Читать книгу Mage Heart - Jane Routley - Страница 5

A courtesan living quietly with a woman companion. How did that look? I imagined a florid mansion, full of red velvet and silk and huge gilt mirrors, cacophonous with the secretive sounds of lovemaking; grunts and groans. And creaking bedsprings. A dirty place, full of the close, fishy smell of women's private parts and the servants an ugly, grubby pack of individuals. Millie, our housekeeper back in Moria, used to be full of stories about the scandalous lifestyles of fallen women. Though, come to think of it, she'd been a bit short on details.

In fact, from the outside, Madame Avignon's house looked quite innocent. In a respectable part of town, across from the park, a quiet area full of big leafy trees, it was a graceful white house, quite plain on the outside except for black wrought-iron lace, sticking up like a crown around its grey slate roof. How appropriate for a Ducal mistress I thought.

The house was protected by a heavy stone wall topped with black iron spikes, but the green shutters on the big windows gave it a pleasant, homey appearance, and there were pots of early daffodils on the front steps.

The door was answered by an immaculately dressed butler. There was nothing smarmy or knowing about his manner or that of the neat woman who met me in the front hall and proclaimed herself to be Madame Donati, the housekeeper. They seemed ... nice. Clean.

The housekeeper explained the security arrangements, showed me how to open outside windows without setting off the warding spells placed on them, and even introduced me to the two guards who were patrolling the ground floor. I had to admit it put my mind to rest. Maybe I had done the right thing. Even I could see how much easier this house would be to guard than the college, which was a huge building with many doors.

There was not even a single scrap of red silk inside that house; at least not in the rooms I was shown. Instead it was full of softly polished wood, warm fabrics, bowls of hothouse fruit and roses and the scent of lemon. Carpets from the West lay like warm, jeweled mosaics on the shining floor. Some dark red velvet was used to upholster a graceful set of gilt chairs in the drawing room. But they did not seem the right shape for the receiving of lovers. Everything was so beautiful, so delicate and comfortable, so unbelievably clean; untainted by the woman who lived here. It looked like the house of a wealthy aristocrat. I picked an apple out of a bowl, expecting it to be rotten on the inside or to have a bite taken out of it, but it was perfect, glowing red, smelling deliciously of sweet apple.

Sin, I reflected, was subtler than I had thought.

Later the housekeeper took me to my room - an attic room with a sloping ceiling, much bigger than my room back at the college. My things, a bag of clothes and case of books, which had overcrowded my college room made a dusty little pile on the blue rug. Standing in one corner, almost like a symbol of maturity, was the large Gallian magic mirror that I had inherited from Michael, and which had been lying in storage since his death.

There was a wide bed covered in a soft, pink quilt, a worktable by the window, even two comfortable chairs. And a little blue-and-white-tiled stove in the corner made the room so warm. I remembered how clammy the rooms at the college had been, especially in winter, and how they had smelled of unwashed students and old, old dust. This room smelled faintly of lavender. Despite my mistrust, I felt something inside me uncurl and relax, especially after I saw that there was a lock on the door and a key in the lock.

After the housekeeper had gone, I let myself go. I ran my hand across the smooth fabric of the quilt, inhaled the lavender smell of the sheets, took off my shoes and wriggled my toes into the thick pile of the rug. This room was positively luxurious. And so pretty. I had never lived anywhere so pretty before.

I drew aside the fine, white curtain and opened the window. I was high above the ground, so high that I could see the tower of the cathedral and the spires of the city through the trees. I could almost imagine myself up in a castle like a princess. I could see now that the wrought-iron lace around the roof made it very hard for anyone to climb up to my window. I leaned against the windowsill for some time, dreaming and feeling the cool evening breeze blowing on my face, till the soft chiming of bells made me jump. It was quarter to eight by the cathedral clock.

I scrabbled round in my luggage for the magical apparatus. Praise God it was all there. Hastily I set up the candlestands and drew out the chalk symbols, smudging them in my hurry. I cursed myself for having left it all so late. I could imagine what Michael would have said to my dreaming instead of setting up the spell. Magery is an ascetic art. As Michael was always pointing out, a mage cannot afford to become too involved in his surroundings lest he be distracted by them. It seemed as though I had just proved this point. Seduced by the luxury of my new room, I had almost forgotten about the ritual. I resolved to be more on my guard.

After the incantation, I sat on my bed wondering what to do next. It was way past my dinnertime, and I was hungry. At this time of night the corridor outside my room would be echoing with the sounds of students coming back from dinner, sounds that had always made me feel so lonely. Here all was still. The silence wasn't much better than the noise had been. I was just trying to get up the courage to ring the bell for a servant when there was a knock on the door.

It was a crisp little woman dressed in the brown robes of a healer. She held out her hand and I shook it, a little mystified. It was a small hand, but surprisingly hard and callused.

"I'm Genevieve Appellez, Madame Avignon's personal healer. She sent me to welcome you to her house. She apologizes for not being here herself. She attends upon the Duke most evenings."

This, then, must be Madame Avignon's woman companion. I had not heard she was a healer. Oh dear. Here was trouble. Mages and healers traditionally got along very badly. She looked very serious, in the way healers always did. Her light brown hair was scraped severely back from her thin face under the usual brown cap. I was sure her hair never escaped in little wisps like mine did. She didn't look the type. Her face was quiet and watchful, not unfriendly, but her quick definite movements suggested a forceful personality. She was the sort of person who was certain to disapprove of me. Michael's housekeeper had been just such a one. The best way to deal with such people was to avoid them.

I bobbed my head awkwardly and murmured my thanks.

"May I come in?"

I nodded.

"Do you like the room? Do you have everything you need?" She looked about her with sharp eyes as I mumbled my thanks.

"So this is the protection spell," she said, going over to the table. "Do the candles have to be constantly alight?"

"No," I said. "They merely serve as a focus." Here was a healing woman prying into my magic just as Michael had said they did; I blew the candles out quickly, before she could learn anything.

We looked at each other across the table.

She looked wholesome. Not at all as if she lived in the house of a courtesan. This relentless wholesomeness everywhere was beginning to unnerve me.

"I will call you Dion and you must call me Genny," she informed me. "Come. You must be hungry. Let's go and have dinner."

As she led me down the stairs Genevieve explained that it would just be the two of us at dinner most evenings.

"Kitten usually dines at the palace."

The food was wonderful. Instead of watery stew, there was fish in a delicious sauce and crisp, bright vegetables arranged on elegant white platters in beautiful combinations of color and shape. After I had eaten, I realized that I had probably gobbled and sat embarrassed in front of my empty plate, watching Genevieve eating carefully. Guiltily I refused a second helping.

The meal was strained. Since I was bent on not revealing too much, conversation did not flourish, though Genevieve did her best to keep it going. The big dining room with the sound of the clock echoing in the silence and the impassive butler didn't help. For the first time, I missed the noisy, smelly dining room at the college.

Genevieve asked me about my studies, how I had liked the college and the various masters. Apparently she knew some of the healers there, but since mages tend to keep themselves separate from healers, this line of questioning didn't get us very far.

Then she asked me if I was at all interested in healing.

"I have studied it a little," I said, "but I've no vocation for it."

"I spend most of my days at St. Belkis' nunnery, where Kitten maintains a charity clinic."

I was astonished. It was such a peculiar thing to say. Why should Madame Avignon keep up a clinic and at a nunnery, too?

"A clinic?"

"Yes, a free clinic for the poor."

She must believe that it would cancel out her sins. It seemed a ludicrous superstition to an agnostic such as myself, but probably very common here as it had been in Moria, especially among uneducated people. Perhaps it was not so surprising in a courtesan after all. One of the well-known facts about Madame Avignon was her popularity with the lower classes. Michael and I had seen it for ourselves when we'd first come to Gallia. Rumor had it that Gallia's aristocracy feared Madame Avignon for this reason.

"That must make her popular," I said.

Genevieve looked at me sharply.

"With the poor," I said.

There was silence for a moment, and then she said, carefully, "The clinic is always in need of more people to do healing. I don't wish to offend you, but I thought to ask if you would be interested in assisting me there."

"I don't think so," I said as politely as I could, embarrassed by her asking and guilty for saying no. It was unheard of for a mage to lower himself to being a healer, a gross loss of dignity, almost like being a servant and cleaning up after people. Michael would have been horrified to think of it. In fact, why should I feel guilty? I'd done well to say no. Maybe I should have been ruder and put her in her place.

But no seemed to be the answer she'd expected, so I did not get the opportunity to be rude to her. I was secretly relieved and then annoyed at myself for being relieved. "For Seven's sake, stand up for yourself, Dion," said Michael's voice in my head.

After dinner Genevieve asked me if I would like to see her still room, but I could see it was just a politeness. I made my excuses and went back upstairs. I opened the window of my room and stood at it, breathing the chill night air and looking at the lights of the town through the treetops. The incident with Genevieve had depressed me and left me once again thinking sadly about my inability to make friends. Up here in the attic, the whole world seemed to be only me and my candle. Was it some failing in me that meant I was all alone in the world? Yet nobody could claim that Kitten Avignon was a virtuous woman, and all kinds of people seemed to be concerned over her.

It wasn't fair. I closed the window quickly and began unpacking my books. Maybe I should have said yes to the healer, I thought. It hardly mattered what they thought of me in this house, and it would have been something new to do.

At the bottom of the book box I found my diary of hazia dreams. I began to flip through it, dreaming back to some of those dreams. I had not written up that one on the beach of bones. I would have liked to have explored it more. I began reliving it in my mind, the crunching of bones, the sticky flaccid feel of that sea.

And the being on the rock, its leather wings and scaly hands. I could almost see it, red eyes gleaming in the light of those cold, swirling stars. Fascination returned. If only we could have talked, if only I could have asked it...

The candle went out.

My scalp tingled and I groped quickly about for the matches. I hated total darkness. Simultaneously with that thought, I heard heavy breathing somewhere in the room behind me. Heavy, rasping breathing.

I whirled around and filled the room with the blinding white of magelight. There was nothing there, nothing.

Yet still I could hear the breathing. Resting the magelight on my fingertips, I crept slowly around the room, trying to find the source of the breathing. I looked quickly under the bed and opened the wardrobe.

God and angels! It was coming from the corner, behind the mirror. No. From under the cloth that covered the mirror. I stood there not daring to touch it for a moment and then, in what seemed like the longest moment of my life, I reached out and twitched the cloth away.

Nothing. Only my reflection.

And still the breathing.

I leaned over cautiously to look behind the mirror.

Bang! The whole mirror shuddered as a wave smashed hard against the glass. I jumped back. The wave seemed to suck the glass back and then, slimy and clinging, it slid slowly away. I caught a glimpse of little mouths, puckered, sucking the glass and little, flashing pink tongues. Behind was darkness, the cold, whirling stars, the heaving mass of the jelly sea and a rock. On the rock was the dark outline of bat wings and a huge craggy head with red lizard eyes that stared straight at me.

A hand, huge and spiky, reached out. A terrible voice that sounded like the voices of a multitude rolled into one said, "TAKE MY HAND."

Oh Angels, the pull of that voice.

My hand reached out, was dragged toward that hand. No. I must not. I shook my head, snapped out of it, pulled my hand back to my side. A terrible power was pulling me into the mirror. It was making my hair and my dress stir as if in the wind. But, like a wind, it was superficial now and could be resisted.

The demon's craggy head moved, straightened. For a moment I almost thought I had surprised it. The cold stars were the only light inside the mirror. The magelight in my hand made it even darker in there. I held it behind me, so I could see better.

There was no way it could get out of there. It would require enormous magics to bring it through, magics that I had no idea how to perform. Yet I was frightened. It really felt as if there was only a thin glass wall between me and its almost-limitless power, and there was that terrible magnetic pull toward the mirror. It couldn't get through itself, but what if it could pull me through? It really felt as if it could. Could I have taken its hand? What would have happened if I had? My knees went weak just thinking of it.

Pull yourself together, Dion. Dignity. That was what was needed. That was how Michael had taught me to deal with supernatural beings. Make it respect you. Like a horse, let it know you are in control. I quickly suppressed the memory of what a terrible rider I was.

I was a mage. I stood up straight and demanded in my best haughty mage's voice, "Who are you?"

"I am Bedazzer." The voice was deep and terrible and textured. And it pulled.

"What do you want here?"

It had become lighter inside the mirror. I could see the demon crouched, enshrouded almost completely by its huge bat wings, except for the thick sinewy arms resting lightly on its knees. It smiled, drawing its lips across a fanged mouth. A firm pink tongue appeared between those lips. It ran

that tongue slowly down its finger. It was as if it licked my own flesh. "Why don't you come in here and find out, little girl?"

I shivered. Its expression changed. It frowned.

"What were you doing walking on my beach, little girl? TELL ME!"

I jumped. "I don't know," I said before I could stop myself.

"You don't know," it repeated. It seemed to roll this round in its mind for a moment.

"I followed you back, little girl. I like the look of your moist little world. I want to come through and explore."

It lashed out suddenly with its huge claws. Brought them slowly screechingly down the glass. The mirror shuddered.

I screamed out the words of dispelling. It snatched its hand back under its wings. Definitely disconcerted this time.

It hunched over and its eyes narrowed.

"You like demons don't you, little girl? What sort of wicked little girl likes demons? But you do, don't you? I know. I can see into your little mind. You came because you were curious."

It seemed best to say nothing. We both knew it was right. "I'm ... curious, too," it said. "An alliance, little girl. You could help me. And I could please you."

I didn't know what to say.

Suddenly it reared up and flung open its wings so that its strong, perfectly formed body was fully displayed. It swayed its hips from side to side, lifted its head, and cried to the sky. "I am Bedazzer. Lord of Pleasure. Render of Virgins..."

Lord of All. His... thing. It was huge. And spiky. I musn't look. I couldn't pull my eyes away. I'd never actually seen a real one before. I was so embarrassed, I blushed all over. I couldn't help it. I giggled, horrified, my hand over my mouth.

"What?" he screamed. "You laugh at ME? You stupid little virgin." He flung himself at the glass, fists out. The mirror shuddered with the impact, tottered, keeled over.

I leaped back screaming.

There was a smash of breaking glass as the mirror hit the floor. Glass flew everywhere. Then silence. I stood shaking, staring stupidly at the shattered glass, clean and silver and flat on the floor. I poked it tentatively with my foot and was oddly amazed that there was no sign of the demon. No slime, nothing.

The door slammed open. A figure rushed in like a wave. I threw myself back against the wall screaming and cast a light spell again.

It was Kitten Avignon carrying a drawn sword.

"What's going on?" she yelled "Are you all right?" Her eyes darted from side to side in the brilliant white flare of the witchlight. She held that sword as confidently as any swordsman.

I stared amazed, and she stared back at me.

"Oh," I said. "Yes of course. I'm fine."

"What happened?"

"Oh... nothing really. I ... broke my mirror."

"So I see. Well." She breathed out heavily "Phew! You gave me one hell of a fright. I was expecting a band of rampaging Soprians at least." She poked the glass with her foot. "What a mess!"

She was wearing a frothy white gown. It looked like a cloud of swans down. I was transfixed by the sword in her hand. "Nice sword, isn't it?" she said with a grin.

Suddenly another figure barreled in through the door. There was a flash of steel. It was Simonetti. Sword drawn, wearing only his leather breeches. He was dripping wet and the witchlight gave his skin a ghastly pallor.

"False alarm," said Kitten. "She's safe."

"Shit," said Simonetti. "Took years off my life. What's been going on?"

"Dion broke her mirror." "Sweet Tanza, how'd you do that?"

"Trouble?" asked Genny, poking her head round the door. She, at least, was not carrying a sword. Her head was covered with a frilly, white nightcap tied like a bonnet under her chin. She wore a long nightdress and a printed cotton wrap over it.

"Aye," said Simonetti. "Our little mage just broke her mirror. That'll be seven years bad luck, girl, and you know who's going to have to protect you from it, don't you?"

He and Kitten grinned at each other. I could sense their relief.

"Caught you with your pants down, did we? Or are you just showing off your muscles?"

Simonetti snorted. "Well, you're hardly battle ready either ... MADAME."

"What happened?" asked Genny. Her face was serious. "How'd you break the mirror?" Now was the time of reckoning, the time for a convincing lie.

"I ... was trying to move it," I said limply. I felt myself blushing.

Fortunately Simonetti took the blush as embarrassment.

"Well By the Seven, I'd blush too if I'd scared the life out of everybody .... Hey," he said, blinking in the magelight, "can we have some normal light in here instead of this bloody flare? It's beginning to hurt my eyes."

Genny put her finger to the candlewick and lit it. It was a nice trick. I'd never thought to do it like that. But she looked at me as if something was wrong. I didn't think she believed me about the mirror.

I put out the magelight.

"Why don't you go back to bed? I'll finish up here," said Kitten.

The other two went; Simonetti muttering, Genny with a single worried glance.

"We must get one of the servants up here to clean this up. You can't spend the night with glass on the floor."

Kitten reached for the bell rope and pulled it before I could protest.

"No," I said, "I can clean it up. Really." I blew a spell through it and the glass rose in a whirling, tinkling mass which carried itself to the corner and settled in a neat heap.

"Well Well. Look at you. You know, it never occurred to me that you could use magic for such a small thing." She ran her foot over the carpet. "Yes, that's got it all I think. What a great way of cleaning house." She smiled at me.

But suddenly I wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. Suddenly my knees were turning to water. What had I done? I sat down at my worktable and put my face in my hands.

"Dion?"

"Yes. I'll be right. Just the crash made me jump."

Silence for a moment and then, "Are these mirrors special, or will any old one do?"

"What?" "We can get you a new looking glass." An open window for the demon to enter ... I couldn't help shuddering.

"No, thanks."

She came up behind me and touched me on the shoulder. I felt myself flinch. She took the hand away. Her voice wasn't particularly offended.

"You've had quite a shock, haven't you?"

"I'm all right," I said, rubbing my face and hoping she didn't see how my hands were shaking.

"What really happened with that mirror? Did you ... er... see something.

"I was moving it," I said.

"I see."

Silence.

"There's Maria," she said. "I'll be back in a minute."

I wished she would go away. I was uncomfortable with her here. On the other hand, I didn't really want to be alone just now.

When she came back into the room again, I looked at her through my hands. She reposed gracefully in a chair, one delicate hand hanging loosely over the end of the armrest. She looked incredibly fragile and feminine sitting there, as if she'd never handled anything as brutal as a sword.

I wondered if I had imagined it. It seemed to have disappeared.

"You had a sword," I said.

"When I heard the crash, I thought someone was trying to get at you. I came up to help you." There was a pause. "I do know how to use it," she said.

I must have looked disbelieving, for she laughed and said, "Ah. You're making assumptions. People shouldn't make assumptions, you know."

"What have you done with it?"

"I gave it to Maria to put away. A proper sword's follower is supposed to take care of her own weapons, but ... Well, to hell with tradition. I was taught swordplay by one of those who tried to get you last night. A Soprian assassin. They're very practical people. They believe that they can best protect those they love by teaching them to protect themselves, so they have a whole method of swordplay for women and another for children. It has been very useful one way or another."

I was silent, not knowing how to respond or what to say. It was so hard to believe any of this. Was she really telling the truth?

"You see, you are safe here. There are always men on guard, and on the off chance that someone does manage to get in, Simonetti and I are well able to protect you. Though I'm not sure you need us. You did a good job on that fellow in your room last night all by yourself."

It brought back bad memories, bad feelings.

"I didn't mean to kill him," I whispered.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It is a horrible feeling. But you were defending your life."

"Yes." It seemed a little better in that light. There was a knock at the door. Kitten took a tray from the woman outside.

"That will be all, Maria. Go to bed now."

I listened as she poured out the hot liquid. There was a homely clatter of cups and the delicate ring of spoons on china.

"Here," she said, "get this into you. You'll feel much better." I took a sip. There was something odd about the flavor.

"What's in this?" I asked.

"Brandy," she said. "I thought it would relax ... Oh dear, perhaps you don't drink."

"I don't mind," I said, not wanting to appear unsophisticated. It wasn't actually too bad. It felt nice and warming.

"Does everyone at court need to protect themselves?"

"Not everyone, no. But courts are dangerous places, and my position as ruler's favorite ... that's especially dangerous. An aristocrat has patrons and family for protection. Someone like me though, without family, a foreigner ... I'm like a goat in a tiger cage. I don't belong, and a number of people have found me inconvenient. Everyone wants my position, you see."

We sipped our chocolate in silence. I scoured my mind for something to say. There were a lot of questions I wanted to ask her. The main one, of course, was how she could live her kind of life? Was it possible she loved the Duke? But there were other questions. Some of them were just standard for undertaking protection. Some of them I should have asked that first night at the Ducal Palace, but I hadn't wanted the contact with her. I knew I should know more about this supposed opponent of mine, Norval the necromancer. He still seemed a shadow, a mere hypothesis. Michael would have found my behavior unprofessional, but then he would have found it difficult to take Madame Avignon seriously, too. And he would have been disgusted (but probably unsurprised) by the curiosity I was beginning to feel toward this woman who sat delicately sipping hot chocolate out of a bone china cup and claiming to have been trained in the art of swordplay. There is too much you don't know, I reminded myself. Stop making assumptions.

I tried a question. "Why is he so interested in you?"

She looked surprised. "Who? The Duke?"

"No Norval Mages don't usually bother themselves with women."

She laughed. "A mage is a man like any other. Except you, of course"

I must have frowned at this glib reply, for she went on more politely, ''Western mages are more venal than you Easterners. I'm always surprised at the high emphasis placed on asceticism here on the Peninsula. In my country, the greatest mages take part in political affairs and live like princes, with huge estates and many slaves. Anyway Norval wasn't a necromancer when I first knew him. He was just a well-bred gentleman of the court. He was my first ... protector. It was from him that I learned many of the arts of the courtesan. I'm afraid he came to think he owned me. Such people become very angry when they discover it is otherwise. I'm not the first woman to be pursued by her ex-protector. I'm just unlucky that he is what he is."

So what this really was, was a fight between a whore and an "offended" protector. If the stories of our housekeeper were to be believed, she had only herself to blame. The court of Gallia must be a corrupt place when a woman could enlist the aid of the College of

Mages to help her escape some sordid imbroglio, just because she happened to share the Duke's bed. My thoughts must have shown on my face again, for now she said, "It's an imperfect world, Dion. I suppose my life is a sordid life. But I like being alive, and I want to stay that way. That was why I left Norval in the first place."

I felt embarrassed that she had guessed my thoughts.

She said, more gently, "Norval didn't own me, you know. There was no reason in the world why I had to stay with him. In the end it seemed more wrong to go open-eyed to destruction than to be disloyal to a lover who was already playing with my life. Norval was involved in a plot to overthrow the ruler of Aramaya. The plotters decided to use my particular gifts in this game. Of course they told me nothing. All I knew was that I was supposed to 'be nice' to a man Norval wanted to help him. In fact they were using me as a go-between. If the plot was discovered or Masud betrayed him, Norval would be able to claim ignorance of the whole thing."

She sighed.

"He was a charming man. When it dawned on me what was happening, I couldn't believe he would do such a thing to me. But it became obvious that I was no more than a pawn to him. Then I was very, very angry. So I thought, damn him, damn them all. I didn't share the political views of Norval and his friends, anyway. Emperor Jerzack, for all his faults, is a better ruler than their puppet Emperor would have been. So I ran for it. I changed my name and disappeared. I joined a traveling theater company that was leaving Aramaya. Within a week I was a hundred miles from Norval."

I managed to keep my face bland. The way she talked was seductive. I almost found myself agreeing with her point of view. Even in my sheltered life, I remembered wondering at the stupid things women sometimes did for those they loved. There had been a scandal in our village when one of the maids at the inn had let her lover in the back door one night so that he could rob it. Poor Hannie was sent to jail, but they never caught the robbers. I'd wondered then what had possessed her to be so stupid. I could sympathize with what Kitten Avignon had done. If it was indeed the truth. On the other hand I could still hear Michael's voice saying of such women, "They make their own beds, and they must lie on them." She'd never have been in this situation if she hadn't become a courtesan in the first place.

Kitten was staring into space. The candlelight made her face soft and delicate.

"Of course shortly after I left him the plot did collapse. Perhaps the man whose silence my favors were meant to buy ceased to be silent. I don't know. I heard that Norval had been thrown into prison on suspicion and tortured and that it had left him scarred. That would have hurt him. He was always a very vain man."

Her face had the same unreadable expression I'd seen in the carriage. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking.

Courtesans and necromancers. Fine company I was keeping. "So Norval didn't practice death magic when you knew him?" I prompted.

"I think he may have dabbled, yes. Yes, there was definitely some unpleasant magic going on in his house. I made a point in those days of remaining ignorant of anything that wasn't nice about Norval. He was so witty and clever. Powerful. The power was exciting. Except when you were on the receiving end of it. He liked power. He was that kind of man, the kind of man who, if he knew you had a soft spot on your foot, would step on it deliberately, just so he could be the one to make you jump. I'm not surprised that he took up necromancy."

The magic of pain and death did seem appropriate for the kind of man she was describing.

"I left Sopria because of him. Came here to the Peninsula. Changed my name again. There are quite a few of us who have offended mages hiding out here. The Eastern Colleges of Magic have done a great thing for people like me. Once we are here, evil magic cannot reach us. But I didn't hide enough. Well why the hell should I, anyway? Am I going to let Norval ruin my life? Now I'm too well known. And someone back in the West has put two and two together.

"A month ago I received a package. With compliments from Norval. I don't know whose finger was in it, but the ring belonged to an old friend from the Sopria days. I only hope the ring was stolen or that he was already dead."

So did I. Since necromancers gain their power from the slow, painful deaths of their victims, falling into one's hands was not a fate I'd wish on anybody, no matter how wicked.

She began striding up and down the room. Her face was tight and almost scowling. She no longer looked fairylike, but dangerous, powerful like some great warrior.

"Damn Norval. Damn his black soul to hell. He likes people to be scared. He likes to see them run. But I'm not going to. I've got a life here in Gallia; lands, wealth, money to buy the freedom to please myself. With your help I'm going to fight him. Fight him and win and show him I don't give a damn for his mean heart."

She whirled to face me, gripped my arm.

The sheer cold-blooded determination of her face was shocking, but thrilling, too. Her words electrified me. My muscles tensed, ready to battle anything. And to win.

"Dion, you are a very powerful mage. You can beat Norval, show him ... strike a blow for good over evil. You can do it. But you have to take it seriously. You can't underestimate Norval. Necromancy uses allies. That makes it stronger than white magic. And even without magic, he is cunning. He learned cunning at the court of Aramaya. You must be on the lookout for tricks. Always, always be on your guard."

I realized that she was leaning toward me, glaring fiercely into my eyes. Suddenly I needed to keep her out. I pulled back before I could stop myself and jumped out of my chair.

"I'm sure everything will be all right," I said.

She stared at the ground for a moment.

"Forgive me," she said. "I get a little ... excited when I talk about Norval."

"Of course," I said breathlessly. She turned and walked away from me.

"Tell me, Dion, is there any chance Norval could send anything else against us?"

"Anything ..." I stopped. She meant a demon of course. A demon slave. The coincidence of this conversation made my hair stand on end.

"I mean something like a demon," she said into my sudden silence. She turned and smiled ruefully. "I suppose you're going to say I'm being ridiculous."

"It is very unlikely," I said carefully. "He will probably be using demon magic in any spells he brings against us, but bringing an enslaved demon onto this plane ... I believe it's very difficult to obtain a demon slave. You have to know its true name, and you have to sacrifice an enormous number of people in the enslavement ritual. And you have to start by having enough innate power to do it."

I stopped, embarrassed by the authoritative sound of my own voice. "At least I think that's how it works. Only a handful of mages in the history of the world have managed to do it. I really doubt that Norval could be powerful enough. If he were powerful enough, he could probably make mincemeat of me without needing to go to the trouble of sending a demon." The most persuasive argument, of course, was that any mage that powerful was not going to waste his time creeping up on Kitten Avignon. I doubted that that would be a tactful thing to say at this point in time.

Kitten looked relieved. She sighed and smiled and looked utterly charming again.

"Yes. I doubt it, too." She laughed. "If it's so difficult to enslave a demon, I'll stop worrying about it. You're right, too. If he was that powerful, I'm sure I'd be finished by now.

"Tell me," she continued, "is there anything I can do to make your stay here more enjoyable?"

"No thank you," I said. After what I had discovered, I wanted her to go as quickly as possible.

"I sometimes hold salons in the afternoon. Many people come from the court and the city, very respectable people. I hope to see you there, too."

I was on the point of refusing. Then I thought about the lonely days that had just passed. Better to keep my options open.

"Thank you," I said.

She stood up to go. "Perhaps I should leave you to rest now."

She wished me good-night and left, left me with my head buzzing. As I scurried around placing the invisible runes of protection and distraction on the walls and over the openings to the room, I hardly thought of the demon who had caused everything. Instead my head was full of thoughts of her. On one hand, I congratulated myself on resisting her manipulations. How strong they had been in that frightening moment. But I had noticed and pulled back in time. On the other hand, I was drawn to her by an enormous curiosity. So that was Kitten Avignon. Would I ever understand such a woman? I had to admit she was a very attractive person.

When I awoke next morning and heard the twittering of the little birds in the trees outside my window I was filled with joy. After the eight o'clock ritual I got back into bed and lay there watching the tips of the trees moving in the wind. A maid brought me breakfast. She seemed to assume I would eat it in bed. The food was delicious-crusty rolls and incredibly strong hot chocolate. I must have been a little hazy from lack of sleep for it was not until the maid returned with a brush and bucket that I remembered the demon.

Then I was disgusted with myself. Michael had been right when he had said I was flighty. Last night I'd had a brush with death magic and I'd gone to bed with my head full of childish thoughts about the life of courtesans. Oh, I was a fool, no doubt about it. I had caught the attention of this demon, and I hadn't the wit to worry about it.

I started to worry then, to wonder what on earth to do. I knew I should go to the Dean and confess the whole thing. And yet ... Runes of protection and distraction were the only method for driving off unwelcome attentions. I couldn't think of anything else the Dean could do, except never forgive me or trust me again. Except always suspect me of having death magic leanings. One mistake, and in their eyes I would be damned. It had been an accident, for God's sake.

I was rationalizing. I had almost touched the demon's hand that first time. I could almost hear Michael telling me that one was never an innocent victim. He would have made me go to the Dean. "Take your punishment," he would have said. "You deserve it. You did wrong." I knew that was what I should do. But I shuddered at the thought of the Dean's anger and disappointment.

No. There was nothing to be gained from telling the Dean. I was sure I had done the only things possible. I had dispelled the demon and taken steps to hide myself from him.

"Yes, girl, eventually you dispelled him. But first you listened to him. And you were tempted, weren't you?" said Michael's voice in my head.

No, not tempted. Merely curious. Merely fascinated by this evil, amoral creature.

He could not enter this plane. He probably would not even have appeared had I not been thinking about my hazia dream with such longing. So if I didn't think about him, he wouldn't come. Maybe he'd already lost interest in me in the chaotic way of demons. Somehow I doubted it was that simple. That meant that he would return, and that meant that telling the Dean would be my wisest course.

My thoughts kept on like this for the rest of the morning. I tried to settle down to some trigonometry, but I couldn't stop arguing with myself.

By the early afternoon I'd begun thinking about what Michael would have said and how I'd let him down. This is ridiculous, I thought. Come on. You're going for a walk. You can't sit here and mope over Michael all day. Not again.

I put on my cloak and went downstairs.

The house seemed empty except for the distant clatter of the dishes in the kitchen. The rooms downstairs were big and light and white. My feet clomped across the polished floors in a very satisfying way.

It would have been better if I had gone down for lunch. It would have given me a rest from my worries. But I'd been afraid Kitten Avignon would be there, and I'd decided, now I'd recognized how curious I was about her, that it would be wisest to keep away from her. Why did I have to be curious about such unsuitable things? Courtesans and demons. Why couldn't I be interested in something worthwhile, like Michael's secret names of rocks? I could see my curiosity over Kitten Avignon getting me into as much trouble as my curiosity over demons had.

There were some sweet-smelling roses in the front hallway. I took a deep sniff of them. Already my heart felt lighter. I was managing to avoid Kitten Avignon well enough, and I had done everything I could to get rid of the demon. Bright, early spring sunlight was coming in the windows. It looked like a beautiful day outside. I was suddenly sure everything would turn out right. I opened the door and went out into the garden.