Letter XVI (C.D. to F.M.)

My Dear Foofri,

I cannot believe that Sean denied you tea with the dashing, daring, single, and undoubtedly lonely officers of Fort Thunderhall. Even wearing his pants (Pants! It’s not that I’m opposed to the idea of unencumbered legs, but borrowed men’s pants are outside of enough), I have no doubt that you would have been extremely popular and would have collected enough swains to share with me. On both our behalfs, I am peeved. I wonder whether Sean’s reluctance to linger for tea has anything to do with his obvious dislike of Lt. Gavin Farnswell. I wish I could say that he was clearly infatuated with you and consumed by jealousy over the thought of you being admired by any other man, but I’m afraid that’s a little too Dorthwany Daily to be true. (Perhaps you could add it as an embellishment to your memoirs?) I suspect Sean and Gavin have a history, and I would dearly like to know what it is, particularly since we keep bumping into the latter. (Speaking of Gavin, did you see any sign of a scar or other trauma that might have caused his peculiar voice?) At any rate, when we travel the country as gypsies, I suggest that our route include the fort. (We will, of course, have packed our best non-gypsy dresses for the occasion.)

Blivius’s funeral and Damorin’s swearing in took place this afternoon without incident. I was allowed to attend and, surprisingly enough, without any obvious guard besides the presences of Jamin and Winterfast, one on either side. I am not quite certain how much Jamin has been told, but he stayed quite close all day. Occasionally inconvenient, but a decided improvement over pushy Justicum guards.

As we drove to the Justicum, I worried that the ceremony to come would remind me with painful vividness of the last funeral I attended. However, I realized as soon as I walked in that I needn’t have worried. The atmosphere was quite different from that which surrounded Grandfather’s passing—more formality and less feeling, if you understand what I mean. It is, of course, the first death of a Master during my lifetime that I have been old enough to be interested in. They held it in the old senate hall, where the Emperor gives his anniversary speeches. (And speaking of the Anniversary, would you believe that the ball completely slipped my mind until you mentioned it in your letter? I don’t know what I’m going to wear. Does it have to be black?) The room was packed with both civilians and magii, but fortunately Winterfast, as Sixth Skillhouse, had good seats reserved.

The funeral was held in the Great Hall, where the emperor gives his annual address to the council. The emperor and empress sat in the middle of the long dais, with the Board ranged on either side of them.

The atmosphere seemed rather less solemn than I would have expected, but I am belatedly realizing that Blivius was not well liked. A din of chatter filled the room, and the handkerchiefs on display were for display and not use. After we sat down, Winterfast had walked a short ways down the row to talk to an acquaintance, and as I settled into my seat I overheard a wisp of conversation from the row behind:

“For my part I’m not sorry he’s gone. The paranoid old coot thought everyone was after his precious research.”

“Maybe somebody was,” came the reply. “This is all awfully convenient for certain people.”

I was dying to turn around and see who it was, but by the time I figured out how to do it casually, they had stopped talking, and I couldn’t decide which of the faces in the row behind me belonged to the voices. I wonder who they think Blivius’s death benefits? Damorin, certainly, but who else?

The ceremony was extremely solemn with numerous tributes paid to Blivius. I’m afraid I kept wondering whether the eulogies were sincere. The only speech that wasn’t open to question was Master Lastra’s recitation of Blivius’s accomplishments in the council, and that was dry instead. I’m almost positive I saw His Imperial Majesty dozing off. After the ceremony was over, Lastra transported the coffin into the catacomb beneath the Justicum, and then it was time for Damorin to be sworn in. Technically, of course, he took the oaths as soon as they discovered Blivius’s body, since the Board can’t be a member short.

Because was the first funeral of a Master I’d attended, it was my first Board installation as well. Given the council’s penchant for elaborate ceremony, it was a surprisingly simple process. Lastra stood in the middle of the dais, facing the magii side of the room. “One of our brethren has departed from us and left an empty chair,” he said. “Is it the will of the Council that this chair be filled?”

“It is,” we all replied (as per the bolded script in our programs. I’m not sure what would have happened if someone had added a ‘not’).

“The Board has chosen one to fill the place Master Blivius has left empty,” Lastra replied.

Damorin mounted the dais, without his robe.

“This is the one the Board has chosen. Is it the will of the council to accept the wisdom of the Masters?”

Once again we obediently answered, “It is.”

Damorin knelt first before Lastra and swore the oath of Mastership and then before the Emperor and swore undying fealty to the Realm. Lastra draped the shimmering robe over his shoulders, the empress came forward to wind the sash, and that was it.

As soon as the party on the dais had exited, the rest of us were allowed to leave. Winterfast got cornered by an acquaintance near the entrance, so I went ahead to find Jamin, who had had to sit in the civilian section. The herd had entirely blocked up the closest route to the main council chamber, where the buffet waited, so I decided to take the back corridors to the chamber and hopefully be able to snag Jamin when he finally pushed his way through.

Other than the occasional caterer, the back corridors were deserted, and I could move quickly. I was nearly there, when something snapped underneath my foot. The next moment, I was slammed against the wall, while one of the iron chandeliers that hang low over the corridors smashed into the marble just over my head. It actually snagged my hat right off my head and crushed it against the wall! (Which, in hindsight, annoys me considerably. I liked that hat.)

Two guards came out of nowhere and ran toward me. One of them pulled me away from underneath the chandelier (which had actually spiked itself into the wall), while the other threw up a stability spell.

“I’m fine,” I protested, pulling my arm away. “The maintenance magii have been getting very sloppy.”

They apologized profusely, promised to report it, and offered to escort me to the council chamber. I refused, of course, and made it there without further mishap.

I admit I felt a little shaken by the incident (it’s not every day one nearly has one’s skull crushed by a light fixture), but not truly frightened. Of course, all of the warning’s I’d been getting flew through my mind, but I had to dismiss them. It’s impossible that someone should have attacked me in the middle of Justicum, a building bustling with guards and security wards at ordinary times, and just then filled with the entire council. Still, I suppose I might have been a bit pale when I finally made it to the buffet table and started looking for Jamin.

Damorin was already there, greeting well wishers. Lady Ardaya stood by his side, and if she’d looked any more smug, the feathers would have been sticking out of her mouth instead of her hat. The princess was holding onto Lady Ardaya’s arm, making cow eyes at Damorin whenever he had a free moment. Taken altogether, this revolting scene did a good deal to snap me out of whatever remained of my shock.

I was just stacking a plate with pastries to further fortify myself after my scare, when I happened to glance up and spy...your father!

He was standing alone, watching the champagne bubbles rise in his glass. “Uncle Alain!” I cried. He turned and smiled. “Well if it isn’t my favorite niece! And looking as disheveled as I remember her at six.”

“I’m your only niece,” I reminded him, one hand flying to uselessly pat at my hair, while my other hand tried to balance my plate.

He looked at my selections with amusement. “Enjoying yourself, Cordy?”

“Enjoying myself at a funeral? How morbid you must think me, Uncle.” I gave up on my hair and bit with relish into a munch. Then, watching his expression carefully, I asked, “Is Foofri here with you? I haven’t seen her in forever!”

He seemed just the slightest bit uneasy as he replied, “No, I’m afraid I’m here by myself.”

“How is she? Have you brought me a letter? I haven’t received any letters from Seven Oaks recently.” (This, as you know, was a thoroughly true statement.)

His uneasiness grew more pronounced. “Foofri’s doing very well. She wishes she could be with you of course, but I felt it was better that she remain where she is. But I am certain she will enclose a letter for you in her next note to me.” So do not be surprised if Sean suddenly asks you to write me a bright little uninformative missive in the near future.

“Yes,” I murmured with an understanding and slightly tragic air, “I am certain you wish to keep her far away from this unpleasantness.”

Uncle patted my shoulder rather clumsily. “There, there Cordy, I am certain this will all resolve itself in no time.” I smiled bravely at him and bit into another munch.

The next moment Winterfast appeared. Apparently, he’s met your father somewhere, because he greeted him as a very slight acquaintance. “Ah yes, Mr. Montphish, isn’t it?”

Uncle bowed politely. “Magi Winterfast. I understand that you are sheltering my niece during this uncertain time. I thank you.” I suddenly wondered just how much Winterfast knew, and whether he could tell me about more than the Stones, if he so chose.

“Magi Winterfast, I trust you are doing well?” I started in surprise at the sound of Damorin’s voice. He had managed to shake off both the princess and his mother and was greeting Winterfast with great cordiality.

“Damorin, my boy, congratulations,” Winterfast said, clapping Damorin familiarly on the shoulder. I suppose being old enough to be his grandfather and being in semi-retirement gives Winterfast certain privileges. “The robes of Mastership sit well on you, and certainly no one deserves them more.”

“Thank you, Magi.” There was no hint of satire in Damorin’s expression as he continued, “And will you be so kind as to present me to this gentleman?”

“Mr. Alain Montphish, honest merchant and Cordelimaera’s uncle.”

Uncle bowed deeply, “I am honored, Master.”

“A pleasure, Mr. Montphish.” They shook hands, and anyone not privy to the facts would have supposed them to be perfect strangers. I could feel the expression on my face slipping toward sardonic, so I pretended to be very busy choosing between strawberry and cream filled munches.

Fortunately, I hadn’t put one in my mouth, when Damorin turned his attention to me. “Magi Cordelimaera, I trust I find you well?”

“I’ve recovered from my cold, thank you,” I said politely. “Congratulations on attaining Mastership.”

“Thank you,” he said, and began, “I—”

A hand reached over my shoulder and snatched the last of my strawberry munches. “They were all gone by the time I got to the table,” Jamin said, grinning down at me. “What happened to you? You look like a mangy larat.”

“I do not,” I replied, cross with Jamin for presuming to comment on my appearance in front of everybody. I wasn’t any better pleased, when he reached to smooth down my hair, but failed to duck in time.

His smile abruptly transformed into horror. “Maera, you’re bleeding!”

I stared at the sticky redness on his fingers, and suddenly realized that my head hurt. “Bother!” I exclaimed, very put out.

Uncle immediately took my arm, and Winterfast crowded around to my other side. With Jamin still standing behind me, I was positively hemmed in. And even though Damorin wasn’t touching me, he was the one whose unspoken question I felt compelled to answer.

“It was nothing,” I snapped. “Just a silly accident. One of the light fixtures came loose, and the guards have already reported it.”

Damorin looked at Winterfast. “Take her home,” he ordered.

“I don’t want to go home!” I protested. “I … I need to speak with Lady Lucinda.” I did, to tell her my dressing gown hat idea.

“Now,” Damorin said, still looking at Winterfast.

“You should rest, my dear,” Winterfast conceded. “Poor child, what a dreadful accident.” And he and Uncle hustled me straight out of the council chamber toward the exit.

I fumed all the way back to Winterfast, where I came straight up to my room for some peace. The scratch on my head is tiny – it took about two seconds to heal – so I have been fighting off the urge to sulk by writing to you.

I’m more determined than ever to get my hands on the Stones, so that I can become something more than a pawn in this game. Your idea about swiping the Stones when I go in to pick out my jewels is perfect. I’m certain I can manage a diversion if needed (after all, I learned everything I know about telling wild stories from you, dear).

Speaking of the ball, I shall have to visit Madame Shachter tomorrow, and beg her on bended knee to enchant an evening gown for me. Do you think it has to be black? I’m so TIRED of black.

I suppose you are well on your way to the Shazar pass by now. (And speaking of, Foofri, how will you ever manage without any magic at all?! I still remember with shuddering clarity the time you misplaced your comb just before the end-of-school banquet and in desperation borrowed a non-enchanted one to put up your hair. We were up until dawn cutting the knots out.) At least you’re much too far away from home to be frog marched back by guards. Take care and write back soon.

Ever Affectionately,
Cordy

P.S. Please send any particulars you want me to mention when I talk to Madame Dorthwany about your memoirs. Would you like me to keep your identity anonymous?

P.P.S. The Muse has very indignantly told me that he does not read our correspondence. Clearly, he doth protest too much.