A Daughter of No Nation (28 page)

She folded her texting papers and tucked them into her questions notebook—and saw Cly noting that she'd packed as she did.

“Girls, please wait for us on the porch,” he said, and Zita and Mirelda made themselves scarce.

“So,” she asked. “What's the program tonight?”

He held up two new stickpins. “This is a sage designation. It represents intellectual achievement. Your … Master's degree, you called it?” It looked vaguely like a protractor. “The second is a nonspecific indicator of dietary restrictions. You may continue your hunger strike after all, if you choose.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“The program, as you say, is merely to mingle. This is Autumn District in the height of the summer festival—it's not our time, so we celebrate the ascendancy of the people in the next district. We laud the summerborn and the nearly grown.”

“And other than that it's walk around, chitchat over canapés, listen to the band, try not to get wasted.”

“Children don't drink at functions.”

“Not a child, remember?”

“See if you can manage to get through this evening without acting like one.”

They glared at each other over the pins until he handed them over and stalked out without giving her a chance to ask if he was selling her in marital bondage to Rees Erminne.

Which was ridiculous, or even paranoid, because he wasn't. Reassurance would have been nice, but it wasn't necessary.

Ask him now, she told herself, following him out. But he'd vanished deeper into the house.

Mirelda was calling her. “Our carriage is here!”

The object pulling up to the gate, horse-drawn, of course, had to be a low wagon, but it was decked out like a parade float. A flowing fabric cover, pink and ruffled, concealed a little ramp up to the wagon in back. A half-dozen dressed-up Sylvanners and a mandolin player were already aboard.

“Let's go,” Mirelda said, tugging Sophie along. Mervin and his parents were making their way toward the float.

Sophie balked. “Just us?”

“Cousin Clydon and Tenner Zita ride on the Fleet display.”

One last hoop to jump
. Sophie thought of her bags, packed and ready to go so that all anyone … any
slave
would have to do was haul the stuff onto whatever ride brought her back to
Nightjar.

The thought of the ship worked its usual magic; she felt her spirits lifting. “Okay, let's do this.”

They rushed down Low Bann's long drive and—Mirelda took her hand—up to the float. It smelled of roses and the horses pulling it were a creamy white color. Lippizaners? Sophie wondered: Could a show breed have survived, if the two worlds were somehow the same?

Annela had told Cly that Stormwrack was a future version of Erstwhile. Which implied something would happen to turn her world into this one.

Then she was on a platform with Cousin Fenn and her family. There were six or so neighbors from someplace called Low Frake.

“This is Clydon's daughter,” Cousin Fenn told them. “The outlander.”

“But Verdanii?” one of them asked.

“No,” Sophie said. “Total savage.”

Okay, Sofe, you promised to try for Beatrice's sake.

What do I owe Beatrice again? I'm doing this for Verena.

Not to impress a certain someone else?

Shut up, random voice.

The float was part of a real parade—as they rode east, toward Turtle Beach and Erminne's estate, the slaves came out to line the road and quietly wave at the landowners, who were throwing small coins to them.

They passed three of the women whom Sophie had encountered in the kitchen on the way to get Zita her water. The blonde who'd been crying was there, staring defiantly. She locked eyes with Mirelda.

Sophie felt curiosity stir. Then she saw kids, eight of them, little ones with tiny bangles on their wrists, and she forgot everything except
I'm going to be sick.

“Sit,” Fenn said, pushing her toward a bench. “Breathe.”

Sophie raised her head and glowered.

“I know our ways must seem—”

“I'm so totally sure you don't want to finish that sentence,” Sophie said.

“Beatrice felt as you did,” Fenn said. “I think she loved Cly sincerely enough until they came home.”

She imagined Beatrice in the middle of one of her epic freak-outs, shrieking about the slaves. Somehow it seemed perfectly appropriate.

Fenn shrugged. “Well, we're on Erminne land now. They're radicals.”

“They don't—?”

“Erminne's father freed them all on his marrying day—it's an old custom. The estate's gone to ruin since. Why do you think they need their art collection so badly?”

“Radicals. Abolitionists?”

“Sophie, you must see that if you pull your father in that direction, it will ruin us all.”

“Like Cly would ever consider ditching his vine-munching goat transforms, let alone whoever dumps his chamberpot.”

“Does he care if we're reduced to poverty? He lives asea—he's got a Fleet pension. And any alliance with the Erminne … well, Fralienne would insist.” She brightened. “But you've got a point. As long as the lowlands are infested with throttlevine, the government would forbid his divesting.”

“You're serious.” Sophie gaped at Fenn. “You think he's gonna set up an engagement, and then … no more slaves on Low Bann?”

He had asked:
What would you have me do?

“There are many reasons why expanding Low Bann eastward would be beneficial, I grant you. The Erminne estate is a desirable property.”

“But not without an unpaid workforce, am I right?”

“Precisely.” A puzzled half smile from Fenn.

“So he marries me to Rees Erminne and frees all the people on Low Bann and throws your lives into upheaval … for what? So I can get along with him? Could he want my approval that badly? He can't think getting me hitched is the way.”

Fenn had listened to all of this with a tiny frown. Now she said, “Your approval would hardly be an issue. Our young do as they're told or they're scripped to obey.”

Sophie drew a long, slow breath, stunned. She'd expected Fenn to agree with her, to say an arranged marriage was impossible.

“He knows your name, does he not?”

“No.” Sophie's voice was small. “Cly's not stupid. Anyway, he wants me to be—”

“To be what? Half Feliachild? Potentially useful, I'd agree, if you hadn't thrown that bit of your heritage on the midden. A
temperamente
spell wouldn't damage your outlander education, if that's what he's looking to exploit. If you were bound to Rees he could leave him here, charged, I suppose, with running both estates into poverty. He could take you and—”

She remembered Beatrice's letter:
He wants something, and it won't be good.

“He wouldn't,” she said again. There was something she'd missed here.

“There's nothing he wouldn't do. Getting his way is what he does. Convince him an alliance won't work, Sophie. Failing that, convince the Erminnes.” With that, Fenn stepped back to the edge of the float, drawing a confused-looking Mirelda with her.

Sophie reached for the calm she felt on dives or when climbing, when things went wrong. That focus that made the difference between getting everyone back safe or coming home broken … or not at all.

Nothing. Her mind churned.
Bram, you'd better get here quick.

They'd arrived at the Erminne estate, and Rees and his mother were climbing aboard the float now. Their house did look ramshackle. Wet climate, constant maintenance, Sophie thought. The roof was patched; the paving stones were uneven.

“It's nice to see you again,” Rees said. He'd combed his hair; the outfit he wore, unlike the one she'd seen earlier, was in good shape—minimally worn, without visible repairs.

She shook her head, trying to provide a polite answer but too freaked out to muster any courtesy. He took the hint, moving to the edge of the float. He and his mother had coins to throw but there was nobody lining this stretch of road.

Curiosity, ever the traitor, stirred. What was it like to be an abolitionist here?

She took a close look at Fralienne Erminne. She looked about thirty-five—which must be affected by magic, Sophie supposed. Curl your hair, straighten your hair, hide a few wrinkles. This evening, as this morning, she was heavily powdered.

Tanning's not genteel, she remembered.

She wore gloves, as Mirelda did, but they were longer, and as Sophie watched she saw Fralienne tug at them, fiddling.

She imitated the motion subconsciously, thinking, If her skin's dry—if she works, if she's calloused, then the fabric of the gloves might snag on the dry bits of skin.

She was fitter than Fenn—she had real shoulders and gave no impression of softness. Unlike her son, who emanated a sort of smart but pleasant harmlessness, she was visibly worn.

They rode past two more “normal” estates and the others went back to flinging coins at the slaves who lined the roads, Fenn and some of the others casting disapproving glances at the small copper coins tossed by the Erminnes. All they can afford, Sophie deduced.

Starting up a series of switchbacks, they merged into a longer line of floats, all flower-covered and impressively ornate. There were fake, petal-clad trees, a giant, nesting flamingo, a sperm whale, a representation of the setting sun, and more than one sailing vessel.

Aboard the floats were more families, women dressed in flared skirts and fitted tops, all wearing the colors of fall leaves and harvest. The floats bearing betrothed couples were the most elaborate, the engaged kids themselves all dressed in summer green and garlands of flowers.

As the floats converged, the musicians aboard began playing the same song, a gentle thing Sophie might have characterized as a reel. People bobbed in time and clapped. Everyone seemed in good spirits.

They reached the top of the hill, a flattened mountaintop, the sort of thing the ancients would have used as the base for a series of temples. Instead Sophie saw low-slung brick structures, two and three stories high, each of them windowless and round as globes, lying like marbles on a green that was, effectively, a botanical garden and a zoo—trails wound between the buildings, garden beds, and habitats for various animals.

The central building of the Spellscrip Institute was the biggest sphere of the bunch, and its brickwork glittered with hints of shine, silvery black in color, that Sophie suspected was hematite.

Autumn Spell was standing atop this, clad in what looked like a gold and red body stocking, with long swirls of scarf flowing around her, borne on invisible breezes. She looked down at Sophie; their eyes met and her mouth moved.

“Welcome, honored guest.” The words sounded in her ear as if Autumn were standing right beside her.

“Thank you,” Sophie managed.

A uniformed slave was waiting to hand her down to the green, but Rees Erminne strode up suddenly, offering his arm. “There's a corner around the rear gate where the bonded don't serve,” he said. “We pariahs socialize there. Will you come?”

She weighed the options unhappily and decided she might as well. She could have a tactful word with him about Cly's plan.

If in fact there is a plan …

Fenn confirmed it. How much proof do you need?

Uncertainty assailed her. Cly hadn't known her long, but he couldn't possibly think she'd consent to marry some guy she'd known for a day.

She was working herself up for nothing.

The young are scripped to obey.

Cly said “betrothal” and Fenn confirmed it.

He's not that dumb, he's not. He's socially agile.

“Thanks,” she said, choosing Erminne over the butler. Mirelda startled and rushed to follow, making a quick detour to grab a couple sandwiches for herself off a silver tray.

All the spellscribes were turned out as Autumn was, clad in tight leotards and surrounded by the scarves that preserved their modesty. The air was filled with the scent of cooking stews and something that reminded Sophie of chili. “This must be a good climate for growing peppers,” she said, randomly, and Erminne nodded. Five seconds later they rounded a curve in the trail—all the trails were curved, there were no corners here at all, as far as she could see—and there was a pepper garden, enclosed by a low brick wall, containing about ten different species: jalapeños, sweet peppers, bananas, habaneros, and two varieties she didn't recognize.

She felt Rees chuckle against her at the coincidence.

Okay, I'm not going to freak out. We're not getting married, we're not. Cly isn't planning anything. Observe, she told herself. Whatever you do, don't say the wrong thing. Beatrice's freedom is almost in the bag.

“How do you get into the buildings?”

“Much of the institute is underground,” he said. “The entrances to the study spheres are beneath them.”

“It's incredible.” She'd always been a sucker for monument-scale art. Mom and Dad had taken them to the Valley of the Kings and she'd bawled, for sheer joy, when she saw the Great Pyramid. Her father had almost panicked, she'd cried so hard. “I don't know about practical.”

“The institute was constructed in the first days of real Sylvanner wealth; we were showing off.”

“Conspicuous consumption.”

He shrugged. “They have a certain irresistible charm. And the scribes say it's restful to draft spells in them. Contemplative, you know. Good acoustics.”

“I can see why Mirelda would want to work here.”

“Each of the institutes is a marvel. One day you'll have a chance to see Winter District's,” he said. “Your father has ties there.”

She shook her head. “I don't see myself coming back to Sylvanna after this is over.”