The Threads of Magic by Alison Croggon (best ereader for pdf and epub .txt) 📕

illuminated in gold and colored inks, that she read in her books. They related heroic tales of the kingdom of Clarel being saved by brave King Axel, who had cut out the canker of corruption rampant in the former royal family and had consolidated his claim to the throne by marrying the daughter of the man he had expediently executed. Georgette believed there were other stories to tell that were both truer and more exciting, but she was clever enough to know that she should not say such things, and so she kept them locked up in her head.

Except, every now and then, when it would do no harm . . .

“There used to be magic,” said Georgette reflectively, interrupting Sibelius’s flow and catching him off guard. “There were witches who could change people into toads. Wouldn’t you like to see that? I would.”

Sibelius was momentarily speechless with horror. Why did the princess mention witchcraft, today of all days? Did she know about his other, secret duties? Sometimes he suspected that she did . . .

Sibelius’s mustache, Georgette thought mischievously, looked even more despondent than was its wont.

He stared at the princess, his eyes imploring, and spread out his hands in a gesture of appeal. “Princess . . .” he said, smiling weakly.

A bell tolled in the distance, and Sibelius jumped. The princess yawned delicately, covering her mouth with the back of her hand to cover her smile.

“Oh, lunchtime,” she said. “The chancellor said I have to charm the ambassador from the Vorn today.”

She stood, and Sibelius bowed deeply and backed out of the room, feeling little beads of sweat running down his brow.

Georgette watched him leave, a crease between her eyebrows. It was true that she would very much like to meet a witch, but her life was so well ordered she was unlikely to meet anything more exciting than rows and rows of drooping mustaches. And no doubt one of them would be attached to a husband.

She was to meet her latest suitor the next day. He was the king of Awemt, a neighboring kingdom with which Clarel had been at war since long before Georgette was born. His queen had died the previous year and Georgette’s father now intended to make peace with Awemt, sealing the deal with his daughter.

Georgette didn’t know how she was going to get out of this one. If she was reading the situation right, her father was plotting to get rid of Georgette’s stepmother, Queen Theoroda, so he could marry again. If he made peace with Awemt, he didn’t need the alliance with Stolt, the mountain kingdom on their southern border that came with his queen. And after seven years of marriage, Queen Theoroda had failed to present the king with a son. King Axel wanted a lawful male heir more than anything else, but as yet the princess was his only legitimate child.

Georgette didn’t see why she couldn’t be queen of Clarel, but she kept that to herself. Kings always wanted sons.

I don’t want to be married, she thought. I’d be bored to death.

She stood up and gave her chair a bad-tempered kick with her rose silk slipper and briefly hopped about holding her foot in a most unroyal fashion. There was a peremptory knock on the door and, without waiting for her command, which annoyed Georgette, Duchess Albria, her chief lady-in-waiting, entered the room to escort her to lunch.

Georgette didn’t like the duchess — her face was too like a hatchet and she had very thin lips — but she took pains to conceal her dislike. She was sure the duchess spied on her for Queen Theoroda. So she smiled, laid her hand on the duchess’s arm, and paced obediently to the public hall to meet the ambassador from the Vorn.

PIP WOKE SUDDENLY, HIS BLOOD POUNDING. HE HAD thought that somebody was calling his name, that someone . . . needed him. Someone, somewhere, was asking for his help. But it was only a dream.

He lay staring at the mottled ceiling, listening to the rise and fall of his sister’s breath. It was already broad daylight: the world had woken up, millions of voices melding into the daily song of the city. A knife grinder had set up his station in the street outside and was calling for trade. Pip listened idly as the man bargained, and then to the shriek of the grinding stone. Maybe that was what had woken him.

He turned restlessly, thinking over the events of the night before. He had been hiding behind some old wine casks in an alley by the Duck Alehouse, waiting for his chance to pickpocket late drunkards, when he saw two thieves he vaguely knew jumping two men. Pip had already decided not to try these men; although one of them looked like an easy pick, there was something about the way the other moved, a certain alertness, that warned him off. But when the thieves sprang from the shadows, Pip tensed: there might be something for him after, if he kept his head down.

One man, the easy pick, had stumbled in the muck of the street onto his hands and knees. In the dim light that spilled out from the Duck, Pip saw a flash of richly embroidered silk underneath his dark cloak. This was no ordinary commoner. Something fell to the ground and, quick as a rat, acting on reflex rather than with any conscious intention, Pip scooped it up in one fluid motion, diving back behind the wine casks before anybody saw him.

The four men were too busy brawling to notice him, but now Pip wondered if the fallen man might have spotted him. This made him feel very uneasy. Pip didn’t like being seen and devoted a lot of ingenuity to avoiding it.

The other man had scrambled up and drawn a nasty-looking dagger, taking his assailant by surprise. These thieves were street fighters, mean and dirty, but their specialty was jumping rustics who