The Dragon of Despair (69 page)

That made the Petitioner’s Gate her best choice. She joined the line there. It was quite short and Citrine smiled with joy. Just a few people in front of her, just a few more minutes between her and Mother.

“Not many people today,” she said in her best New Kelvinese to the man ahead of her in line.

The man blinked, showing stars on his eyelids.

“This line isn’t for today, boy,” he said, sharply but kindly. “It’s for tomorrow.”

Citrine’s spirits plummeted. She didn’t think she’d be able to avoid the others all afternoon and all night, too.

The man must have understood.

“You speak to the clerk inside,” he explained, “tell who you need to see, then get a ticket that tells you when to come back. Much better than long lines come morning.”

Citrine nodded, afraid to try her New Kelvinese around the lump in her throat. The man smiled and patted her on the head.

“You’ll do all right, boy. They’re used to folk from the country.”

He might have been inclined to chat further, but the line was moving. In a moment, he entered one small kiosk and hardly a breath later Citrine was waved into its mate.

A rather round fellow with whiskers like a catfish’s and greenish stains near his eyes looked up as she came in. His robe was a deep blue-black the exact shade of spilled ink.

“Yes? And who do you wish to see, young man?”

“Consolor Melina, sir,” Citrine said, her voice very small.

The clerk’s eyebrows rose to where his hairline should be.

“Really, the Consolor doesn’t see petitioners.”

“Please, sir,” Citrine said. “I have to see her.”

To her horror, she felt tears welling in her eyes. She wanted to wipe them away, but didn’t want to be rude and touch her face.

“Consolor Melina doesn’t see petitioners,” the man repeated, his tone firm but not unkind. “Perhaps if you tell me what the matter is, I can direct you to the right department.”

“There is no department for this,” Citrine said, hoping she was saying the words right. Despairing, she pushed back the strip of cloth tied over her forehead to hide her gemstone band. “I’m her daughter. I’m Citrine Shield.”

IT WAS HOURS BEFORE SHE SAW MOTHER.
First she was taken to a guardroom and made to wait. Her only advantage here was that they assumed—despite her New Kelvinese attire—that she had no real command of the language and so spoke freely in front of her. Knowing that they really were trying to find Mother made the waiting bearable.

Then she was taken to another, nicer room, bathed—though she wasn’t really all
that
dirty—and given girl’s clothes to wear. They were New Kelvinese girl’s clothes, which meant they weren’t that much different in cut from the robes she had been wearing, but the fabric was softer: a pretty apricot silk printed with flowers growing from graceful green stems. Best of all, the robe smelled of some marvelous perfume that made Citrine feel like the nicest parts of summer.

The maids who helped her were quick and obedient. They didn’t ask many questions—only whether she wanted this clip for her hair or that one, or maybe about the style of slipper she preferred. Citrine might have been fooled into thinking they were completely uninterested, but she’d spent a little time with Hasamemorri’s maids and knew that their manners when on duty were quite different from their sparrow-like gossiping when off.

Citrine was glad for her lessons in New Kelvinese deportment now, though they had seemed quite tedious when Peace was drilling her. Watching the elegant grace of the servants, Citrine was glad that she would not embarrass herself with some rude gesture and so anger her mother.

Now that Citrine was closer to her mother, she found herself remembering all the things she’d tried so hard to forget. How quick mother’s temper could be. How mysterious she was. How little time Melina had for her youngest and—after three others—quite superfluous daughter.

Citrine was nearly regretting her temerity at coming uninvited when the broad double doors on the other side of the chamber opened and Consolor Melina swept into the room.

She looked so like a New Kelvinese lady that at first Citrine didn’t recognize her. Her robes swept the floor, the outer skirts emerald green, the inner, just visible when she walked, a violet so dark that in some lights it seemed black. Her silvery blond hair was drawn up into a long, thick braid, coiled at the back of her head and fastened with gemstone pins.

But what made Melina a stranger were the designs painted on her face. They weren’t overtly unnatural, only distorting. Carefully contoured lines made her pale eyes seem to slant. Her lips seemed fuller, her nose very thin. Delicate crisscross patterns had been worked across her forehead, around her temples, and gradually faded to near invisibility near her jaw. Doubtlessly they were terribly significant, but to Citrine they just seemed odd.

More important than even the heavy face paint was the absence of the necklace Melina had worn everywhere—even in her bed—for as long as Citrine had known her. The scoop neck of her robe left the upper portion of her bosom bare, and its only adornment was a small pendant of some carved stone.

Citrine felt lost, as if her mother’s relinquishing the necklace was the final proof that she had no further need for her youngest daughter.

But Melina was rushing across the floor, gathering Citrine into her arms, pressing her against that astonishingly unadorned bosom. The stone pendant, Citrine could see now, was smooth and resembled a cloud.

“Leave us! Leave us!” Melina said to the maids in a voice that was high and—to that tiny cynical core in Citrine’s being—a shade theatrical. “I would be with my poor, lost lamb.”

And the maids did leave, and when the door was closed behind them, Melina rocked back on her heels, released Citrine from her embrace, and looked at her through those strangely slanted eyes.

“You’ve grown,” she said in Pellish, her words sounding completely natural. “At least a finger span. They haven’t starved you then, though I hear you’ve been ill.”

“Yes, Mother,” Citrine said, curling closed her left fist so her mother wouldn’t see the lost fingers. “I was, but I’m better now.”

“Good,” Melina purred. “Come and sit on the divan with me and tell me all about everything that has happened to you.”

“Everything?” Citrine said in some amazement. “That could take a long time.”

“Well, why don’t you start backwards,” Melina suggested, “and we’ll work our way to the present.”

So Citrine started talking, telling about Hasamemorri’s and about being ignored, about Edlin and Peace, about Firekeeper, and all the fuss.

“And you weren’t happy with this?” Melina asked.

“No, Mother.”

“So you decided to run away across all the city and find me yourself?”

There was a curious tightness in Melina’s voice, but her expression remained kind.

“Yes, Mother. They were supposed to find you and they didn’t, so I did.”

She felt proud of herself, so proud that Melina’s next words were like a blow.

“And you expect me to believe that, you little brat?”

“It’s true, Mother!” Citrine heard her voice break and felt deeply embarrassed. “Every bit!”

“You didn’t come here to find me and see if you could wheedle out of me some information about where your beloved companions are?”

Citrine stared uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then she realized that Mother must mean Peace and Edlin.

“No, Mother. Honest, no!”

Melina was looking distinctly mean.

“Information you would pass on to one of that damned feral child’s spies? Slip to some little birdie, maybe?”

“No!”

“I’ve foiled you, dear child,” Melina went on as if she hadn’t heard. “This room has no exterior windows—not one. The windows you see are all false. I thought to trick you, to see what the messenger was, but why wait?”

“There is no messenger!” Citrine wailed. “I came to find you all on my own. I don’t care about Edlin or Peace. I wanted you!”

Melina’s expression softened, just a trace.

“Maybe you did,” she said. “Maybe. For now, you’ll remain here and we shall see.”

She rose to depart and Citrine grabbed her flowing sleeve.

“Mother!”

For a moment she thought Melina would slap her. Then the severe expression softened. She continued to walk, but only as far as a braided bell-pull.

“Bring dinner here for me and my daughter,” she said to the servant who came to her call. “And have messages brought to my maid Tipi and His Honored Grace the Healed One informing them where I can be found.”

“Yes, Consolor,” replied the servant, bowing his face into his hands before hurrying away.

“Now,” Melina said, coming back and resuming her seat, “where were we? Ah, yes. You were telling me about your adventures. Tell me more. Tell me everything.”

Citrine obeyed. Most of her was very happy, but deep inside her heart there was a rapidly beating pulse that felt very afraid.

FIREKEEPER WOKE
as late afternoon was merging imperceptibly into evening to hear Wendee shouting Citrine’s name—or rather that of Rios. She sat up in the hayloft, picking straw from her hair. Wendee didn’t sound annoyed. She sounded anxious.

Wendee came into the stable and called for Rios. When Firekeeper poked her head over the edge of the loft, Wendee glanced up, concern in every line of her face.

“Is Rios there?” she asked. “No games now!”

Firekeeper tilted her head to one side inquiringly.

“No games,” she said. “No Rios either.”

She swung herself lightly down from the loft. Blind Seer thumped down beside her.

Wendee, who had taken an inadvertent step back, looked as if she’d say something about nearly being pounced, but instead she bit her lower lip and frowned.

“Citrine told Derian she was going to take a nap, but when I came back from errands and went to check on her she wasn’t there. Neither were several of her possessions—a comb, a drawing set Edlin gave her, a scarf. I’m worried.”

Firekeeper considered.

“You think she is gone away?”

“Yes. She’s been acting strange again, ever since we came to Dragon’s Breath. I’m worried she’s decided either to try and rescue Edlin on her own or…or to go to her mother.”

Hating Melina as she did, Firekeeper found it hard to imagine that anyone would want to go to her. It seemed more likely that Citrine would have tried to rescue Edlin and Peace. She had seemed fond of Edlin, and Peace had acted as her father for these moonspans past. And the deed—should she succeed—would garner for Citrine the attention the girl clearly craved.

The missing drawing set seemed to confirm Firekeeper’s theory. Citrine might have made a new map of the sewers for herself, copied from the one Edlin had done.

“I go look for Citrine,” Firekeeper offered. She touched Blind Seer on one shoulder. “We both.”

“And don’t forget to come back and tell us what you’ve found,” Wendee called after. “We don’t need two of you to find.”

When Wendee had gone, Firekeeper turned to Blind Seer.

“What can you find, clever nose?”

The wolf cast around for a bit, expanding his search through the yard in back of Hasamemorri’s house. His task was complicated by the scent trails accumulated over the days they had been in residence.

Finally, he snorted.

“Something here,”
he said.
“Interesting. Open the back gate, Firekeeper.”

Firekeeper complied and the wolf went forth, casting his nose along the ground, sneezing once at something cast into the alley, but otherwise very attentive.

“Tell,”
she suggested.

Never lifting his nose from the ground, Blind Seer did.

“She came out this way, recently, for the spoor is fairly fresh. If you look, you may see sign.”

Firekeeper did look. The alley, unlike the streets in front of the houses, was only intermittently paved. The soft shoes Citrine wore left no deep marks in the dirt, but here and there she saw a likely trace.

“Is this hers?”
she asked the wolf.

“It is,”
he confirmed.

“She walked steadily,”
Firekeeper commented.
“Can you track her from here?”

“I can only try.”

They went forth, but once they were on the paved main streets Firekeeper had to rely on the wolf. Even a lesser street in Dragon’s Breath saw a fair amount of traffic, plenty to wear away any small signs the girl’s shoes would have left.

“She walked toward the market,”
Blind Seer said.
“The trace is there—for me.”

Firekeeper tugged his ear, but didn’t gainsay him. Side by side they walked to the crowded market. The residents did not stare or express any astonishment at the great wolf and his odd human companion, but they did leave a broad passage down the crowded street for them to pass along.

In the market, Blind Seer lost all but the faintest traces, but they met Wendee, there before them. The woman looked more worried than before.

“I found a sweetmeats seller,” she said without greeting, “who says our ‘boy’ bought a small bag of candied ginger from her. The seller did notice that the boy didn’t go back in the direction from which he had come, but went into that street.”