I’m told your brother is a man for whom teaching is a passion, Mage Lindin. Would you agree?”
Barl took her time turning away from the picture window in Lady Grie’s grand parlour. The comment was an odd way for the woman to announce her presence. Did she think complimenting Remmie would set an unranked mage at ease? Or was her intent more sinister?
I know who your family is. And if you displease me, who can say what I might do?
She didn’t know Lady Grie well enough to be certain. Best to be cautious, then, and remain on her guard.
“Lady Grie,” she said, nodding respectfully. “Artisan Master Arndel asks me to convey his best wishes, and his hope that you find your clock satisfactory.”
Today Lady Grie was dressed in blue silk, her hair pinned with sapphires, her slender throat captured by gold. She closed the parlour doors, then flicked a careless glance at the gift for her mother, covered and placed on the carved wooden sideboard by a servant.
“I’ve no doubt I shall.” One eyebrow arched. “You haven’t assuaged my curiosity.”
And nor did she want to. Remmie had nothing to do with this woman. His pupils were unranked, his world far removed from hers.
But I don’t dare displease her.
Resenting that, she forced a polite smile. “Remmie’s a fine teacher, yes. His students care for him very much.”
“He says they do.”
Lady Grie arched both her eyebrow. “And what do you say?”
“I say he’s right, but you can hardly count me disinterested. He’s my brother.”
“I have two brothers,” said Lady Grie. “I never compliment them, nor do they compliment me. Our loathing is mutual. Such is the joy of family.”
Barl linked her fingers behind her back. All this pointless chitchat, and if she was late returning to the artisanry Arndel would blame her.
“Lady Grie—”
Waving a hand for silence, Lady Grie crossed the plush cream carpet to a silk-striped, plumply cushioned armchair and lowered herself into it with a groaning sigh. She looked monstrously uncomfortable, a life-sized discouragement to any woman contemplating a child.
“I’m curious about your brother, Mage Lindin, because I’m curious about you. So much talent in an unranked mage, it’s not… usual. I’m intrigued.”
Barl blinked. “Oh.”
Lady Grie rubbed a smooth, slender hand over her distended belly. The blue silk rustled, whispering of wealth. “And because I’m intrigued, I made some inquiries. It seems you’ve ruffled feathers in the College of Mages. And the Hall of Knowledge.”
Hearing that was like being doused with ice water. Before she could stop herself, Barl took a step forward, her temper woken and seething. “The Council’s told tales of me? To you? Lady Grie—”
“No, no, not the Council,” the woman said. “Your Guild. So many important people upset with you, Mage Lindin. I have to say, I’m surprised. I thought you were clever.”
And what did that mean? Had Lady Grie changed her mind? Did she not want Barl Lindin’s exclusive services any more?
If that’s so, then Arndel will surely dismiss me. The blow to his pride won’t permit anything less.
And if she was dismissed…
No reputable artisanry took on a mage without first checking that mage’s standing with the Guild. Her standing was precarious now, thanks to the College proctor and interfering Lord Hahren. More than likely she’d be disparaged. Recommended against.
If my life falls to pieces, and takes Remmie down with it, I doubt he’ll forgive me. Not this time.
“Mage Lindin—” Lady Grie leaned forward as far as her belly would allow. “You’ve gone quite pale. Are you unwell?”
Upset, she answered without thinking. “No, I’m angry. The Guild had no right to talk of me. What business is it of theirs if I choose to further my studies?”
“I think you’ll find it’s where you want to further them that’s caused the consternation.”
And now Lady Grie sounded exactly like Remmie. “Why? Because it’s the College and my family is unranked?” She folded her arms tight across her aching stomach. “I tell you I am sick to death of this nonsense. By what right do ranked mages trample my dreams? I am no criminal, I do not seek to use magic in any unlawful way. All I want is a chance to test the length and breadth and depth of my talent in the best school Dorana has to offer. There is no good reason for that chance to be denied me. My rejection by the College is nothing but a conspiracy of pettiness.”
“Well, well, well.” Lady Grie laughed. “You’re quite the firebrand, aren’t you?”
Silenced, Barl let her arms fall by her sides. Oh, my wretched temper. “I’m sorry, Lady Grie. I forgot myself. It won’t happen again.”
“That would be for the best,” said Lady Grie, eyebrows raised again. “Now show me my new clock. I’ve told my mother I have a wonderful surprise for her. I’m keen to know you’ve not made a liar of me.”
So her foolishness was to be swept under the fine cream carpet, was it? Soundlessly sighing, Barl relaxed her tight fingers.
I’ll not complain. I’ll even wield the broom myself if it keeps me safe in the artisanry.
“Of course, my lady.”
She removed the warded cloth from the clock, hefted her heavy crystal creation from the sideboard to the small round table Lady Grie indicated, then stood back.
Like it. Please like it. You have to like it. It’s beautiful.
“Hmmm,” said Lady Grie, roaming her sharp gaze over each twist and curve of the clock’s crystal housing. “Let me hear it.”
A whispered incant released the clock’s tick and chime. Lady Grie smiled at the owl hoots, then clapped her hands in delight as the raucous cock-crow chime faded into silence.
“Wonderful! I adore it. Better yet, my mother will be most diverted. And I assure you, Mage Lindin, such a feat is not easily achieved.”
“Remember,” Artisan Master Arndel had warned her before she left the artisanry. “If Lady Grie should compliment your work, you are to take no credit, is that clear? The design was hers, you but followed her lead. Her taste is exquisite. The clock’s success is her own.”
Mindful of her precarious position, Barl pasted a modest smile to her lips. “The clock practically made itself, Lady Grie, so wonderful was your original design.”
Lady Grie snorted. “Arndel told you to say that, did he? Well, you’ve done as you were bid. But know that I know how much is due to you.”
Barl felt a warm flush of pleasure. Immediately resenting it, she returned the clock to the sideboard. If only the woman’s approval didn’t mean so much. If only she could prove Remmie wrong, and be indifferent to praise. But she couldn’t. When she was sure her expression was once more blandly polite, she turned to Lady Grie.
“Master Arndel hopes you know that his door remains open to you always, my lady.”
Another snort. “In the hope that my purse remains open to him. And so it shall, Mage Lindin, provided you are here to turn my idle dreams into reality.”
“Of course, Lady Grie.”
Where else would I be but in Batava, since I’m denied a privilege that you take for granted?
Lady Grie tapped her fingertips on the arm of her chair. “Your expression tells me plainly you think I am ignorant of your plight. You’re mistaken. I may be a First Family mage, Barl, but we are not all of us equal. I could yearn for a place on the Council of Mages, but I would yearn in vain. As you vainly yearn for a place in the College.” Her lips curved into an edged smile. “I tell you this so you’ll know I understand your frustrations. And because I understand them, I shall protect you as best I can, and see you are well treated by Master Arndel.”
“Oh.” Surprised almost speechless, Barl nodded. “That is kind of you, Lady Grie.”
“Not really. I don’t wish to lose your magework.”
At least the woman was honest. “As I don’t wish to lose your patronage, my lady.”
Lady Grie shrugged. “Continue making beautiful things for me and you won’t.” With a grimace, she shifted in her chair. “You can collect payment for my mother’s gift from Dassett on your way out. The carriage will return you to the artisanry. Tell your esteemed Artisan Master I’ll have another commission for you soon.”
She was dismissed. Bowing, one hand pressed to her heart so Lady Grie might not doubt her sincerity, Barl took her leave.
On his knees in his vegetable patch, weeding, Remmie glanced up. “You’re lucky Lady Grie is so understanding. If she’d taken offence at your outburst…”
“Well, she didn’t,” Barl said, snappish, and brushed damp dirt from a filched baby carrot. “Besides, she’s the lucky one. That clock will have her mother in raptures. Which works well for me, I must say.” She crunched the carrot. “Her approval of my work will keep me sweet with Arndel.”
“In other words, you’re using her.”
She wriggled a little, trying to get comfortable on the upturned tin bucket she was using for a seat. “We’re using each other. And what does that matter, if we both get what we want?”
Dubious, Remmie sat back on his heels. “And what is it you want, Barl?”
“To put this upset behind me.” And while it wasn’t the whole truth, it was still true. She wasn’t lying to Remmie. He’d never be able to throw that accusation in her face. “For Arndel to recognise my worth to him. To have my crystal acknowledged by the Guild.” But that would have to wait until the College’s kicked-up dust settled. “And I want to explore my gifts as an artisan.”
Remmie plucked another weed and shredded it. “So. You really are taking no for an answer, this time? You’ve not got some mad scheme tucked up your sleeve?”
“The only thing tucked up my sleeve is my arm.” At his look, she shook her head. “You don’t believe me?”
“I want to,” he said slowly. “Only… Barl, I know how much you want to attend the College.”
“And if wanting meant having then I’d not be here, would I? But it doesn’t, and I am, and now you’ve got what you wanted.” She shoved off the old bucket, nearly tipping it over. “I’m not stupid, Remmie. I know when I’m beaten.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—” He rubbed the back of his hand along his jaw, smearing dirt. “Sorry. Let’s talk about something else. Does Lady Grie want you to make her another clock?”
She dug her heel into the edge of the vegetable patch. “Not yet. But soon, she said. She’ll have something for me soon.”
“There you go,” he said, smiling. “See? Things are looking up.”
Dear Remmie. He did try but, really, he’d never understand.
“Now make yourself useful,” he added, “and help me with these weeds.”
She hated weeding. She wasn’t a gardener. She loathed the damp, musty smell of compost and the scratchiness of dirt beneath her nails. But the time was fast approaching when she’d be leaving him behind.
She helped Remmie with his weeds.
The next morning, Arndel sent her back to the trade workroom.
“Mage Egin has the gripe,” he said. The glint in his eye dared her to complain. “And there are trade clocks for export to Brantone that must be done by week’s end.”
“Of course, Artisan Master,” she said, compliant. There was her Lindin crystal at home, waiting for his submission to the Guild. Give him the smallest excuse and he’d likely smash it instead. “I’ll get started right away.”
And with gritted teeth she filled in for hapless Tagget Egin.
Four days he was absent from the artisanry, him and his inconvenient gripe. Every time the trade workroom doors opened during those long four days she looked around, hoping it was Arndel with a new commission from Lady Grie. But though he often came to supervise, he always came empty-handed. On the fifth day Tagget Egin sheepishly reappeared. With scarcely concealed relief she gave him back his trade workbench and returned to her place in the smaller, specialist artisan room.
“That’s good timing,” Ibbitha greeted her. “We’ve some new commissions coming today. Master Arndel told us last night.”
New commissions. Barl felt her heart double-thud. She was so tired of trade clocks she could easily scream. Her fingers itched to make something fabulous, something beautiful. Something for Ancilla Grie. If she never again saw the makings for another tedious trade clock, she’d die happy.
Not long after the artisanry clock finished chiming the work day’s start, Arndel entered with a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm. Designs for their latest commissioned pieces. One by one he handed them out, to Ada Mortyn and Nyn Bardulf and Ibbitha. Last of all he stopped before her bench.
“Mage Lindin,” he said, and handed her the final design.
Staring at it, she felt an unpleasant jolt beneath her ribs. “It’s a journey clock.”
“Indeed it is,” said Arndel. “How perceptive of you.”
She scarcely noticed his dry sarcasm, too overwhelmed by the larger insult of the commission.
“It’s for Lady Lassifer,” Arndel added. “Her nephew travels soon to an appointed position in the Seventh district.”
Another unpleasant jolt. “Lady Lassifer? But—”
“That’s correct. Why?” Arndel raised an eyebrow. “With Mage Egin recovered, did you think I would pay you to sit idle until Lady Grie dreams up something else for you to make?”
She bit her lip. “Of course not, Artisan Master. But it’s a journey clock. With a design so simple it makes Lord Traint’s piece seem a miracle of complexity. The least accomplished mage in the artisanry could create it with his eyes shut. I am worthy of a greater challenge than this.”
A sudden hush in the workroom. Feeling her fellow artisans’ disparaging stares, Barl curled her fingers to fists beneath the cover of her bench.
“Indeed?” Arndel’s eyebrow lifted higher. “Well, Mage Lindin, that is your opinion. My opinion is that you are employed to undertake whatever task I deem suitable. Are you refusing the commission?”
A paltry journey clock. Oh, how she ached to snatch up the inked design, scrunch it into a ball and throw it in his face.
Why would you do this, Arndel? Why would you waste me? You know what I am!
There was an odd look on the Artisan Master’s face, as though he both wanted and dreaded her making even more of a scene. In his eyes, that familiar, curdled resentment. How petty. Whatever she achieved only made him and his artisanry stand higher.
His meanness blinds him. But if I push him any further he’ll find a way to punish me, out of spite.
So she surrendered, the effort nearly breaking something inside her. “I’m sorry, Artisan Master,” she murmured. “I was… taken aback. Of course I’ll make Lady Lassifer her journey clock.”
“How very obliging of you, Mage Lindin,” Arndel sneered. “You render me almost speechless with gratitude. Now get to work. I shall return in due course to see how you progress.”
“Artisan Master,” she said, keeping her gaze pinned to the design on the bench.
As Arndel slammed the workroom door shut behind him, a hissing babble of whispers broke out. Ibbitha actually left her own bench for a scolding confrontation.
“Barl! Are you truly so arrogant you think you can get away with such outrageous behaviour? And that no-one, not even Master Arndel, will call you to account for it?”
There was that ugly word again. Arrogant. First Remmie, now Ibbitha. And from the corner of her eye she saw the other mages nodding, agreeing with her so-called friend’s stringent accusation.
And oh, she was tired of being called that ugly name.
“Why is it, Ibbitha, that confidence is so quickly smeared into something unpleasant?” she demanded. “Why is it wrong for me to believe in myself? Why is it desirable that I apologise for being good?”
“Nobody’s asking you to apologise, Barl,” said Ibbitha, still rankled. “We’d just like you to appreciate that you’re not the only talented mage working here.”
Perhaps not, but I’m the most talented.
Only if she said that, though they all knew it, the fuss would take a week to die down. There might even be a formal complaint lodged, which would be all the excuse Arndel needed to exact a painful revenge for the wrongs he believed she’d done him by simply existing.
“You’re right, Ibbitha. I’m sorry.” She looked around the workroom. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
Ibbitha sniffed. “Perhaps not, Barl, but you do. And I tell you plainly, we’re sick to death of it.”
And on that flouncing note, Ibbitha returned to her workbench. Uncomfortably aware of the other mages and their unfriendly glances, Barl pushed her feelings deep inside and looked more closely at the journey clock’s design.
Brantish green sand. Three topaz. One emerald. Copper wire. Gold wire. Two gold drop weights.
Stifling a sigh, she fetched the necessary supplies and settled down to work. Breathed out her own lingering resentment and sank herself into magic’s welcome embrace.
First, the journey clock’s heart, its time-telling centre. Spin and thin the gold wire, spin the copper wire to match it and meld the two into one coppery gold conductor. Twist it, shape it, let the magic mould it into a cradle for the incant that would tell time until the end of time itself. Suspend it between the two gold drop weights. Infuse the topaz and emerald with the counter-balancing incants. Set them in their gentle orbit, round and round the coppery gold cradle. Swiftly working, Barl felt the building tension… felt the power rise… and though she despised the clock for its unimaginative simplicity, still she felt herself fall in love, because the magic was never anything less than wondrous.
That done, she transmuted the Brantish green sand into shimmering green crystal for the clock’s housing. Not satisfied with the resulting flat leafish tint, she breathed the merest hint of lake blue into the glass. Not enough to darken it, wanting only to enhance the clear colour’s depth. Perfect.
And now to the crystal’s shaping. The clock’s design called for a sphere, inside which the time-piece workings would be infinitely suspended. Delicately, Barl laid the flat sheet of greeny-blue crystal across her workbench’s padded support stands. Slid her right hand beneath it, palm up and fingers spread, and with her left hand traced a careful sigil on the air. It ignited dark crimson. The next sigil burned bright blue. The third and final sigil shone a dull, burnished gold. Power shivered across her skin.
“Rondolo.”
The air above the crystal sheet shimmered. A single sweet note sang out of the glass… and it began to writhe and melt, forming into a perfect orb.
“That’s it,” she crooned, as the power in her right hand kept the growing sphere aloft. “Dance for me.”
With a snap of her fingers, she halted the transmutation just before the crystal sphere sealed itself shut. Then, holding her breath, she guided the gold-and-copper cradle, with its gold drop weights and orbiting gemstones, inside the crystal sphere. Exactly. Another finger-snap restarted the transmutation. Four steady heartbeats later, and the sphere was sealed shut.
Now the timepiece incant, so familiar she could create it in her sleep. Fourteen syllables, three sigils, and it was done. The clock’s inner workings accepted it without complaint.
As she smiled, ridiculously pleased, the artisanry clock sounded the luncheon break. Ibbitha and the others abandoned their clock-maging, but she stayed. She wasn’t hungry. Besides, she wanted to finish the clock within a day, faster than any other mage here could complete it. Just to remind Arndel of how good she was.
The final touch for Lady Lassifer’s piece was its chime and tick and toll. For Lord Traint’s journey clock, since he was a district inspector, she’d created a deep, custodial sound, ripe with undertones of authority. But she knew nothing of Lady Lassifer or her nephew, and she wasn’t inclined to go chasing after Arndel to find out.
Birdsong. Everybody loves birdsong. And from the look of this design Lady Lassifer has as much originality as a hen.
But her fresh irritation faded as she crafted the incant that would give a sweet voice to the green crystal clock. When it was finished she smiled again, then put the incanted crystal aside so the delicate energies could settle before it was melded into the clock.
Abruptly aware of stiff muscles, Barl took advantage of the brief respite and wandered around the quiet workroom. She was curious to see what her fellow mages were creating. And yes, just as she’d expected, everyone else’s tasks were far more alluring than her own.
One day I shall make Arndel sorry for wasting me like this.
She gasped a little, seeing Nyn Bardulf’s fantastic piece. It was a rearing winged horse, front hooves striking the air. To get that pulsing, heartsblood crimson he must have used the mortally expensive firesands from Manemli. Whoever could afford such extravagance for a clock?
Of course, she thought, looking at the inked design. The Tarkalin of Ranoush. Only a fabulously wealthy ruler would have the coin for a clock like this.
A wave of violent envy flooded through her. Why should Nyn Bardulf be singled out for such an honour? She could have crafted this clock as well as he. Better. There was the tiniest flaw in his crystal, she could feel it. A clumsiness in the transmuting of the sand. Probably the clock would keep time all right, wouldn’t shatter. Nyn wasn’t a bad mage. He had a certain gift.
But I’d have made this clock without flaw.
Aching, she crossed to the next bench. It was Ada Mortyn’s, whose crystal-work was bound to be little better than adequate. Prepared to be offended, instead she felt a warning prickle stand the hair on the nape of her neck.
Trouble.
But the warning didn’t come from Ada Mortyn’s partially completed crystal sphere. Uncertain, Barl looked around. There was an off-kilter incant here somewhere, she was certain. Squibs of pain were bursting behind her eyes now, half-blinding her. But she couldn’t put her finger on which—
The workroom doors opened, and her fellow artisans jostled in.
“What are you doing, Barl?” Ada Mortyn demanded. “Leave my work alone!”
“Oh, be quiet, Ada,” she said, impatient. “I’m not touching it. Look—” She pressed the heel of her hand to her temple, wincing. “Something’s wrong. Can’t you feel it?”
“No,” said Nyn Bardulf. “You’re imagining things.”
She wasn’t. Frustrated, she watched Ibbitha and the others return to their benches, oblivious to the danger. The pain behind her eyes was pulsing… pulsing…
“Barl!” Ibbitha protested. “What are you doing? Stop it! Put that down!”
“I’m fetching Arndel!” somebody else shouted, but she didn’t care about them either. Eyes closed, she clutched Ibbitha’s silver incant cradle, but couldn’t feel anything wrong. The problem wasn’t here. Tossing it aside she leapt next to Baret Ventin’s bench. He tried to block her, but she was so angry, so desperate, she nearly pushed him to the floor.
And there it was, the source of the danger. The unravelling incant was in the central timepiece of Baret’s exquisitely opulent funeral clock. Commissioned by Lord and Lady Somerfell to honour his late father, it was worth even more than the Tarkalin of Ranoush’s extravagance.
And it was about to blow apart, and take the artisanry with it.
“Baret, you snivelling idiot, what did you do?”
Deaf to his ranting, to her shouting fellow artisans, she snatched up the clock. The unstable incant hammered against her mage-sense, throbbing pain through every bone and muscle. Fighting the urge to run, she opened herself to the twisting mayhem of Baret’s mistake.
Except it wasn’t a mistake. He’d done this on purpose.
What was he thinking? You can’t thread the central helix counterclockwise! All that does is unravel the incant’s foundations. Baret, you—you jigget!
His misguided attempt to treble the clock’s natural life span had resulted in a fatal torquing of the incant. Like beads popping off a broken string, each of its elements was springing free of alignment, tearing the delicate magework’s balance to shreds. And if she didn’t reverse its wild unravelling—
On a sob, she plunged her mage-sense into the heart of Baret’s chaos. Cried out as she felt the distortions of power lash at her. The incant was almost entirely unravelled now, a rope of fire with its strands cut nearly all the way through. Acting on desperate instinct and arrogant faith, she wrapped her mage-sense around the unstable incant and sank to her knees. Sought to smother the flames and undo the damage.
Hamina. Leba’cek. Nusti. Ach’ara. Dolni. Dolni.
They were words of command to halt stupid, ignorant Baret’s unravelling incant in its tracks. She felt them clash with his robust magework, sizzle and spark and shiver through the workroom. Crying out at the pain, she thought she might be catching fire. Wasn’t sure if she cared, though it hurt so much…
But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was averting disaster. Except she wasn’t averting it. She’d slowed it down a little but the incant was still unravelling.
No!
She plunged herself deeper still into the maelstrom. And this was dangerous, this was reckless. Clock mages played with elemental forces, with time. And Baret might be a jigget but he was a powerful mage, too. In twisting this incant he’d not just captured one of the natural world’s greatest impulses, he’d imposed his will on it. Clock magery was about working in harmony with the elements, but stupid Baret Ventin had attempted domination.
Now this is arrogance, Ibbitha. This is a mage with more power than sense.
And now nature, resentful of Baret taking such liberties, was fighting back… and if she wasn’t careful it would beat her to a pulp even though she was doing her best to put things right.
The funeral clock’s rising heat scorched through her lightly padded green linen tunic. Its crystal carapace was thrumming a rising song of distress. Tears pricked her closed eyes in desperate sympathy. Her bones began to hum in counterpoint to its violent tune.
If she was going to stop this, she had to stop it now.
Dolni. Dolni. Trinta’da. Va’rai.
But the words of power weren’t enough.
With a wailing cry she lifted her right hand against the fiery mayhem. Uncrooked a clawed finger, eyes screwed tight shut, and drew a dangerous sigil in the dark. Rantiracek. The sigil of endings. It was a crazy gamble. Undoing another mage’s work was crushingly difficult at the best of times.
The sigil’s power ripped through her, sundering her flesh from bone. Or so it felt. Curled onto her side, shuddering, she could only breathe and hope. Though she lay utterly unmoving, it seemed the artisanry rocked around her, rippled beneath her, torn free from solid earth. The clock in her gasping embrace burned as hot as the sun.
Please, please, oh please…
Breath by breath the roiling chaos subsided. She could hear her heartbeat again, feel the air rasping in and out of her lungs. She could feel Baret’s incant, frozen in time. Harmless now, and the artisanry saved. Slowly, she rolled onto her back and prised open her eyes.
Justice preserve me. It worked.
“And what is the meaning of this, Mage Lindin?”
Artisan Master Arndel, glaring down at her, his bony face flushed hectic with anger and shock. Crowded at his back, Baret Ventin and Ibbitha and the others.
“Look what she’s done to the Somerfell commission,” said Baret, pointing. “Artisan Master, she’s ruined it.”
Her head hurt so much her vision was blurred red around the edges. Blinking, she looked down at the clock still clutched to her chest.
Oh.
The Somerfell funeral clock was indeed ruined, its glorious gold and peacock blue crystal smoked black and distorted into an ugly, misshapen lump of dead glass.
Artisan Master Arndel narrowed his eyes. “On your feet, Mage Lindin.”
Awkwardly, Barl set the funeral clock on the floor. But as soon as she let go it toppled, and shattered. Everyone gasped. Sorry for the ruination of beauty, she clambered herself upright. Nobody offered a hand to help her. Every muscle hurt, her head pounded as though it would split apart, and her blistered palms stung from the heat of Baret’s warped creation.
Even so, she met Arndel’s frigid glare unflinching. “This isn’t my fault. That funeral clock was doomed the moment Baret meddled with the timepiece incant.”
“How dare you blame me for this?” said Baret, everything about him savage. Of course he was desperate now to save his own skin. “This is your mischief! You thought you could do a better job of the clock, because you’re Barl Lindin, the greatest mage ever born. So you interfered and this is the result!”
Stunned, Barl turned on him. “How can you stand there and tell such lies? You tried to force the timepiece’s incant into an unnatural extension!”
Baret’s gaze flicked to the pieces of smashed crystal, scattered across the floor between them. The central timepiece had rolled free, a sad, melted lump of gold and silver wiring. The incant it had contained, that Baret had toyed with, was extinguished. No proof remained of what rules he’d broken. The danger he’d put all of them in.
He looked to Arndel. “I don’t know what she’s talking about, Artisan Master. I would never attempt anything so foolhardy.”
No. No. Not even Baret could be this craven. “Yes, you did. You know you did.” She took a step toward Arndel, her outstretched fingers trembling. “Artisan Master, please, you must believe me. And if I hadn’t overriden Baret’s meddling this artisanry would be nothing but a smoking hole in the ground! I—”
“Enough!” said Arndel, knocking her hand aside. “Are you mad? Do you expect me to believe you could override Baret Ventin’s magework? Mage Lindin, from the day you set foot in my artisanry you have been a disruptive presence. Until now I chose to overlook that, because your work has been satisfactory and because you pleased Lady Grie. Clearly I was in error. Clearly all I did was encourage your obstreperous arrogance. I shall do so no longer. You’re dismissed.”
Barl blinked at him, stunned.
But you can’t dismiss me. Not for this. You can’t.
“Master Arndel, you’re being unjust.” Her voice was thin and shaking. “I might be outspoken, but I have never been untruthful. You won’t find anyone who can claim they ever caught me in a lie. Baret Ventin’s the liar here, not me.”
Arndel’s lips pressed so tight they all but vanished. “Mage Ventin has been with me for nine years. You have worked here less than one. And you think I should discard my good opinion of him on your unproven say-so? Give credence to your outlandish claims?”
“Yes! Master Arndel, you can’t make me pay for Baret’s mistake!”
“No, Mage Lindin,” said Arndel. His cold voice cut as deep as a plunged knife. “The mistake was mine, in appointing you to this artisanry. I have rectified it. Leave. And you can be sure a report on this disgraceful affair will be sent forthwith to the Guild.”
The workroom was so hushed Barl thought she could hear every watching mage’s heartbeat. Light-headed with pain and disbelief, she searched Baret Ventin’s face for any hint of shame. His blank eyes stared back at her. On his lips a small, derisive smile.
You bastard.
Arndel pointed to the workroom door. “Will you leave, Mage Lindin? Or must I have you removed by rough handling? If so I will make sure you cannot find magework anywhere in Dorana!”
Did he have so much influence? Perhaps. His client list was impressive. Most likely Lord Bren or Lady Grie or another of his patrons would see her ruined in return for a lifetime of generous considerations.
Barl made herself smile. “You’re a fool, Arndel. If you’d given me the chance I’d have made clocks to make you famous. I would have made you renowned throughout the known world. Now all you have is Baret Ventin. And I promise… before either of you is much older he’ll bring this artisanry down around your foolish ears.”
And on that parting note, she walked from the workroom. Every step was a torment, her magic-battered body a shouting of pain. She welcomed it. Her bruises and scorch marks were her badge of honour. She’d done what was needful. She’d done nothing wrong.
And now she knew what it was she had to do next.
The question is, will Remmie forgive me?