Mid Afternoon, Hamis 29, 2715
Receiving Room, the Rochambeaux Residence, Uptown
Receiving Room, the Rochambeaux Residence, Uptown
Niccolette crossed her ankles beneath the pale green skirt, comfortably settled on the edge of one of Francoise’s chairs, with a cup of tea and a biscuit she had not touched set before her.
“It is so lovely to see you, Niccolette,” Clemence Marcheline said, smiling. She was, once more, twisting the engagement ring around her finger; she glanced down and let go with a start, settling her hands in her laps.
Niccolette smiled politely at her. “It must have been since graduation, I suppose.”
“I’ve heard – it is true you’re living in the Muluku Isles?” Clemence giggled. “With that husband of yours!”
Niccolette inclined her head. “Yes, though we are in Vienda for the season.” She reached forward and lifted her cup, taking a small sip.
Francoise bustled back in, sweeping her skirts out and settling down next to Niccolette, her perceptive field smooth and controlled. “Now, darlings,” she said, brightly. “Promise you shall come to the soiree at the Heathcotes’ tomorrow afternoon? Everyone who is everyone shall be there.”
“Of course,” Clemence’s eyes brightened.
The door opened; the Rochambeaux’s butler bowed. “Mrs. Braithwaite,” he said.
Amaryllis Braithwaite came inside, the edges of her boots still damp from the rain. Her long blonde hair was curled and pinned up on her head.
“Amaryllis,” Francoise rose, hands extended, eyes wide. “My dear, I didn’t still expect you! I’m so glad you came,” she kissed her cheeks, lightly.
“I wasn’t sure I should,” Amaryllis said, smiling; it did not quite reach her eyes. She squeezed Francoise’s hands back, her own unexpectedly pale.
Niccolette rose as well, turning.
“Nicco!” Amaryllis smiled. “So good to see you.” She came closer; her field of warm static mona caprised Niccolette’s, gently, and her pale eyebrows rose. She bowed.
Niccolette bowed as well. “Please, has it been so long as that?” She came forward, and kissed Amaryllis’s cheeks, one then the other.
Amaryllis laughed. “It seems more than just a few years,” she said, smiling. “I shall never forget your – ah – Bastian lessons!”
Francoise began to giggle, and Niccolette laughed too.
Amaryllis sighed. She glanced past them, and smiled. “Clemence,” she bowed towards the other woman, who was hovering awkwardly at her chair.
“Mrs. Braithwaite,” Clemence said, wide-eyed. She smiled; something sharp glinted behind it.
“Please, sit darling,” Francoise took Amaryllis’s hand again, guiding her towards the set of chairs.
It was a maid who came in, curtsying, and set a cup of tea down for Amaryllis, and a biscuit as well. Francoise nodded abstractly to her, although her attention was focused on the blonde.
“How is she?” Clemence asked. “Your sister?”
Amaryllis’s face went pale, again, tense; her hands came together in her lap.
Niccolette glanced between them, and back at Amaryllis. “Chrysanthe?” The Bastian asked, lightly, raising her eyebrows. “By Her stripes – it has been – how old is she now?”
Amaryllis’s face twitched; she took a deep breath. “Nineteen,” she said, smiling faintly. “It's her last year at Brunnhold already.”
Francoise cleared her throat, quietly. “You weren’t at the Parthington’s last night, were you Nicco?”
“No,” Niccolette said. “We had plans with the Mugrobi delegation."
“It’s all such a mess,” Amaryllis said. She took another deep breath. “Good lady – I’m not sure in the least…” She glanced up at Clemence again, and pressed her lips together, glancing away with a faint attempt at a smile.
The butler bowed at the door again. “Mrs. Worthington,” he said.
"We shall freshen up,” Niccolette said, firmly. She rose; she took Amaryllis’s hand in hers, and led the other woman from the room, nodding to Mrs. Worthington with a pleasant smile, and not stopping.
“Oh Nicco,” Amaryllis made it out into the hallway before the tears started;
Niccolette knew the Rochambeaux house well enough, by now; she took Amaryllis to Francoise’s boudoir, and set the other woman down on a small bench, perched next to her. She did not let go of her hand.
Amaryllis was crying, now, softly. Niccolette glanced around, fetched one of Francoise’s handkerchiefs, and pressed it firmly into her hand.
“It’s all my fault,” Amaryllis said, lips trembling. “You remember, Nicco – my parents passed away in my last year?”
“Yes, of course,” Niccolette said.
Amaryllis sniffled. “I was so lucky to have already had an understanding with Horace; he was every bit a gentleman, and has been such a wonderful husband these last years. He has been so good to Chrysanthe, too, and – I thought – well she is nineteen, now, and I thought it would be rather nice for her to get to see a bit of Vienda high society.”
“I thought it should be easy to stay with her,” Amaryllis said, dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief. “There was a bit of dancing, and she’s a lovely dancer, and seemed to be having such a good time. She told me she wished to go out into the garden with some of the other young attendees, and I didn’t see any harm – it was such a lovely night.”
Niccoletet squeezed Amaryllis’s hand, lightly, her face set.
“She’s not sure how it happened,” Amaryllis said, her lips twitching. “But that – Raymond Kearsley – he’s thirty if he’s a day, but of course he was hanging with the set fresh from Brunnhold. She found herself alone on a path with him, and that – that brute!”
Niccolette breathed in. “Is she harmed?” The Bastian asked, quietly.
“Bruised, but not otherwise,” Amaryllis said. Her lips twitched, and she smiled. “She – ah – well, I must admit, Nicco, I passed along some of what you had explained – when she was at a suitable age, of course, and it seems she… she put her knee squarely between his legs.”
“Good girl!” Niccolette began to laugh.
Amaryllis laughed, too, sniffling. She dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, but it gets worse.” Amaryllis sighed. “She’s a smart girl – she sent one of the servants to find me, as her dress was ripped in the sleeve. I thought we had gotten her out of the party with no one the wiser, but – it seems – Mr. Kearsley has been putting it about that she…”
Niccolette’s eyebrows lifted.
“That she’s no better than she ought to be,” Amaryllis’s eyes spilled over again; she began to cry, more in earnest this time. “He’s telling everyone she led him on – the monster!”
“It is so lovely to see you, Niccolette,” Clemence Marcheline said, smiling. She was, once more, twisting the engagement ring around her finger; she glanced down and let go with a start, settling her hands in her laps.
Niccolette smiled politely at her. “It must have been since graduation, I suppose.”
“I’ve heard – it is true you’re living in the Muluku Isles?” Clemence giggled. “With that husband of yours!”
Niccolette inclined her head. “Yes, though we are in Vienda for the season.” She reached forward and lifted her cup, taking a small sip.
Francoise bustled back in, sweeping her skirts out and settling down next to Niccolette, her perceptive field smooth and controlled. “Now, darlings,” she said, brightly. “Promise you shall come to the soiree at the Heathcotes’ tomorrow afternoon? Everyone who is everyone shall be there.”
“Of course,” Clemence’s eyes brightened.
The door opened; the Rochambeaux’s butler bowed. “Mrs. Braithwaite,” he said.
Amaryllis Braithwaite came inside, the edges of her boots still damp from the rain. Her long blonde hair was curled and pinned up on her head.
“Amaryllis,” Francoise rose, hands extended, eyes wide. “My dear, I didn’t still expect you! I’m so glad you came,” she kissed her cheeks, lightly.
“I wasn’t sure I should,” Amaryllis said, smiling; it did not quite reach her eyes. She squeezed Francoise’s hands back, her own unexpectedly pale.
Niccolette rose as well, turning.
“Nicco!” Amaryllis smiled. “So good to see you.” She came closer; her field of warm static mona caprised Niccolette’s, gently, and her pale eyebrows rose. She bowed.
Niccolette bowed as well. “Please, has it been so long as that?” She came forward, and kissed Amaryllis’s cheeks, one then the other.
Amaryllis laughed. “It seems more than just a few years,” she said, smiling. “I shall never forget your – ah – Bastian lessons!”
Francoise began to giggle, and Niccolette laughed too.
Amaryllis sighed. She glanced past them, and smiled. “Clemence,” she bowed towards the other woman, who was hovering awkwardly at her chair.
“Mrs. Braithwaite,” Clemence said, wide-eyed. She smiled; something sharp glinted behind it.
“Please, sit darling,” Francoise took Amaryllis’s hand again, guiding her towards the set of chairs.
It was a maid who came in, curtsying, and set a cup of tea down for Amaryllis, and a biscuit as well. Francoise nodded abstractly to her, although her attention was focused on the blonde.
“How is she?” Clemence asked. “Your sister?”
Amaryllis’s face went pale, again, tense; her hands came together in her lap.
Niccolette glanced between them, and back at Amaryllis. “Chrysanthe?” The Bastian asked, lightly, raising her eyebrows. “By Her stripes – it has been – how old is she now?”
Amaryllis’s face twitched; she took a deep breath. “Nineteen,” she said, smiling faintly. “It's her last year at Brunnhold already.”
Francoise cleared her throat, quietly. “You weren’t at the Parthington’s last night, were you Nicco?”
“No,” Niccolette said. “We had plans with the Mugrobi delegation."
“It’s all such a mess,” Amaryllis said. She took another deep breath. “Good lady – I’m not sure in the least…” She glanced up at Clemence again, and pressed her lips together, glancing away with a faint attempt at a smile.
The butler bowed at the door again. “Mrs. Worthington,” he said.
"We shall freshen up,” Niccolette said, firmly. She rose; she took Amaryllis’s hand in hers, and led the other woman from the room, nodding to Mrs. Worthington with a pleasant smile, and not stopping.
“Oh Nicco,” Amaryllis made it out into the hallway before the tears started;
Niccolette knew the Rochambeaux house well enough, by now; she took Amaryllis to Francoise’s boudoir, and set the other woman down on a small bench, perched next to her. She did not let go of her hand.
Amaryllis was crying, now, softly. Niccolette glanced around, fetched one of Francoise’s handkerchiefs, and pressed it firmly into her hand.
“It’s all my fault,” Amaryllis said, lips trembling. “You remember, Nicco – my parents passed away in my last year?”
“Yes, of course,” Niccolette said.
Amaryllis sniffled. “I was so lucky to have already had an understanding with Horace; he was every bit a gentleman, and has been such a wonderful husband these last years. He has been so good to Chrysanthe, too, and – I thought – well she is nineteen, now, and I thought it would be rather nice for her to get to see a bit of Vienda high society.”
“I thought it should be easy to stay with her,” Amaryllis said, dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief. “There was a bit of dancing, and she’s a lovely dancer, and seemed to be having such a good time. She told me she wished to go out into the garden with some of the other young attendees, and I didn’t see any harm – it was such a lovely night.”
Niccoletet squeezed Amaryllis’s hand, lightly, her face set.
“She’s not sure how it happened,” Amaryllis said, her lips twitching. “But that – Raymond Kearsley – he’s thirty if he’s a day, but of course he was hanging with the set fresh from Brunnhold. She found herself alone on a path with him, and that – that brute!”
Niccolette breathed in. “Is she harmed?” The Bastian asked, quietly.
“Bruised, but not otherwise,” Amaryllis said. Her lips twitched, and she smiled. “She – ah – well, I must admit, Nicco, I passed along some of what you had explained – when she was at a suitable age, of course, and it seems she… she put her knee squarely between his legs.”
“Good girl!” Niccolette began to laugh.
Amaryllis laughed, too, sniffling. She dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, but it gets worse.” Amaryllis sighed. “She’s a smart girl – she sent one of the servants to find me, as her dress was ripped in the sleeve. I thought we had gotten her out of the party with no one the wiser, but – it seems – Mr. Kearsley has been putting it about that she…”
Niccolette’s eyebrows lifted.
“That she’s no better than she ought to be,” Amaryllis’s eyes spilled over again; she began to cry, more in earnest this time. “He’s telling everyone she led him on – the monster!”
Late Evening, Hamis 29, 2715
The Ibutatus’ Room, the Grandview, Uptown
The Ibutatus’ Room, the Grandview, Uptown
It is unfair,” Niccolette said, eyes flashing. She paced back and forth the narrow confines of the hotel room, Uzoji’s pale golden robe swishing about her legs.
“Absolutely,” Uzoji agreed, sitting on the edge of the bed, his face knitted in a frown. “The poor girl; hopefully she can go back to Brunnhold, and put it behind her.”
Niccolette snorted. “As if! Please, darling – you should know how tightly knit the web of gossip is in Anaxas. By the end of the week it shall be all through her classmates. As well, Amaryllis says the poor girl is half afraid to leave the house. I have told her to bring Chrysanthe to the party at the Heathcotes’ tomorrow. We shall attend, of course.”
Uzoji chuckled. “I thought you said you should rather eat dirt than attend a party by those bores?” He smiled.
“Well I should!” Niccolette snapped. She turned, looking at him, and softened. “I do not see what else I can do.” Niccolette said, quietly.
Uzoji rose; he wrapped his arms around her, and pressed his lips lightly into her hair. “Of course we shall go,” Uzoji said, gently. “I would go to the ends of Vita and beyond for you, my shores and tide."
“Absolutely,” Uzoji agreed, sitting on the edge of the bed, his face knitted in a frown. “The poor girl; hopefully she can go back to Brunnhold, and put it behind her.”
Niccolette snorted. “As if! Please, darling – you should know how tightly knit the web of gossip is in Anaxas. By the end of the week it shall be all through her classmates. As well, Amaryllis says the poor girl is half afraid to leave the house. I have told her to bring Chrysanthe to the party at the Heathcotes’ tomorrow. We shall attend, of course.”
Uzoji chuckled. “I thought you said you should rather eat dirt than attend a party by those bores?” He smiled.
“Well I should!” Niccolette snapped. She turned, looking at him, and softened. “I do not see what else I can do.” Niccolette said, quietly.
Uzoji rose; he wrapped his arms around her, and pressed his lips lightly into her hair. “Of course we shall go,” Uzoji said, gently. “I would go to the ends of Vita and beyond for you, my shores and tide."
Mid-Afternoon, Hamis 30, 2715
The Study, The Heathcote Townhouse, Uptown
The Study, The Heathcote Townhouse, Uptown
Chrysanthe Palmifer held herself stiffly upright, all her pale blonde hair coiled up in braids on her head; the only color on her face were the high spots on her cheeks. Her field – static, like her sister’s – buzzed, faintly, with nervous agitation.
“There’s no need to stay,” Amaryllis said, glancing at the door of the study, one arm wrapped around her sister.
“No,” Chrysanthe took a deep breath. “Mrs. Ibutatu is quite right,” she smiled at Niccolette, although it was a pale, strained thing. “It shall be worse if I do not show my face. I didn’t mean to panic – it’s just, when I saw him…” she took another deep breath.
Niccolette smiled back at the young girl, smoothing a hand over her own turquoise gown, her dark hair falling full down her back.
There was a quiet rapping on the door, and Uzoji’s voice floated through. “Darling? Everything all right in there?”
Chrysanthe giggled. “Your husband is very sweet,” she told Niccolette, smiling.
“Whatever I care about,” Niccolette said, firmly, “so does he.”
“That is the mark of an excellent husband,” Amaryllis said, smiling; from the softness in her voice, it was clear she was thinking of Horace. She pressed her lips to Chrysanthe’s hair.
As if on cue, it was Horace’s voice that came through next, a bit hesitant. “Do you still want me to fetch the carriage, Ami?”
Amaryllis turned to Chrysanthe.
“No,” Chrysanthe called. She took a deep breath, kissed Amaryllis’s cheek, and turned to the door, opening it and emerging with her head held high.
“May I escort you?” Horace asked, with a smile at his wife’s younger sister. He bowed, and offered her his arm.
“Thank you,” Chrysanthe said, smiling at him; she settled her arm through his.
Niccolette swept out after Amaryllis, smiling. She took Uzoji’s arm in hers, and the five of them proceeded back to the ballroom.
“There’s no need to stay,” Amaryllis said, glancing at the door of the study, one arm wrapped around her sister.
“No,” Chrysanthe took a deep breath. “Mrs. Ibutatu is quite right,” she smiled at Niccolette, although it was a pale, strained thing. “It shall be worse if I do not show my face. I didn’t mean to panic – it’s just, when I saw him…” she took another deep breath.
Niccolette smiled back at the young girl, smoothing a hand over her own turquoise gown, her dark hair falling full down her back.
There was a quiet rapping on the door, and Uzoji’s voice floated through. “Darling? Everything all right in there?”
Chrysanthe giggled. “Your husband is very sweet,” she told Niccolette, smiling.
“Whatever I care about,” Niccolette said, firmly, “so does he.”
“That is the mark of an excellent husband,” Amaryllis said, smiling; from the softness in her voice, it was clear she was thinking of Horace. She pressed her lips to Chrysanthe’s hair.
As if on cue, it was Horace’s voice that came through next, a bit hesitant. “Do you still want me to fetch the carriage, Ami?”
Amaryllis turned to Chrysanthe.
“No,” Chrysanthe called. She took a deep breath, kissed Amaryllis’s cheek, and turned to the door, opening it and emerging with her head held high.
“May I escort you?” Horace asked, with a smile at his wife’s younger sister. He bowed, and offered her his arm.
“Thank you,” Chrysanthe said, smiling at him; she settled her arm through his.
Niccolette swept out after Amaryllis, smiling. She took Uzoji’s arm in hers, and the five of them proceeded back to the ballroom.
Mid-Afternoon, Hamis 30, 2715
The Ballroom, The Heathcote Townhouse, Uptown
The Ballroom, The Heathcote Townhouse, Uptown
Niccolette swirled the white wine in her glass; she had not had much of a taste for drink all afternoon. She did not take a sip of this glass either, the light filtering through the Heathcote’s large glass windows and shifting yellow through it.
“… the conference tomorrow,” Uzoji said, smiling, to Idiqa pezre Jali. “I’m sure your proposal will be well-received.”
“… what they’re teaching them at Brunnhold these days,” Niccolette heard, half-distant, followed by a roar of laughter.
Niccolette glanced back over one shoulder.
“I tell you, Kearsley,” another man said, chuckling, “the Good Lady blessed you, to have escaped the minx intact.”
Niccolette clenched her jaw. She breathed in, lightly; she set her glass of wine down on a nearby table.
“Beloved…?” Uzoji turned, glancing towards her.
Niccolette was already moving. She cut effortlessly through the cluster of pale, summery suits, and stopped before Raymond Kearsley, who was red-faced with laughter, dark enough to match his hair. "Some women," he was in the midst of saying, "favor such games-"
Niccolette released the polite dampening she had held so carefully all through the party; her field washed out, sharp and bright, and the laughter rather abruptly stopped.
The Bastian smiled, delicately, looking up at Kearsley.
“Uh,” Kearsley said. He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Ibutatu, isn’t it? I believe – ”
Niccolette slapped him squarely across the cheek, her hand ringing sharply against his skin.
Kearsley choked.
“I find you thoroughly offensive in demeanor and appearance both,” Niccolette said, casual and even, as if she were discussing the weather, or some finer point of maquillage. “I challenge you.” Someone gasped; someone else cleared his throat.
Kearsley’s eyes went wide; he jerked back, and glanced at the now silent cluster of men all around him. His cheek burned, a red streak already visible against the freckled skin. He swallowed.
But Niccolette had left him no choice, as she knew she must; she flexed her field, sharply, to drive the point home.
“I accept,” Kearsley said, stiffly, and his field of perceptive mona sigiled against hers.
The Heathcote’s did not have the space for a lawn, but they did have a garden patio; it was cleared off, and Niccolette and Kearsley faced one another across the edges of it.
“You must be relieved, Mr. Ibutatu,” Niccolette heard someone say, distantly, “that the duel is only at the third level.”
She could hear the smile in Uzoji’s voice as he responded. “I am afraid,” he said, “you rather over-estimate my concern for Mr. Kearsley.”
Uzoji had walked her to the spot; he had bent, as if to brush her cheek, and whispered into her ear, smiling, “Conquer him.”
Niccolette looked at Kearsley, meeting the perceptivist’s gaze over the porcelain tiled patio. His face was still red all through beneath his freckles, though her handprint stood out sharply against his cheek. She smiled.
Mr. Heathcote cleared his throat, glancing down at his stopwatch, then back up at the two. “Mr. Kearsley, if you would call the tally?”
“Queen,” Kearsley said, scarcely glancing away.
Mr. Heathcote caught it on his hand, and turned it over. “Queen,” he agreed. “On four, then, Mr. Kearsley.”
Niccolette held the perceptivist’s gaze. Mr. Heathcote counted; Mr. Kearsley drew himself up, and began to cast. He chanted his way steadily through a priority spell, pulling the Bastian galdor’s gaze to his eyes, and her attention away from Heathcote’s voice.
Niccolette felt it sink into her; she watched Mr. Kearsley. His golden eyes were no larger than they had been, and yet they half seemed to grow, drawing her in. She blinked, once, and heard Heathcote counting quietly from the side, and heard him say the number fifteen.
Niccolette began to cast then, without waiting; she called on the mona for a bristle spell, building it word by word. Kearsley jumped, opposite her, and gritted his teeth, but he held onto his spell, his gaze still locked into hers.
Niccolette breathed deeply, steadily; the bristle spell had been instinctive, a quick reaction. They were simple spells; they went quickly, and there was little chance of backlash, even while casting under a priority spell. They were tied, now, one-one; Kearsley was already building his next spell, a sleep spell.
Niccolette murmured a counterspell beneath her breath as he wound into it, still holding his gaze; she felt it take her, but so, too, did her counterspell. The Bastian felt a faint tingle of tiredness sweep through her, but she could hold her eyes open through it. Better yet, she could see the drain on the Anaxi’s face of upkeeping the priority spell. Good, Niccolette thought; let him hold it. She was finding herself in the grasp of it; she could keep her own count in her head without flinching, and she did so now, timing the seconds herself.
This time Niccolette did not wait; she began to cast, a deep vision spell this time. It was a spell to let one see in the dark; it was a spell to let one’s eyes take advantage of the tiniest bit of light. In broad bright sun of a Hamis afternoon, Niccolette knew, it would have rather a different effect.
Kearsley grunted aloud; tears streamed from the corners of his eyes, and he shut them tightly, bending forward and pressing his hands against them. Niccolette felt the priority spell lapse; she smiled, and did not look away. She heard, distantly, a murmur of voices from the sidelines, and something much like applause; she set it aside, uncaring.
Kearsley’s voice emerged; he straightened up, eyes squeezed shut. Niccolette listened, curiously; it was a perceptivist’s answer to the spell, as best as she could tell, finetuning the signals from his eyes, reducing the effects of the light to let him see through her spell. She felt it, powerful and well-built; he opened his eyes again, both rimmed with red, a spray of red veins inside one of them.
Niccolette smiled, and flexed her field, lightly; she held the upkeep of the spell a moment longer, and let it go. Two-two, the Bastian thought, studying the perceptive conversationalist opposite her, and now she was getting the measure of the man.
Niccolette cast, this time; she wound an anesthetic spell, targeted and deliberate, which crept into Kearsley’s mouth and numbed his tongue. Anesthetic spells had long been a favorite of hers; she had learned them at Brunnhold, and she had found considerable practice with them in the years since, learning how to target precisely and efficiently. This spell, by Montague Caravaglio, was precise, powerful, and difficult to upkeep.
Niccolette did not try; she numbed Kearsley’s tongue, feeling the mona rouse to her will, and then released the spell just as quickly.
Kearsley jerked; he opened his mouth, drool dribbling from his lips. He grimaced, turning his head and wiping his mouth on a handkerchief; Heathcote was counting down his turn again.
Kearsley turned back to Niccolette; his jaw clenched.
Niccolette lifted her eyebrows, lightly, and waited. Three points for her, and only two for Kearsley.
Kearsley ground out a curse beneath his breath, moving his tongue around in his mouth.
“Twenty two,” Heathcote counted, “twenty three. Twenty four…”
Kearsley began to cast. He leapt at it; from across the dueling ground, Niccolette could feel the tension in his field, an odd tautness to the slippery mona. His tongue stumbled once, and again; he cast through them both. It was an invasion spell he chanted, and a rather powerful one; Niccolette listened, raising her eyebrows lightly. Kearsley kept going, building clause after clause into the spell, but long after Niccolette should have felt it take hold, she felt nothing.
The Bastian held Kearsley's gaze, steadily, and held too, the distance between them.
Kearsley kept going; there was a raw edge of desperation to his voice. He curled the spell; the slick tension between them heightened, vibrating at nearly a fever pitch.
It snapped; he backlashed. Niccolette felt it, sharp and vicious, when the mona turned against him. Kearsley sank to his knees on the porcelain, grimacing; his eyes crossed, and he moaned, softly.
There was a chorus of raised voices and laughter from the crowd.
Niccolette stepped back, the skirt of her turquoise dress swishing lightly against her legs, until she felt her field once more in the air around her. It took quite a few steps; she noticed the crowd in the ballroom backing up as well, getting away from the rather large range where the mona had fled. It was rare to recover from any true backlash within the narrow time of a duel; it was clear to any onlooker than Kearsley would not.
There were, Niccolette thought lightly, a variety of opinions on how a backlashed opponent should be handled. One could always cast lightly against on oneself, and then wait out the remainder of the turns until one’s opponent had forfeited; certainly, with that strategy, Niccolette would be the undisputed winner.
Heathcote had cleared his throat; he was counting, steadily, once again.
The Bastian turned and glanced at the crowd standing and watching the duel. She saw Uzoji, pride beaming across his face, his smile and eyes bright; he held himself like the hunter he was, and the look of him filled Niccolette all through with joy, bright and shining. But he was not who she had looked for, in the end. She searched the faces; she found Francoise, and Amaryllis, and next to her, straight-backed, chin raised, she found Chrysanthe.
The schoolgirl met Niccolette’s gaze, and she nodded, once.
“Twenty six,” Heathcote said. “Twenty seven.”
Niccolette turned back to Kearsley, who was still shuddering on his knees. She began to cast; it was a more effective, living-conversation version of the spell Kearsley had attempted on her, a control spell. It was not a spell meant to stop him from casting, like she might have done if he could still have resisted; it was not so targeted as that. It froze all of him; it swept through him, and locked him up, and left him doubled over and trembling on the patio.
Niccolette held the upkeep, effortless. Heathcote counted the seconds through Kearsley’s turn, calmly and evenly. “Thirty,” he said, looking up.
Niccolette held the upkeep of the paralysis spell still, and began to cast once more. This one was simple; she spoke the words of a pain spell, like any student might have cast, but she bore down on it with the full strength of her field. She curled the spell; she watched the tension ripple through Kearsley, and when she saw it in his throat, she released the paralysis.
Kearsley screamed; he howled. He sank to the ground, and shuddered, and tears streamed from his eyes.
“And Mrs. Ibutatu is the winner!” Heathcote pronounced over the suddenly raised voices of the crowd.
Niccolette smiled; she turned away from Kearsley, and did not look back.
Uzoji was there; he bowed before her, smiling, and offered her his arm.
Niccolette settled her arm through it, and rested comfortably against him. She let him escort her back into the ballroom; she let the proud amusement in his voice wash through her, warm and comfortable.
“… quite fortunate!” Mrs. D’orlange was saying, breathlessly.
“Yes,” Uzoji said, bright and cheerful, “I am.”
“… the conference tomorrow,” Uzoji said, smiling, to Idiqa pezre Jali. “I’m sure your proposal will be well-received.”
“… what they’re teaching them at Brunnhold these days,” Niccolette heard, half-distant, followed by a roar of laughter.
Niccolette glanced back over one shoulder.
“I tell you, Kearsley,” another man said, chuckling, “the Good Lady blessed you, to have escaped the minx intact.”
Niccolette clenched her jaw. She breathed in, lightly; she set her glass of wine down on a nearby table.
“Beloved…?” Uzoji turned, glancing towards her.
Niccolette was already moving. She cut effortlessly through the cluster of pale, summery suits, and stopped before Raymond Kearsley, who was red-faced with laughter, dark enough to match his hair. "Some women," he was in the midst of saying, "favor such games-"
Niccolette released the polite dampening she had held so carefully all through the party; her field washed out, sharp and bright, and the laughter rather abruptly stopped.
The Bastian smiled, delicately, looking up at Kearsley.
“Uh,” Kearsley said. He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Ibutatu, isn’t it? I believe – ”
Niccolette slapped him squarely across the cheek, her hand ringing sharply against his skin.
Kearsley choked.
“I find you thoroughly offensive in demeanor and appearance both,” Niccolette said, casual and even, as if she were discussing the weather, or some finer point of maquillage. “I challenge you.” Someone gasped; someone else cleared his throat.
Kearsley’s eyes went wide; he jerked back, and glanced at the now silent cluster of men all around him. His cheek burned, a red streak already visible against the freckled skin. He swallowed.
But Niccolette had left him no choice, as she knew she must; she flexed her field, sharply, to drive the point home.
“I accept,” Kearsley said, stiffly, and his field of perceptive mona sigiled against hers.
The Heathcote’s did not have the space for a lawn, but they did have a garden patio; it was cleared off, and Niccolette and Kearsley faced one another across the edges of it.
“You must be relieved, Mr. Ibutatu,” Niccolette heard someone say, distantly, “that the duel is only at the third level.”
She could hear the smile in Uzoji’s voice as he responded. “I am afraid,” he said, “you rather over-estimate my concern for Mr. Kearsley.”
Uzoji had walked her to the spot; he had bent, as if to brush her cheek, and whispered into her ear, smiling, “Conquer him.”
Niccolette looked at Kearsley, meeting the perceptivist’s gaze over the porcelain tiled patio. His face was still red all through beneath his freckles, though her handprint stood out sharply against his cheek. She smiled.
Mr. Heathcote cleared his throat, glancing down at his stopwatch, then back up at the two. “Mr. Kearsley, if you would call the tally?”
“Queen,” Kearsley said, scarcely glancing away.
Mr. Heathcote caught it on his hand, and turned it over. “Queen,” he agreed. “On four, then, Mr. Kearsley.”
Niccolette held the perceptivist’s gaze. Mr. Heathcote counted; Mr. Kearsley drew himself up, and began to cast. He chanted his way steadily through a priority spell, pulling the Bastian galdor’s gaze to his eyes, and her attention away from Heathcote’s voice.
Niccolette felt it sink into her; she watched Mr. Kearsley. His golden eyes were no larger than they had been, and yet they half seemed to grow, drawing her in. She blinked, once, and heard Heathcote counting quietly from the side, and heard him say the number fifteen.
Niccolette began to cast then, without waiting; she called on the mona for a bristle spell, building it word by word. Kearsley jumped, opposite her, and gritted his teeth, but he held onto his spell, his gaze still locked into hers.
Niccolette breathed deeply, steadily; the bristle spell had been instinctive, a quick reaction. They were simple spells; they went quickly, and there was little chance of backlash, even while casting under a priority spell. They were tied, now, one-one; Kearsley was already building his next spell, a sleep spell.
Niccolette murmured a counterspell beneath her breath as he wound into it, still holding his gaze; she felt it take her, but so, too, did her counterspell. The Bastian felt a faint tingle of tiredness sweep through her, but she could hold her eyes open through it. Better yet, she could see the drain on the Anaxi’s face of upkeeping the priority spell. Good, Niccolette thought; let him hold it. She was finding herself in the grasp of it; she could keep her own count in her head without flinching, and she did so now, timing the seconds herself.
This time Niccolette did not wait; she began to cast, a deep vision spell this time. It was a spell to let one see in the dark; it was a spell to let one’s eyes take advantage of the tiniest bit of light. In broad bright sun of a Hamis afternoon, Niccolette knew, it would have rather a different effect.
Kearsley grunted aloud; tears streamed from the corners of his eyes, and he shut them tightly, bending forward and pressing his hands against them. Niccolette felt the priority spell lapse; she smiled, and did not look away. She heard, distantly, a murmur of voices from the sidelines, and something much like applause; she set it aside, uncaring.
Kearsley’s voice emerged; he straightened up, eyes squeezed shut. Niccolette listened, curiously; it was a perceptivist’s answer to the spell, as best as she could tell, finetuning the signals from his eyes, reducing the effects of the light to let him see through her spell. She felt it, powerful and well-built; he opened his eyes again, both rimmed with red, a spray of red veins inside one of them.
Niccolette smiled, and flexed her field, lightly; she held the upkeep of the spell a moment longer, and let it go. Two-two, the Bastian thought, studying the perceptive conversationalist opposite her, and now she was getting the measure of the man.
Niccolette cast, this time; she wound an anesthetic spell, targeted and deliberate, which crept into Kearsley’s mouth and numbed his tongue. Anesthetic spells had long been a favorite of hers; she had learned them at Brunnhold, and she had found considerable practice with them in the years since, learning how to target precisely and efficiently. This spell, by Montague Caravaglio, was precise, powerful, and difficult to upkeep.
Niccolette did not try; she numbed Kearsley’s tongue, feeling the mona rouse to her will, and then released the spell just as quickly.
Kearsley jerked; he opened his mouth, drool dribbling from his lips. He grimaced, turning his head and wiping his mouth on a handkerchief; Heathcote was counting down his turn again.
Kearsley turned back to Niccolette; his jaw clenched.
Niccolette lifted her eyebrows, lightly, and waited. Three points for her, and only two for Kearsley.
Kearsley ground out a curse beneath his breath, moving his tongue around in his mouth.
“Twenty two,” Heathcote counted, “twenty three. Twenty four…”
Kearsley began to cast. He leapt at it; from across the dueling ground, Niccolette could feel the tension in his field, an odd tautness to the slippery mona. His tongue stumbled once, and again; he cast through them both. It was an invasion spell he chanted, and a rather powerful one; Niccolette listened, raising her eyebrows lightly. Kearsley kept going, building clause after clause into the spell, but long after Niccolette should have felt it take hold, she felt nothing.
The Bastian held Kearsley's gaze, steadily, and held too, the distance between them.
Kearsley kept going; there was a raw edge of desperation to his voice. He curled the spell; the slick tension between them heightened, vibrating at nearly a fever pitch.
It snapped; he backlashed. Niccolette felt it, sharp and vicious, when the mona turned against him. Kearsley sank to his knees on the porcelain, grimacing; his eyes crossed, and he moaned, softly.
There was a chorus of raised voices and laughter from the crowd.
Niccolette stepped back, the skirt of her turquoise dress swishing lightly against her legs, until she felt her field once more in the air around her. It took quite a few steps; she noticed the crowd in the ballroom backing up as well, getting away from the rather large range where the mona had fled. It was rare to recover from any true backlash within the narrow time of a duel; it was clear to any onlooker than Kearsley would not.
There were, Niccolette thought lightly, a variety of opinions on how a backlashed opponent should be handled. One could always cast lightly against on oneself, and then wait out the remainder of the turns until one’s opponent had forfeited; certainly, with that strategy, Niccolette would be the undisputed winner.
Heathcote had cleared his throat; he was counting, steadily, once again.
The Bastian turned and glanced at the crowd standing and watching the duel. She saw Uzoji, pride beaming across his face, his smile and eyes bright; he held himself like the hunter he was, and the look of him filled Niccolette all through with joy, bright and shining. But he was not who she had looked for, in the end. She searched the faces; she found Francoise, and Amaryllis, and next to her, straight-backed, chin raised, she found Chrysanthe.
The schoolgirl met Niccolette’s gaze, and she nodded, once.
“Twenty six,” Heathcote said. “Twenty seven.”
Niccolette turned back to Kearsley, who was still shuddering on his knees. She began to cast; it was a more effective, living-conversation version of the spell Kearsley had attempted on her, a control spell. It was not a spell meant to stop him from casting, like she might have done if he could still have resisted; it was not so targeted as that. It froze all of him; it swept through him, and locked him up, and left him doubled over and trembling on the patio.
Niccolette held the upkeep, effortless. Heathcote counted the seconds through Kearsley’s turn, calmly and evenly. “Thirty,” he said, looking up.
Niccolette held the upkeep of the paralysis spell still, and began to cast once more. This one was simple; she spoke the words of a pain spell, like any student might have cast, but she bore down on it with the full strength of her field. She curled the spell; she watched the tension ripple through Kearsley, and when she saw it in his throat, she released the paralysis.
Kearsley screamed; he howled. He sank to the ground, and shuddered, and tears streamed from his eyes.
“And Mrs. Ibutatu is the winner!” Heathcote pronounced over the suddenly raised voices of the crowd.
Niccolette smiled; she turned away from Kearsley, and did not look back.
Uzoji was there; he bowed before her, smiling, and offered her his arm.
Niccolette settled her arm through it, and rested comfortably against him. She let him escort her back into the ballroom; she let the proud amusement in his voice wash through her, warm and comfortable.
“… quite fortunate!” Mrs. D’orlange was saying, breathlessly.
“Yes,” Uzoji said, bright and cheerful, “I am.”
Rolls
