sat behind his imposing desk and
interrogated him in that other language. After a while, one of the robed
watchers from the cliff-side stepped up and took the newcomer away and the man
began his droning call again. The demon watched their numbers dwindle without
speaking. His smile never changed.
“Are you
English? Are you American? Canadian? Who among you is of this tongue?”
“I am,” said the
goth-girl, and Mara raised her hand without looking away from the demon or the
lights swirling in his eyes.
The man behind
the desk blew out a breath, one more richly stained with derision than the
others. The demon looked at the girl behind her, his mild expression unchanged,
and then at Mara, at her and into her, past the storm of outer thoughts which
assailed and surrounded her even here, to bump up against the little sanctuary
she had constructed for herself.
His pale brows
rose and twitched once.
“Over here,
then. Over here!” Snapping fingers, summoning her as if she were a dog. Mara
moved toward the desk, but her eyes stayed with the demon. “I’ll have your
names now. You first. Give me your hand.”
The girl behind
her uttered a sudden little yelp. Mara tapped at her without turning away from
the demon and saw blood welling from tip of a dirty finger.
“Sign here,” the
man said. Mara tapped at him as well. Gamaliel, he called himself. The archivist.
Summoned once each year from his studies to bring the applicants through the portcullis
and into the school. Gamaliel, but that was not his name. His name was Kaspar
Cortoreal, whose only talent had been with words and whose favorite vice had
been with women, and who had fled Portugal in the stillness and the heat of
that long-ago night with blood pooling out over the streets. She should not
have laughed, should not have threatened to scream, but she did and it was her
own fault, all her own, and he had taken her watch and her money and the book,
her journal, the little book where he first read in fevered wonder of the
Scholomance.
“Take her. Go! And
you. You! Come here!” Snapping fingers again. Mara put out her hand without
looking to see what he did with it. She kept the demon in front of her and
watched through the archivist’s eyes as he took up his pen and pierced her
naked finger. Blood welled. He took her hand and pressed the wound to a fresh
line in the ancient page, drawing a bar of wet red to dry below the other names
of applicants before her, applicants far more worthy. “Give me your name,” he
said, releasing her. He wiped his pen and dipped it in ink. “Name! Now! Have I
all day to spend ungluing the slack lips of foolish sluts who cannot even speak
their names? Give me your name!”
“Kaspar
Cortoreal,” she said, and the archivist cut a black gash of shock through the
page.
The demon’s head
tipped, regarding her from an angle, like a bird will do, or a bug. His hair
moved, rippling as if in the wind, but there was no breeze here.
“What are you?”
Mara asked.
The lights in
the demon’s eyes sparked and faded, like fireflies in a field. He did not
reply.
“Here,” said the
archivist, quietly now, subdued. “Take her.”
A hand touched
her arm. One of the plain-robed watchers, one of the women, waiting to lead her
away, but going meant turning her back on the demon and Mara wasn’t ready to do
that yet.
“What is he?”
she demanded, turning on the woman who held her.
“He is a Master
of the Scholomance,” the woman said. She tried to sound haughty, as if the
question were beneath contempt, but inside, she was taken aback by this
pale-eyed stranger who asked questions as with ignorance, but without fear.
That was all the
answer Mara was going to get, but she guessed it was answer enough. The women
believed what she said, believed they were in the Scholomance, that place of
evil legend, and she believed this creature in Man’s image was one of its
inhuman Masters. Nowhere in the mind yawning open before her was even a
interrogated him in that other language. After a while, one of the robed
watchers from the cliff-side stepped up and took the newcomer away and the man
began his droning call again. The demon watched their numbers dwindle without
speaking. His smile never changed.
“Are you
English? Are you American? Canadian? Who among you is of this tongue?”
“I am,” said the
goth-girl, and Mara raised her hand without looking away from the demon or the
lights swirling in his eyes.
The man behind
the desk blew out a breath, one more richly stained with derision than the
others. The demon looked at the girl behind her, his mild expression unchanged,
and then at Mara, at her and into her, past the storm of outer thoughts which
assailed and surrounded her even here, to bump up against the little sanctuary
she had constructed for herself.
His pale brows
rose and twitched once.
“Over here,
then. Over here!” Snapping fingers, summoning her as if she were a dog. Mara
moved toward the desk, but her eyes stayed with the demon. “I’ll have your
names now. You first. Give me your hand.”
The girl behind
her uttered a sudden little yelp. Mara tapped at her without turning away from
the demon and saw blood welling from tip of a dirty finger.
“Sign here,” the
man said. Mara tapped at him as well. Gamaliel, he called himself. The archivist.
Summoned once each year from his studies to bring the applicants through the portcullis
and into the school. Gamaliel, but that was not his name. His name was Kaspar
Cortoreal, whose only talent had been with words and whose favorite vice had
been with women, and who had fled Portugal in the stillness and the heat of
that long-ago night with blood pooling out over the streets. She should not
have laughed, should not have threatened to scream, but she did and it was her
own fault, all her own, and he had taken her watch and her money and the book,
her journal, the little book where he first read in fevered wonder of the
Scholomance.
“Take her. Go! And
you. You! Come here!” Snapping fingers again. Mara put out her hand without
looking to see what he did with it. She kept the demon in front of her and
watched through the archivist’s eyes as he took up his pen and pierced her
naked finger. Blood welled. He took her hand and pressed the wound to a fresh
line in the ancient page, drawing a bar of wet red to dry below the other names
of applicants before her, applicants far more worthy. “Give me your name,” he
said, releasing her. He wiped his pen and dipped it in ink. “Name! Now! Have I
all day to spend ungluing the slack lips of foolish sluts who cannot even speak
their names? Give me your name!”
“Kaspar
Cortoreal,” she said, and the archivist cut a black gash of shock through the
page.
The demon’s head
tipped, regarding her from an angle, like a bird will do, or a bug. His hair
moved, rippling as if in the wind, but there was no breeze here.
“What are you?”
Mara asked.
The lights in
the demon’s eyes sparked and faded, like fireflies in a field. He did not
reply.
“Here,” said the
archivist, quietly now, subdued. “Take her.”
A hand touched
her arm. One of the plain-robed watchers, one of the women, waiting to lead her
away, but going meant turning her back on the demon and Mara wasn’t ready to do
that yet.
“What is he?”
she demanded, turning on the woman who held her.
“He is a Master
of the Scholomance,” the woman said. She tried to sound haughty, as if the
question were beneath contempt, but inside, she was taken aback by this
pale-eyed stranger who asked questions as with ignorance, but without fear.
That was all the
answer Mara was going to get, but she guessed it was answer enough. The women
believed what she said, believed they were in the Scholomance, that place of
evil legend, and she believed this creature in Man’s image was one of its
inhuman Masters. Nowhere in the mind yawning open before her was even a
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