J Rivkin - Mistress of Ambiguities

Oh, I could complain

That my life is a curse,

But twould be in vain

All my woes to rehearse.

For one thing is plain-

Things could always be worse! sang Nyctasia. She ate one of the walnuts shed been shelling, and tossed all the hulls onto the coals of the cooking hearth. Corson, let me do that for you, she suggested.

Corson was trying to chop suet and scraps of meat, holding a wooden bowl awkwardly in her lap while wielding a crescent-shaped mincer. Her left arm was in a sling and kept getting in her way, but she ignored Nyctasias offer of help. She was not in the best of humors. Her bandaged arm hampered her, and it was very hot in the kitchen of the busy tavern, where meats were kept roasting all day, even in the warm late-summer weather.

That fool song of yours! she said. You were singing that the first time I laid eyes on you-cursed be the day. Thats when all my troubles began, so I tell you.

I remember it well, Nyctasia said mildly. The moment you swaggered into The Lame Fox, I thought, Theres the one I want. Strong, oversure of herself, and none too clever-perfect for my purposes.

The others laughed, and Corson turned and deliberately spat into the fire, knowing that Nyctasia found the habit revolting. I must have been a fool, I cant deny it. If Id had the wits of a newborn newt, Id not have been cozened into taking your part. Id have kept to my bargain with your enemies, and cut you into shreds. She demonstrated with the mincer. Thats what a clever person wouldve done.

But you couldnt very well do that-you were in thrall to my artful charms and evil spells. You know Im irresistible.

Like a serpent. Corson agreed, that fascinates its prey with its stare, then paralyzes them with its poison. Thats you.

Nyctasia regarded her coolly. Your braid is in the chopped suet, she observed,

which is not making either of them more appealing.

Corson cursed and tried to fasten up her long braid with one hand, but she soon dropped her hair-clasp and had to pick it out of the half-minced meat. Nyctasia let her struggle stubbornly with it for a while, then sighed and went over to pin up her hair for her.

Dont get your hands dirty, mlady, Corson grumbled.

The others, who had heard their bickering time and again, lost interest and went on about their own tasks. When Waldens back was turned, Nyctasia stole silently across the kitchen, intent on snatching a handful of sweet raisins from the barrel.

Get out of that, the burly cook growled, without turning around, or well be serving up Roast of Rhaicime with Raisins tonight, He sank a cleaver through a slab of beefsteak, with a threatening flourish. If youve finished the walnuts, you can get on with the apples.

Nyctasia retreated hastily. How does he do that? she complained, Its demonic. I never made a sound. I can stalk a deer within ten paces-

Walden snorted. Ive a dozen children-I have to have eyes in my back. And youre always up to something. Skinny people arent to be trusted. Dont they feed you at that fine court of yours?

Oh, the foods plentiful enough, Corson said with a grin, but she doesnt dare eat much of it, for fear someones poisoned her share.

Saves up her appetite for her visits here, Steifann put in, then eats me out of a months earnings. As if it wasnt hard enough feeding Corson, now theres two of the ravening leeches, and the one just as useless as the other.

Nyctasia paid no heed to his disrespectful remarks. She knew as well as the rest that Steifanns tavern profited from the patronage of a noblewoman of her rank.

Word that she frequented the Hare had reached the local gentry and brought Steifann much desirable trade from among them, and her connections to a clan of eastern vintners had made the finest wines of the Midlands available to him as well. All in all, Corsons acquaintance with the Rhaicime of Rhostshyl had proven most advantageous for Steifann, but since he had taken a liking to Nyctasia himself, he naturally treated her as a nuisance and a burden.

Nyc may be useless, Corson protested, like all the aristocracy, but Im-

Dont forget youre a lady now yourself, said Annin, the head serving-woman at the Hare.

Thats different! I earned my title by my sword. Nycs a lady born and bred.

Though Corson held the rank of Desthene, no land or fortune pertained to the title, and she still made her living as a mercenary swordfighter-much to the disgust of Steifann, who felt that she should settle down with him.

Earned that wound by your rutting sword too, he said sourly, gesturing at Corsons bandaged arm. Worthless halfwit. You could have been killed, and now here you are living on my bounty as usual, not fit for a scrap of work.

Im as fit with one arm as you are with two! Its you who wont let me lift a hand to the heavy chores-

Now, Corson, Nyctasia interrupted, we all know that you like nothing so much as an opportunity to indulge your indolence, but-

What did she say? one of the scullions demanded, poking the serving-lad Trask.

She means Corsons lazy, he explained with a grin. Trask was no better educated than the rest, but was considerably more ambitious. He never lost a chance to learn fine phrases and aristocratic ways from Nyctasia.

-but as your pride is even more excessive than your sloth, Nyctasia continued,

youd try to carry on just as usual if we let you, and give that injury no time to knit. Youre to rest easy till youre properly healed, you heed me. Im not so useless that I dont know how to treat a wound.

Nyctasia was a skilled healer, and Corson knew it well, but she scoffed, Fuss, fuss, fuss-youre as bad as Steifann. Its just a nasty scratch from a hayfork, no more. None of them had proper weapons. A border skirmish with a few peasants fool enough to attack the escort of an imperial emissary. It was my own fault I was hurt. I thought we could scatter them without killing the lot. She shook her head in wonder at her own behavior. Fight to kill or run away-one or the other-remember that, she admonished a pair of the cooks children, who were listening wide-eyed to this martial wisdom.

The others ignored her bravado, as usual. Youd not have to kill or be killed if you stayed here where you belong, instead of traipsing all over creation looking for trouble, Steifann pointed out. I daresay as soon as youre whole youll be off on some other addlepated chase.

Corson laughed. Addlepated enough, but only as far as Rhostshyl. Nyc wants me to guard those precious books of hers on the road-if Destiver ever delivers them. Though why anyone would want to steal the moldy old things is more than I could tell you.

Nyctasia was in Chiastelm to receive a shipment of books from her kinfolk in the Midlands. With each lot of wine they sent to Steifann, they dispatched, at her instruction, certain works from the abandoned library of rare scholarly lore that had been discovered on their land nearly two years before. It was not easy for Nyctasia to get away from her duties in Rhostshyl for even a few days, but she had felt that she must without fail take possession of these particular volumes herself.

These books are especially valuable, Corson, she explained. And especially dangerous. To let them fall into the wrong hands would be unforgivable.

Spells, Corson guessed. With all your learning, Nyc, youll never learn that no good comes of meddling with magic.

Not from meddling, no, Nyctasia agreed curtly. She frowned. Where is Destiver? The Windhovers been in port for hours. She had sent two of her people to the docks to see that the books were safely delivered, but she would not feel easy about them until she had them under lock and key.

Dont worry, shell be here in time for a meal, if I know that one, Corson said with a sneer. There had never been much love lost between the two of them, but since Corson bad unwittingly taken part in the capture of Destivers band of smugglers, their mutual dislike had grown to new heights of loathing. It was only through Nyctasias intervention with the powerful Merchants Guild of Chiastelm that Destiver had escaped hanging, and she held Corson to blame that she was now forced to make an honest living as a cargo-runner. Corson, for her part, resented any rival for Steifanns affections, and she knew that Steifann and Destiver had shared a memorable past. She spat again.