Sandry gazed at her sidelong. Gudruny got nervous if Sandry looked her in the eyes: It was yet another of the many things that meant trouble between nobles and commoners in Namorn. “This isn’t a story you’re telling me?”
Gudruny shook her head. “I tried to warn you back home, but it was all I could do to get you to take my service,” she reminded Sandry. “You’re going back south soon enough. Surely you can afford to play by their rules until then.”
Sandry slumped. “Very well, Gudruny. They can stay. Happy?” She was trying to decide between a blush pink overgown or a pale blue one when she realized that Gudruny looked uncomfortable. “What?” Sandry wanted to know.
“Well, begging my lady’s pardon, but there’s the matter of the hairdresser,” Gudruny explained. “He’s agreed to fit you in after midday. He dresses most of the ladies-in-waiting’s hair, and we were lucky that he agreed to see you. I believe the empress herself had a word with him.”
With a loud groan, Sandry collapsed onto a chair.
Tris waited until after her new maid had taken away the remains of her midday to explore her new chambers thoroughly. Much to her surprise, Tris noticed the history of Namorn she had found that first day in the palace was placed beside her bed. In fact, someone had taken the small blue-and-gold dressing room that Tris would never use and turned it into a library, stuffed with books on Namornese history, wildlife, crafts, religions, magic, and languages. Fascinated, Tris plopped into an armchair and began to read as Chime soared around the much-carved and painted chambers, exploring moldings and hanging lamps. She had just returned to curl up on Tris’s lap when someone knocked on the door.
Tris opened it to find Ishabal there. “I thought we might talk,” the older mage said. “May I enter?”
Tris let the imperial mage in. Closing the door, she asked, “Were you the one who picked out the books?”
“I directed one of the imperial librarians to select what might interest a learned stranger,” Ishabal replied. “I take it she chose well?”
“Please be seated,” Tris replied instead of answering the question. She returned to her own chair as Ishabal took the seat.
“What was found for you in no way represents the total of books on those subjects,” Ishabal pointed out. “The imperial libraries are vast. If you were to choose to serve Her Imperial Majesty, you would have the key to such libraries. Moreover, you would have the wealth to create a proper library of your own.”
If Tris was greedy for anything, it was books. Her sisters and brother had learned early on that her personal books were not to be touched without permission, and handled carefully with it. For a moment she had a vision of a two-story room with books on shelves that reached to the ceiling, all filled with volumes on anything that did or might interest her. It’s certainly possible, she mused. I doubt Berenene is stingy with her mages—not the way Quenaill and Ishabal dress. Simple, but elegant, and costly.
“Her Imperial Majesty wishes to employ me as a war mage.” Tris said it flatly. She had been approached with offers of work before, all of them with the same price attached. Why do they always assume a lightning mage wants to kill people? she wondered tiredly.
“Actually, she would like to offer you employment as anything you choose,” replied Ishabal smoothly. “On the Syth, the ability to banish storms is always in great demand. Moreover, we have reports that you have been able to create rain—”
“Not create it,” Tris interrupted. “I don’t create weather. I draw it from someplace else.”
“Very well. The empire is vast, as your books will tell you. It is always raining somewhere,” Ishabal said evenly. “You could draw rain to those places who need it. You could give winds to becalmed ships here and on our coast on the Endless Sea. Your value to the imperial crown is endless, Tris. Her Imperial Majesty is a gracious employer who rewards good service, and she does not overwork her mages. You would have time for your own projects.”
Tris removed her spectacles and rubbed the dent they always left in the top of her long nose. Even if they don’t say they want war magic, they usually do, she thought. If they know you can do it, they always end up wanting it. I certainly got asked for it often enough, traveling with Niko. Even when they start out nicely, it always comes down to “Kill people for me.”
“I am flattered, of course,” she replied, her voice quiet and polite. Three years earlier she might have been cruder, but she had learned a few things. Nowadays she always thought before she spoke in these situations. “Deeply flattered. Might I have time to consider this?”
Ishabal inspected her nails. When she looked up, she met Tris’s eyes and said in a business-like tone, “Five hundred gold argibs the first year. Your own rooms here in the palace, your own horses and maid. Your health is tended by imperial healers without charge. Materials for your magic and research are supplied free of cost, within reason. I determine what is reasonable, not a Privy Purse clerk who doesn’t understand mage work.”
Mila bless me, thought Tris, rattled despite her resolve. The offer was ferociously generous.
Her practical self gripped her greedy self by the ear. It always comes back to war magic, and I want to go to Lightsbridge! she told herself firmly.
No need to rush or offend anyone, not if I’m stuck here for at least another month, Tris told herself. “I must think it over, please,” she said. “You must understand how overwhelming this is, for someone like me.”
“Of course,” Ishabal replied, getting to her feet. “You are wise to think about it. But Her Imperial Majesty also wishes you to know she sees your worth. She values it.”
Tris got up and nodded. “I am greatly honored. Please thank her for me.”
She saw Ishabal to the door and let her out, then closed it behind her. I am not going to think about the money, or the funds, or the healers, she told herself, biting her lip. I want to go to Lightsbridge. She turned the key in the lock. And I won’t do battle magic. Ever.
She was settling into her chair when someone rapped hard on the door. She had locked out the maid.
They all gathered in Sandry’s rooms before the welcoming party so that Sandry could inspect them. Briar wore his favorite deep green tunic and breeches with a perfect white shirt, Tris a vivid blue undergown and sheer black over-gown in the Namornese style. Daja was glorious in a bronze silk tunic that hung to her knees, and leggings of the same color, the tunic heavy with intricate gold embroideries. Sandry had chosen an undergown of pale blue and a white lace overgown, with blue topazes winking at her ears and around her neck. She smiled at her family.
Gudruny sighed, looking at them. “If clothes were armor, you would be defended against all your enemies,” she said. “And you’ve your wits, too—that’s something.”
“Splendid,” said Briar drily, “I now feel suitably armed for a swim in a tub of molasses.”
“She’s just being cautious—that’s Gudruny’s way,” Sandry told him. “And you do look fine.” She smoothed away a wrinkle in Tris’s overgown. “Definitely a match for all these Bags.”
Briar grinned at her use of slang. Bowing, he offered her his arm. “May I?” he asked gallantly. “At least, until one of those Bag boys tears you away from me?”
Sandry laughed. “There isn’t a man here who could do that for more than an hour.”
“Are you sure?” asked Briar, raising an eyebrow. “Nobody?”
Sandry blushed slightly, but said firmly, “Nobody.”
One of Sandry’s new footmen led them to the Moonlight Hall, where the party was being held. As they entered the room, Briar said, “Well, I mean to tear myself away from you a bit tonight. That Caidy just might get herself kissed, if she’s lucky.”