Leximandra Reports (and other tales)
By
Charlotte E. English
Copyright 2011 by Charlotte E. English
Cover art copyright 2012 by Eva Strikkers
All rights reserved.
Smashwords Edition.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold.
This book includes four short stories featuring characters from the Draykon Series. An excerpt from the first full-length novel, Draykon, can be found at the end of the book. All of the stories are set shortly before the first novel begins.
Table of Contents
‘Great game! I should never have given up glowball.’ Pitren Warvel, the picture of youthful health and exuberance, slapped his quieter friend on the back.
Edwae Geslin’s answering smile was weak. ‘You’re only saying that because we won.’
‘That doesn’t hurt,’ Tren agreed with untouched cheer. ‘That’s your doing, of course. You were always the best at the Academy.’
‘Not at all,’ Ed demurred. Tren shook his head, smiling, but he didn’t argue. Ed was shorter then he was, his frame slight and not at all robust. Self-effacing by nature, he was inclined to interpret these physical characteristics as grave flaws; but glowball favoured those with agility, dexterity and strong sorcerous talent as much as those with brute strength, and in these areas Edwae excelled.
‘Come on,’ said Tren. ‘I’ve just got time to catch a bit of the next game, if we hurry.’
‘Oh? Someplace else to be?’ Ed followed as Tren made for the door, weaving his way through the untidy rows of glowball players still changing out of their games attire.
‘I’m on Cloak duty tonight,’ Tren said over his shoulder.
‘Oh? I thought it was Mern’s night?’
‘Had to go to the infirmary. I’m standing in for her.’ Stepping out into the air, Tren breathed deep. It was one of those crisp, fresh nights, invigoratingly clear. The moon, half full, hung low on the horizon. Tren took careful note of its position.
‘Nothing serious, I hope?’ Ed caught up again as Tren turned back towards the games fields. The sounds of the game carried far in the still air: a roar from the crowd followed by a burst of applause. Tren quickened his step.
‘She didn’t say,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘Didn’t seem troubled though.’
‘I’d have thought you would know.’ Ed cast him a meaningful glance.
‘Me? Why?’ Tren climbed up the back of the seating that ringed the field, perching himself at the top. Ed fell silent as he climbed up behind him, didn’t speak again until both were seated side-by-side, watching the game over the heads of the crowd.
‘You spend a lot of time together,’ Ed said at last, in a neutral voice.
‘Mern’s not interested in me,’ Tren said with some surprise. How had Ed got that idea?
‘Course she is, you great oaf.’
‘Rubbish. Oh, that’s Karan Reed,’ he added, his eye settling on a tall dark-haired girl standing out on the edges of the pitch. The two teams on the field were both of mixed gender; he recognised one as the current official team of Glour City’s Sorcery Academy, though he didn’t know the other.
‘She’s got the measure of the ball,’ Ed said. ‘Look at her go.’
Glowball was a sorcerer’s game. Somewhere out on the pitch was a single tiny light-globe, powered by sorcery. Its light came and went intermittently; when unlit, it was essentially invisible on the darkened field. The players had to use senses other than their eyes in order to predict the erratic path of the ball - and intercept it.
For a few seconds there had been that hush that fell when the unlit glowball evaded the efforts of both teams to locate it. The players came to a temporary halt, all thoughts and senses bent on discovering the ball. Then Karan Reed had begun to run; she leaped, just as the glowball flared into blazing life. Her fingers closed around it and she was away, sprinting for the scoring line at the end of the field. The other players charged after her, her own teammates defending her from the opposition’s attempts to tackle.
Tren held his breath as he watched her flying down the field. Three times she was nearly brought down; three times she twisted away with glorious agility and ran on. She made it; the crowd roared as she crossed the line, the glowball still blazing with light in her hands. Green light flashed over the pitch, signalling a point gained for the Academy Team.
Tren applauded with the rest of the spectators, whistling his appreciation. Karan Reed must be close to graduating; she’d be a fearsome sorceress once she finished her training. Probably she was already on the Chief Sorcerer’s recruitment list.
‘Crap,’ he said suddenly. ‘Time to go.’ The moon had slipped closer to the horizon, too close. He had less than half an hour to get to the Night Cloak Chamber. ‘You staying?’
‘Someone needs to stay and cheer on Reed,’ Ed replied. ‘On your behalf, naturally.’ He said it lightly, but something in his voice and manner sounded off. Tren paused. He’d frequently had the sense lately that Ed wasn’t quite himself, but his enquiries were typically brushed off.
He tried again anyway. ‘You okay, mate?’
Ed smiled briefly at him, but he didn’t quite meet his friend’s eye. ‘Course. Get along, will you? I don’t want the game ruined because you’re a lazy ass.’
‘Good point.’ Tren vaulted off his perch, landing with practiced ease.
He had to pass one of the city’s largest bulletin boards on his way out of the gaming fields. The thing was enormous, displaying its rotating schedule of images and articles at such size that one couldn’t help but be caught by it. Tren tried to avert his eyes as he approached, determined that this time he wouldn’t make an idiot of himself by looking for one particular face to flash up on the board.
Fate betrayed him. There she was already, almost as large as life. Lady Evastany Glostrum, pictured at some high society event. Her hair - the rare, true-white hue only occasionally seen among Glour’s citizens - was elaborately arranged and decked with jewels; her dress was velvet or something, dark red like blood. Tren stopped, all thought of the Night Cloak emptying out of his head.
He had never met Lady Glostrum in person. He was a powerful sorcerer and naturally therefore he had a good job, so he wasn’t poor by any means; but that didn’t come close to putting him on a level with the realm’s aristocrats. Maybe that was why she fascinated him. She was a popular figure, and chief of the realm’s Summoner organisation along with it; her image regularly appeared in the city’s bulletin news, and even more regularly in the gossip papers. He’d never seen her looking anything but perfectly composed, perfectly arranged and perfectly beautiful. Could she possibly be so glorious in person?
Doubtful, he told himself sternly. He allocated half a minute to absorbing this new image of her ladyship - he didn’t have time to read the article - and then he turned his head away and continued on. The Night Cloak wouldn’t wait any longer.
***
The Chamber was guarded, of course, but he’d been on this job for more than a year; they all knew him by now.
‘Mr Warvel,’ said Rhan Garrit with a nod. ‘Cutting it a bit fine today. Met someone?’
Tren responded to the teasing with a grin. ‘There’s a game in progress. Reed’s playing. You know how that goes.’
Garrit whistled as he unlocked the door. ‘Right enough. Go on through.’
‘Thanks,’ Tren said. He made his way through the building to the centre where the Chamber itself was situated. The room was a large, oval shape with a high, domed ceiling. It was not lit, except by the gentle glow of the realm map that was traced through the air near the floor. Tren stepped up to it, casting his eye over the familiar contours of the realm of Glour’s borders. He glanced up. The dome and most of the walls were clear, allowing him an unimpeded view of the night skies. The moon hovered close to the horizon, and the sky was turning paler.
Time, then.
Pausing to collect his thoughts, he took a few deep, slow breaths. When he felt properly centred and in control of himself, he began. He walked around the perimeter of the insubstantial map, his steps unerring though his eyes were closed: he saw the construct in his mind’s eye. He conjured shadows, dismissing all hints of light. Working fast and skilfully, he wove the darkness into a shroud, pulling it into place over the map. He felt the pull of energy as the wider enchantments mimicked his localised efforts, building a vast Night Cloak over the realm. It might be one of the most complex workings ever designed, but it was the work of a mere few minutes to put it into place.
He paused, gasping for breath, as the Night Cloak crept over Glour, blocking out all hint of light from moon and sun alike. He waited, willing it to move faster. It was imperative that the Cloak was in place before the sun rose; Glour was a Darklands province whose society and economy relied on the nocturnal plants and beasts imported from the ever-shadowed Lower Realms. An influx of strong sunlight would burn all that away - not to mention blinding the eyes of its night-loving citizens.
Serves me right for being distracted, he thought ruefully as the Cloak continued its agonisingly slow descent. He watched anxiously as the skies continued to lighten outside. It was Karan Reed that was the trouble; she was too absorbing to watch.
A small internal voice interrupted that train of thought. Was it fair to blame it all on the game? Had he not stopped again on his way out of the sports field, arrested by a mere bulletin board image?
That red gown... it was the red that had attracted his eye, definitely. A strong colour, difficult to overlook. Not really his fault. He laughed silently at his own attempts to excuse himself, relief flooding him as the Cloak’s activation sequence concluded and full darkness covered the realm.
Then he frowned, suffering a twinge of alarm. The darkness wasn’t as complete as it should have been; something pulsed oddly in his mind’s eye, some anomaly in the Cloak’s weave. He withdrew from his mind’s view, opening his eyes.
The Chamber was red. Dark red light stained the walls and floor, stained the white hands he raised in panic.
Looking up, he saw a dark red sky. Not the red of cherries or even of lip paint, but the sinister dark red of blood.
His heart sank as he realised. Red like Lady Glostrum’s gown. He’d allowed his thoughts to wander while he summoned the Cloak, and that was the image that his absurd mind had conjured for him. Dark red velvet.
He swore, letting several precious seconds pass by in blind panic. He’d turned the damned Night Cloak red! The whole bloody realm was swimming in blood-red light; not bright enough to damage anything, he hoped and prayed, but certainly wrong enough to be seriously alarming.
Crap, crap. He couldn’t strip the Cloak and start again; the sun was already shining through the red veil he’d drawn across the realm. Its light would only be thin yet, but he couldn’t risk it. Maybe he could darken the veil, work it steadily down into properly dark, colourless shadow. It would take a little time; he’d better get on with it before Lord Angstrun made it here and-
‘WARVEL! What in the bloody tarnation have you done to the Cloak?’
Tren shuddered. The Chief Sorcerer’s voice really did carry impressively.
‘Er,’ he stuttered. ‘Not quite sure, m’Lord.’ He tried not to look up as the imposingly tall figure of Lord Angstrun strode into the room, not caring to experience - again - the look of pure fury that no doubt dominated his boss’s face.
‘This better not be one of your pranks, Warvel! You’re causing a panic out there.’
‘Ah...’ Tren felt suddenly like laughing. Dark blood red! It wouldn’t take much superstition to believe that the world was ending. ‘Sorry, sir. It really wasn’t deliberate.’
Angstrun sighed. ‘Get out of the way.’
Tren scarpered gladly enough. He hovered out of the range of the map as Lord Angstrun fell into the working-trance. Whatever he did was effective: the alarming red light drained steadily away until normal Cloaked conditions returned. Tren allowed himself a small sigh of relief.
‘I’ll say,’ Angstrun snapped, turning suddenly. ‘If you weren’t such a damned good sorcerer I’d turf you out for that without a second thought. What exactly was going on in there?’ He jabbed a finger at Tren’s head.
‘Um...’ Tren hesitated. He could hardly explain, not without making himself look like even more of an idiot. ‘I don’t know, sir,’ he said lamely.
Angstrun rolled his eyes. ‘Right. How long is it since you took some time off?’
‘A while, my lord.’
‘I think you’d better do that, don’t you? I’ll schedule you out of the roster for the next seven days. Go rest up.’
‘Thank you, sir. And um, sorry.’ Tren exited quickly, before Angstrun could change his mind and decide to flay him or something.
He wasn’t quick enough. ‘Warvel.’
Tren turned back, heart pounding. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Couldn’t you have chosen a slightly less... doom-ridden colour? Did it have to be blood red?'
‘I fully concur that I could have chosen better, sir.’ He paused, hazarded a joke. ‘Would your lordship care to recommend an alternative?’
‘No, his lordship would not! Don’t let it happen again!’
‘Yes, sir.’
Tren was halfway down the corridor when Angstrun called after him.
‘Cerise, Warvel. Try cerise next time.’
Mr Trane Brysold slammed a newspaper down onto the desk, with enough force to make Leximandra jump.
‘Have you seen this?’ His voice was dangerously quiet.
‘Er, no, sir...’ Lexi’s words faltered. Marching across the front page was a stark headline.
Lady Glostrum’s New Flame
Lexi inched a little closer to the desk, her heart sinking. The smaller print of the article resolved itself before her apprehensive eyes.
The beautiful Lady Glostrum, ever the toast of Glour Society, was recently seen on the arm of none other than Lord Vale, Chief Investigator of the Realm. His Lordship has been heard to call his relationship with the Her Ladyship the High Summoner “very close”. Readers will remember Lady Glostrum’s recent interview with this paper, in which she implied that matrimony is on her agenda for the future. Has she selected Lord Vale as her future husband? We ask our readers’ patience while we endeavour to discover more about this exciting story.
Lexi swallowed. She could feel Brysold’s fury even without looking at him. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I tried my best, but it can be hard to...’
‘Apparently our competitors do not find it at all difficult! This is the third time this moon they have broken a story before we’ve even heard a whisper of it. This, Miss Greyne, is unacceptable.’
Lexi set her jaw and lifted her chin, meeting her employer’s eye squarely. ‘I’ll do better, sir, I promise.’
Brysold softened slightly. ‘You’d better, Lexi, or the paper’s in trouble.’
Lexi nodded. ‘What would you like me to do, sir?’
‘I need you to find out more about this story, urgently. We must get there before The Lady’s Daily.’
‘But, sir-’
‘I don’t care what you have to do, Lexi,’ Brysold interrupted her. ‘Get me something good!’
Lexi left Brysold’s office feeling glum. Her boss was tough on her, but he was the only person in Glour who’d been willing to employ a girl without the traditional complement of limbs. Born with one arm missing, Lexi hadn’t exactly been an attractive prospect to most of Glour’s employers. Brysold had given her a chance: she couldn’t let him down.
Besides, if the paper closed then her job would vanish with it.
Leaving Brysold’s office building, she stepped into a bustling street. The moon was setting over Glour City: the wakeful hours were drawing to a close, and the streets were full of citizens hurrying to finish the day’s tasks, or on their way to evening entertainments. It took Lexi some time to work her way from the fourteenth circle to the fifth where Lady Glostrum’s house was situated.
It was one of the richest areas of the city, and the house itself was fully worthy of its station. Four storeys tall, it was a handsome structure of fine grey stone, with enormous windows and an exquisitely grand doorway. Lexi stood outside it for some time, puzzling over her dilemma.
She was no good at her job, not really. As a reporter, she was far too diffident, too unsure of her welcome, too unwilling to pester. And pestering was exactly what she must now do. She would have to be pushy, refuse to be dismissed or discouraged, make a nuisance of herself. Not for the first time she wished that someone other than Brysold had been willing to give her a chance.
No matter. She would do as she must. Lifting her chin, she stared down Lady Glostrum’s house as if defying it to vanquish her. Then, with a deep breath, she approached that imposing portal and rang the bell.
After the briefest of intervals the door sailed smoothly open to reveal an elderly gentleman with terrific posture and the most perfect uniform Lexi had ever seen.
‘Er. I’m here to see Lady Glostrum.’ Lexi lifted her chin and tried to look confident.
‘Is her ladyship expecting you, miss?’ The butler’s voice was faintly rusty, as if he hadn’t used it in some time.
‘Er, no,’ Lexi replied, her composure floundering. ‘Not exactly. I mean, I’m here from The Society Week.’ The butler made no reply. ‘It’s a newspaper,’ Lexi explained hopefully. ‘Weekly articles on all the latest society news, with a fashion supplement once a moon.’
‘Her ladyship is not at home,’ the butler replied.
Lexi didn’t believe him. ‘Please. I really need to see her. My job depends on it. I won’t anger her, I promise! I just want to ask her a few questions.’
She thought she detected a slight softening of the man’s features, but he remained unmoved.
‘Her ladyship is not at home.’
‘Not even for five minutes?’
‘If you would care to leave your card, I will inform her ladyship that you called.’
Lexi stared at him helplessly. The likes of her didn’t carry calling cards! He knew that, of course. Her hope faded and she stepped back.
‘All right,’ she said tiredly. ‘Sorry to have bothered you.’ She trotted back down the steps and into the street.
When she was sure that the door had closed behind the butler, she stopped walking and took her image-capture device from her shoulder bag. It was a complex piece of machinery, brand new: its manufacturers were calling it The Depictioner, and the name had already become a byword among journalists. It was expensive. If she lost or damaged it, Brysold would have her head.
She shook off her short cape and sat cross-legged in the street. Balancing the Depictioner on her knee, she used her one arm to wrap it up carefully, binding it with ribbon. Surveying it critically, she had to admit that it did not look that much like a special delivery. But if she did not show it too closely to anyone, it would pass.
Gathering her resolution, she found her way around to the rear of the building and knocked at the much less imposing servants’ entrance.
The rear door was answered by an alarming young woman with a red face and a mass of frizzled black hair.
‘Yes?’ she snapped. Her eyes roamed over Lexi’s frame, and on seeing her missing arm the woman - undoubtedly a kitchen maid - sucked in a shocked breath.
Lexi felt herself becoming stubborn. At least the butler had had the decency to pretend he hadn’t noticed.
‘I’ve a delivery for her ladyship.’
‘Hand it over.’
Lexi stepped back a little, snatching her parcel out of reach. ‘Boss says I’m to deliver it into her ladyship’s own hands.’
‘He does, does he?’ The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Which delivery company are you from?’
‘Er...’ Lexi thought fast. ‘BPS. Brysold Parcel Service.’
‘Haven’t heard of it.’
‘That’s because it’s new.’
The woman shook her head. ‘I ‘aven’t got time for this, all right? Just hand it over and be on your way.’
Lexi sucked in a breath. She hated to do this, but... desperate measures were called for.
She adopted her pathetic face.
‘Please ma’am,’ she said in a pitiful voice. ‘I’m new on the job and Boss says if I get this one wrong I’m out. If that happens I’m on the street. Boss says to follow his instructions to the letter, or else.’
She was quite good at looking pathetic, all told. It wasn’t a tall order. She watched as the woman’s eyes travelled to her stump of an arm and back to her face.
‘Fine,’ she growled. ‘But make it quick. Stayne will conduct you upstairs.’
Stayne? Who was Stayne? She hoped it wasn’t the butler who had answered the front door to her, or she was in trouble. She waited nervously as the kitchen maid went out of the room. When the woman returned, she was followed by a different man - younger, though wearing a similar uniform to the butler’s. Probably a footman. Sighing inwardly in relief, she tried to smile as Stayne approached, hoping to reassure him that she wasn’t a threat.
Except I am, in a way.
Stayne merely eyed her, then turned and beckoned to her. Lexi followed him through the house and up an imposing staircase, trying to swallow away her nerves.
‘Are you sure you can’t entrust it to me?’ said Stayne, sounding bored.
Lexi shook her head vehemently. ‘Can’t. Boss’d kill me if he found out.’
‘Fine. Make it quick, though. I’m on door duty for the next half hour.’ He led her across the landing and stopped at a door which stood slightly ajar. Lexi could hear the sound of voices talking softly from the room beyond.
Stayne knocked and waited. No reply came. He was about to knock a second time when the front door bell rang.
Lexi hoped Stayne would leave immediately, but he didn’t. ‘Hurry up,’ he said coldly.
The bell rang again, long and loudly.
‘Someone’s in a hurry,’ she observed.
Stayne hovered for a moment, frozen with indecision. When the bell rang a third time, he made up his mind.
‘Wait here.’ He disappeared back downstairs, stepping smartly.
Lexi suffered a moment’s indecision herself. How to proceed? Should she look around the house, try to discover something interesting that way? Or should she appeal to her ladyship’s kindness and ask for an interview?
In the end she settled for something of both. Hastily unwrapping her “parcel” she extracted the Depictioner and slipped the strap around her neck. Grasping the thing like a shield, she tapped lightly on the door.
Still no answer came.
Lexi hovered, tapped again, waited. Nothing.
Stayne’s smart footsteps reached her ears. He was on the stairs. What should she do? Accept defeat and return another time?
No: not when her job was at stake. Lexi peeked inside.
The handsome and expensively-furnished drawing-room was empty, but set into the far wall was another door. She slipped silently across the room, took a breath to raise her courage, and opened this new door.
A short corridor lay behind, windowless and dark. Lexi stepped in and closed the drawing-room door behind her before Stayne could determine where she had gone. Pausing a moment to adjust to the nearly full darkness in the passageway, she cautiously groped her way through, keeping close to the wall. Night-eyes she might have, but even she needed some measure of light to see; it would never do to stumble here and alert someone to her presence.
The soft murmur of words spoken in low tones caught her attention and she stopped. To her left was a door she had almost missed. It stood slightly ajar; the voices were certainly coming from beyond it. She pushed lightly against it, hoping fervently that it wouldn’t creak. A few more inches of space was enough: she put her eye to the gap.
Her immediate instinct was to back away again.
Idiot, she told herself. This is what you came for!
She was looking at a sumptuous sitting room, softly lit with flickering glass light-globes hovering in corners and near the ceiling. Lady Glostrum was present, wearing a glorious off-shoulder gown of deep red velvet. Her pure white hair was uncharacteristically loose. Despite this state of partial undress, her ladyship had company.
Her guest’s picture had been displayed on the city bulletin boards last week; in fact several pictures had flashed past as part of a scrolling display of foreign officials gathering in the capital. Lexi couldn’t remember his name, but she knew his handsome face: he was the ambassador for Ullarn.
The realm of Ullarn was situated to the east and south. It was notoriously inhospitable territory, and the realm’s government was habitually suspicious. Few were suffered to visit, not even on official business. Instead they sent ambassadors and delegates out, and those ambassadors were - at least by report - prickly, stiff-necked, self-important people. Difficult to deal with.
Lady Glostrum seemed to be dealing with this one rather well. The ambassador was sitting on a low divan, his face in profile. Her ladyship was seated in his lap; as Lexi watched, she bent to kiss him.
Well, this would certainly thrill Brysold.
Lexi brought the Depictioner up and trained it on my lady and her unorthodox guest. She tensed, knowing that she would have to activate the device and then get out, quickly. The flash of light would instantly give away her presence. Her hands shook and she muffed the first attempt to take the picture.
Calm down, stupid.
Curses upon it all. How she hated this kind of work.
Her ladyship was talking, but she wasn’t speaking the official language of Glour. Lexi guessed that she was speaking Ullarni. The ambassador said something in reply as Lexi stood, trying to pull herself together.
Her finger tensed on the activation button. Light blazed, and she shut her eyes until it passed. Lexi held the thing still, knowing it required at least ten seconds to create a good image.
Lady Glostrum and the ambassador were instantly alert, both staring directly at Lexi with the Depictioner in her hand. Stored on that device was a picture that would scandalise the realm of Glour when it came out. Lexi backed away, trying to secure her device one-armed so she could run without dropping it.
The Ullarni ambassador was trying to rise, but her ladyship maintained her seat in his lap, holding him down, speaking rapidly. Lexi wished she could understand the words, but she didn’t wait to see more. When the Depictioner was safely stored under her good arm, she turned and fled.
Lexi was halfway across the drawing-room when Lady Glostrum’s slightly deep, cultured voice spoke a single word. ‘Stop.’
She had no particular intention of stopping, but the authority in her ladyship’s tone was hard to resist. Lexi’s pace slowed before she knew what she was doing; the delay was enough; a hand gripped her shoulder and forced her to turn. Trembling with fear - would she be arrested, thrown into prison? - Lexi made herself look up into Lady Glostrum’s face.
Her ladyship surveyed Lexi silently, taking in the device clutched under one arm and the absence of the opposite limb. Her face - as beautiful in person as people said - was impassive. Lexi couldn’t even tell if she was angry or not.
Stupid notion. Of course she was angry.
At last her ladyship spoke. ‘Who do you work for?’
‘Brysold’s Society Week,’ Lexi stammered. ‘Um, that is, your ladyship.’
‘And did Mr Brysold tell you to break into my house and spy upon me?’
Lexi gulped. ‘In a way but not - not exactly. Um, the paper isn’t doing well and he thinks I’ve failed as a reporter. He told me to get something new on you or - or he’d fire me. I’m so sorry but I was desperate. Nobody else would give me a chance with - with this -’ She shrugged the shoulder that didn’t end in an arm.
Lady Glostrum digested this for a few moments, her eyes impossible to read. ‘I can understand that,’ she said at last. ‘However, what you have happened to discover... you will be aware how delicate relations with Ullarn can be. It is the custom to treat Ullarni officials with great care.’
Lexi dipped her head in assent. ‘Y-yes, I know.’
‘You might guess, then, that the picture you have taken would not be viewed favourably by my colleagues in government. It is likely that the Ullarni government will not be impressed either. That image may do considerable damage, if it is printed.’
Lexi swallowed. That the likes of her held the power to affect the lives of nobles and officials was hard to grasp.
‘I am prepared to purchase the picture from you,’ continued her ladyship. ‘The sum will be generous, I assure you.’
Lexi considered for barely half a second before she shook her head. ‘It isn’t money I need, your ladyship. Not exactly. What would I do when it ran out? I need to keep my job.’
Lady Glostrum nodded. Lexi was startled to see a hint of something like apprehension - even fear - in her ladyship’s eyes.
‘Why would you do it?’ The question was blurted out before she could stop herself. She blushed mightily as her ladyship raised her perfect brows.
‘Why would I do what?’
‘Um - I meant - if it puts your reputation at risk, then why..?’
Lexi couldn’t form any more words under that imperious gaze, but apparently she’d said enough to make herself understood. Lady Glostrum sighed, and glanced briefly behind her. The room remained empty: the ambassador had not followed.
‘You may believe it or not as you wish, but even nobles and government ministers may have personal lives.’
Lexi ducked her head. ‘Of course, my lady.’
‘That’s not the whole reason, however.’ Her ladyship smiled slightly. ‘Prickly they may be, but the Ullarni are as human as the rest of us. It’s quite possible to forge close relations, if one is willing to hazard the attempt. But all that is officially required - or accepted - is a species of surface goodwill that means very little. The connections I am forging may one day be of use to our realm, but in the meantime... some of my methods would not, I think, be entirely understood.’
Lexi nodded hastily. ‘I didn’t mean to question you.’
‘Nonsense. Of course you did. But you weren’t wrong to ask.’ All trace of a smile vanished from her face. ‘I will not threaten you. If I cannot secure the picture by financial means, I must resort to simpler methods. You have asked something of me: now I am asking something in return. Mr Brysold must not receive that picture.’
Lexi hesitated, torn. She could grasp all too well the impact of publishing this picture, and she had no desire to damage this mysterious and mesmerising woman. But still, what could she do? She would not receive another chance to satisfy Brysold’s demand for news. She opened her mouth to reply, but the dry tones of the butler cut across the silence in her stead.
‘I must apologise for the young person, my lady. I had thought she had left the premises.’
Lady Glostrum smiled over Lexi’s head. ‘That’s quite all right, Beane. The young lady will be leaving now.’
The butler bowed frigidly to Lexi, his disapproving eye settling on the Depictioner. She allowed herself to be led away, casting a single glance back at Lady Glostrum. Her ladyship stood watching, her face once again a smooth mask. No hint of apprehension or entreaty could Lexi detect, but guilt gnawed at her anyway.
Lexi walked slowly back to her tiny home, her thoughts busy. Her decision was a hard one, but she knew she had no real choice. She struggled with herself for a time, then at last accepted the inevitable.
She developed the picture with painstaking care. It was a perfect, clear image. Brysold would be delighted with her.
With only one small, regretful sigh, Lexi lit a candle and held the beautiful picture over the flame. The fire ate it rapidly, destroying beyond retrieval the compromising image of Lady Glostrum and the ambassador from Ullarn.
***
‘What do you mean, nothing?!’
Brysold was, predictably, livid. He paced the cheap wooden boards that covered the floor of his office, setting them creaking under the force of his considerable weight. He was wearing his particularly dark frown, the one that promised dire consequences for somebody.
Lexi stood quietly before him, her chin held high, waiting in trembling anticipation as his fury washed over her. She had no doubt that she would be fired. She recognised that some of her boss’s anger came from desperation and anxiety over the paper’s future.
He would naturally have to stop humouring her. She was an inept reporter: they both knew it.
‘Get out of my sight,’ he said at last, having exhausted most of his rage.
‘Yes, sir,’ she said sadly. ‘Am I to return next week, sir?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
Lexi managed to nod. Her jaw was clenched so tightly against the tears that it hurt. She left Brysold’s office without disgracing herself further, and stumbled blindly home.
Five days had passed since her encounter with Lady Glostrum. She had not had the courage to return to her ladyship’s house and ask again for an interview: after her break-in and capture, she was far too ashamed. So she had taken to tailing some of Glour City’s other celebrated figures. Many pictures crowded her image device, but she had recorded nothing significant; nothing that every other paper in the city hadn’t already reported on.
Now she didn’t know what else to do. She had pursued every avenue that she could bear to explore, and nothing had borne fruit. She was simply too shy, too self-effacing, and - to be entirely honest about her profession - too morally upstanding to excel at this line of work. But where could she expect to find another job?
Lexi arrived home feeling so low in spirits she scarcely knew what to do with herself. She was ready to crawl into bed, pull the blankets over her head, and sleep for a week. Maybe for eternity.
But lying on the doormat was a letter. Picking it up, she was astonished to find a deep red waxen seal holding the folded paper secure. Only the highest echelons of society used seals in their correspondence. Who could Lexi expect it to be from, save Lady Glostrum?
For an instant she was frozen with fear. Perhaps her ladyship had changed her mind and set the Investigative Office on Lexi, and this letter was notification of it. Only, why would she then send a warning? Her heart beating hard, Lexi clumsily ripped the letter open.
For the attention of Leximandra Greyne,
I observe that a certain image has not been published in any paper or periodical in the last few days. This can only mean that you have kept it to yourself; otherwise I feel sure your employer would have wasted no time in using it.
Thank you.
By way of recompense I would like to give your paper the advantage of announcing my engagement to the world, but this must necessarily be left for the city’s central bulletin boards. Instead, I invite you to attend my house again this evening at the nineteenth hour of the day. Come prepared to record an interview.
E. Glostrum
The paper trembled in Lexi’s hand. Grabbing at the nearest chair, she dropped into it, her mind blank with disbelief. An interview? That was infinitely better than a mere picture; readers universally loved to hear about recent events in the protagonists’ own words. And none of the other society papers had published anything but speculation about Lady Glostrum’s possible marriage.
Perhaps her job was safe after all.
Sagging with relief, Lexi noticed with a start that the seventeenth hour was already past. Leaping up from the chair, she set about making her preparations.
***
The seventy-third issue of Brysold’s Society Week was sold out within hours. A large picture of Lady Glostrum and her betrothed, Chief Investigator Lord Vale, appeared on the front ; inside, the interview ran to four whole pages. Lady Glostrum had not stinted on her revelations to the paper. The interview bore a new byline: “Leximandra Reports”. That had been part of Lady Glostrum’s conditions for giving the interview. Lexi swelled with pride and excitement at seeing her name in print, for the very first time.
Brysold had waited only for the engagement to be announced by the city boards before he had published the much-anticipated issue of his paper. He had grumbled a little about the delay, but he knew as well as Lexi did that it was useless to complain. The bulletin boards were operated by the city council and they took to themselves the duty of breaking any news relevant to city business. The principles in this case were the High Summoner, leader of one of the realm’s two magical organisations, and the chief of the realm’s investigative force; as such, Brysold had been obliged to defer to the boards. But in the end this proved to be an advantage. As soon as the news had been announced, Glour’s interested citizens had gone straight to the nearest newspaper vendor and bought everything that promised more information.
Within days, two more popular society figures sought Leximandra Greyne to interview them for the paper. At least one was a known associate of Lady Glostrum’s: her ladyship’s help clearly extended beyond the confines of a single interview. Lexi may be no good at the clandestine style of reporting, but where she was invited and welcomed she excelled. It wasn’t long before “Leximandra Reports” took its place as the most popular society column in Glour.
The gwaystrel hung, upside down, in the folds of a voluminous skirt. With his webby wings clamped firmly around his furred body and all sounds muffled by the thick fabrics that surrounded him, he existed in a state of perfect repose, quite ready for sleep.
Until his host giant’s body shifted and began to descend in a manner that he recognised. The too-tall was sitting down.
A flash of brief panic. Which side am I on? Front or back? If too close to the rear side this fourteen-wing-spans-tall monstrosity will adhere me to the - a quick swivel of the head - hard surface rapidly approaching - evacuate -
The gwaystrel twisted his small body, opened his wings and darted out and away, just as the host giant merged its lumbering body with the thing it thought of as a chair.
Spitting with indignation, the gwaystrel circled the giant’s head, dragging his claws through her no-colour hair to pull strands of it loose. The host always hated that.
Good.
She made a noise of protest and swatted him away. Her mind touched his with a brief note of apology for almost sitting on him.
He ignored that. Swooping at the hand that tried to banish him, he bared his small but well-sharpened teeth and bit.
‘Eeaw,’ the giant said, or something of that sort. ‘Rikbeek!’
Rik-beek. He often heard those sounds, usually spoken in a manner rich with annoyance. Rik-beek. If it was supposed to be a name, it was a stupid one.
But at least her blood tasted good. He sampled a bit more, enjoying the musicality of her voice when she swore at him again. He’d chosen this particular too-tall because she smelled good, tasted good and sounded good. And she had such a succession of visitors; their blood never tasted as good as hers, but the flavours were varied and interesting. It was an endlessly renewing banquet, all for him.
A babble of sounds interrupted his reflections, rending his delicate ears. Testing the confines of his surroundings, he found that he was in a space, one of those too-big ones with a top on it. No access to sky. Many more too-talls streamed in, turning themselves into giants with chairs stuck on the back as his host had done. They brayed like worvilloes, their horrible sounds merging into an appalling cacophony that echoed painfully in his ears.
Meeting, his own too-tall told him in the silent way. Government.
Meeting-Government, he thought resentfully. Crush and noise. Babbling echoes. Mess of smells, danger of death. Stupid meeting. Stupid Government.
His too-tall host showed no signs of moving, so he flew up, over the heads of the babbling worvillo-imitators. A familiar whiff of scent reached him as he flew; he surveyed its source. Height: taller than the host giant, fifteen-and-one-half wing spans. This dark figure smelled of moonglow; his sounds were Ang-Strun.
This one had good blood too. The gwaystrel tasted it on his way past, nimbly dodged the resulting blow and hurled himself at the exit.
He passed through several rooms beyond, all full of too-talls, all reverberating with too much noise. Points of light streaked past his vision, searing his tiny, sensitive eyes. He careened onward, his mind a panicked blur of chaotic noise and lights and smells, until at last he reached somewhere new and everything faded into tranquillity.
This space was better.
Quiet. Dark. Not the thin stuff but real dark darkness, quiet quietness. Sleep!
He circled the room, seeking a suitable roost. His senses mapped the shapes of two too-talls lying horizontal on the floor.
Sleeping? This must be the sleeping-place.
Only the layout did not match his notion of the generality of too-tall sleeping places. There were no beds, no blankets. But there were desks, as big as the one his host giant used. More of the chair-things crouched behind them.
No matter. Suitable quiet-dark. Sleep.
He settled, snapping his wings shut around himself. Consciousness faded gradually...
Light seared through the comfortable cocoon of his webbed wings, hauling him out of slumber. He opened his wings and launched himself into the air, screaming his rage, arrowing at the source of the disturbance. He threw sounds at the thing, his large ears swivelling to catch the echoes. His mind built a picture of a too-tall, bending over the desk-thing. This one was careful in its movements, stealthy.
Doesn’t want to be discovered.
The intruder prowled through the contents of the desk, opening things and picking up pale, flat objects that rustled when they brushed against each other. Paper. The too-tall kept lifting its head, so its eyes would see if either of the two sleeping giants should wake. It had a nasty ball of light hovering near its face.
None of these activities justified the interruption.
Ruined my sleep. Stupid too-tall, too-fat, too-loud and too-bright.
The gwaystrel flew at the figure, teeth ready. He pierced the skin and blood flowed into his mouth.
Eurch. Tastes like crap.
He bit again anyway. He was hungry, now that he thought about it, and he might as well be recompensed for the loss of slumber. The too-tall ducked and moved away from the desk, flapping its hands at the gwaystrel. After another few bites the intruder began to make the harsh noises that indicated displeasure.
Good, he thought, and bit some more.
Rikbeek? His distant host giant’s words came to him in the silent way. He replied with fury, hurling at her an image of the skulking too-fat that had destroyed his rest.
He felt her approval before she withdrew. She applauded his torment? Betrayal! He would bite her extra hard when he saw her again.
In the meantime, this one had plenty of flesh left to puncture.
He drove the intruder before him, relishing the lumbering thing’s attempts to drive him off. But his entertainment was short-lived; several more giant-ones spilled into the room, his own nice-smelling host giant among them. They stopped and made some startled noises.
‘I don’t see anyone,’ said one of them.
‘Follow the gwaystrel, gentlemen,’ his host-giant replied. Rik-Beek had time for one last dive, one last bite, before the skulking one was grabbed and hauled away.
‘A spy,’ said one, shaking the intruder. ‘From?’
If the giant expected an answer, he didn’t get one. The skulker blessed the gwaystrel’s ears with beautiful silence.
‘Vale will get it out of you,’ the giant said. He sounded happy about it.
Rik-Beek hoped that this “getting it out of him” would hurt.
Some of the giants folded themselves over, peering at the horizontal ones. ‘One’s drugged,’ said one. ‘Other’s knocked out.’
This prompted some head-shaking and more of the harsh words. Then the talkative giant looked at his host.
‘Good work, Lady Glostrum. But, um, how did you know he was here?’
Glos-Trum. Yes, those were the sounds that went with his too-tall.
If that was a name, it was stupid too.
‘I had some help,’ she replied, pointing at him. Heads turned and bright eyes settled on the gwaystrel.
‘You wouldn’t care to sell him, I suppose?’
Glos-Trum laughed.
Sell. He knew that word. It meant to send something (him) away, replacing him with something more desirable (something that clinked and shone and that all the giants loved) in return.
Sell me? Sell me to some too-fat, too-stupid? He dived at her head.
‘No,’ she said to the other giant with a trace of regret. ‘I don’t think so.’
Rik-Beek bit her anyway.
The black-scaled drauk was at least twice the size of Sigwide, but the little grey orting wasn’t fazed. He squared off against his scaled and clawed opponent, growling deep in his small soft-furred chest.
The drauk ignored him. It continued its advance on the one remaining bokren bird, sending the dim-witted creature into a noisy panic. Irked by this lack of consideration, Sigwide gathered his round little body into a crouch and prepared to charge.
Ynara Sanfaer stood watching the development of this little three-way battle, suffering some indecision. Egora was one of a small flock of six bokren birds she had owned, the only one still living after a spate of drauk attacks. The bird was as dense as a stump, of course, but with her jaunty red feet and wings she was a rather attractive thing. And she laid wonderful eggs. Ynara would prefer not to lose her as well.
Sigwide, on the other hand, had been her daughter’s beloved pet for the last eleven years and was completely irreplaceable. And just now he was intent on impaling himself on the drauk’s spiked tail.
It wasn’t much of a choice. With a sigh, she stooped and scooped up the orting. Sigwide fought, as she had expected; she was obliged to use both hands to keep him from jumping free, and in that instant the drauk struck. The bokren squawked and struggled, feathers flying; then its neck snapped between the drauk’s strong jaws and it fell silent.
Ynara thought briefly about rescuing the corpse - at least the poor stupid beast would make good stew - but a glance at the drauk’s wicked claws changed her mind. Gripping the wildly struggling Sigwide a little harder, she opened her wings. With a small jump she was airborne and wending her way up to the top of the broad-capped glissenwol tree in which her family lived.
The house was built inside and around the trunk in a motley collection of wooden-walled rooms. A wide balcony hung near the top, sheltered and kept dry by the overarching glissenwol cap. Ynara landed here and stepped into the house, releasing Sigwide with some relief.
‘Ow,’ she muttered, inspecting the red scratches now striping the honey-brown hue of her skin.
She found her husband and daughter in the kitchen, sharing a bowl of tea. Sigwide ran straight to Llandry and climbed her leg, his fur bristling as he chattered out his rage. Llan’s eyes travelled from the enraged orting to Ynara herself, taking in the new wounds.
‘Don’t tell me,’ she said. ‘He still thinks he’s an orboe.’
Ynara dropped into a chair with a sigh. ‘He’d need to be at least that size to take on a drauk and win. But he keeps trying.’
Aysun grunted his disapproval. ‘Wild beast needs to learn manners. And sense.’
‘He’s all right, Pa,’ said Llandry, hugging Sigwide close. ‘He’s never seriously injured himself.’
‘Only other people,’ Aysun replied, casting a meaningful look at Ynara’s bleeding arms.
Llandry winced. ‘Sorry, Ma.’
Ynara shrugged. ‘They’ll heal. My poor Egora will not, however.’
‘Not only stupid, but wholly ineffectual as a guard as well,’ Aysun commented. At Llandry’s reproachful look, he softened the sting of his comment by reaching over and tickling the orting’s belly.
‘Your alarm device was wholly ineffectual, too,’ Ynara retorted.
‘Ah... it didn’t go off again?’
‘It did, but far too late. By the time I reached the ground, the drauk already had Egora cornered. I couldn’t have rescued her without getting sliced up by the thing myself.’
‘It’s meant to scare the thing away,’ Aysun muttered, his blond brows drawn together. ‘I’ll work on it.’
‘No. That’s enough. I can’t watch any more of my poor birds get butchered by the drauk population of Glinnery. As long as we live so close to the woods, it’ll always be a problem.’
‘You sure, Ma? If Pa built a cage, they’d be safe.’
‘And imprisoned. That’s no solution, love.’ Llandry’s face - so like her own, with her grey eyes, honey-coloured skin and dark black hair - was anxious and sad as she looked at her mother. She was a worrier, that girl, and seemed to feel every little hurt of her mother’s ten times over.
Ynara smiled reassuringly and squeezed Llandry’s hand. ‘It’s all right, love. I’ll miss the birds, but we can go back to getting our eggs from the market.’
Llandry nodded dubiously. She looked at her father. ‘I’m sure we could come up with something better. Right, Pa?’
Aysun looked straight at Ynara and grinned. It was one of those boyish grins, full of mischief and fun; it looked no less natural on his tanned and lined face than it had twenty years ago when they were both young.
It was the sort of grin that gave her mixed feelings. Anticipation, because it usually meant he was about to do something fiendishly clever and amusing. And trepidation, because sometimes his fiendishly clever plans went horribly awry.
‘Don’t get carried away,’ she said warningly. But the remarkably similar expressions on her husband and daughter’s faces told her the warning was futile.
***
A week later, Llandry sat in the tiny workshop she’d built in her own home, a few minutes’ flight from her mother’s house. Sigwide was asleep in his basket, for which she felt guiltily thankful. He could be tremendously disruptive when she was trying to work, but she always found it difficult to turn the loyal little beast away.
In her hands was a tiny round piece of black jet, matching several others that lay on her work bench. She had worked them into perfect spheres and polished them to a high shine. They now lay glinting darkly in the golden afternoon sunlight that streamed through her big windows.
‘A pile of eyes,’ she murmured to herself as her slender fingers worked away at the last stone. ‘How macabre.’
Sigwide stirred in his basket and chirped something. She often wished she could understand what he was saying; he so frequently sounded conversational. He’d learned some of her words: he responded with extreme excitement whenever anybody mentioned “food”, “nuts” or “fruit”. The fact that she couldn’t decipher even a single phrase of his made her feel dense.
She added the final piece of jet to the pile and inspected it with some satisfaction. She loved her work as a jeweller, but never more so than when she was crafting something for her mother. The claws and beaks were finished as well, worked in vividly red firestone. She’d carved each one with precision, making them as lifelike as possible. Now it was time to deliver them to her father.
She packed everything carefully into her belt pouch, then slung Sigwide’s carry pack across her shoulders. Once a grumbling Sigwide was safely tucked into the travel bag, she stepped out onto the wide ledge before her front door and unfurled her wings. Hers were pale grey, a hue she secretly found insipid next to her mother’s glorious dark blue.
But then, that was essentially true of every feature. Ynara glowed with health and beauty; Llandry only managed a faint sparkle once in a while, on her best days. The contrast regularly mortified her, but she was far too attached to her mother to mind.
Well. She didn’t mind that much.
She adopted a lazy pace, her wings beating powerfully but slowly as she soared over the clustered glissenwol caps of the city of Waeverleyne. She always flew high, enjoying the strong currents of air in the open skies. And the view was spectacular. The realm of Glinnery was always well-lit: when the sun set, the sorcerers drew a cloak of soft, artificial light over the realm’s woods and towns, feeding the needs of the light-hungry plants, beasts and machines that their society required. Waeverleyne, Glinnery’s capital city, reflected the perpetual light from its hundreds of bejewelled buildings, its narrow rivers and its pools of still, clear water, shining brilliantly even in the softer eventide hours. She made the journey slowly, taking in the view.
Her parents lived on the outskirts of the city, almost on the edge. The glissenwol wilds loomed in a colourful mass a half-mile or so to the east of their particularly tall tree. It had been a perfect place to grow up, for they had all the conveniences of the city within reach, and all the advantages of untamed nature a short flight away.
There were also downsides, of course, including regular visits from the vicious drauks that decimated Ynara’s poultry. Well. If she couldn’t have egg-laying birds, she could have an equally attractive substitute for her pretty red-winged birds.
Her father was at work in the rear garden when she arrived.
‘Is Mamma home?’ she asked as she landed lightly beside him.
‘She’s out,’ Aysun replied. ‘Council meeting.’
Llandry nodded. Ynara was an elected Elder of the realm of Glinnery, so she was frequently absent. That was convenient today.
She nodded and loosed Sigwide. ‘I finished the eyes.’
‘Great. There are three ready to fit.’ He waved a brown hand at a short row of small metal constructs, each one exactly as high as an average bokren bird. The machines had legs, wings and heads attached to their rounded bodies; all that remained were the details she’d created. She grinned her appreciation as she examined the metal birds. Her father was as much artist as engineer; these fabricated poultry were minutely detailed and, in their own way, quite beautiful.
‘Do they work?’ Llandry took up a cross-legged position next to her father and unpacked her bags of gems and tools. She began fitting eyes, claws and wing-tips to the first bird as her father worked at the manufacture of another.
‘Yep,’ he answered. ‘See this?’ He pointed to a thin strip of dark panelling that ran down the back of the bird she held. ‘Just needs a bit more light.’
‘You’re amazing, Pa.’ He flashed her a quick grin by way of an answer, still intent on fitting a wing onto the fourth metal bokren bird. She focused on her own task, and for a time they worked in silence. At last, when the sun was near to setting and the eventide hours of the Day Cloak were drawing in, the birds were ready. A row of six of them stood at Llandry’s left hand, all glittering with the coloured gems she had set into the metal.
‘Should be ready,’ Aysun said, getting to his feet. He walked up and down for a few moments, wincing. Llandry understood his discomfort as soon as she stood up; the hours of motionless activity had stolen most of the blood from her legs, and they prickled painfully as she moved.
Her father crouched down behind the row of bokrens and nudged one of them with his hand. It jerked forward, its wings flapping as its legs moved. Llandry could hear the whir of tiny gears inside the bird, maintaining the flow of movement. Soon all six were rattling around the garden, walking jerkily but steadily in circles. Llandry jumped as one of them opened its jewelled beak and emitted a squawk.
‘Reckon that’ll do nicely, don’t you?’ Aysun folded his arms, observing his creations with a pleased expression.
‘Reckon so,’ Llandry agreed. ‘Just one last thing.’ She dashed away to the old bokren pen and grabbed a few of the real birds’ nests. They even had a few feathers still clinging to the woven straw. She laid the nests around the garden, placing a few dark-shelled bokren eggs in each one.
‘Perfect,’ she beamed.
‘Think she’ll like them?’
Llandry considered that. ‘She’ll either love them or hate them,’ she decided. Her father just nodded glumly.
‘I’ll wait upstairs.’ He wandered off to the stairs and began to climb them slowly. Aysun was from the adjacent realm of Irbel, and lacked the wings that Llandry and her mother both bore. Llandry sometimes wondered if he felt like an outsider in Waeverleyne; few wingless humans lived there for more than a few moons at a time. But he’d never seemed dissatisfied to her.
She stooped to grab Sigwide before he could get his teeth around the leg of a downed metal bokren. ‘I’ll be up in a minute,’ she called.
***
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