Cold Magic

“When you put it like that,” said Bee, “it is puzzling.”



“Must you agree with him?” I cried, for I am sure I would never have switched sides on her with such alacrity.



“Cat, I do not like him any more than you do, for he did try to kill you, and that I can scarcely be expected to forgive. But when you consider the situation rationally, it is puzzling.”



“Thank you,” he said, looking very irritated and very handsome.



No, of course he did not look handsome. I was merely exhausted from the exigencies of the last few days and made vulnerable to trivial considerations because I was worrying about Rory. One sees strange things in such a state of mind. One might think anything.



“I have been forced to come to the conclusion,” he continued, “that the mansa considers me expendable. In rather the same way, I suppose, that the Hassi Barahal house considered you expendable, Catherine.”



“Is this an effort to make me feel sympathy for your situation by comparing our plights?”



“Yes.” Then he looked startled, as if that was not the word he had meant to say. “I meant, no, not at all.”



I had not realized Bee had so many smirks in her. She looked at me in the most annoying way possible, blinking thrice as though to send me a message, which I ignored with a frown I hoped would blister that knowing smile right off her lovely face.



“Go on, Magister,” she said in a tone that invited confidence. “I, at least, am listening.”



He had a way, I had come to recognize, of drawing himself up with shoulders braced and chin lifted that made him look exceedingly arrogant, but however vain and arrogant he actually was, there was more to that look than met the eye. “You have no need and certainly no desire to feel sympathy for me, Catherine.”



“That’s right, I don’t,” I agreed with a cruel smile. “By any chance is your shoulder paining you?”



“It has healed,” he said curtly. “Catherine, I am just trying to explain why you should consider trusting me.”



“What has become of the innkeepers and their staff?”



“I found the inn locked up and deserted. Leaving you entirely unprotected, I might add, and quite asleep. I expect they went to the council square to swell the ranks of agitators.”



“If the inn was locked up,” said Bee, “how did you get in here?”



“I expect he shattered the lock,” I said before he could answer.



“Can he truly do that?” Bee asked. “I mean, that’s what people say cold mages can do, that you can measure their strength by their ability to shatter iron and extinguish fires, but—”



“Yes, he can really do that.”



Her eyes widened as she examined Andevai with an expression that could have been awe, anxiety, or admiration. “Oh.”



“Are you done speaking for me?” he asked with a sarcasm I’m sure I’d not earned.



From the other room, a clock ticked over.



As if the clicking of its mechanism were a signal, a hazy thud sounded somewhere outside. Andevai tipped his head back to listen. Bee looked a question at me. A series of rumbling reports rolled like distant thunder.



“Are those muskets?” whispered Bee.



A thunk struck at the front of the inn, causing both Bee and I to skip backward. We heard hacking blows, a man’s curse, and the clatter of metal chains spilling to the ground. A door groaned. Feet tapped on slate, and voices spoke from the common room.



“Whsst! Have all the fires gone out? Didn’t you bank them properly, lad?”



“I did, maestra!” was spoken indignantly.



“Hush!”



Several people were sniffling or weeping, their gasps flavored with fear.



“Get up, then, to the roof. Keep an eye out. Girl, stop your crying. It does no good.” Footsteps split off to pound upstairs.



“That lock was shattered,” the man’s voice spiked, “but then the door sealed with no lock, like it was frozen shut.”



“Not so loud. You two, get the door shut and barred. Julius, you come with me. We left those two girls sleeping in the back. Hurry!”



The innkeeper and her man burst into the scullery, she holding a rolling pin and he an ax.



Andevai turned to face them, but he did not draw his sword.



The innkeeper’s eyes widened as she took in first the fireplace’s cold ashes, all heat sucked from them, and then Andevai. No one could mistake him for anything but the scion of a wealthy house, yet her tone was more blunt than respectful. “We want no trouble out of cold mages, Magister. It’s the prince’s corrupt council we’re protesting.”