might benefit from a new perspective. And so we had done. The others yet spoke as if I weren’t there, but they spoke of me by name.
Lucian believes . . . Lucian wonders . . .
It had worked exceedingly well.
Cheating
, Investigator Pons had called it.
Compromise of your position in life
.
Unvirtuous engagement with ordinaries
. . .
“Just don’t share your opinions with him, bone-cutter,” said Bastien. “Nor your ale nor your vermin nor your secret vices. Don’t even look at him. I don’t want Registry lackwits finding an excuse to snatch him back. Not only did his little sketch identify our corpse to the folk who knew him, it told me where to look; Valdo de Seti yearned for nasty pleasure.”
The surgeon snorted, wiped his brow on his sleeve, and turned back tohis morbid work. His hands stopped their trembling as he began. Mine did not.
I bolted. Outside the surgery, I poked the plump youth dozing on the bench—Pleury, Bastien’s runner, the lad who’d found the whore. “Clean drinking water?”
Though loath to ingest anything in such a place, my stomach was going to grind itself to pulp if I didn’t get something inside it.
“Great lordly sorcerer . . .” The fair-skinned youth with an affliction of pustules on his cheeks dropped to one knee, near yanked his forelock from his scalp, and bent his back until his chin grazed the floor, as if I were some combination of god, noble, and demon gatzé all in one. The dramatic effect was entirely spoiled when he passed wind with the timbre of a royal trumpet.
With a distressed moan, he prostrated himself completely.
A ghostly memory of my younger brothers and certain secret “jousting tournaments” twitched my lips. “Clean water?” I said evenly.
“Fonts, troughs. Comes straight from the wellsprings. So Garibald says.”
“Good. All right, then.” Relieved, I escaped to the small font I had seen in a bay near the royal preparation room. A tin cup sat on a waist-high shelf beside the little font.
Palinur’s wellsprings were a source of wonder. The intricate system of ducts and pipes that brought the highland water into the city had been installed by my clever ancestors, invaders from the Aurellian Empire. Aurellians had overrun the lands of Ardra, Morian, and Evanore centuries past, only to discover that their minor magical talents took fire with power here. They had called Navronne the Heart of the World.
The fonts and ducts had endured far longer than the conquest. Even Aurellian magic could not stave off the crumbling decadence of the empire itself, or hold its expansive territory against the heirs of mighty Caedmon, King of Ardra. Caedmon had united three ever-warring provinces and created Navronne.
Three hundred Aurellian families swore allegiance to Caedmon and his heirs in return for freedom to pursue their magic as they saw best in service to Navronne. They called themselves the Registry. Their negotiations ensured that pureblood contracts, breeding rules, and protocols would be enforced by the Crown. When Caedmon’s great-great-grandsonEodward drove the last Aurellian legions out, the Registry, including my own ancestors, had remained.
The cool water soothed my churning belly. I rinsed the cup, returned it to the little shelf, and sagged against the wall. Both passage and bay were deserted. The prometheum was quiet, the trickle of the font soothing. Sleep had eluded me the previous night. My eyelids drifted shut. . . .
“Still squeamish?”
I startled, whacking my elbow on the protruding shelf. Though a big man, Bastien had crept up on me without a sound.
“I’ve no skills to aid such activities,” I said, wincing as I rubbed my elbow. “I could use the time to reproduce de Seti’s portrait in ink. If you have archives . . .”
“There’s other tasks more pressing. Anywise, you don’t have the original to copy. Come along.”
“I don’t need it. The true image remains with me for a while.”
He paused
Lucian believes . . . Lucian wonders . . .
It had worked exceedingly well.
Cheating
, Investigator Pons had called it.
Compromise of your position in life
.
Unvirtuous engagement with ordinaries
. . .
“Just don’t share your opinions with him, bone-cutter,” said Bastien. “Nor your ale nor your vermin nor your secret vices. Don’t even look at him. I don’t want Registry lackwits finding an excuse to snatch him back. Not only did his little sketch identify our corpse to the folk who knew him, it told me where to look; Valdo de Seti yearned for nasty pleasure.”
The surgeon snorted, wiped his brow on his sleeve, and turned back tohis morbid work. His hands stopped their trembling as he began. Mine did not.
I bolted. Outside the surgery, I poked the plump youth dozing on the bench—Pleury, Bastien’s runner, the lad who’d found the whore. “Clean drinking water?”
Though loath to ingest anything in such a place, my stomach was going to grind itself to pulp if I didn’t get something inside it.
“Great lordly sorcerer . . .” The fair-skinned youth with an affliction of pustules on his cheeks dropped to one knee, near yanked his forelock from his scalp, and bent his back until his chin grazed the floor, as if I were some combination of god, noble, and demon gatzé all in one. The dramatic effect was entirely spoiled when he passed wind with the timbre of a royal trumpet.
With a distressed moan, he prostrated himself completely.
A ghostly memory of my younger brothers and certain secret “jousting tournaments” twitched my lips. “Clean water?” I said evenly.
“Fonts, troughs. Comes straight from the wellsprings. So Garibald says.”
“Good. All right, then.” Relieved, I escaped to the small font I had seen in a bay near the royal preparation room. A tin cup sat on a waist-high shelf beside the little font.
Palinur’s wellsprings were a source of wonder. The intricate system of ducts and pipes that brought the highland water into the city had been installed by my clever ancestors, invaders from the Aurellian Empire. Aurellians had overrun the lands of Ardra, Morian, and Evanore centuries past, only to discover that their minor magical talents took fire with power here. They had called Navronne the Heart of the World.
The fonts and ducts had endured far longer than the conquest. Even Aurellian magic could not stave off the crumbling decadence of the empire itself, or hold its expansive territory against the heirs of mighty Caedmon, King of Ardra. Caedmon had united three ever-warring provinces and created Navronne.
Three hundred Aurellian families swore allegiance to Caedmon and his heirs in return for freedom to pursue their magic as they saw best in service to Navronne. They called themselves the Registry. Their negotiations ensured that pureblood contracts, breeding rules, and protocols would be enforced by the Crown. When Caedmon’s great-great-grandsonEodward drove the last Aurellian legions out, the Registry, including my own ancestors, had remained.
The cool water soothed my churning belly. I rinsed the cup, returned it to the little shelf, and sagged against the wall. Both passage and bay were deserted. The prometheum was quiet, the trickle of the font soothing. Sleep had eluded me the previous night. My eyelids drifted shut. . . .
“Still squeamish?”
I startled, whacking my elbow on the protruding shelf. Though a big man, Bastien had crept up on me without a sound.
“I’ve no skills to aid such activities,” I said, wincing as I rubbed my elbow. “I could use the time to reproduce de Seti’s portrait in ink. If you have archives . . .”
“There’s other tasks more pressing. Anywise, you don’t have the original to copy. Come along.”
“I don’t need it. The true image remains with me for a while.”
He paused
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