger, though a third its width.
‘It is a perfect tear,’ said Harven reverentially. ‘Burnished so cunningly it reflects light from all angles, and appears liquid, for all that it is solid metal. Even as I hold it, I fear it will run between my fingers, and splash away into nothing. And yet your mother made it quickly, and will make dozens more this night, and I … some other master goldsmith could never make such a thing, no matter how long they laboured. She has the skill of the ancients in her hands and eyes, rival even to Dropstone or Kagello the Old –’
‘She is truly gifted,’ interrupted Clariel. ‘Now, Father, I need to talk to you about something important.’