Cold Fire (18 page)

First she prayed to Trader and Bookkeeper, then to the spirits of her family, lighting incense so they would know she still remembered them. Among Traders, to be forgotten was the one final death: memory lasted when the flesh was gone. Daja would make sure that her children, if she had any, would say the prayers for each member of Fifth Ship Kisubo.

She worked on tiny hinges through midday as the tray of food brought by a maid went cold. Finally she stopped: her last hinge was gone. She would have to go back to Teraud’s for a day or two, and trade work for iron forge time. It was time to rest: her back and neck were one solid ache. Her eyes twitched madly when she closed them, a sign that she had been doing too much close work. Time to practice skating.

Daja put on layers of clothes. She didn’t try to warm herself: they were good clothes, and after two days of the sharp control and release of her magic, her head spun. She needed to rest her power.

She took the servants’ stair down the back of the main house. She could smell supper, all dishes that could be set in covered pots and left to cook through the day. The servants’ area was forlorn without the constant clatter, arguments, thumps, and scrapes of a large household. That was Watersday: upperclass servants had almost a full day to visit and to shop, while the handful that stayed received an extra silver argib and another weekday off to balance the scales.

Hearing the soft murmur of voices in the kitchen, Daja stopped to look in. Nia and Morrachane Ladradun sat at a worktable, glasses of tea and a plate of cakes before them, looking through a book that appeared to be sheets of cloth backed in parchment.

“Oh, I like that one,” Nia said, pointing. “Look, you can see vines in it.”

“That’s called Maiden Blessing,” Morrachane replied softly. She stroked Nia’s hair gently with one knobby hand. “I taught Kofrinna how to make it. She wore an entire veil of that when she married Ben. She was such an adorable girl. I miss her and the children every day.”

Daja tried to move on: it was not comfortable to watch Morrachane in a tender mode. Nia saw her at just that moment. “Daja, come see these lace patterns,” she called. “Aunt Morrachane brought them for Jory and me. They’re so pretty, and some of them are really old.”

Daja couldn’t refuse without seeming churlish. She glued a smile onto her mouth and sat on the bench opposite Nia and Morrachane. “Ravvi Ladradun,” she said with a polite nod.

“Daja,” replied Morrachane. “Have you been at some work of magic?”

“Tinkering,” Daja said, not wanting to discuss her labors with this woman. Once she had made the mistake of biting a sheet of gold foil. Morrachane had the same effect on her. “Is this the lace pattern book you told me about?”

“This one’s Maiden Blessing,” Nia said, turning the book so Daja could see that the cloth pages anchored samples of lacework, while faded writing on the paper pages described how to make the particular pattern. “This one’s Herb Garden, and here’s the King’s Treasure.”

To Daja they looked similar, but she nodded gravely, as if she understood the niceties. Sandry would have been able to identify each piece separately, she knew. “The book seems old,” she commented as Nia turned other pages.

“It was in my husband’s family for ten generations,” Morrachane said with pride. “Our families come from the old empire, the western side. Books of lace patterns are passed from the bride of each son to the brides of their oldest sons. This was to go to Kofrinna, until the tragedy.” She stroked a piece of lace with fingers that trembled. “I’ll have to ship it to one of the other boys’ wives before I die. It is hard to think of it going to someone I do not even know.”

“Please don’t be sad, Aunt Morrachane,” begged Nia. “Why don’t you visit your sons this summer? You could meet your grandchildren.”

Morrachane shook her head. “I could not leave the business for so long.”

“But Ben’s here,” Nia pointed out. “And even if you don’t visit them, he can still marry again. He’s not that old.”

Morrachane smiled and cupped Nia’s cheek in one hand. “You are a good girl, Niamara Bancanor, and you know your family duty. Vrohain knows I have presented that son of mine with perfectly eligible females, but will he do as he ought?” She folded her lips, her pale-green eyes flashing. “I don’t understand how I could have failed with him, but I did.”

Daja clenched her hands under the table. She was determined not to say that it was hardly a surprise if Ben didn’t follow his mother’s wishes, not when Morrachane had yet to speak well of him. “I imagine he’ll remarry when he gets to it,” she said when she got her temper under control. “He seems rather busy keeping the city from burning up.”

“That is his excuse,” Morrachane said. “He has a gift for making others think well of him. The truth is that he would rather idle with the city’s riffraff than serve his family.” She looked at Nia, who read the old-style writing on one page, her lips moving silently. Her face, as hard as iron when she discussed her son, relaxed. “Would you like me to have copies of this made for you and Jory?” she asked Nia. “It’s no trouble, and I’d like you to have them. Though chances are your hands will be so rough from hammering and sawing that you won’t be able to make lace!”

Nia smiled; Daja bristled at the hint of criticism. “I’ll just do like Mama does, to keep her work neat,” Nia assured the old woman. “I’ll make a pair of thin linen gloves.”

“Now there’s an idea,” Morrachane said with approval. “Your mother does have lovely hands.”

“She puts lotion on them and wears the gloves to keep the lotion on her skin longer,” explained Nia. “I’ve been thinking about trying that anyway. And then I could make lace without damaging the threads.”

“So clever!” Morrachane said with approval. She hugged Nia gently around the shoulders. “I’m glad to see that banging away with rough tools hasn’t made you forget womanly interests.”

“Oh, look at this one!” Nia said, her eyes wide. “Aunt Morrachane, what is this?” She traced a pattern in old lace, her finger not quite touching it.

So her rough mage’s fingers didn’t touch Morrachane’s precious legacy, thought Daja, cross.

“Well, those are flames or waves, depending on how you look at them,” Morrachane answered Nia. “My mother-in-law thought they were supposed to show both sides of womanhood, passion and the ability to flow around obstacles.”

Daja had heard enough-did the woman do anything but carp? She got to her feet. “I hope you’ll forgive me,” she told Morrachane. “There isn’t much light, and I need to practice my skating.”

Morrachane nodded. Her pale-green eyes did not move from Nia’s face.

“Remember, slow is better,” Nia said absently, turning another page.

Daja grinned despite her anger with Morrachane. “I have three friends who would tell you I have slowness down to an art,” she assured Nia and left the kitchen.

In the slush room she donned coat, scarves, gloves, and even a wool cap so she wouldn’t be tempted to use her magic to warm herself. Picking up her skates, she went down to the basin.

“Doesn’t do his duty,” she growled as she buckled her left skate. “Idles with riffraff. Bangs away with rough tools. That woman’s mouth is so sour she could pickle lemons in it!” She yanked the straps on her right skate so hard they pinched her foot even through her boot. Cursing in Tradertalk, she loosened the strap. “How someone like Ben came from that bitter old shoe of a female… “

She stood and thrust herself away from the bench. Unfortunately she did so a little too hard. Across the basin she shot, right into its snowy sides. She pushed herself out of the snow, her face hot with embarrassment. No one was present to witness her humiliation, but she still said aloud, “I meant to do that.”

It was like meditation, she realized as she steadied herself on the ice once more. She couldn’t think about anything but skating when she skated. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths, thrusting Morrachane from her mind. When her thoughts were filled only with skating, she began again.

Nia joined her after a while. Morrachane had gone home. “You don’t like her, do you?” Nia called from the bench.

Daja was practicing turns. “I don’t need to like her.”

“I feel bad. She’s so dreadful to everyone else, and so kind to Jory and me.” Nia stood and glided across the ice.

“That’s what Jory said,” admitted Daja.

“I don’t understand it,” Nia told her, going into a tight, quick spin. As she slowed she added, “I used to think all the stories about her were just lies from jealous people. Then-then I saw her thrash a beggar with her driver’s carriage whip one day. How can she be so loving to us, and so horrible to the rest of the world? What would make a person grow up that way?”

“I don’t know,” replied Daja. “I’ve never seen anyone like her. My Aunt Hulweme was mean to everyone, no exceptions. Great navigator, but a dreadful person. I’m just glad Ben isn’t like his mother.”

“The whole city’s glad,” Nia assured her. She grabbed Daja’s hands. “Come on. Let’s go try the ice in the canal.”

“Oh, no,” Daja said, trying to pull free. “No, no, no!”

“Yes,” replied Nia. “Come on. You can do this.”

Much to Daja’s surprise, Nia was right. They skated carefully from Bancanor House north to the tip of Kadasep and back. Daja fell only once, where a patch of ice was pitted. Both girls returned to Bancanor House flushed with victory.

Their good feelings carried over into Nia’s meditation after they went inside. The younger girl entered the breathing pattern with confidence. Daja watched as her power slid over her skin to coat it in a glowing layer. The emptier Nia’s thoughts, the fewer occasions when her power flared away from her skin. She was close to the point where she would be able to handle her power as she did wood.

“Did Camoc give you work for today?” Daja asked as they left the schoolroom.

Nia shook her head. “I asked if I could borrow a book on magic for hard wood, and he grunted. I think it meant yes. He knew I took it, anyway. I read some this morning-I hid it in my hymnbook.” She smiled. “Papa saw me, but he didn’t say anything. I think he gets bored in temple, too.”

Daja shook her head as they separated to dress for supper. After she ate, Daja spent the evening in the book room with the family. She went to bed feeling as if she’d accomplished a great deal that day, despite Morrachane. She was silly to let the woman irritate her, she decided as she crawled under her covers. Morrachane was a sad creature, hated by most, not understanding what a prize she had in Ben. She was to be pitied, not fought.

It was nearly dark when Ben left the warehouse, a rough wool coat and felt boots over his clothes. He wrapped scarves around his head, hiding all of his face but his eyes, and carried his device and a lantern in a basket. Unnoticed he joined the stream of servants returning to their masters’ homes, their heads bent against the hard wind that blew off the Syth. Ben appreciated the wind: protecting his face from it, he also disguised his height.

Ever since he had begun training firefighters, he had Walked over every inch of most Kugiskan islands, through courtyards and alleys, past middens and wells, around outbuildings and along the tops of walls. He had descended into cellars and climbed into garrets and towers. He knew those islands, including Alakut, better than those who had lived there for centuries.

With that knowledge, he had his pick of sites at which to test his lone Alakut Island brigade-footmen and shop assistants who skipped training a third of the time, to run their masters’ errands or simply because they forgot. They needed sharpening up. For this test he had chosen a confectioner’s shop on Hollyskyt Way. It was near enough to Ladradun House that his brigade would immediately send for him when the fire started, but not so near that it might draw suspicion on him.

Hollyskyt Way was nearly deserted. The families who ran its exclusive shops weren’t deemed good enough to live on Alakut: their businesses were closed for Watersday. There was a houseguest the confectioner didn’t know about, a beggar who crept into the cellar to sleep. But she came well after dark, when there was no chance she would be seen.

Ben had seen her, of course. He’d watched the place for two months before making his decision. Now he used her tight-fitting entrance to the shop, feeling his servant’s garb catch and pull on its edges. He would lose bits of thread that a magistrates’ mage might use to trace the wearer, but that was no problem. He would leave his outer clothes and anything he’d carried behind to burn: mages couldn’t use tracking spells on items cleansed by fire. Ben smiled as he dropped to the cellar floor, envisioning those mages like frustrated bloodhounds, looking for a trail that only doubled back on itself.

He lit the lantern and went upstairs, where he set his device in the pantry and lit the fuse. He propped the door open to feed his blaze air, and set empty sacks and jars of olive oil nearby to serve as fuel when the device set the room on fire. He left his basket there as well.

Outside the shop, he removed his coat, scarves, and boots and thrust them into the cellar, making sure his other clothes didn’t catch on the edges of the opening. Last of all he blew out his lantern and threw that into the cellar. This area was directly under the pantry: the cloth would be ash, the lantern molten tin by the time the magistrate’s mages arrived.

Then he hurried home to be his mother’s browbeaten son until his summons arrived. While she fed him her endless scolds and insults, he imagined the shop as it started to burn. Imagination got him through supper and her usual Watersday speech, that it was his fault, his inattention, his stupidity that had gotten her grandchildren killed. He endured it. Some days he wondered if she was right. Tonight he did not: his thoughts were on his test. Once she finished, she ordered him to bed, so he wouldn’t waste candles. Ben obeyed. He always did.

The truth was, Morrachane was an inconvenient convenience. In return for service as her verbal whipping boy-he’d put a stop to her real whippings a month before he married-she gave him a place to stay. If he lived alone, there would be a house to manage and servants to oversee, endless boring details that took precious time from his reason to live. He gave his mother his work at the business and someone to blame; she saw to his daily needs. And one day he would repay her for every time she made him wonder if indeed it was his fault that his wife and children were dead.