Free Dust and Light by Carol Berg Page B

spelltwister what refuses to step out the gatehouse.”
    “Damn and blast!” Bastien whirled about, spitting daggers. “Who is it?”
    I shrugged, mystified.
    “This inquest is a pot boiling up,” snapped the coroner. “I must be there to stir it, and I want my expensive pureblood at my side. So be this the First Curator or your revered granny, get rid of him.”

CHAPTER 5
    G aribald grumbled all the way to the gate. “Someone had best tell the high and mighty that us around here have work to attend. I’m no runner to carry messages.”
    Speculating wasn’t going to soothe the sexton. Perhaps Leander had decided to see me safely home. I couldn’t imagine what other pureblood might have followed me to this vile place.
    I entered the gatehouse alone. The growing dark revealed only a bulky man in a thick, ankle-length pelisse. But when he turned, recognition shocked me out of mind. “Master Pluvius!”
    “Discipline, lad! We do not speak names in a den of ordinaries.”
    “My sincerest apologies, master. I just—I never expected to see you here.”
    A Registry curator at Necropolis Caton? No pureblood in the world would expect that. Yet hope struck embarrassment and astonishment aside.
This was all a mistake. He’s taking me back.
    “I needed to speak with you privately, Lucian. To express my outrage at . . . this.” His gesture at the view beyond the gate completed his thought. “Your talents will be sorely missed in the Archives.”
    If such words spoken through clenched teeth were not enough to blight my greening hope, the morose head shaking and sympathetic clucks that followed certainly sufficed.
    “I’m glad to hear it was not poor work,
domé
.” Manners were hard to come by.
    “Certainly not. Had Albin allowed, I would gladly have taken on the duties as your negotiator.”
    “I appreciate that, master.” Though it seemed unhelpful that he would say it here, rather than in front of Pons and Albin. “It would be enlightening—Master, why was I dismissed?”
    “Curators’ deliberations cannot be shared. To come here and imply that our decision was not unanimous is violation enough. But when your grandsire contracted you to the Registry, I took it as a personal contract as well—to see to your development as an artist and as a man.”
    Pluvius had always been complimentary about my work and supportive as I dealt with our family difficulties, but he had never directed any particular attentions my way beyond suggesting I keep my clothes clean. And though he was forever looking over my shoulder, he’d had little mentoring to provide. He was a historian, not an artist.
    “If I just understood—?”
    “I will do my best to see this situation remedied. But I have to warn you—”
    His hesitation left me teetering on a ledge for a very long while. What could be worse than this shameful fall?
    “Warn me,
domé
?” I said at last.
    He blew a long displeasure.
    “Maintain exemplary discipline and detachment, Lucian, and strict control of your . . . talents. Rumor could cost you everything.” His thick-gloved hands squeezed my shoulders. Then he strode toward the gate.
    Before I could possibly respond without screaming, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Oh yes, did you leave anything behind in the Tower? Access will be difficult with this new contract and all. I’ll be happy to have your things sent round.”
    Confused at the abrupt shift, it took me a moment to think what he meant. Pens, I supposed, brushes, my favored inks that I’d bought for myself.
    “No. Nothing.” I’d taken everything home.
    “All right, then. Be sure we’ll find our way through.” With a nod, he was gone.
    Knowing Bastien’s boot was tapping, I’d no leisure to consider this frustrating encounter. It was good to hear I had a sympathetic advocate in the Tower. But as I hurried away, Pluvius’s kind reassurances and abortive warnings lodged in my gut like bad meat.
    *   *   *
    C onstance,