Free Clariel: The Lost Abhorsen (The Abhorsen Trilogy Book 4) by Garth Nix

guardsmen standing outside the open gate, three wearing the familiar blazon of the Goldsmith’s coins, the others different badges: a black anvil for the Ironmongers; a slender purple bottle for the Vintners; three stacked square stones of white for the Masons; a gold-hooped barrel of red for the Brewers; a blue lozenge with silver roundels for a guild Clariel didn’t know but guessed to be the Upholders who made cushions and stuffed chairs; and a silver pepper-pod for the Spicers. The guards bore man-high oaken staves in addition to the swords at their sides, and looked ready to use them.
    Clariel noted that three men who were approaching veered to the other side of the street and increased their pace. Judging by their worn leather aprons they were probably journeymen or simple workers. The guards watched them go by with an attention that was almost menacing, before switching their collective gaze to another group of men who were pushing a handcart laden with small kegs that were marked with distinctive pokerwork: the triple interlinked “O” that signified they held the fiery spirit the Borderers called “Triplex” and highly valued, though more for cleaning wounds than actual drinking.
    “A Goldsmith!” called Roban, as they approached the gate, but it was not a shout for aid, just the raised voice of routine ceremony.
    “We see you!” called one of the Goldsmith guards. “Advance and be recognized.”
    This too was clearly routine, as even as he spoke, the six of them shuffled into two lines of three, and saluted with their staves, raising them up and then grounding them with a sharp synchronized crack on the paved road.
    “Straight through, milady,” said Valannie breezily. “Roban and the others will await our return here.”
    The guards had come with other students, Clariel realized. Students she would soon be meeting. New people. She had no desire to meet new people, but like everything else in Belisaere, it had to be endured until she could leave. She set her face in an expressionless mask, and walked through the gateway, with Valannie close at her heels.

Chapter Five
    MISTRESS ADER AND THE ACADEMY
    T he gateway led into a large hall that had a musician’s gallery or internal balcony under a very high, vaulted ceiling, and stone staircases in each corner, spiraling up and down. The hall itself was newly whitewashed, and was very clean and empty, save for a writing desk right in the very center, with a slender curved-back chair of mahogany that had a black cushion on the seat. Standing very straight and still next to the chair was a short and rather bony woman wearing the fashionable multiple layers of tunics, but hers were cream and white, and she had a black scarf on her head. Clariel did not know what guild or organization these colors signified.
    “Mistress Ader,” whispered Valannie, very softly.
    “What did you say? Adder?” Clariel whispered back. “Like a snake?”
    “No, no, ‘ay-der,’” whispered Valannie. “Now we must be quiet, and give her a low bow.”
    The name still sounded like “adder” to Clariel. Mistress Ader didn’t look much like an adder, she thought. Clariel quite liked adders. They left you alone if you left them alone. In fact, she quite liked snakes in general. They had their place in the woods and among the rocky hills. Also you could eat them; they were quite tasty cooked on hot stones in the corner of a campfire.
    Up closer, Mistress Ader was a lot older than Clariel had thought she was. Her face was so heavily caked with the white, claylike stuff Valannie called “astur” and in Estwael was called “esture” that from a distance she looked about thirty-five. Up close, the wrinkles under the white were visible, so Clariel upped her age estimate by at least thirty years. If she had a Charter mark, it was invisible under the clay.
    “Lady Clariel,” said Ader, making a low bow herself. “Welcome to the Belisaere Select Academy.”
    “Thank you, Mistress