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Daja heard those words as if they were spoken at a distance. Her face was numb. A chasm had opened in her belly; she swayed on its edge. In her mind she saw Ben as he knelt before his stove, sifting embers in a gloved hand. She saw a black bone hand with a gold ring, and a half-melted figure of a local goddess. “Not —” she croaked.
“Hush,” ordered Heluda. “I don’t want anyone to overhear.” When the maid returned with a tray, the magistrate’s mage took it. “Back to the kitchen,” she ordered. “Don’t come within a week of this room, understand?”
Heluda closed the door and set the tray on a table. With a hand movement she threw a magical barrier over the door. Then she took the wet, folded cloth and laid it across the back of Daja’s neck. The coolness made Daja shudder, and straighten. She had been sitting folded over, as if kicked in the stomach.
Heluda poured tea into both mugs. “Here.” She thrust Daja’s mug into her hands and folded the girl’s fingers around it. “It’s not sweetened.”
Daja sipped carefully. Hot and strong, the tea burned its way down to that chasm in her belly. She took another sip, then a third, and a fourth. At last she put the mug down and shifted the cloth on her neck, holding the ends against the pulse points under her ears. Like the tea it helped to clear her head, but neither cloth nor tea stopped the quiver of her lips or the sting in her eyes.
“I don’t understand,” she told the woman. “It — it’s iron, and metal can’t lie to me, but — it makes no sense.”
“I saw the gloves here,” Heluda explained. “You smith-mages, you’d no more start a fire to destroy than you would beat a dog to make him vicious. Either I am well past my game and I never spotted you as a danger, or something you made left the mark of your magic on the furnace door. If that piece hadn’t blown clear, we might never have picked up the trace of your power. Of your gloves, used by the person you made them for.”
“No,” Daja said woodenly. She refused to believe it.
“I began to wonder at Jossaryk House,” Heluda continued, her voice inflexible. “The fire that came after Ladradun was slighted by the island’s council. Burning one of their houses — we would have questioned Ladradun at the very least. He was careful. Burning the home of one of their mistresses … tricky thinking. In my work, coincidences are suspicious. And Ladradun said he agreed with you that fires were being set. He had to say that, because you had already told me. Otherwise I doubt he’d have drawn the magistrates’ attention to it. Ladradun knows every inch of the city. He had the governor’s leave to explore as he trained his brigades. And after a long summer with no big fires, a Ladradun warehouse burns. The Bazniuz mages slipped up there. They should have questioned him, and they didn’t.”
So much didn’t make sense, Daja thought. That collection of blackened, foul mementoes … “Someone tired of being ignored,” he’d said during a very odd conversation. “Are you giving up on me?” he’d asked.
“I won’t believe it,” she insisted, trying to sound forceful. “He’s a hero. He’d never burn a houseful of people because he was angry with someone barely connected to them.”
“I’m thinking as he thinks,” Heluda replied gently. “You learn how to do that, you’ve been at this as long as I have. Don’t look at him as a friend. Look at him for who he is, Morrachane Ladradun’s son. Killers like Bennat, they’re sad when they’re little, when someone knocks them about like toys, but not when they grow up. The only way we learn how adults act is from the adults who raise us. The children of monsters become monstrous, too.”
She leaned forward and held Daja’s eyes with her own as she took Daja’s hands in her dry ones. “Morrachane was fined ten times by the island council for beating servants. Her younger sons fled the city as soon as they were able; her husband died young, probably shrieked to death. And Bennat? The first time in his life he got kindness and attention was when his family died in an accidental fire. The second time was when people he trained saved lives in another fire. And so it goes, burning after burning. People are saved, houses are saved. Councils hear him with respect. He isn’t Morrachane Ladradun’s idiot burden of a son — she called him that in front of a room full of people — he isn’t that when something burns. Except he does his job too well. He’s gotten rid of too many fire hazards. People get accustomed to his work, and the number of big fires drops off. Respect, attention — he only gets those if the fires get worse. If there are no fires, well, if he starts one, and saves everybody, there’s no harm done, practically.
“So he sets a fire. Then a bigger fire next time, then a bigger one. People die. And he is given a tool that will let him shape huge fires.” Heluda stopped. Fumbling in a pocket, she pulled out a handkerchief and thrust it at Daja.
Only then did Daja realize that tears ran down her face in steady streams. “You don’t know,” she whispered. Even in her own ears she sounded weak.
“I think I do,” Heluda replied quietly. She pointed to the twisted iron handle. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me he didn’t use your gloves to pitch something loaded with black powder boom-dust into the furnace, something to protect the boom-dust for half an hour or so. When the morning’s business started, his creation exploded, taking the entire furnace with it. Thirty-three dead right now, from the bathhouse and the homes around it that burned. Sixty-eight are in hospitals all around the city. Some won’t live. It’s his handiwork, isn’t it?” She leaned back in her chair and laced her hands over her stomach.
“He’s my friend,” Daja told her.
“He’s the fire’s friend,” was the brutal reply. “It’s the only thing he loves.”
Daja wiped her face, then ran a warm hand over the linen. When she returned the handkerchief to Heluda, it was dry. “He did it,” Daja said. “He used my gloves — gloves I made to help people — he used them to blow people to pieces and burn them alive.” A tear rolled down her cheek. She swiped it away with an impatient hand. “I made something good, something bright, and he, he dirtied it. This piece of iron tore through a man’s body when the furnace exploded. I lived that.” She had to stop, and drink her tea, and eat a cookie, and wipe her eyes on her sleeve again. Through it all Heluda Salt waited, drinking her own tea, her eyes not leaving Daja.
As she poured fresh tea, Daja thought of something she had felt through her gloves. “But he wasn’t just doing a job that would yield something he wanted. He liked it. He was all, all giggly inside. Like a nasty little boy putting a nail on his sister’s chair.”
“They like excitement, criminals of this stripe,” replied the magistrate’s mage. “Danger, the risk of arrest, all your senses awake — it’s like dragonsalt, or bliss leaf, or wake paste. At first a taste is enough. Maybe the second taste is as good, but the third isn’t. You need more. And more after that. Excitement’s a drug.”
“How could I not know?” Daja asked.
“Because for all you’re an accredited mage at fourteen, with the kind of power that most mages whistle for, you’re still human,” Heluda informed her. “I didn’t suspect till Jossaryk House, and I’ve been at this game forty years. Blaming yourself is natural enough, but silly. Blame Morrachane. She made him what he is. And blame him. He knows what he does is wrong, or he’d just burn the first thing he sees. He picks, he works out a plan, and he goes to a lot of trouble not to get caught. He could stop. He doesn’t want to.” She watched Daja think about this, then asked, “Will you testify against him at the magistrate’s court? Will you tell the judges what your power has just told you —” she pointed to the twisted iron — “and what you have observed?”
Daja got up and went over to the window, leaning her face against its icy panes. People passed by on Blyth Street outside the open gates, laughing and talking. “He keeps mementoes,” she said, hating herself for the betrayal. “In his study, at home, behind his desk. He said he took them from fires where he accomplished something. I believed him, except …” Daja hesitated.
“Except?” Heluda prodded.
?
??I’m almost positive three are from the fires I know of,” Daja said. The pane on which she leaned had gone warm. She shifted to another, taking comfort from the chill of the glass on her skin.
Heluda got up and began to pace, dodging furniture and knickknacks. “I didn’t know that. We have him. We have him. We’ll need time to work the proper spells —”
“He’s gone for two weeks,” Daja told her. “More, he said, if the weather isn’t good.”
“I know he’s gone,” Heluda said. “I’m using the time to build the case against him.” She rewrapped the iron bar and placed it in her leather satchel, then straightened and looked at Daja. “You may discuss this with Frostpine, if you like, but please, no one else. You know how gossip spreads.”
Daja nodded.
“Should I have you swear —?” Heluda asked, then shook her head. “You’ll hold your tongue. I’ve left messages at the southern gates and Ladradun House, that I would like a word when he comes back. All very ordinary, nothing to worry about. If you see him beforehand, don’t say anything. His mother is a powerful and wealthy woman. I wouldn’t put it past her to help him escape, if only to preserve the family name. We must be very careful.”
“I will,” Daja whispered.
Heluda came over to rest a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Talk it out with Frostpine, but make sure no one else hears.” She lifted her satchel with a grimace. “I’ll get you word as I can.” She left without saying goodbye.
15
It was the most ridiculous thing. Ben and his escort reached the first inn on the imperial road shortly after dusk. They set out at dawn the next day, only to encounter their caravan an hour’s ride from the waystation.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” the foreman told Ben as they all headed back to Kugisko. “The roads to the west are nearly wide open — the mildest winter anyone can remember. We only had to dig ourselves out once, at that turn near Thistledown, where the wind’s so bad.”
“I can’t say I’m heartbroken,” Ben forced himself to reply casually. “You saved me a trip.” And the chance to experiment in Izmolka, where he didn’t need to be so careful. He fumed about that, but he also considered his next Kugisko lesson. Shipquarter Island appealed to him, but there were other places as good, if not better.
He wondered how many had died in the bathhouse fire. Without him to direct the firefighters, he knew they would have lost plenty of the surrounding buildings and their residents as well. The excitement of that spout of flame and smoke had faded so quickly, and he hadn’t seen any of the results up close. He’d stop by the remains in a day or so, but it wouldn’t be the same. He needed something else. Something where he could show them all what he was made of.
They spent the night in the waystation outside Kugisko’s walls. None of the Ladradun riders mentioned it, but all of them looked forward to a last night of quiet before they dealt with Morrachane. At Suroth Gate the next morning they waved to the guards and would have ridden on through — there was no line, today being Watersday — but for the sergeant who ran up to Ben waving a paper. “Viymese Heluda Salt asked me to give you this when you returned,” she said, offering it to Ben. “It was left just yesterday. If she’d waited a day, she could have spoken to you herself!” She waved them on cheerfully.
Heluda Salt. Something cold blew across the back of Ben’s neck as he opened the unsealed note. Its contents were innocent enough:
Ravvot Ladradun, I have one or two questions with regard to your observations of the boardinghouse fire and the fire at Jossaryk House. I would appreciate it if you would contact me upon your return, when it is convenient. The governor has asked me to attend to these matters, and I will be your eternal servant if you could help me handle the governor.
— Heluda Salt
Well! he thought, pleased. A mage who didn’t think her spells would show her everything she had to know, that was unusual in his book. She had also given him an opportunity, the chance to lead her investigation in the wrong direction.
Half distracted by his plans, Ben escorted the caravan to the warehouse and watched them unload until he got bored. He tossed the key to his foreman with orders to lock up and return it the next day, then rode home. It was only mid-morning; not only were the streets fairly empty still, but his mother would be at temple, leaving him rare time alone.
Once he reached Ladradun House, he tended his horse, cursing his mother’s refusal to keep even one servant there on Watersday. Inside the house was dark and silent. Morrachane never left so much as a single lamp lit when they were out. Ben stopped in the kitchen to gather a few coals in a carry-dish, so he could light his office lamps and build a fire in his stove.
As careful as he was, with only some orange coals for light, he banged into a hallway table. He cursed: the edge had struck his hip, sending a bolt of pain through his leg.
A slight rustle and thud greeted his curse.
“Who’s there?” he called.
Silence. Ben stepped quietly into the main sitting room and lit a lamp from his coals, then took his grandfather’s sword from the brackets over the icy hearth. Blade in one hand, lamp in the other, breath steaming in the chilly air, he walked down the hall to his study, lightly, so no floorboards would squeak.
His study was empty, though he was sure the sound had come from there. He went back to search the other rooms off the hall without success. Bothered still — he knew what he’d heard, and it wasn’t mice — he searched the house, checking their jewel boxes and Morrachane’s supposedly secret caches of money. Nothing was missing. He found no one.
His heart still chattered as he set the sword in its place and returned to his study, lamp in hand. Inside he opened the shutters, started a fire, then looked around. There was a folded sheet of paper on his desk, identical to the one in his coat pocket. On the outside of the note he saw a note in his mother’s hard hand: What is this? Why does this woman want to speak to you?
Ben opened the paper with a finger. It was the same note — polite, businesslike — that the sergeant had given him. He let it close and looked at his shelves and desk. His mother had come here already, he knew that; she did it every time he went away. “Straightening,” she called it. He called it poking her nose into his correspondence, drawings, and books, making sure he didn’t plan to escape her. It was an insult he’d come to live with, but he was getting tired of it, and tired of her.
He checked his memento shelves last. She never touched those, at least. She said they were disgusting, that she wouldn’t dirty her hands with them, but Ben knew why she let them be. They frightened her. He liked that.
He smiled now, remembering her fear, until the smile froze on his mouth. At least three items had been moved. His wife’s hand: he’d searched the ashes for hours to collect the remains, but in the end, he couldn’t bear to let all of her go into her grave. He’d wired the bones together himself, weeping as he’d done it. Untouched, the wire was enough to hold the hand upright and outstretched. Shift it, and some bones would be knocked out of line. The tips of three fingers had fallen over backward.
A lump of crystal, riddled with cracks, had been replaced curved side up. He disliked the curved side. And the half-melted figure of Yorgiry, taken from the neck of the maid who had saved two infants, had been moved.
Someone had been searching his mementoes. Someone who, in all likelihood, carried an invisibility charm. Someone who had taken nothing, who had only looked. And now Ben had two notes from Heluda Salt — Salt the suspicious, Salt the clever, Salt the best. The cold draft across his neck was suddenly a northwester off the Syth.
Well.
As usual, he was ready for whatever the gods threw at him. His plans for this day were long prepared. The time had come to burn away his old life.
His chief regret was that he would never see that living metal suit, never walk into an inferno as Daja could. At least he had the gloves. He would take care of them and use them to further his understanding of fire.
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Everything was ready by the time his mother returned from Vrohain’s temple. “You!” Morrachane snapped when she saw him. “Why are you back so soon? How even you could bungle so easy a thing as a simple escort trip —”
“Shut up,” he said, cutting his mother off for perhaps the first time in her life.
“How dare you interrupt me?” Morrachane’s mouth was flat with rage, her eyes poisonous.
Ben shrugged. “I know, Mother. I’m surprised myself. Now that I’ve done it, though, it doesn’t seem that difficult. It’s never too late to learn, so they say.”
Watersday afternoon Daja was virtually alone in the house. Nia had gone to visit Morrachane. Most of the adult refugees were meeting with the Airgi Island council to discuss what to do next. Eidart and Peigi Bancanor were building snow forts in the courtyard with the refugee children. The servants who had offered to work that day were scattered over the large house. Jory was at Potcracker’s kitchen, trying to improve her mastery over stews, while Matazi and Kol paid calls on friends, and Frostpine and Anyussa visited a winter fair. That left Daja in the book-room, reading Namornese history.
“Daja?” Nia stood in the doorway, pale under her bright red cap. “I think something’s wrong at Ladradun House. Aunt Morrachane always expects me at this hour and lets me in, but she hasn’t, and — and — I know I’m not supposed to do anything with my magic outside protections till you say I can, but I spread it out, my magic? I think there’s a fire in the cellar.”
Daja raced to the slush room for her coat. Nia followed. Together they ran up the alley to Ladradun House. Behind them came the two youngest Bancanors and their playmates, curious about what was going on.
Daja and Nia halted at the ten-foot wooden fence that guarded Ladradun House from the rear. Above it Daja saw the roofs of the extensions that included the same lesser buildings as did Bancanor and Jossaryk Houses, and the shuttered windows of the top two stories of the main house.
