Ilare was exhausted by her first visit to the church and retired to her chambers for some Lights thereafter. Once the most offensive artwork was removed, she begged Samej and Esor to move her lessons to the church.
It was difficult not to indulge someone so persistent. “We’ll need to return to the classroom sometimes,” Esor said wearily upon their hundredth visit. Ilare was lying on a pew, watching the dome reconstructed by glass singers. He flipped through a calendar of his curriculum two rows down. “There’s much we cannot accomplish here. The alchemy table is not easily portable.”
“I’d show more passion for study if the practice weren’t intended to make me more appealing chattel,” Ilare said. “They don’t really care if I’m good at alchemy. They care if being good at alchemy means I secure a better marriage price and gain greater political power for the dynasty.”
“That seems an unnecessarily provocative way to describe the system,” said Esor.
“Is it? If they cared for my education, they would have provided it through my convalescence. I was left to languish with little company besides novels and the worms that eat decay. Now my education is urgent? When it is no longer my dearest wish for distraction? I’ve no patience for such asymmetry of priority!”
“You may have the luxury of ignoring the Lord Mayor’s command, but I do not, and thus I must put my foot down,” Esor said. “Samej, will you be no help?”
The commander ignored him, fondling his dagger as he watched the workers harmonizing high overhead. The choir climbed liana scaffolds with bare feet, hung upside-down from petrified wood, and called forth new growth using their limited song. Several carried heavy bags of soil seeded with greatberry chestnuts. When the world-tree would not respond to song, the greatberries would. Saplings bolted free of the soil in popping explosions that shadowed the skylights like inverted lightning. Then the roots could be patched across dead wood to emulate new growth. Other artisans came behind them to clean dirt with hand towels, replaced often by swinging back down and climbing back up.
Ilare was fascinated by the process. She sang softer echoes of the artisans’ songs, improvising nonsense lyrics in the High tongue. ?Conceal, reveal, extend, and break, little berries.? She didn’t have the technique to inspire growth, but her voice was eerily beautiful, rising and falling in arpeggios that made her sound like one of Kit?anve’s birds.
“You’re meant to study alchemy, not the work of Low builders,” Esor said.
“Nothing you do can bully me into sitting in a stuffy classroom when I could be here. Don’t glare at me!” Ilare sat up and tossed her hair in defiance. “You’re ill-suited to the management of trouble students. Tell me, why didn’t you take your one of your parents’ trades?”
“I’ve not the hands for weaving,” Esor said, spreading his brittle fingers across his lap. “My greatest skill in that regard is breaking looms. My father wouldn’t even submit me for apprenticeship to become a steward.”
“Was he afraid you would break your master’s valuables from fits of clumsiness?”
“He said I talk too much. Stewards must adhere to a strict code of discretion. I can be professional, but once I start talking, it’s impossible to stop, regardless of context. And—you’re going to laugh at me—I can’t stand being disliked. I only want to help people, not argue with them. Stewards must manage inferiors—you’re laughing at me—”
She loved to laugh at him. Ilare laughed at him often, even more so when Esor was too flustered to join in. She sang when she laughed. It spilled a merry cascade of words over him, warmer than the glow of Light at midday. ?Silly, foolish, darling, dear Esor. Fondness. Pleased. ? She was so charmingly honest he couldn’t take offense.
Antagonizing Esor became the game Ilare played when she grew bored, or if he grew too serious during classes. She would leave inappropriate drawings under books to find later, when he was alone, and loved to fluster him by asking about them later. “Do you think the Lady Kit?anve defecates with her skirts around her ears like that?” Ilare asked.
Esor never blushed so hard, but he couldn’t help laughing too. The sheer depravity of a High lady was too shocking to remain serious.
At other times, Esor found nothing amusing about Ilare. She would occasionally evade Samej, and Esor would catch her reading books alone in the library, unattended, where anything could have happened to her. She also slipped into the gardens when unobserved. Once he caught her stealing from the kitchens.
Catching Ilare was sometimes like trapping rats in a cellar. It took craftiness. Esor sought help whenever she evaded her keroterase, afraid of finding her alone. “You might attach a bell to her,” Esor suggested once.
“I’m considering it,” Samej growled. He bodily hauled Ilare back to her tower.
She attributed her behavior to too many years sick in bed. “Would you tell a bat healed from a broken wing not to enjoy the twilight?”
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“They must fly to hunt, to feed, to live,” said Esor. “You have everything you need handed to you.”
“Do I?” She smiled that mischievous smile, and she continued slipping off on her own.
Thus Esor was not concerned to find Ilare absent on a Light she was meant to attend class, even though Samej was also absent—presumably to find his wayward charge.
Esor would have never known Ilare’s true whereabouts if he had not shattered his largest beaker by dropping it. “Hexes!” He cut his hands twice cleaning the shards, even with the broom, and made his way to the infirmary still cursing.
During Light, Xeta’s examination room was flung open to permit the flow of clean, cold air from outside, along with a scattering of dried orange leaves that had settled on the floor. The beds near the door were empty, each encircled by white curtains.
“Doctor?” called Esor, wincing as he pulled a fragment of glass out of his knuckle. “I need to make an apology. I’ve broken one of your beakers—well, two beakers and a flask—and need replacements for your sister’s next...”
He stepped around a white curtain wall to see Lady Ilare was in an infirmary bed. Her glowing skin had grayed, sheets lightly concealing her body below the waist. She appeared to be sleeping. Her breaths were so shallow that her chest barely moved.
Xeta sat at the edge of the bed, writing in a journal. A lamp looked over both of them, its flame brightened by a mirrored dome.
The doctor stood at the sight of Esor. “Don’t come in here. This is a quarantine.” Xeta stepped beyond the line of curtains and snapped them closed to hide his patient. “Did I hear you say you broke a beaker?”
Esor lifted his hands to reveal the cuts and blood. “Yes, I’m afraid it was inevitable.”
Xeta seated him on a slab near the entrance, plucked out the remaining shards, and wrapped bandages around dry skin. “You won’t need a complete alchemy set for Lights yet to come,” said Xeta. “As you see, Ilare is undergoing treatment.”
“She’s been so playful lately. I thought she was cured.”
“Her lungs are vulnerable to bog cough. Her bones to chill. And so on. It’s my pleasure to maintain my precious sister’s health. The only daughter of Amalen. My only sister.” Xeta held the largest shard of glass pinched between tweezers, lifted at his side like a scalpel. “You seem especially concerned for a teacher. Would you want me to convey your well-wishes?”
Esor dipped his head respectfully. “There is no need. My concerns are only those I have for any student in my care.”
“I’m sure.” Xeta set aside the tweezers. “I’ll visit with new glass for you later. We spare no expense on Ilare’s behalf.” He washed his hands in a nearby basin, but never stopped studying Esor, as if he expected to see boils appear at any moment. “Most newcomers to ?elasdur take a chill. You haven’t been to my infirmary since the initial examination.”
“I feel excellent. I’m blessed to require no attention.”
“Shadowed eyes,” the doctor muttered, stepping near. He angled a hand mirror to shine light from the window onto Esor’s cheek. “Marked weight loss. Poor adjustment to high concentrations of kirē in the environment? Are you sleeping?”
“Never better,” said Esor. “I walk to the city most Lights. My constitution is excellent.” He slipped from the table.
“When Ilare is released, I’ll see you for an examination. I can’t have my brother’s favorite plaything taking ill.”
“I am only a dutiful employee serving the All-Mother through her chosen children.”
“Corvin has always been softer to employees than benefits anyone, though none have distracted him as you do.” Xeta ran his tongue over his teeth, square and white, and he smiled a ghastly smile that revealed the pinkness of gums. “Another reason to make sure no ill descends upon our dear Master Esor. The situation is delicate. I can’t have my brother’s attention anywhere but our goal.”
Colder than ?elasdur’s darkest Night, Esor slipped from the table. “Pardon me, I think—I need to get to my next class. Thank you.”
The doctor gestured to the door. “Shall I walk you out?”
“No need,” said Esor. “My deepest gratitude for the assistance.”
“Remember to see me soon,” said Xeta. The doctor slipped toward the bed. The curtain swayed shut behind him, leaving his silhouette on the other side. The shadow enlarged as Xeta approached the brilliant light and its mirrored dome. He bent over Ilare. Bed and doctor formed into one.
~
ESOR SLIPPED DOWN THE stairs, gingerly flexing his fingers within the bandages. He paused at the bottom. He turned back to the infirmary door with a foot lifted, considering whether he should proceed or return to Ilare. The hallway smelled like soap; the delicate clink of metal echoed out the infirmary. Xeta’s distant murmurs may well have been the hum of wind around the bole.
He continued along the hallway. Barely a few steps later, Lady Kit?anve fell into stride beside him. Her keroterase followed. Their pikes swung in time with their steps.
Esor half-bowed without stopping. “Ah, what a blessing to see you, my lady. It has been considerable time since last we spoke.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to season. Your pallor says you again sleep poorly.” Kit?anve did not look at him as they walked together. They passed a salon where some of her younger daughters sang embroidery under Malenē’s watchful eye. “More nightmares invoked by your vivid imagination, I assume?”
“Heralds inspire with bleak news,” said Esor.
“Then you dream of Dwarrow.”
“Dwarrow dying and being killed.” He considered his words, rubbing fingertips over the bandages on his opposite hand. “The Lord Mayor should know about our conversations, my lady. Yours and mine. He would find them...relevant.”
“What is there to know? You would not waste our liege’s waking hours with dull talk of dreams, would you?” Her cheeks were ruddy, the tips of her ears blushed from the chill, and the whites of her eyes were bolted with red. The last weeks of a pregnancy had stolen the agelessness from Kit?anve to reveal wisdom’s hard edges. “Come to my parlor.”
“I am otherwise occupied,” said Esor, heart quickening. “The Kovenor expect me elsewhere.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why were you in the infirmary? I instructed you to stay away from the doctor.”
“My hands—”
“Chisamith can supply a balm for minor wounds.”
“I have a responsibility to attend my student as well,” Esor said. “There is no harm in visiting.”
“Your ‘student’ is a Levusàlvar lady with whom you have no business outside classroom walls.” Kit?anve’s melodic whisper followed. ?You’re all the same. Every one of you.?
The mildest offense prickled at the nape of Esor’s neck—a familiar feeling, but one he seldom struggled to suppress. “I cannot keep away from the Kovenor. They are my patrons.” All of them ranked higher than the wife of a Patrician in a small xilcadis.
Sharply, Kit?anve said, “Remember who you are. I will summon you soon. And if you are wise, you will not use Kovenor blades as a shield to hide behind.”
