The House of Saint Glinda 6 page

“A vile habit,” snarled Sister Doctor, but she determined to do her best at being sociable, and stomach such barbaric customs as courtesy required.

NO ONE AT THE MAUNTERY, Candle included, knew enough about musical instruments to appreciate the domingon she arrived with. It was made of seasoned wrenwood by a master from the Quadling Kells, and Candle had first heard it played at a summer festival. The master himself performed, using his fingers as well as a fiddle bow and a glass emulant that he kept tucked under his bearded chin when not required. Now Candle recalled that the domingonhad been fitted out with a feather, though at the time Candle had thought it merely ornamentation-and a sexy fillip at that.

She had thought she was in love with him, and had slept with him before dusk, but a few days later she realized it was the music she had loved. What she heard in its music: a coaxing, an invitation to remember, to disclose. Perhaps because her voice was small and high, she couldn’t project, and she imagined it would be more gratifying to play music than to speak. Mercilessly she pestered her uncle to circle back and buy her the domingon; she’d been surprised when he obliged.

Candle was not simple, not in the least, but her debility had made her a still person. She listened to church bells, when they pealed, trying to translate; she watched the way the paper husks of an onion fell on a table, and examined the rings of dirt that onion mites had left in parallel rows on the glossy wet inside. Everything said something, and it wasn’t her job to consider the merit or even the meaning of the message: just to witness the fact of the message.

She was therefore a calmer person than most, for there seemed no dearth of messages from the world to itself. She merely listened in.

For a week now she’d been playing the domingon until her fingers ached, watching and listening for the language of Liir’s recovery. It wasn’t unusual that she had had experience with men; Quadlings were a casual sort in matters of sexual prudence. The carnal experience had neither scarred her nor much interested her. Through it, at best, she had learned something of the human body, its hesitations and reservations as well as the surge of its desires.

In the infirmary, as her eyes moved from the instrument to the invalid, she felt she was picking up some news. Was it some minor language of olfactory signals, an arcane pattern of eye twitches, a hieroglyph etched in the beads of his sweat? She didn’t know. She was sure of this, though: Liir’s body seemed the same in temperature, comportment, and color. But he was going through a phase of crisis, and would either awaken for sure or die at once: no middle ground.

She didn’t know if she should go get the Superior Maunt or if she should stay at her post. She was afraid if she left, if she dropped the domingon on the floor even for the twenty minutes it might take to find the Superior Maunt and get counsel, she would lose Liir for good. Wherever he was, he was lost, and the music of her instrument was his only hope back.

So Candle stayed seated and played till her own fingers bled, in ripples of waltz, as if nothing were wrong. The blue of the sky thinned till it was pierced with star prickers, and then the jackal moon rose and slowly lumbered over till it could look in the window and watch for itself. Watch, and listen, as Candle played Liir through his memories.

“SHE’LL BE THERE,”said Liir.

“Who? Where? Are you talking about Elphaba?” said the Scarecrow.

“Of course not. I’m talking about Nor. The girl I knew. Maybe my half-sister, if the Witch really was my mother and Fiyero my father, as some have guessed.”

“In Southstairs? A girl?”

“Can you tell me why not?”

The Scarecrow didn’t answer. Liir thought: Maybe he imagines that someone as insignificant to the mighty Wizard of Oz-a mere girl, no less-hardly merited imprisonment. Maybe he thinks she might as easily have been murdered, or tossed onto the streets to drift and starve. How long had it been anyway since she had been taken from Kiamo Ko? Two years? Three? But then Princess Nastoya had implied that Nor might have survived…

They had circled the canals a bit longer and found a place to berth underneath some rotting trees by the side of a pub. “I can’t stay with you for much longer, you know,” said the Scarecrow. “I only came to give you the Witch’s broom, and to wish you well, and to protect you from the clearing of Dirt Boulevard. I have my own path to follow. I would see you safely to the other side of the gates of this troubled city if I could. If you would let me.”

“I’m not going,” said Liir. “Not without Nor. Or not without finding out what has happened to her.”

At a crossroads, unwilling to move, they sat disconsolate.

“Look,” said Liir, at graffiti dashed sharply and sloppily on the pub’s side wall. It saidHAPPY ENDINGS ARE STILL ENDINGS . “You’ve done your work, you’ve kept your word to Dorothy. I have the broom. But I won’t be ushered out of harm’s way. What’s the point? I have no happy ending-cripes, I’ve had no happy beginning, either. The Witch is dead, and Dorothy is gone, and that old Princess Nastoya has asked us for help. As if I could! Just because Elphaba would have!”

“You needn’t fulfill some promise Elphaba made. If you’re not her son, you have no obligation there.”

“Well, there’s Nor, too. Call it a promise to myself.”

The Scarecrow held his head in his hands. “The Tin Woodman has left to cultivate the art of caring. He has his work cut out for him, poor sod. The Lion is suffering severe depression; his cowardice was his sole identifying trait, and now he’s pitiably normal. Neither of them can help you much, I’m afraid. You should get yourself out of here while you can. Start over.”

“Start over? I never started the first time. Besides, it’s not getting out that I need to do. It’s getting in.”

The Scarecrow pushed a hand against his heart and shook his head.

“Into Southstairs,” said Liir.

“I know what you meant,” said the Scarecrow. “I’m not stupid. Now.”

“You’re the one I need to keep on my side-”

The Scarecrow interrupted with a brusqueness that might have been meant kindly. “Don’t bother to look for me. You won’t find me. Save yourself for someone you might recognize. I’m not in your story, Liir. Not after this.”

So they took their leave, with little fanfare or fuss. The friendship between them was no larger or more hopeful than the shape of a scorched broom, which Liir waved halfheartedly as the Scarecrow loped out of sight, once and for all.

The boy sat in the bobbing blunt-boat and listened to the sound of laughter spilling out the open windows of the pub. The smell was of beer and vomit, and old urine splashed against the wall. The moon was invisible behind the clouds. The sound of a tentative waltz, beguiling and minor, hung over the stinking waters of the canal and the desolate boy there.

THE NEXT MORNING, Liir presented himself at the servants’ entrance of the town house he’d passed the night before.

“We don’t give handouts and we don’t need another coal shoveler, so get yourself out of here before I assist you with a boot in your behind,” said the houseboy.

“If you please, I’m not looking for food or work. Sir.”

The houseboy smirked. “Toadying bastard. Call mesir again, and I’ll beat the crap out of you.”

Liir couldn’t follow. “I meant no disrespect. I just want to know how I can get an audience with Lady Glinda.”

The houseboy’s sneer needed rearranging with a good swift kick, Liir decided, but when the houseboy guffawed, his voice was less hostile. “Oh, a simpleton. Pardon me, I didn’t realize. Listen, the very Margreave of Tenmeadows, Lord Avaric himself, hasn’t been able to get her ladyship’s attention. She’s got her hands full, what with the goings-on in the Wizard’s Palace. The people’s Palace now. Or should be. Or will be. What, you want to fling yourself in her lap and call hermother ? More urchins have tried that already than you could fit on a barge and drown in Kellswater. Now get off with you.”

“Whatever mother I don’t have, it certainly isn’ther .” He held up the broom and shook it in the houseboy’s face.

“What’s that then?”

Liir said, “You tell Lady Glinda that a boy at the back gate has the Witch’s broom. Tell her Dorothy gave it me. I don’t care how long you take, I’ll wait.”

“That thing? That’s a corpse of a broom. Not fit for kindling.”

“It’s been through a lot. That’s how you know it’s the real thing.”

“You’re a stubborn bugger. I can’t be standing here chewing the fat all day. Tell you what. Do me some magic with that broom and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

“I can’t do magic. And the broom isn’t a magic wand. It’s a broom. It sweeps.”

“Sweep a floor with that thing, you’ll leave char marks, and I’ll be the one cleaning up after you. Get out of here, now. Go on.”

Liir raised the broom again and tilted it forward. The houseboy shrank back, as if afraid flecks of scorch would fall on his livery. Noticing this, Liir decided it would be worth his while to wait around and see what happened.

His instincts proved sound. The houseboy wasn’t able to resist gossiping about his conversation with Liir. Just before noon, a housekeeper came out, tucking her apron strings in and wiping crumbs from her lips. “Love a grouse, you’re still here, and that’s a good thing!” she gabbled. “The houseboy’s been docked a month’s pay for being silly-headed! Get over here, Her Haughtiness wants to see you at once! You reek, haven’t you washed? The pump, there, boy, scrub your grubby armpits and wipe that smirk off your face. This is Lady Glinda that lives here, not some cow-mistress. And hop smart, you. She’s waiting.”

HE WAS BROUGHT TOa lady’s parlor and told to behave and touch nothing.

He could look, though, and he did. He had never seen an upholstered chair before. He’d never seen one chair face another chair that looked identical. Cushions everywhere, fresh flowers, and gleaming crystal bubbles set on little stands. A collection of commemorative baubles, he guessed. To what end?

A fire of aromatic woods burned in the dainty hearth. Why a daytime fire in such a well-built mansion, when the citizens outside couldn’t get close enough to a brazier to warm their hands, let alone soften their supper bricks of congealed molasses?

He wandered to the window to open it, let in some air. It looked out over the canal where he and the Scarecrow had drifted the night before. From this height, he could see the rooflines of the fancy houses. Palaces, almost, or palaces-in-training. Beyond the chimney pots, beyond the roof gardens, the cupolas and spires and domes, two more massive buildings rose: the domed Palace of the Wizard, in the dead center of the City, and off to the right, the steep bluestone ramparts of the prison known as Southstairs.

It was like looking at a picture in a book-not that he’d seen all that many books. Only the Grimmerie, and that only from a distance. Here, the etched rooflines seemed like a hundred man-made hills. Set here and there to delight the eye with infinite variety in depth and perspective.

Under every roof, a story, just as behind every brow, a history.

He hardly believed he had summoned the nerve to come here. But it was all he could think of to do. The Princess Nastoya had promised, in exchange for his helping her, to listen for news of Nor. But why work backward? The Princess would have to be scrubbing the news of the Emerald City to learn about Nor. Whereas now-he was here already-so let Princess Nastoya work out her troubles for herself. Liir had all the City before him. He would be forthright and claim what he wanted for himself. On his own terms.

“The Lady Glinda,” announced a man’s voice. When Liir turned, the door was already being drawn closed behind her, and Lady Glinda came near.

It was like being approached by a decorated holiday tree tiptoeing in jeweled slippers. Lady Glinda was the most exceedingly dressed person Liir had ever seen. He almost flinched, but knowing that Lady Glinda had been a friend of Elphaba’s stiffened his nerve. “How do you do,” she was saying, in a voice like a piccolo blowing soapsuds. She tilted her head. Was it an upperclass gesture, like a genuflection? Ought he pivot his head in reply? He remained upright. “Liir, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He had never called anyone “ma’am” in his life. Where hadthat come from?

“They said it was Liir. I thought I might have misheard. Please, won’t you sit-” She took a better look at the state of his clothes and changed her mind. “Would you permit me to take a seat? I’m not resting well these days, and it’s a strain.”

“Of course.” He realized he was to remain standing, though he drew a little nearer. Settling gingerly on a chaise longue upholstered in peppermint stripes, she arranged a bolster at the small of her back, and then reclined, lifting one ankle up from time to time. Maybe she had a twitch.

“I’m told you have something to show me, a talisman of some sort. You’ve got it wrapped in that shroud. A broom, a witch’s broom. The broom? The broom of the Wicked Witch of the West?”

“I didn’t call her that,” he said.

“How did you come by it? Last I heard of it, that Dorothy Gale was humping it around the Palace like some sort of a trophy, brandishing it for all to see.”

“I’m told she’s gone,” said Liir.

“She is.” The tone of authority was convincing. Tired, regretful, convincing.

“Gone the way old Ozma is gone? Disappeared? Done in?”

“Gone is gone,” said Glinda. “Who knows, maybe Ozma herself will be back someday. I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“And maybe Dorothy, too? Or is she gone too far to come back?”

“You ask bold questions of a lady you’ve just met,” said Glinda, and she looked at him sharply. “And you haven’t answered mine. How did you come by Elpha-I mean the Witch’s broom?”

“You can say Elphaba to me.” Liir unwrapped the broom and held it up for Glinda to see.

Glinda didn’t look at the broom. She was staring at the Witch’s cape. She hoisted herself to her feet and reached to touch its hem. “I’d know this anywhere. This is Elphaba’s cape. How did you come by it? Answer me, thug-thief-or I’ll have you thrown in Southstairs.”

“Fair enough, I’m headed there anyway. Yes, it’s her cape. Why wouldn’t it be? I took it when I left her castle. I’m her-”

He couldn’t sayson . He didn’t know. “I’m her helper. I came from the castle with Dorothy. When the Witch melted, all that was left was the broom. The Scarecrow brought it back to me after Dorothy vanished. No one else wanted it.”

“It’s a burned stick. Throw it on the fire.”

“No.”

Glinda reached out a hand, and Liir took it. She wanted help getting up. “Let me look you in the eye, young man. Who are you? How did you come to be at Kiamo Ko?”

“I don’t know, and that’s the truth. But I served the Witch and saw Dorothy safely to the Emerald City, and I need your help.”

“You needmy help? What for? Bread, cash, a false identity to help you slip sideways through the cracks? Tell me what you need, tell me why I should help, and I’ll see what I can do. In memory of Elphaba. You knew her.” Her head tilted again, but up, this time, and it was to keep the sudden wetness from spilling into her carefully colored false eyelashes. “You knew my Elphie!”

He would not indulge in cheap grief. “I want to find out what happened to a girl kidnapped by the Wizard’s men a few years back. She lived at Kiamo Ko when we got there.”

“We?”

“The Witch and I…”

“The Witch and you.” Her hands reached out hungrily for the cape and rubbed its hem, as if it were leaves of thyme or hyssop. “What girl might that be?”

“Her name is Nor. She is the daughter of Fiyero, one-time prince of the Arjikis, and his wife, Sarima, also kidnapped that very day. You knew Fiyero.”

“I knew Fiyero.” It was clear Glinda did not want to speak about him. “Why should I bother with you?”

“Nor was his daughter. She was my-” Again, he couldn’t sayhalf-sister . He didn’t know. “My friend.”

Glinda reached out and took the charred broomstick and cradled it. “I know about friends.”

“Friends have children,” Liir said carefully. “If you can’t help your friends, you can help their children. Do you have children?”

“I do not. Lord Chuffrey was not so inclined.” She reconsidered. “I mean to say, he is so very old. Old and wealthy. His interests lie elsewhere.”

She drifted among the occasional tables. “I don’t know why this girl you mention was taken away, or, if she proved that much of a worry, why she should still be alive.”

“Everyone knows the Wizard is gone. Surely his enemies don’t need to stay imprisoned? If she’s alive, why shouldn’t she be released?”

A rustling of stiffened tulle sounded in her underskirts. “How do I know you are telling the truth?” she said at last. “These are such treacherous days. I’ve spent my adult life up till now in salons and theater boxes, not in closed assembly with grasping, pinching…ministers.” She spat out the word. “Insects. And I thought girls at school were devious. Here, every impassive expression hides a bloated ambition for-for dominance, I suppose. And any one of my so-called loyal cabinet could be sending you in here with a tale designed to catch at my throat. I must have more proof you are who you profess to be. This may not be Elphie’s cape you’re sporting. Maybe my sorrow tempts me into seeing what I would love to see. This may not be her broom. Tell me more, you Liir. How did her broom come to be so burnt?”

“I’m not sure. In truth, I didn’t see her die, I only heard what Nanny and Dorothy and the others said. I was locked downstairs. But the broom burnt, that’s all I know.”

“Anyone could tell a lie!” cried Glinda. “Anyone could burn a broom and make up a story about it!” She beat herself on the breastplate with a clenched fist, and suddenly rushed across the room, overturning a small table and shattering some china dolls. She flung the broom in the fire. “Look, I could do it, too. There’s nothing to it.”

“Take the broom, burn it,” he replied. “Take the cape and burn it, too, or sew it into a hairshirt and wear it under your fancy ball gowns. It doesn’t matter. Give me a way to get to Nor, and to get her out; you can have whatever you want. I will come back and serve you as I served the Witch. I have no other plan for my days alive once I answer the question about Nor.”

Glinda collapsed on the nearest stool and wept. She needed a man to come and take her in his arms, to give her a shoulder. Liir wasn’t a man, nor was his shoulder made for a highborn lady to weep upon. He stood foolishly by, twisting his hands, averting his eyes here, there.

“Look. Glinda, look.” In his excitement he forgot to use her title.

She raised her eyes and turned to where he was pointing.

The fire still danced and hissed. Some trick of physics caused the flue to hum faintly like an old folk melody, as if someone were on the rooftop playing an instrument. The music was not merely consoling-and it was that-but commanding: look, it said, look. The broom lay on the back of a log that seethed with flames of pumpkin and pale white. The broom was untouched.

“Sweet Oz…,” said Glinda. “Liir, take it. Take it back.”

“I’ll burn my hands!”

“You won’t.” Glinda chortled a few syllables in a language Liir couldn’t understand. “This is one of the few spells I could ever really master; it came in handy when my husband required me to hand him the burnt toast on the mornings I thought it my wifely duty to prepare his breakfast. Go on. Grasp it and bring it back.”

He did, and Glinda was right: the broom had not only neglected to ignite further-but it also wasn’t even warm to the touch.

“A burnt broom that has had enough, and refuses to burn further…Keep that with you,” said Glinda. “I was wrong to doubt you. Whoever you are, however you came by it, this is the Witch’s broom. And so I must trust you to be telling me the truth.”

She shrugged and tried to smile, and almost began to blubber. “Elphie would know what to do!”

“Tell me whatyou know,” he said, as softly as he could.

“I don’t have access to the register of prisoners in Southstairs Academy, which is the place your-Nor-is most likely to be if she wasn’t murdered long ago. I’m not even sure a register is kept. But I know someone could get you in, at least. Whether you could find Nor or get her out, or yourself either, I can’t guess. But I can make introductions for you; in memory of Elphaba, I will do that much.”

“Who would help me? A friend of yours?”

“No friend of mine, but a bereaved member of her family. Next of kin to the dearly departed Elphaba Thropp, the Wicked Witch of the West…”

“But I thought Elphaba’s sister was dead!” said Liir. “Wasn’t Nessarose-killed by Dorothy’s clumsy house?”

“Yes, she was. But didn’t you know? Didn’t Elphaba tell you? She had a brother, too. A younger brother named Shell.”

IN COMING TO THEIR SENSES, Sister Doctor and Sister Apothecaire were gratified to find they still possessed their faces. The pack mules were nowhere to be seen though, nor their food supplies, nor their hosts.

“What is that engine in my brain?” said Sister Doctor, after she’d vomited into some ferns.

“I feel as if the jackal moon had been down here snouting around in an unseemly manner.” Sister Apothecaire adjusted her garments. “It must be the effects of the ceremonial pipe.”

“And that’s why the Yunamata never built a city nor invented algebrarish nor bowed to the Wizard.”

“With a smoke that kicks like that, who needs a city or an Emperor?”

They ambled in oppressive daylight. “I suppose we should think about what we’re doing,” said Sister Doctor.

“Yes. If the Yunamata are right, then the Scrow must be responsible for the scrapings. So we’re liable to wander into hotter water if we are able to find them.”

“I think that’s our calling, isn’t it?”

“Hmmm.” They had a choice: to venture farther into the foothills of the Kells, and make their presence known to the Scrow-or to go back and claim they’d failed. Without discussing it further, they pressed on. Duty weighed more heavily than dread.

THE MAUNTS KNEWthat their professional skills-to be loving, to be devout, to be local in their attentions and spiritual in their desires-had not prepared them to be government envoys. Still, since their mauntery served as a way station for those who acted upon the stage of the world, the good sisters considered themselves at least as broad-minded as any other cloistered soul.

Sister Doctor and Sister Apothecaire, nonetheless, were unprepared for the breadth of the Scrow camp when they came upon it. More than a thousand clanfolk, they estimated, maybe fifteen hundred, and a virtual zoography of physical types. The nomads tented in patterns that followed their occupations.

Some castes managed the animals, primarily a huge herd of sheep collected from fell-swards to be penned for a late winter lambing. Other castes specialized in creating sumptuous hangings and carpets from the wool of those same sheep. A contingent of fierce-browed young men with slender, tapering dark beards seemed to be a kind of clerks’ collective, running here and there with instructions, corrections, assessments, revisions. Older men and women-some much older-managed the care of children with surprising mildness and efficacy.

At the center of the hubbub rose a tented pagoda. Around it, a good many brass urns issued an aroma of raspberry and heart-of-musk. It didn’t take the maunts long to realize that the incense wasn’t devotional, but hospitable: the smell from the Princess’s pagoda was, well, a stench.

First fed on a peppery broth that seemed to clear both their sinuses and their brains, the maunts were then allowed a chance to pray and compose themselves. It was almost dusk when they were brought into a tent to meet an ambassador of some sort.

“Please, sit,” he told them, and sat as well. He was a portly man on the threshold of old age. One eye wandered as if bedeviled by an interior vision it didn’t appreciate. His skin was the color of fine whisky. “We hope you have been made comfortable. Or comfortable enough.”

The maunts nodded. Their approach had been greeted without apparent alarm, and they’d been welcomed respectfully.

“Very good, very good,” he said. “Even in these uncongenial times, with the Emperor cudgeling us heathen into conversion through the force of his holy mace, we pride ourselves on clinging to our customs. Charity to visitors ranks high among our traditions. My name is Shem Ottokos.”

“Lord Ottokos, you speak very well,” ventured Sister Doctor.

“For a Scrow, you mean,” he said, taking no offense. “I had a university degree at Shiz, back in the days when there was more collegiality at college. I studied the languages, ancient and modern.”

“You had a notion to be a translator?”

“My notions are insignificant. I am the chief interpreter for her Highness now. I assume you have ventured into our tribal lands to gain an audience with the Princess?”

Though the maunts believed the native land of the Scrow to be significantly farther west, on the other side of the Great Kells, theirs wasn’t to quibble. “Yes,” said Sister Doctor. “We have work to complete. We are investigating the cause and agency of the recent spate of scrapings. If it would suit the Princess to grant us an audience, we should be able to clear up our concerns and be on our way almost at once. Is the Princess up to seeing us?”

Without answering, he stood and flicked both his hands, which the maunts took to mean: Come . They followed him from his tent and toward the royal pavilion in the center of the camp.

“She has not been well for more years than anyone can remember,” said Lord Ottokos as they walked. “She has little energy for idle chat and I will not bother to translate anything that would upset her. I would suggest you contain your remarks to ten minutes, no more. When I get up to leave, so shall you.”

“We might have brought tribute…,” murmured Sister Apothecaire.

“Sister!”said Sister Doctor sharply. “We are maunts of the House of Saint Glinda! We do not bring tribute to a foreign princess!”

“I meant a cake, or a witty novel,” she explained unhappily.

“She has no need of cakes or novels,” said Lord Ottokos. “Meaning no disrespect to our Princess, I would recommend that you breathe through your mouths. It is not considered impertinent to hold your sleeve in front of your nose. Try not to gag, though; it upsets her Highness.”

The maunts exchanged glances.

The interior of the pavilion was dark and dank. Even chilly, come to that. Eight or ten heavy stone caskets with perforated lids slowly exhaled sheets of moisture that hung, nearly visible, in the air. Ice, thought Sister Doctor. They’ve carried ice down from the higher Kells, where it lasts all year long. And the cold serves to tamp down the smell of rot. Now that’s a labor, for ice is heavy, and the higher Kells are not convenient…Perhaps that’s why they’re so far from their normal territory at this time of year, for easier access to the ice pack up the eastern, more gradual slope of the Kells…

Sister Apothecaire, whose eyes had adjusted more quickly to the gloom, pinched Sister Doctor’s elbow and indicated a massive mound of reeking laundry on a low table. It was rolling on its side and opening its eyes.

“Your Highness, may I present Sisters Lowly and Lower-even-than-that,” said Lord Ottokos, before he remembered to speak in his own tongue. “Ladies, the Princess Nastoya acknowledges your presence.”

She had done nothing of the sort. She had not spoken nor even so much as blinked.

Lord Ottokos continued. “The Princess enquires after your health, assumes it is sufficiently robust or you wouldn’t be here, and compliments you on your courage. Have you news of Liir?”

The maunts turned to each other, but in the darkness of the pavilion they could scarcely read each other’s expressions. “Liir?” said Sister Apothecaire faintly. She was beginning to need her sleeve, as had been proposed.

“The boy who denied he was Elphaba’s son. Is that not why you came to us? To tell us of him? Where is Liir?”

Sister Apothecaire began, “Why, that’s uncanny, I never-”

But Sister Doctor cut her off, saying “We came to discover why the Scrow are scraping the faces of unarmed travelers.”

Lord Ottokos made his mouth into a pucker-amused, distressed, it was hard to tell. “I repeat, have you news of Liir?” he said.

“If you’re not interpreting our comments to your senior, need we have this conversation here?” said Sister Doctor.

“My good Sister,” said Lord Ottokos, closing his eyes briefly, as if experiencing a spasm, “the Princess Nastoya entertains visitors only once every several weeks. Do not waste her time. She is waiting to learn what you have to say.”

“Wehave seen Liir, we have!” said Sister Apothecaire, unable to govern herself any longer. “He was found not all that far from here some days ago, and brought to our mauntery for recovery, if he can be recovered.”

Date: 2016-01-05; view: 689