Spindle (Two Monarchies Sequence Book 1) (30 page)

“Tell me about the Arbiters,” she said, taking a leaf from Luck’s book.

“The Arbiters?” One of Melchior’s brows went up, and his eyes flicked from her hand to her face. “Yes, you were asleep for that, weren’t you? They were all enchanters: Rorkin, Glenna, Peter– I’m sorry, did you say something?”

Poly shook her head soundlessly, and he continued: “They brokered the peace between Civet and Parras and formed New Civet from the debris that was left.”

“I see. Luck said something about Rorkin putting spells on the Council Hall?”

“They all did,” said Melchior, and added with an especially sarcastic twist of the lips: “They seemed to think the Wizard Council might be subject to corruption. Odd, eh?”

Poly, trying not to hold her breath, said: “What happened to them?”

“Old Rorkin was assassinated, or so they say.
I
think the sneaky old goat’s still toddling around somewhere. His staff hasn’t ever been found.”

“And um, Peter and Glenna?”

“No one knows,” said Melchior, looking down at her curiously. “Know them, did you?”

“What makes you say that?” asked Poly, just a shade too quickly.

A slight curl of the lips. “They were young, but not so young that they wouldn’t have been to court at least once. By all accounts Rorkin was the oldest of them. Funnily enough, he was the only one I ever met: Glenna and Peter vanished long before I was born. There was some talk of seguing through time, but most people don’t believe that.”

“Yes. Well, it’s impossible, isn’t it?”

“Mm. So they say.”

“Might I have my hand back now?”

“Since you ask so nicely,” said Melchior. His eyes flicked past her to the door, and Poly realised with a fizz
of what could have been either fear or excitement, that the big double-doors were opening.

Three men in blue emerged first, and though there were others behind them, Poly didn’t see them. All she could see was Mordion–
her
Mordion–not aged a day and smiling as charmingly as ever as he trod across the carpet toward her.

She heard Melchior suck in a breath between his teeth and realised that she had pinched his fingers painfully between hers. She would have let go immediately, but he curled his hand around hers instead of pulling loose, and Poly hid their linked hands behind the panniers of her gown, allowing herself the dubious comfort of clinging to him.

“Your Highness,” said Mordion. He bowed deeply, his eyes laughing up at Poly in a way that was horribly familiar. Over his shoulder, she was pleased to see that her marble reflection was cold, calm, and utterly devoid of the panic that raced through her veins.

She said: “And you are, sirrah?”

“Head of the Wizard Council, Highness. I am at your service. My name is Mordion.”

“Is it really?” said Poly, with cool unconcern. There was an indulgent tone to Mordion’s voice that told her he didn’t really expect her to remember him, and that made her furiously angry. Across the room, Luck’s eyes found hers, very green and narrow, and Poly looked away.

Melchior said: “How goes the session, sir?”

Poly noted the
sir
with a sick feeling in her stomach, and looked up to find Melchior watching her with a warning in his hazel eyes. Behind the panniers of her skirt, his hand squeezed hers once and released it.

“Slowly,” said Mordion, shrugging. “Now that you are here, Highness, perhaps we can come to some kind of agreement–”

“There you are, Poly!” said Luck’s voice, suddenly and firmly. “It’s time to go in. Mordion. Melchior.”

He nodded to both wizards and swept Poly into the Hall, where it seemed that a thousand eyes were suddenly upon her. The sedate roar of conversation dropped immediately, leaving Poly to follow Luck with a hideously loud rustling of starched petticoats. The carpet beneath her feet was red with gold trimmings, and ran in nine spokes from a circular centre to the edges of the room. Each spoke was a series of stairs that climbed between tiers of seats until it met double doors: the one that they were currently descending cut through tiers numbered one through thirty.

By the time they were seated in one of the tiers, Poly was feeling decidedly raw. The stares had not abated during their walk, and Mordion had taken his place in the centre of the room, sleek and smooth and handsome. Across the Hall, Melchior winked at her, which made Luck look sharply at Poly, and Poly feel rather naughtily better. After that it was easier to listen to Mordion’s purring voice as he recognised speakers across the hall. As far as Poly could tell, it was all a very polite, very correct fight about who would claim
the Royal Personage
, which seemed to be herself. After a little while, it even became amusing. Poly would have enjoyed herself if it wasn’t for the fact that, every so often, she would look up to find Mordion’s eyes on her. She was quite sure that he didn’t know she had remembered everything. She was just as sure that she didn’t want him to find out.

I wonder,
thought Poly, chilled and a little elated;
I wonder if he was the one who tried to kill us as well? Is that why he sent Luck to get me?

The noise in the room sank to a mere babble in the background as she thought about it, and it wasn’t until Luck whispered in her ear: “Nominate me as your champion, Poly,” that Poly regained some sense of the room about her.

She said a startled: “Pardon?”

The room fell silent. Poly flicked her eyes up and found that Mordion’s eyes were on her, mockingly.

He said: “Will you have a champion, your Highness? Or will you speak for yourself?”

“Luck will be my champion,” said Poly carelessly, and had the small, frightened satisfaction of seeing a startled look in Mordion’s dark eyes. He knew her. He’d expected her to manage, independent and alone, as she’d always done.

She said more clearly: “Luck speaks for me.”

The babble in the room rose to an immediate roar.

“Right!” said Luck, surging to his feet. “That’s that, then. Come along, Poly.”

He flung open the wooden door at the end of their row, thoughtlessly trampling toes and squashing hats on his way, and Poly swept out grandly in his wake.

They were on their way up the aisle again when something distinctly magical went
pop!
very, very loudly. Poly felt a huge, warm inrush of air that buffeted her hair and pushed her a step forward, then Luck turned at the top of the stairs, his eyes golden and wide as a pounding of sound began. Poly heard the screams and shouts that broke out above the pounding, but only managed to turn herself halfway around in her ridiculously stiff gown before Luck wrenched her close and pulled her bodily into the air.

A cacophony of sound and vibration thundered beneath their feet as they dangled in the air: Poly dazedly saw the backs of a herd of lowland cattle that stampeded below herself and Luck. She saw the few, unlucky wizards who had not managed to vacate their seats in time, huddled and bloody beneath the hooves as they trampled, and lifted the rest of the men and women in the hall without thinking about it. Mordion’s dark blue eyes flew to her face in arrested question but Poly was too distracted to feel as sick as she should have felt. She released her hair from its bouffant and let it waft easily around herself and Luck, taking in magic.

“I’m fine. You can let go now,” she said to Luck.

“Don’t be silly, Poly,” said Luck, in a reasonable tone of voice. He adjusted one of his arms, but only to pull her closer. “Mordion is looking. Put your arms around my neck and step onto my feet.”

“What happened?” Poly asked, wrapping her arms around his neck. With the bulk of her skirts it was difficult to get to Luck’s feet, but she managed to get the tips of her toes precariously balanced on his.

“Someone Released one of the paintings in the hall. Can you keep holding everyone up while I Bind everything back into the painting?”

“Of course,” said Poly.

“Good girl.
Back you go.
”

The lowland cattle that were milling about below their feet seemed to flicker and become less real. Poly, looking over Luck’s shoulder, saw an imperfect picture through the strands of her hair: golden magic in tiny, hair-like filaments was sticking to the cattle and irresistibly pulling them back toward a canvas across the hall. In their wake, tumbled benches and splintered timber became apparent, as did the few crushed bodies. Poly waited until Luck Bound the painting once more, then gently set down everyone else in the room.

There was a moment’s silence, then voices burst into wild, hysterical gabble.

Poly heard someone’s voice calling for a Healer, another howling for everybody to get out; and as Luck’s feet touched carpet again, she heard the sudden, venomous whisper that slithered through the whole assembly:
The Old Parrassians have done it again. It’s murder this time.

“Poly,” said Luck’s voice in her ear. His arms were still wrapped around her, warm and close, and her feet were still on his, arms around his neck. “Poly, we should go now.”

But he didn’t let go, and he didn’t move.

Poly said: “Be quiet, Luck,” and listened as hard as she could. Around the room a susurration of voices lapped against each other, and then against her moving hair.

It’s the Old Parrassians. They’ve taken it too far this time.

Who would try to murder the Sleeping Princess?

More interestingly ran a current that said:
Well, Mordion’s back. The accidents started very quickly, didn’t they?

And then Poly heard: “May I be of assistance, Princess?”

“No, we’re quite all right,” she said, stepping back briskly from Luck. He blinked and seemed to sway.

Melchior was there, looking very sarcastic. “A little excitement for your first session in parliament, Princess.”

“Are those men dead?”

“No, I think not. The healer is with them. We’ll be breaking for the day after this debacle: mind you don’t get caught with the reporters at the front door.”

“We’re not going out the front,” said Luck, tugging Poly away. “Come along, Poly.”

“Yes, go along, Poly,” said Melchior, quick and sharp and impudent. “Be a good girl. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Poly meant to give him the icy look she’d been practising, but a smile slipped out instead. And instead of
No
, she found herself saying: “All right.”

“Poly, you’re not to encourage the Wizard Council,” said Luck. He had her by the hand and was dragging her down the vast marble hallways of the Council building until Poly had no idea where they were.

“I wasn’t encouraging the Wizard Council, I was encouraging Melchior,” Poly said. She wondered, for a brief, mad moment, if it was possible that Luck was jealous; and it seemed good to her to stir the coals a little. “He’s very useful for answering questions.”

“Answering questions is not what Melchior does best,” said Luck. His eyes were all green, without a trace of gold, and very narrow. “Besides, we’ll be going out again tomorrow, so he can’t come to see you.”

“Well, I like him.”

“And you’re not to like him,” said Luck irritably, gratifying Poly greatly. “In fact, you’re not to–”

“Luck, sweeting,” said a husky female voice, interrupting Luck before a highly interested Poly could find out what else she was not to do.

Luck ceased in his headlong rush and pivoted to greet an occupied doorway. “Melissa. What are you doing here?”

Poly, who had stiffened at the drawling, intimate greeting, found that Luck had let go of her hand. It left her feeling cold and abandoned, and in no humour to appreciate the beauty of the woman who had accosted Luck.

She
was
beautiful, no doubt. Her delightfully proportionate curves were set off by a gown of deep green that cinched tight at the waist and plunged almost scandalously deep at the neck. The skirts of the gown pretended to a fullness at the back, but the cut of it, Poly noticed, was set to brush revealingly against her legs as she walked, and emphasized the curve of her hips. Her hair was gracefully caught up in a series of stately waves in burnished gold, and the heavy-lidded caramel eyes that spoke promises above plump, cherry-red lips only made her appear riper and more mature.

“I came to see you, sweeting,” said those cherry-red lips. “What, no kiss for your oldest friend?”

Poly was annoyed but unsurprised to see Luck take a step toward Melissa and kiss her. She was almost certain that Luck meant to kiss the woman on her cheek; but if so, Melissa turned her face so smoothly and naturally that the kiss fell on her lips instead.

This was who Luck had meant, then, thought Poly, curling the fingers of her antimagic hand into the lace of her glove, when he had complained that not everyone found his kisses distasteful. She felt small and scrubby and school-girlish.

When Melissa had finished kissing Luck–and did they
have
to take quite so long about it? thought Poly irritably–she turned her heavy-lidded eyes upon Poly and gave her a curtsey that was deep, and, Poly suspected, entirely mocking. Poly found that she resented mockery from Melissa in a way that she hadn’t when it came from Melchior.