Seraphina(35)

The Censors would have excised my mother, too, reached in and stolen every loving memory of my father. In my head, the tin box of memories gave a painful twitch.

“Denouncing her didn’t even free me from the Censors’ scrutiny,” said Orma. “They don’t know my true difficulties, but they assume I have some, given my family history. They suspect, certainly, that I care more for you than is permitted.”

“That’s what Zeyd was sent to test,” I said, trying to keep the bitterness from my voice.

He squirmed, imperceptibly to any eye but mine. He had never shown the tiniest bit of remorse for putting me in mortal danger as a child; this fleeting discomfiture was the best I could expect.

“I don’t intend to give them any inkling of my real difficulty,” he said, handing me the coin. “Do with it what you think right.”

“I’ll turn it over to Prince Lucian Kiggs, though I don’t know what he can do with your vague premonition. Any advice on recognizing Imlann’s saarantras?”

“I’d recognize him, unless he’s in disguise. I’d know him if I smelled him,” said Orma. “My father’s saarantras was lean, but he may have spent the last sixteen years exercising, or forcing custard down his gullet. I can’t know. He had blue eyes, unusual in a saar but not in a Southlander. Fair hair is easily dyed.”

“Could Imlann pass as easily as Linn?” I asked. “Was he practiced in courtly manners, or musical like his children? Where might he try blending in?”

“He’d do best as a soldier, I should think, or concealed somewhere at court, but he’d know I would expect that. He’ll be somewhere no one would expect.”

“If he was at the funeral and saw you without your seeing him, it’s likely he would have been standing …” Saints’ dogs. Orma had been at the center of everything. I’d seen him from behind the quire screen; he might have been seen from any angle.

Orma stiffened. “Do not go looking for Imlann yourself. He might kill you.”

“He doesn’t know I exist.”

“He doesn’t need to know you’re you to kill you,” said Orma. “He needs only believe you’re trying to stop him doing whatever he’s here to do.”

“I see,” I said, half laughing. “Better Prince Lucian Kiggs than me, I suppose.”

“Yes!”

The vehemence of that yes made me stagger back a step. I could not reply; some emotion had seized my throat.

Someone was rapping on the lopsided door. I moved the door to the side, expecting one of the librarian monks.

There slumped Basind, the disjointed newskin, breathing loudly through his mouth. His eyes pointed two different directions. I recoiled, holding the door before me like a shield. He pushed past, jingling like an Allsaints wreath, gaping at the room, and stumbling over a pile of books.

Orma was on his feet in an instant. “Saar Basind,” he said. “What brings you to St. Ida’s?”

Basind fished around in his shirt, then in his pants, finally locating a folded letter addressed to Orma. Orma read it quickly and held it out to me. I put the door back in its place, grasped the letter with two fingers, and read:

Orma: You will recall Saar Basind. We find him useless at the embassy. Apparently the Ardmagar owes Basind’s mother a favor for turning in her hoarding husband. Basind should never have been permitted to come south otherwise. He needs remedial human behavior lessons. Given your family history, and your own ability to pass, it occurs to me that you might be the ideal teacher.



Give whatever time you have to give, recalling that you are in no position to refuse this request. In particular, persuade him to keep his clothes on in public. The situation is that dire. All in ard, Eskar.



Orma uttered no cry of dismay. I exclaimed for him: “St. Daan in a pan!”

“Evidently they’re anxious to get him out from underfoot while they prepare for the Ardmagar’s arrival,” said Orma evenly. “That’s not unreasonable.”

“But what are you to do with him?” I lowered my voice, because anyone could be on the other side of the bookcases. “You’re trying to pass among the music students; how do you explain being saddled with a newskin?”


“I’ll devise something.” He gently removed a book from Basind’s hands and put it on a high shelf. “I might plausibly be homebound with pneumonia this time of year.”

I didn’t want to leave until I was sure he was all right, and I particularly didn’t want to leave him with the newskin, but Orma was adamant. “You have a lot of other things to do,” he said, opening the door for me. “You have a date with Prince Lucian Kiggs, if I recall.”

“I had hoped for a music lesson,” I griped.

“I can give you homework,” he said, infuriatingly oblivious to my dismay. “Stop by St. Gobnait’s and observe the new megaharmonium. They’ve just finished it, and I understand it puts into practice some intriguing acoustical principles, hitherto untested on so large a scale.”

He tried to smile, to show me he was fine. Then he closed the door in my face.





I strolled to the cathedral, as Orma suggested, having no desire to return to the palace yet. The sky had drawn a thin white veil across the sun, and the wind had picked up. Maybe snow would come soon; it was five days till Speculus, the longest night of the year. As the saying goes: when the days lengthen, the cold strengthens.