The Assassins of Tamurin (10 page)

We rarely talked about Nilang, however, and then only in undertones. A real sorcerer is not like your neighborhood spirit summoner, who consults spirits on behalf of people afflicted with illnesses, evil dreams, or possession by ghosts. Despite the name, a summoner has only a suppliant’s status in the Quiet World and must humbly ask for help rather than command it. But a sorcerer is different, for where a summoner must petition, a sorcerer can compel—although exercising such compulsion can be a very perilous undertaking indeed.

Consequently, while everybody gossips about a sum-moner’s doings, there is little such prattle about sorcerers. Idle talk might invite their attention, and that is an interest that only a fool would welcome. Not that most self-styled sorcerers were as dangerous as they made themselves out to be. Even the ones who served Despots were often no more than convincing charlatans, and equally often were merely people with a tiny occult ability who knew how to make it appear a huge one. But, as I was later to discover, Nilang was one of the very few whose talent was real, significant, and skillfully used.

I first met her in midsummer, about three months after my arrival at Repose. We had one half day in every hand that was free of schoolwork, and Dilara and I were in the courtyard between the classroom wing and the refectory. We were making a kite to fly from the fortress’s ramparts, where a brisk wind always blew from the sea. I was busy with a glue pot when a young man in the green-and-silver livery of the palace staff appeared. He looked me up and down and asked if I were Lale.

“Why?” I asked, impudent as ever. “Who are you?”

“Feras the undermessenger,” he said. “You have to come with me.”

I showed him the glue pot. “See, I’m busy.”

“The Despotana says you are to come,” he told me with a frown. I instantly handed the pot to Dilara and followed him.

I had not yet been inside the palace, but that was where we were going. Its five stories of gray stone rose far above me, all its shutters and lattices thrown wide because of the heat. Above the roof the heron banners coiled lazily in the sea wind, and the gilding at the eaves glearned as yellow as the sun. The courtyard smelled, as it always did in summer, of dust and warm stone and flowers.

We ascended the seven broad steps to the porch; the big lacquered doors to the interior stood open. I peered around, and as my eyes adjusted to the dimness I saw a long room with carved and padded benches arranged along its walls. Several doors led off the hall, and from its far end rose a staircase.

“We go up,” Feras said, and led me toward the stairs.

“What does she want?” I asked, in a half whisper, because the palace was so silent.

“She didn’t tell me,” he said. “Save your breath—it’s a long climb.”

It was, because we went all the way to the top. Long straight corridors, paneled in dark wood below cream-colored plaster, opened off the stair landings, lit dimly by windows at their far ends. Beginning at the third floor, these had clear glass in their lattices. I marveled at this, for in those days even the thick, whorled windowpanes that you could barely see through were very expensive.

On the fifth floor the staircase ended, and we went along a corridor to a door painted with reeds and blue swallows. I could smell incense, and under it drifted the burnt-leaf scent of sweetcup smoke. I knew the latter smell because some of the Riversong villagers had used the drug.

Feras stopped at the door and tapped on it. A woman’s voice, not Mother’s, said, “Enter.”

Feras gingerly lifted the latch and eased the door open. Then he grabbed me by the elbow and pushed me through the gap. The door thumped shut behind me.

I found myself in a light, airy room at a comer of the building. The walls were painted with the most wonderful landscapes, and in them were birds and animals such as I’d never imagined. A wooden chest stood under a window, and in the center of the room was a low table of blue and white marble. Four straw mats and some kneeling cushions were arranged on the floor around it.

But all this held my attention for only a heartbeat, for a woman was sitting by the table, cross-legged on one of the mats. She was as small as Mother and near Mother’s age. At first glance she could have been an Erallu woman, except that her eyes were not narrow and black. Instead, they were big and round and of an intense sky blue, their color a startling contrast to the bronze of her skin. Nor did she wear Erallu hair rings; instead, her black hair was coiled high on her head and fixed there with silver combs. Her face was triangular, with a wide forehead, high cheekbones, and a pointed chin.

I bowed with the fingertips of my left hand at my throat, as the Tradition Tutoress had drummed into us. The woman on the mat fixed those enormous azure eyes on mine, and I felt a quiver of apprehension. She seemed to be seeing all the way to the back of my head.

“I’m Nilang,” she said. “You’re Lale.”

“Yes, mistress,” I squeaked. The sorceress’s voice was high and brittle, not pleasant on the ear. Her words were accented, too, just at the edges. But even in my unease I was puzzled. If this was where a sorceress lived, where were her books, her bottles of weird substances, her arcane instruments? Even an everyday spirit summoner owned such things. I decided they must be in the wooden chest under the window.

“Sit,” she instructed, pointing at the mat on the opposite side of the table. I edged across the polished floor and obeyed, covertly examining her clothes as I did so. Instead of the customary skirt and bodice she wore a loose, high-collared robe, in vibrant hues of orange and indigo, woven of the finest gossamin. Her small slender feet, peeping from beneath its hem, were bare, and her toenails were painted gold. I nervously wondered where Mother was, and hoped she’d put in an appearance.

Nilang stared at me and then reached across the table to touch my forehead with a warm fingertip. I flinched slightly and she withdrew her hand.

“Do you think I’ll hurt you?”

“No, lady mistress.” I lowered my gaze to the table, on which stood a blue porcelain jug and two matching cups, and beside these a bronze incense burner. A silver pipe sat on a wooden rest beside the burner; it had a long stem and a small bowl, and from the bowl wafted a tiny thread of smoke that carried the scent of sweetcup.

Nilang picked up the pipe and drew on it thoughtfully. Then she exhaled and replaced the pipe in its rest. The tendril of smoke wavered and vanished as the drug burned out. “Are you afraid of me because I’m a sorceress?”

Unlike the villagers I’d seen smoking sweetcup, she didn’t look as if her mind had gone somewhere else. She was very much
here,
and her blue gaze bored into me. Under that scrutiny, any thought of lying fled.

“Yes, lady mistress,” I told her, from a dry mouth.

“You don’t need to be afraid. You’re under
her
protection. Therefore you’re under mine. Do you understand?”

“Yes, lady mistress.” I hated sounding like an imbecile who had only three words in her head, but what else was I to say?

“It’s a hot day,” she observed. “I want to talk to you, but first we must drink to keep off the heat. Here.”

She poured for me from the blue jug. It contained fruit juice—citrine by the color and fragrance. I took the cup and waited politely while she poured her own. Then we both drank. The juice was cool and I was thirsty, and I finished it more quickly than the Tradition Tutoress would have liked. It was delicious, not just citrine but something else, a hint of peach perhaps. Nilang gave me more, and this time I sipped.

She began asking me questions. Not difficult ones, just about Riversong and my life there. When I told her how I’d left, she seemed amused and said, “I see that the Despotana hasn’t misjudged you.”

This was gratifying, although I was becoming terribly sleepy and was finding it hard to follow the conversation. My voice didn’t seem as if it really belonged to me. Oddly, I wasn’t troubled by this; in fact it seemed rather amusing, and I giggled, which I realized vaguely was very rude. But I was
so
sleepy.... I wondered if Nilang would mind me curling up and dozing for a while.

The wish somehow transformed itself into the deed, with me lying on my side on the mat, a cushion under my cheek. Nilang was still murmuring to me, but I didn’t pay much attention to her, because I was so interested in what I was seeing. The room was still there, but the painted landscapes on its walls had become perfectly real, and I knew beyond a doubt that if I stood up and approached them, I would find myself among those mountains, clouds, and marvelous animals.

After a while, they became translucent and then diminished into swirls of blurry colors. Then, for some reason, it seemed a very good idea to think about the other me, the girl I’d always imagined as living in a rich household with a handsome, powerful father and a beautiful, wise mother. So I did, and the house and my parents were very clear and vivid, just as if I were really there. And as I wandered through the halls and cool shaded rooms, I was faintly aware that I was talking about what I was seeing, that Nilang was whispering questions and I was answering them. I wondered why she was doing this, but it didn’t upset or annoy me, because I liked talking about this wonderful place I was in.

But little by little it faded as my drowsiness grew deeper, and little by little I drifted away ft-om the vision, and as I did so I heard Mother’s voice. But I couldn’t understand what she was saying. I tried to speak to her and ask her what she wanted—and why she was with me and Nilang—but my tongue would not obey me. And then my eyes closed, or perhaps they were closed already, and I fell asleep.

When I woke, the light showed it was late aftemoon. I was still in Nilang’s room, but now I lay on a soft sleeping pallet with a gauzy coverlet over me. I was thirsty and I had a slight headache, but otherwise felt rested and refreshed.

I tumed my head and there was Nilang, still cross-legged at the table, writing on a sheet of paper. She looked up as I moved and gazed at me attentively.

I suddenly realized that I had committed a dire breach of etiquette. “Mistress,” I said around a sticky tongue, “forgive me. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I—”

Nilang held up a small hand. “Too much sun,” she said. “It can take one without warning. The best thing is to drink water and rest. Here.”

She took the goblet that stood by her elbow and gave it to me. I drank the contents quickly, being much too parched to sip in a ladylike manner. As I handed it back, memory flickered.

“Yes?” Nilang asked. “What is it you’re thinking?”

“I was dreaming,” I said slowly. “About a house and ...” I stopped. I had never shared my imaginary life with anyone, not even Dilara.

“They were very clear dreams?”

“I think so.” Now I remembered that Nilang had been whispering to me. Or had I dreamed that as well? And had Mother been with her? “Were you and the Despotana ...” I ventured.

“Yes?”

I suddenly lost interest in the subject. It wasn’t that I was reluctant to think about what had happened, I just couldn’t be bothered. It wasn’t important enough to think about. What was important was to go back to Dilara and get on with the kite, so we could finish it before dark.

“Nothing,” I said. “Please excuse my discourtesy, mistress.”

“Too much sun often causes vivid and unsettling dreams,” she told me. “If you experience them again, ask to see me. Are you feeling well enough to go back to the school?”

“Yes, lady mistress.”

“Come with me,” she said, getting to her feet, “and I’ll take you down.”

She left me at the palace’s main door, and I made my way back to the courtyard. It was empty now, except for Dilara and Sulen. To my annoyance and disappointment, Dilara had almost finished the kite, and Sulen was helping her attach the harness.

“Where have you been?" Dilara demanded as I came up. “We were afraid you were in some awful trouble with Mother.”

She sounded so worried that I instantly forgave her for going ahead without me. I said, “Nilang wanted to talk to me.”

Their eyes got big. “What about?” Sulen asked.

“She wanted to know about Riversong,” I said. ‘Then I got sleepy and she let me have a nap. Then she sent me back here.”

“That's
all?"
Dilara said. Clearly, she’d hoped for something more alarming and interesting—Nilang changing me into a bird, for example, and letting me fly around the palace until she changed me back.

But was there more? Yes, the dreams. But thinking about them seemed more trouble than it was worth. The memories of them kept flickering out of my reach, as if they were small silver fish that eluded my fingers even as I touched them.

“That’s all,” I said. “She looks like an Erallu, except she’s got blue eyes.”

“Why did she want to know about Riversong? She never asked me or Sulen where we came from.”

“I don’t know. Maybe she was just curious about the south.”

“Maybe.” Dilara hefted the kite, resplendent in its scarlet paper. “Do you think the glue’s dry? Maybe we can get this thing into the air before supper.”

Mother herself gave us our history lessons. During the next couple of years I discovered that I liked learning about history, even when we studied from such dull classical works as the
Historical Mirror of the Empire
or
Annals of the Commonwealth.