Cold Magic (Spiritwalker 1)

On a side table by one of the couches, Bee’s sketchbook lay beneath a slender leather-bound book set thoughtlessly atop it. I could retrieve it as long as neither of the men turned.

Everyone says that the West African Mande lineages and European Celtic tribes were together able to establish the mage Houses, because they possess more conduits to the spirit world than any other peoples known to the natural philosophers, but that does not mean other peoples do not have a few tricks up their sleeves.

We who call ourselves Kena’ani made our fortunes and solidified our sea-trading networks because there were a few things we did particularly well with the aid of the gods—back when our people believed in gods—and with the connivance of the natural world, which must be understood and manipulated so as to harness its power. Some say the Kena’ani are a godless, spiritless, magicless people who will sell our swords and souls for money and will trade anything, even our honor, as long as we make a profit by doing so. They can say what they want. We know how to keep our secrets. We know what information we are willing to share, what we’re willing to sell, and what we will never reveal.

Bee and I learned that lesson young: It’s easier to get away with things you’re not supposed to be doing if no one suspects you can even attempt them. Tell no one. Not ever.

Bee twisted her silver bracelet as she took in a deep breath to fill a false voice she could cast elsewhere as a distraction: an ancient woman’s craft she’d learned from her mother’s mother that I’d never gotten the knack of. As for me, I bent my gaze not inward and not outward but between in and out, into the space where things exist but are not noticed by those who walk past them without seeing that which is not important to them. I drew a veil out of the frail threads of magic inhabiting this space and wrapped myself in it.

A strong word, or a knock—hard to say which—resounded at the far double doors. As both men looked that way, I stepped out from behind the drape and skimmed smoothly across the shining floor toward the table where the books rested. I did not look directly at the two men—the gaze of one person on another can be as hot as fire—but I kept track of their movements in my peripheral vision. The headmaster’s assistant hastened over to the door and opened it while the visitor bent back to his perusal of the papers spread before him on the table. My knee bumped the low side table just as the assistant muttered, “I’ll be burned,” and he turned.

I froze, as still as the table, as silent as the couches, as unexceptional as the floor he stood on and never noticed because it never need be noticed. His gaze flowed right over me without a flicker. He shrugged, closed the door, and returned to the table, again turning his back as he settled in beside the visitor.

“I haven’t much time. I’m late already,” said the visitor in the impatient tones of a man of high status who expects deference. “You said you possess a recently published volume on the subject of aerostatics.”

I dared not risk shifting the top book to get the one beneath. Instead, I swiped up both books and skated straight for the open library door, my back to the men, my skin tingling as with the arrows of discovery pinioning my body. But neither called out. Neither looked. Neither noticed me, someone who was no more important than the other furniture in the room.

At the door, I slipped into the dim alleys of shelving. Bee glided in after me. We skittered to the back aisle and froze there as the headmaster’s dog walked straight down the central aisle and into the headmaster’s office. We saw his figure flash by, but he never looked down the side alleys to see our shapes huddling in the shadows. Bee touched my wrist to claim her sketchbook. I handed it to her. As for the other book, the one I’d been forced to pick up, I felt all I could do was place it on a shelf and hope the headmaster and his dog and servant would think it had been misfiled.

As I raised it, I read its boldly stamped title: Lies the Romans Told.

Was there truly a book written on the venerable theme of lying Romans? Here, all along, I had just thought it a figure of speech, as one might say hot-tempered Celts, sharp Fula bankers, war-loving Iberians, fashionably rude Parisi, or noble Kushites. Obviously only a person of Kena’ani ancestry would even have bothered to write an essay on lying Romans, because out of all their ancient enemies, the Romans had hated and maligned us the most. The memory of Rome’s empire was revered in histories today, even among the descendants of the many Celtic peoples and nations that had battled the imperial legions so fiercely centuries ago. After all, what would Europa be without Roman roads, the public sewers, and extensive aqueducts? Here in Adurnam, as most everywhere in Europa, we spoke a mixed language whose roots were Old Latin. Driven by curiosity—what else could you expect from a cat?—I flipped open the cover to the title page, bold black print on white paper repeating the title and recording the author’s name.

Daniel Hassi Barahal.

My father’s name.

Bee pinched me back to earth.

The headmaster’s assistant clip-clapped briskly back along the central aisle without seeing us and out into the formal library. He shut the door into the library hall behind him.

I knew I ought to leave the book, but I could not bear to. I dropped it into my schoolbag and grabbed Bee’s sketchbook to thrust in beside it. We hurried down the back aisle and crept into the headmaster’s office. The clock ticked faithfully on. At the door leading into the corridor, I bent to listen at the keyhole.

No one moved in the corridor beyond.

A hoarse voice behind us whispered, “Rei vindicatio.”

We bolted out of the office, shutting the door behind us, and stood panting and trembling in the empty corridor.

“That couldn’t have been the poet’s head!” Bee touched the door, as if to make sure it separated us from whatever had spoken inside.

A rush like streaming water poured through my body, the sensation of dizziness and drowning so strong I could not speak. Bee’s face was shining from exertion and triumph and nerves, and suddenly I knew I was about to start laughing hysterically. I ran to the marble stairs, Bee right behind me. We had to clutch the wooden railing as we descended at a stately pace simply to stop ourselves from keeling over with the weight of the guffaws we must hold inside. I could not look at her. Meeting her eye would be fatal. From the stairs, we dashed across the glass-roofed inner court and tumbled into the high, haughty vault of the entrance hall with its carved plants.

“There you are! Late for luncheon. Running about unattended! What has the headmaster had to say to you?”

Maestra Madrahat uncoiled herself from the proctor’s bench placed to survey the entrance hall; one teacher or attendant was always stationed on the bench when college was in session to watch for pupils sneaking about where they weren’t allowed.

I leaped into the breach, not needing to feign the breathless fervor of a chastened penitent who has barely escaped the lash, because my heart was pounding so hard I could scarcely suck in enough air to talk, and my pulse was rushing in my ears like a whispering voice: Had the head of Bran Cof spoken? Did my father write that book?

I could babble with the best of them. “He spoke to us, maestra. See poor Beatrice’s tears! He said to accompany him down to luncheon. But a ribbon on my slipper broke, and I had to pause to see if I might fix it. So he came ahead and we stayed behind. Now we are here.”

This stream of words made her frown, but my statement was so unexceptional she could not protest. I stared at the stolid turnip adorning the wall relief, avoiding Bee’s face altogether lest I entirely lose my composure and burst into uncontrollable snorts of laughter fueled by excitement, relief, and the frightening memory of that disturbing whisper.

A huge crash, plates dropping and smashing on the floor, splintered the air, followed by shrieks of surprise and shouts of startled laughter from the dining hall. Even the maestra flinched at the tremendous sound. Bee hid her face in her hands, shoulders quivering. Hot tears started out of my eyes as I bit my lower lip. Hard.

In the dining hall, everyone began talking at once.

I had not taken three breaths before two figures appeared at the dining hall entrance.