A Daughter of No Nation (22 page)

Okay, I can do this.

“Hi, everyone,” she said, edging away from the group before one of the entourage could put a parasol over her.

Fenn was studying the two of them minutely. She didn't have much of a poker face—whatever she saw made her furious. With teeth gritted, she said, “Welcome home, cousins.”

“How long will you be here?” asked the man. His hostility was tempered with resignation. “You must have cases to adjudicate.”

“
Neneh,
I'm on leave from the Judiciary.” Cly ambled across the porch, ignoring—or enjoying—their rising distress as he unpinned the head of household icon from Fenn's sash. He tucked it into his pocket. She flushed red and her eyes flicked to his sword. “I might stay a day, or a month, or forever.”

“The country life—you?” The man barked laughter.

I wonder how long they're planning to sit out here fencing?
Sophie considered following the horses to the stables after all—she should rub down her own mount.

The Sylvanners' weird shaming of the widow rose, unbidden, in her mind. If she did some slave's job, would the slave be punished?

Cly wouldn't dare, she thought. He's been holding his temper all this time because … why? What's he want from me? Is it this?

Deciding to give the awkward family scene five more minutes, she turned her attention to the kids.

Up close, they were less perfectly identical: Mervin was more muscular, and Mirelda had a milk-pale complexion and a faint whistle in her breath. Asthma? Caused by anxiety, or was it the undoubtedly high pollen count? She was standing too straight, as though she was uncomfortable. Sophie looked for a cause. There—her feet were all but popping out of the petite and pointy white shoes they'd been jammed into.

Looks like they'd fit her mother.

Mirelda's coils of hair were perfect, nothing out of place. All this was a big show for Cly's arrival. He must have sent a message ahead to announce himself; or maybe Fenn had spies in town.

There was a yellow stain on the boy's hand.
A smoker? Kid, you're fifteen
—but once Sophie saw it, there was no denying that his overall fidgety air looked remarkably like he was having a nicotine fit.

He caught Sophie's eye and raised his brows, making a face:
Isn't this all so dumb?

Sophie replied with a quick, noncommittal smile.

Cly had caught the exchange. “Where are my manners? Come in, all of you.”

With a grand gesture, he ushered everyone inside, as though he'd been here all along and the rest of them had just showed up for Thanksgiving. Deftly taking the door, he swung it wide, murmuring a few words to the manacled woman who'd been holding it.

The slaves folded their parasols and made themselves scarce.

“Dear Sophie,” he continued, “I don't mean to involve you in the dull business of auditing the household books. Would you wish to explore the estate with your cousins?”

She nodded and he said, “Children, show Sophie the grounds.”

With that, their elders vanished deeper into the house.

It was a relief to be away from Cly for a while. Sophie smiled at the girl and gestured at her shoes. “Do you want to get those off?”

The girl grimaced. “I can barely walk.”

“You don't even have to tour me around the grounds, if you don't want.”

The boy sighed. “Come on, Mirrie. You know we better do as he says.”

The girl slipped out of the white shoes with a sigh of relief, picking them up and disappearing inside. The boy loosened his collar, rolled up his cuffs, and fished in his pockets for the makings of a cigarette. “So, Kir, you're Verdanii?” His Fleet was decent, his accent faint.

Sophie shook her head. She'd renounced any claim on Verdanii citizenship when she first came here. It was that or basically steal Verena's life out from under her. “They tell me I'm an outlander.”

“Marvelous! Is it true what they say about the outlands?”

“What do they say?”

“Petrodemons hunt the unwary by night, roaring, with glowing lamps for eyes.”

“Petrodemons, huh? And what, exactly, would they be?”

“They breathe fire and choking blackness—”

Mervin was interrupted by his sister's return; she had a pair of boots and was looking around in confusion.

“Where's Betta?”

Mervin said something in Sylvanner, in an undertone and fast. Mirelda snapped Sophie a glance and struggled into her boots. It was apparent that she usually had help.

“Come on,” Sophie said, after she'd laced them up. “Let's have a look at the joint.”

Neither of them seemed inclined to lead, so she headed off the veranda, into the full sun and the sauna of midsummer. She picked a direction, heading out along the boundary of the orchard, picking a leaf or two off every plant she came across, tucking them into one of her notebooks. They followed a fence that ran parallel to the estate's driveway, climbing a low hill.

“How much of this is Low Bann?”

“All you see,” Mirelda huffed, “and more besides.”

So Cly's family had more land than the three of them could wander in a short stretch of time.

They reached a long hedge of flowered bushes—a lagerstroemia variant, Sophie thought, as she took a leaf and a blossom. They'd be deliberately cultivating them within a convenient distance of the apiaries. Behind the hedge, hidden from the house, was the bird coop she'd spotted. It was occupied by a dozen ordinary chickens and one smallish ostrich.

“Want to pet her?” Mervin suggested. He had lit his smoke and appeared to be enjoying the amble. Mirelda looked as though she couldn't believe she'd made it this far. “Her feathers are very soft.”

His sister shot him a look, sideways.

“You first,” Sophie said, and Mervin's smirk widened. “Yeah. Thought so.”

“She'd have left you your fingers,” he said, with a lazy grin that probably disarmed people all the time.

Sophie took a few photos of the ostrich and continued on.

Nothing she saw over the course of the next hour did anything to convince her that Mervin was anything other than a mean-spirited little thug. Mirelda, she wasn't so sure about—she was unused to walking and kept hinting they should just go back to the house.

The air was hot and thick and there were marvels at every step: potter wasps and sawflies, and more sun-burnished, half-ripe peaches and nectarines. She saw a huge leopard frog for all of an instant before it shot off its log and into the shelter of the nearest puddle of water.

Sophie made her way down past the built-up area the house occupied to a boardwalk that led to the increasingly lush swamp.

Mirelda balked. “I think we've gone plenty far.”

“Go back to the house … it's fine.”

An anguished look. “Mervin.”

“Come on, Mirrie, it'll be fun. Cly told us to entertain Cousin Zophie.”

He means maybe Cousin Zophie will get herself scared by an alligator, Sophie thought.

“Seriously, Mirelda, you don't have to come.”

“Look!” The girl pointed, tone falsely bright. “It's the Autumn spellscribe!”

Two vehicles were rolling up the drive. One was Cly's carriage, laden with trunks, and—she assumed—carrying Krispos and Zita.

Behind it was something that looked less like a wagon and more like a rolling teacup, chariot-size and orange in color, horseless, with a whirling base that glowed even in the midday sunlight.

“They haven't seen us,” Mervin said. “We can vanish into the swamp.”

Sophie considered. It was only two hundred meters. But if Zita was in Cly's wagon, maybe she could trade the twins in for better company … not to mention getting Mirelda out of what she clearly saw as a forced march.

She probably got blisters from wearing Fenn's shoes.

“Let's go say hello.”

The vehicles stopped as soon as the driver saw them. Zita disembarked, wearing the same foreigner's sash Sophie wore—black fabric, white glass bauble—and an expression of sheer amazement. Her surprise doubled when Sophie bounded up and hugged her.

Krispos peered out at her from inside the carriage. He'd had his nose in a book, naturally. “Well met, Kir Sophie.”

“Hi, Krispos.” To Zita she said, “I'm going to say hello to some scribe, then I'm headed off exploring. Want to come?”

Zita grinned. Aboard ship, she'd never quite shed her air of military discipline, but now she seemed more relaxed, a bit like a college student on vacation. “I could use a decent walk on land.”

Mervin didn't look as though he had much idea what to do with himself amid this sudden crowd. He hung to the rear, recalculating.

Mirelda, all smiles, led a spindle-limbed woman, with ink-smudged hands and a slight limp, toward them. “Cousin Sophie,” she said formally, “this is Autumn of the Spell.”

Sophie matched Zita's bow and said, “My friend, Cadet Judge Zita.”

Zita shot her a second surprised look and Sophie suppressed a smirk.
Of course I've picked up some Fleet etiquette.

Autumn returned their bow.

There was an air of expectation that suggested to Sophie that it fell to her to push the conversation along. She tried: “So, what brings you to Low Bann?”

“I come often to visit.” She gave Mirelda a warm smile, and Sophie saw a gap in her teeth, likewise marked with ink.

She chews her pen.

“Mirelda hopes to join the institute once she's married.”

“Nice,” Sophie said, liking the girl better for having a vocation.

“Shame she's dumber than a Haver,” Mervin muttered, too softly for Autumn to hear. Mirelda heard, though: a shock ran through her, making her curls bounce.

“We're off to explore the swamp,” Sophie said. “Maybe, Mirelda, you'd like to go with Autumn here? There's space in Cly's carriage. Is there a library in the house? You'd really help me out if you got Krispos reading indexes, directories, anything that offers an overview of local politics or science.”

“I'll find him something.” Mirelda scrambled aboard with her head raised, though she was blinking back tears. Krispos patted her hand.

Sophie looked at Mervin.

“Oh,” he said. “I'll stick with you.”

“Suddenly not so sure you're invited.”

“Stop me,” he said, sauntering back toward the swamp.

Autumn gave them a resigned shrug, then climbed back into her fabulous teacup, whirring up the drive. The wagon followed; Zita and Sophie started for the boardwalk.

“Cousins of yours, the girl said,” Zita said.

“Evil troll child, in Merv's case. He's hoping I'll see a spider and faint dead away.”

“I studied with a fellow like that.”

“It's good to see you.”

Zita's eyes—they were amber, almost as yellow as a wolf's—got wide. Sophie remembered, suddenly, that she was gay. “Not that I'm flirting.”

“Understood.” An easier smile. “Your Fleet cutter has been sighted en route here.”

“
Nightjar
?”

“They'll make port in a few days if—”

“If winds be fair?” The thought of getting back to
Nightjar
was like seeing the sun after weeks of cold and rain. “What a relief. I've done the birth registry, I've seen Low Bann. Now all that's left on that damn contract I signed is surviving this summer ball and seeing the Spellscrip Institute. Then I'm out of here.”

“I'm sorry it didn't work out,” Zita said, more formally.

That's right, she worships Cly.

“Sorry,” Sophie said. “You're in an awkward position with all this.”

Zita waved off the expression of concern as if it were a harmless insect. It was a gesture Sophie recognized—she'd picked it up from Cly.

The boardwalk led through a trimmed corridor of branches, carefully hedged and netted—because of the poisonous vipers, Sophie would have bet—and then out over a riparian strip leading to a circular, mirror-smooth pond. The grass ceded to muck under the boards, then to actual puddles pierced at the edges by needle-thin reeds. The water was alive with clouds of insects. No mosquitos, thankfully, but there were plenty of dragonflies darting about. The air thrummed with frogsong. Water skimmers swirled over the surface of the pond in packs, like kids skating. Sophie spotted a toad that was extinct in the wild at home and felt that ache again, that sense of having to choose between two lives.

She should be moving through this swamp a few square feet at a time, inventorying wildlife species, taking pictures and samples.

She thought of an otter-built raft she'd seen six month earlier, out in the ocean. Just one of who knew how many wonders waiting to be discovered.

The trees here were of a broadleaf species; their trunks were the same ash-colored hue as a bush she'd spotted on the road. Here at the trailhead, where the boardwalk skirted the lake, the trees were widely spaced. Managed, Sophie suspected. The leaf litter on the land side of the boardwalk was thick, wet, and sludgy. But some of the puddles in the muck around the lake—a few dozen of the hundreds visible from this vantage point—had been cleared of refuse. In each of these puddles one green leaf sat, centered in the shallow water, bowed upward like a little umbrella.

Sophie bent, carefully fishing up a sodden stick, discarding it and then finding a dry one.

“Want my sword?” Zita said.

“This'll do.” Using the stick, she lifted one of the umbrella leaves. It had been floored in a delicate web that held the water as she raised it. A dark green shape, eight-legged, many-eyed, stared back at her.

She raised the whole thing, setting it on the boardwalk, and took out her camera.

“The structure of the web makes both a floor and a float,” Sophie said, setting the camera, too, on the boardwalk floor and crouching down until she was almost on her belly to take the shots. “It sits below the surface of the water and the bugs skate in.”