The Chick Is In The Mail

the usual way at her woman-ceremony, and, astonishingly, had proved to have ability in knighthood, lore, war counsel, and barter. Only at childlove and housewifery had she scored low. Several castles had made her a bid, and her proud parents had chosen knighthood at Castle Treffin, very ivy-rank. Cecilie had easily become first bed in the First Bedchamber, and at class knighting she'd won every honor open to her. She'd left Treffin to join Princess Margaret's army, then invading the Sixth Kingdom, and distinguished herself in several battles. She'd married a beautiful and wealthy landowner, Duke Michael of Kern, and had done such a superb job of reorganizing and leading his household forces that no one had dared challenge the duke's army.

That had apparently been the problem.

Cecilie had had nothing more to do. There was no war to fight. She'd borne Michael twins, beautiful daughters, but she had no talent for housewifery or childlove, and her daughters did not fill her days. The house steward, a woman just as formidable as Cecilie, successfully resisted Cecilie's efforts to take over the household barter. Cecilie grew more idle, more bitter, and more desperate. Michael did not understand. They got separate bedchambers.

Finally Cecilie took to pretending she had a lover. This gave her an excuse to go away for a week at a time. Away from the estate, she disguised herself as a foreign knight and entered second-rate tournaments where credentials weren't checked too closely. Naturally, she won them all. She was too good, and someone traced her real identity. There was a scandal, and Cecelie was disgraced. Michael divorced her. She was disarmored by the Parfait Gentle Knights Association. Her birth family disowned her.

But there was more. After a few years, Cecilie tried the foreign-disguised-knight routine again, and again she was exposed. After that, she holed up for a few months in an abandoned monastery in the wilds of North Riding. Naturally I couldn't summon up what had happened there; even the lingering-spirit-of-a-place was thick with spells. But no one else entered during Cecilie's stay there. I am sure of that. And when she emerged, she had only one arm.

She entered the second-rate lists a third time, was not recognized, fought badly (she had, after all, only one arm), and was killed in her second tournament. She was buried, an anonymous knight, in a greave yard.

I'd brought my watchraven inside my library when I'd finished working. Now I raised my goblet to it.

'The most major scroll of my career, raven. Perhaps of any loremaster career!'

The raven stared at me from his shiny flat black eyes.

'There are only two possibilities, you know. Cecilie was completely unable to bend with fate. Marigold bends with everything anyone asks of her. Marigold is too close a relative for haunting under any but the most extraordinary circumstances, which always means that no one else's actions have ever matched so closely the dead ghost's mistakes, nor ever will. There are hundreds of people that Cecilie could have observed in order to learn ordinary flexibility. No, it's an extraordinary event. And there are only two possibilities, raven!'

It stared at me impassively.

'Either Tyro Marigold, too, will cut off her own arm, in some way that will teach Cecilie her death lesson. Or-listen to this!-we have here an example of the rarest of all death tuitions. There hasn't been even one in the last century. If Marigold doesn't cut off her own arm-then the haunting is a reversal! It won't be Cecilie who learns from Marigold, but Marigold who learns from Cecilie! And either way, I can write the scroll before it happens, and have it ready to go! I will be famous, you stupid bird! I will be called to Queen Eleanor's court! I will be revered and consulted and rich and never see this dump of a training castle again! What do you think of that?'

A mistake. If I hadn't been so exhausted and jubilant and ale-wild, I would never have asked a raven a direct question. They have a limited vocabulary, all of it irritating.

'Clever bore.'

'Oh, shut up. What do you know? You're as stupid as Marigold and the rest of the giggling tyros!'

The raven stared at me, unblinking.

* * *

Marigold and her best friend, Tyro Catherine, stood outside the loremaster's chamber, clutching hands. Catherine had come to lend Marigold spiritual support, even though both girls understood that only Marigold would be summoned into the chamber. They awaited that summons now. Both wore full dress armor except for helmets, in honor of the solemnity of the occasion. Their fidgeting clanked on the stone floor.

'What if he tells you to talk to the haunt?' Catherine breathed.

'Oh, he wouldn't! I couldn't!'

'But he might. You know how he is.'

Marigold nodded. Her chin piece clinked against her gorget, which in turn rattled her breastplate, with its slipped emblem. 'I don't-oh, what was that? Around the corner!'

'Not your aunt. Really! I saw the right hand. It was there.'

'Oh,' Marigold said, visibly relaxing. 'Who was it?'

'I didn't see. But I guess it was one of those snotty First Chamber girls.'

Marigold looked puzzled. 'Why would they be here?'

'Oh, Mar, you're so innocent. Don't you know they're all jealous of this?'

'Jealous? Of this? Of what?'

'Of all the attention you're getting from the loremaster! Any of them would die for a private conference with him!'

'Ooohhh,' Marigold said. Her smooth brow creased. 'But… Cathy, I don't think so. They don't like him any better than we do. He's just as mean to them, you know. Even to Anna.'

'I know. But she's probably jealous anyway. That whole crowd sucks up to all the teachers.'

'But, Cath… I don't think they-'

'You don't think it because you're so nice. But everybody else in our chamber can see it. That Anna-oh!'

The door opened to reveal the loremaster. Marigold and Catherine clutched hands harder (clink, rattle). The loremaster frowned.

'You are not needed here, Tyro Catherine. Go away.'

'Yes, sir.'

'On second thought, stay.'

'S-stay?'

'I said so, didn't I? God, you girls are a waste of air. Come in. Sit there. No, not there-there.'

Marigold and Catherine settled their armor on the edge of the raised stone hearth, empty in the warm summer. They sounded like a tray of dropped kitchenware. Loremaster Gwillam studied them with distaste.

Long miserable moments dragged by for the girls.

Just when they could bear it no longer, the loremaster barked, 'Tyro Catherine, have you seen this haunting?'

'No, sir.'

'Are you lying?'

'No, sir!'

'I think you're lying.'

'I d-don't lie, sir.'

'If you say that, you're lying now. Everybody lies. Isn't that true?'

'Yes… no… I-'

'Do you think I lie?'

'No, sir.'

'You're wrong. I lie. Am I right?'

'Yes… no… I… '

'Stupid as I thought. Both of you. Tyro Marigold, this is what I'm going to do. I'm going to go where you go, do what you do. Everywhere. I will see what you see, and thus gather information on this haunting. I will-'

'Everywhere?' Marigold gasped.

'Everywhere. I will sleep in the Third Bedchamber. The tyromistress has given her permission. Her watchravens will accompany me, for propriety's sake. But I will be with you, and I will get to the bottom of this.'

The girls looked at each other, appalled. Catherine, the bolder, finally said, 'But, sir… '

'But what?'

'What… what if the haunt doesn't appear again?'

'It will appear again.'

Once more the girls stared at each other.

'However,' Loremaster Gwillam said, 'I will certainly not tell you what I expect. You are both too stupid to understand. You may go. I will join you as soon as the tyromistress's ravens are delivered to me.'

Outside the loremaster's closed door, Marigold burst into tears. Catherine put an arm around her.

'To have him… ' sob, clank '… watch me all the time… ' clank, sob '… criticizing the way he does… oh, Cath!'

'I know,' Catherine soothed. 'Old sot!'

'Sshhhh! He'll hear you!'

'I don't care if he does!'

But at a sound behind them, they both scurried away, raw-nerved and rattling.