Clariel: The Lost Abhorsen (The Abhorsen Trilogy Book 4) (26 page)

“I will,” said Clariel. “That I will certainly do. But I will not stay here. No matter what you think.”

The Abhorsen sighed.

“You will. You might even thank me in time.”

He took a step toward the gate then paused, looked at the silver bottle under his arm, and handed it to the sending.

“Take this to the usual place.”

The sending took it, with a curious meshing of the Charter marks that limned and defined its fingers with those wreathing the bottle. Tyriel looked at Clariel again, gave her a glance she couldn’t decipher, and went out. The sending closed the gate after Tyriel, before striding off quickly toward the house, carrying the bottle at arm’s length.

“Where do I go?” called out Clariel. She tried to lift the bar on the gate, as a test. It was stuck fast, so immobile it might as well all be one piece that never moved, even though Clariel had seen it open easily enough a few moments before.

Another sending appeared at her elbow, coalescing out of the path of rosy, faded bricks. This one had the appearance of a cowled figure, only its hands and a shadowed face visible under a dark robe. It appeared human save to close inspection, when the Charter marks that made up its strange skin and even its clothes could be seen.

The sending beckoned, and started toward the blue-painted door of the main house. Clariel looked at the gate and the sky above, then followed wearily.

The house did look comfortable, Clariel thought as she went in. Charter marks for light sparkled in the ceilings, brightening as the day grew dim outside. The sending took her through a hall and up a central stair, and then to a large bedroom that had windows that looked out over the curtain wall to the river. The walls were of painted plaster, in light blue with silver details. There was a fireplace, with no fire set, but it would not be needed for some weeks yet. The large bed had four posts, each beautifully carved with the key motif of the Abhorsens; with a fat feather mattress, as evidenced by a half-escaped goosefeather at the foot. There was a silver washstand in the corner, with a large porcelain basin under two bronze tubes with screw-wheels, which Clariel recognized as one of the relatively new-fangled arrangements for supplying hot water. She was surprised to see this because the Abhorsen’s House was otherwise clearly very old.

The sending indicated the basin. Clariel shook her head. She’d just had a bath and had not gotten very dirty or sweaty on the short ride over. The sending gestured again.

“No, thank you,” said Clariel. “I’m going to have a look around.”

She turned about and went out the door. The sending scurried after her, carefully shutting the door.

The sending stayed at her heels for the next two hours. Clariel found the main hall first, with its floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows showing shifting scenes of the Wall being built. She watched this for some time, trying to catch the movement in the scenes, but it never happened in the actual pane she was focused on. Needless to say, on close inspection the windows weren’t really glass, stained or otherwise, but very complex Charter Magic spells. It was also hard to remember exactly what she’d seen, save the Wall itself.

The hall had a table almost as long as the room, groaning under the weight of silver and gold salt cellars, dishes, jugs, plates, platters, decanters, and other objects. Some of it looked like Dropstone work as far as Clariel could tell, which reminded her of Jaciel and made tears come to her eyes, as well as wonder why her mother had never spoken of the Abhorsen’s House. If she had known this was all here she would have set up a forge out on the lawn and never left. But even growing up at Hillfair, she must not have come to the older house. It was as Bel had said. The Abhorsens had abandoned their responsibilities, and with them, this house.

After the hall, Clariel prowled through the kitchen, where a great many sendings all came to attention, stopping in the middle of cooking a dinner for at least a dozen people, which made Clariel worried there would be company after all. Feeling very much in the way, she quickly glanced in the buttery and larder and hurried out again.

She went to the tower next. The ground floor was a library, with floor-to-ceiling shelves all the way around, a table, and what looked to be a very comfortable padded armchair for settling down to serious reading. A cowled sending came out of one of the bookshelves as Clariel entered, bowed low, and gestured at the books all around.

“Um, do you have a copy of
The Fury Within
?” asked Clariel. She wondered what had happened to the copy Gullaine had given her, left somewhere in the Belisaere house. Doubtless it would have been seized by Kilp’s people, with all her other things, her mother’s gold and silver works, the strongbox with the family gold, the paper records . . .

All gone now. Gone forever.

“I forget the subtitle . . .”

The librarian sending bowed, whisked across the room, and shinnied up the bookshelves almost to the ceiling, more like an insect than a person. It didn’t seem to have any feet under its robe. As with the other sendings only its hands were fully visible, and its shadowed face when seen from directly in front. It took a book from the shelf and came back down again.

It was a slightly different edition of
The Fury Within: A Study of the Berserk Rage and Related Matters
. This book was larger and printed on thicker paper with slightly bigger type. Clariel took the volume and she and the sending bowed to each other as she backed out. As she did so, something made a hissing noise behind and below her, the unexpected sound startling Clariel so much she dropped the book, whirled around, and reached for her knife.

A small white cat was sitting in the doorway, twitching his tail, his bright green eyes fixed on Clariel with an unnerving directness. There was a red collar around his neck that gleamed with Charter marks, and a tiny bell that Clariel knew instinctively she never wanted to hear ring.

“And who might you be?” asked the cat.

Chapter Twenty-Four

A MOST KNOWLEDGEABLE CAT

I
think you should be answering that question,” said Clariel, edging back into the library. She glanced at the librarian, but it did not appear perturbed by this cat-thing, which was clearly not a cat at all. It had to be a Free Magic creature, though the Charter Magic collar was curious . . .

“Let’s see,” said the cat. “You’re neither the Abhorsen nor the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, not least because they never set foot inside this house if they can help it, but also because you’re too young. You remind me a little of . . . Teriel . . . but you can’t be his sister, also because you’re too young. Did Teriel have a child before—”

“I meant who are
you
!” interrupted Clariel.

The cat drew himself up and puffed out his chest.

“What do you mean? I am Mogget, of course. The one and only Mogget. Though I have had other names.”

“What are you?” asked Clariel. “Why don’t the sendings . . . do something about you?”

“Why would they?” asked the cat, with a yawn. “I am as much a slave as they are; we are old companions. Only I wasn’t made by an Abhorsen, just forced into slavery by one, with a bit of help. It’s an ancient tale and new ones are so much more interesting. Like your story. Tell me who you are.”

“I am Clariel. Jaciel’s daughter. The Abhorsen’s granddaughter.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” said Mogget. “It is awfully dull here, and my collar itches me so. Perhaps you would be kind enough to take it off for a few minutes?”

“I don’t think so,” said Clariel slowly. The Charter marks on the collar were fading now, sinking back into the red leather, but she thought she had recognized at least one Master mark of binding. The mere fact she couldn’t recognize any of the others indicated their power. What’s more, the bell was obviously a small version of one of the Abhorsen’s necromantic bells. “Why do you say you are a slave?”

“Bound by magic to serve the Abhorsen till the sun grows cold and dies?” asked Mogget sourly. “What else would you call it? If you won’t loosen my collar, can you at least fish?”

“What do you do for the Abhorsen?” asked Clariel.

“I asked you first,” said Mogget. “Can you fish?”

“Yes,” replied Clariel. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I like fish, fresh-caught,” said Mogget. “The sendings rarely give me any. I thought you might—”

“What do you do for the Abhorsen?” repeated Clariel.

“Nothing for the last sixty years or more,” said Mogget. “Tyriel, like his predecessor, hardly ever comes here. Spends all his time riding around that ridiculous Hillfair like an idiot, wreaking havoc on the deer. I haven’t even been taken outside since Feriniel was the Abhorsen, and she was . . . let’s see . . . Tyriel’s great-great-uncle’s daughter . . .”

“What
did
you do back then?”

“Oh, the usual,” said Mogget slyly, his emerald eyes narrowing. “Sage advice, the wisdom of the ages, that sort of thing. Not that many of them listened. What are you doing here?”

“Being imprisoned,” said Clariel shortly. “Temporarily, if I have anything to do with it.”

“Tell me more,” said Mogget encouragingly. He tilted his head in interest, and Clariel had to stop herself from instinctively reaching down to scratch under his chin. As she half extended and then pulled back her hand, Mogget stood up on his hind paws, pink nose sniffing.

“Interesting . . .” he said.

“What?” asked Clariel.

“Oh, the scent of the outside world,” said Mogget. “So you’re a prisoner?”

“For my own protection, or so I am told,” said Clariel. She bent down to pick up the dropped book, keeping a careful eye on Mogget. She was trying to remember where she’d heard the name before, or some part of it . . . and then it came to her. Bel, talking about books in the Abhorsen’s House, and someone called “Mog,” his voice trailing off with the name incomplete . . .

“Do you know Belatiel?”

“Ah, the delightfully enthusiastic Bel,” said Mogget. He was looking at the book, whiskers twitching. “So keen, so unencumbered by experience. Yes. He is one of the few members of the extended family who come here, and even then I think he has to sneak away to do it. You are . . . familiar with Bel?”

“He’s a friend of mine, if that’s what you mean,” said Clariel. “From Belisaere.”

“So Belatiel has been in Belisaere,” said the cat. “How appropriate. It has been long since I visited the city. Long indeed. So you come from Belisaere.”

“Only most immediately, before that I was . . .” said Clariel. Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. “Why am I telling you anything? I can see you’re a Free Magic creature.”

“But not the first you’ve met,” said Mogget slyly. “Or held, by the faint trace I discern upon your hands. But have no fear! You’ve seen my collar, proving my . . .
utter
faithfulness to the Charter that binds me. I am but a slave of the Abhorsen, currently your grand-father, and thus by extension of you. You have but to command me and I will obey.”

“You will?”

“Possibly,” answered Mogget, yawning to show his very sharp white teeth. “It all depends. I do have to obey the Abhorsen and the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, but as neither has given me any orders for such a long time I fear I am out of practice. You could ask me nicely. Promise me a fish.”

“You can show me the rest of the house to begin with,” said Clariel. “Please.”

“If we converse along the way,” said Mogget. “That would be acceptable.”

He sidled out of the library, tail high.

“I suppose we could,” said Clariel cautiously.

As they wandered upstairs she found herself telling Mogget about her life in Estwael, the move to Belisaere, and the events of the last week. But she gave a highly abridged version of her encounter with Aziminil, very light on details, specifically not mentioning her mental conversation with it or how she had let it go.

“I know of Kargrin,” said Mogget, as Clariel looked in the armory on the second floor. It was very well-stocked, and perfectly clean, but it had an air of disuse. Everything was just too perfectly put away. As with elsewhere in the House, a sending appeared as soon as Clariel entered, this one gesturing at the racks of swords and the stands of bows and spears with what might almost be construed as a beseeching gesture. Clariel shook her head, though she took note of several weapons of interest. If there was any chance of getting away, she would need to be better equipped. There were complete arrays of armor there too, on stands, including a short shirt of gethre plates that looked like it would fit her.

“What was that about Kargrin?” she asked Mogget as they left. She hadn’t been paying attention and he’d said something else about the magister.

“His teacher’s the one to watch for,” repeated Mogget. “The old witch.”

Clariel stopped. “Who?”

“Ader, she calls herself, or did,” said Mogget. “But she was Maderael when she was the Abhorsen.”

“What!”

“When she was the Abhorsen,” said Mogget innocently.

“But . . . she’s still alive,” said Clariel. “I thought you only got a new Abhorsen when the old one died . . .”

“Ah, the lack of education among you young ones,” sighed Mogget. “Abhorsens can abdicate their authority. The trick is fooling . . . convincing someone else to take over.”

“You mean she was the Abhorsen before Tyriel?”

Mogget shook his head and gave out a rather alarming caterwaul-like chuckle.

“Oh, no, she was one back again, the Abhorsen before Kariniel, almost a hundred years ago.”

Clariel shook her head. “She can’t be that old.”

“Can’t she?” asked Mogget. “Charter Magic can do many things. She was very young when she took the bells, and very young when she gave them back again.”

“Why?”

Mogget looked away from her and batted at the air with his paw, as if an errant fly was passing.

“How would I know? I’m just a slave, remember?”

“Look, I don’t even want to know this!” protested Clariel. “I don’t care who’s the Abhorsen now or then or whenever! I just want to go and live my life in the Great Forest and be left alone!”

“Well why don’t you?” asked Mogget reasonably.

“I just told you,” said Clariel crossly. “Governor Kilp wants me to be a puppet Queen. Gullaine wants me to be some kind of Regent. The Abhorsen wants to keep me out of the way while he dithers about not actually doing something about anything. And I’m a prisoner here!”

Mogget’s ears went up, expressing an opinion Clariel interpreted as mild contempt, and padded out of the room. Clariel followed him, treading heavily, and wondered why she’d bothered to tell the creature anything. But he had made her think.

I won’t accept my imprisonment here, Clariel thought. I would have escaped the bottle cell in Belisaere even without Kargrin’s help, and that really was a prison. Surely I can get out of here as well. And once out, then I can decide what to do myself. Whatever I want to do. Whatever I think must be done.

From the open doorway of the room opposite, evidently another armory or a store of some kind, Mogget gestured with one paw. Clariel frowned, but bent down on one knee. Mogget gestured again, so she leaned forward, close enough for the cat to butt his head against her chin.

“You’re thinking of escaping, aren’t you?” whispered Mogget.

“No . . .” said Clariel unconvincingly.

“Yes you are,” said Mogget.

“If I was I wouldn’t tell you!”

“But you should,” purred Mogget. “I’m the only one here who might be able to help you.”

“Why would you do that?” Clariel whispered back. “Besides, aren’t you a slave who has to do what he’s told? The Abhorsen told the sending to tell everyone not to let me out.”

“I don’t take orders from the sendings, and the Abhorsen said nothing to me,” said Mogget, very quietly. “In fact, no Abhorsen has told me to do anything for a long time, the consequence being that I have . . . ahem . . . managed to get out of the habit of obeying some of the more general commands of yesteryear.”

“What do you get out of it?” asked Clariel again, who had dealt with many tricky merchants over the years in her father’s counting house. She had never known someone to offer something for nothing, even if it was something intangible or some future favor that was being stored up just in case and might never be used.

“Amusement,” breathed Mogget, his eyes wicked. “I told you it was dull here. Maybe more than that.”

Clariel stood up abruptly. Her heel-following sending had drifted closer, she saw, as if it had wanted to hear what Mogget said, and some others had literally come out of the woodwork. One of them was the guard sending from the gate, she noticed, unless there was another one exactly the same with a two-handed sword.

“I’ll think about it,” she said to Mogget. “What’s upstairs?”

“Music room, practice room, Abhorsen’s bedroom, and in the tower the upper reading room, study, and observatory,” rattled off Mogget. “Roof gardens on either side of the tower. Downstairs is much more interesting. The lower levels. What?”

The last word was addressed to the guard sending with the two-handed sword, who had silently moved closer to the cat and was looking down at him, his face stern.

“Go on then,” said Mogget to the guard sending. “Report me. But who to, that’s the question, isn’t it?”

“Report what?” asked Clariel suspiciously.

“Nothing,” said Mogget. “Like I said. You going up?”

Mogget was silent as they took the stairs to the third floor, the two-handed sword sending now accompanying them along with the cowled attendant. Clariel barely glanced in on the third-floor rooms. The music room had a clavichord, zithern, and other instruments; the Abhorsen’s bedroom was much fancier than Clariel’s; and the bare chamber for weapons practice was only made distinctive by virtue of its floor being three inches deep in pure white sand that was so clean it squeaked when Clariel stood on it.

The tower room on this level was again completely lined with books, but there was also a narrow stair cutting through the shelves, going up higher. Clariel looked up and was about to ascend when she heard the sharp note of a gong being struck below. Mogget immediately whipped around and lit out for the main stairs, crying out, “Dinner!”

“What’s up there?” Clariel asked her attendant sending. It bowed, then bent to imitate sitting down, and made scribbling motions with its hand across an imaginary page.

“An office . . . a study?”

The sending bowed, straightened up, and gestured urgently toward the main stairs as the gong rang again.

“I’m expected for dinner?” asked Clariel. The sending bowed and gestured again. Though there was no indication it would try to force her to go downstairs, Clariel still felt it was like a prison warder laying down the law. It was dinnertime, and she must follow the routine of her prison.

A comfortable, perhaps even fascinating prison, but a prison nonetheless.

For now, thought Clariel, and went down to dinner.

She was rather surprised to see that Mogget was seated with her at the table in the hall, the cat-creature sitting on a stool opposite her own place, a quarter of the way down from the thronelike chair at the head of the table, in what appeared to be a measure of Clariel’s standing in the family. Not one of the titled Abhorsens, but a close connection.