A Stone's Throw, page 7
part #2 of The Petralist Series
They left the practicing students behind and passed into gently rolling fields southeast of the castle. Mature crops lined the south side of the road to their right, while the green grasses to the north were cropped short in thick lawns that led to a dense hedge. Ailsa explained that a formal garden ran for over a quarter mile from that hedge, all the way north to the eastern gate of the castle.
The road ended eventually in a circular court outside of a mature stone building of three stories, perhaps half the size of Aunt Ailsa’s mansion outside of Raineach. It was flanked by several small barns and sheds. Its simple granite walls were made of inferior stone with large crystals of feldspar and quartz. A modest portico extended over part of the drive, and a carefully tended vegetable garden, ringed with bright flowers, occupied the center of the court. A perfectly proportioned miniature of the Carraig castle stood in the center of the garden, complete with gleaming basalt walls.
“Is this it?” Connor asked. He was tempted to climb that miniature castle and pretend to be a giant stomping arrogant Petralists, but it wouldn’t be the same without Hamish around.
“Home sweet home,” Ailsa said, looking content.
As he helped her down, he asked, “I thought you said this was a prestigious post?” The building would have been impressive in any other setting, but here it seemed second-class.
She smiled. “I do love the view.”
Connor had to admit it was impressive. Even though the Carraig reared high to the northwest and Mount Murdo even higher to the north, they were far enough away that their presence wasn’t as overwhelming. The fancy palaces of the nobles were mostly concealed by hedges and trees, so he could almost forget about them. The air smelled clean, carrying a hint of ripening crops, and the breeze rattled the nearby fields of grain.
To the south, the orderly rows of crops and the distant township reminded him a little bit of home. The land opened into a wide plain of low rolling hills to the east, with the great outer wall circling it almost two miles distant. A glint of blue between a couple of those low hills suggested a lake nestled in a deeper fold of land.
“What is all that space for?” he asked, pointing at the plain.
“It’s used by Striders, and sometimes by students with tertiary affinities, but not much else.”
“Why not?”
“One more of the mysteries of the Carraig,” she said with a shrug, although her expression became a bit guarded, almost as if she worried a Pathfinder might overhear their conversation.
“Ailsa!” A very pale girl roughly Connor’s age rushed out of the main entrance of the Sculpture House. Her hair was so light it was more white than blonde, and her ice-blue eyes sparkled as she laughed and hugged Ailsa.
After a moment of happy greeting, Ailsa turned. “Connor, I’d like to introduce Gisela. I’ve known her family for many years. She’ll be one of my assistants here.” She pronounced the name with a strong emphasis on the first letters, and it rolled off her tongue with an odd inflection on the ‘l’.
Connor bowed politely as Ailsa had taught him. Gisela bobbed a curtsy in return, but turned away to grab Ailsa’s hand and tug her toward the building. Over her shoulder she said, “I am most happy to meet you, Connor.”
She had a strange accent. On his long journey south toward Raineach, he’d been surprised to learn that many towns sported unique dialects, but this one was very different, strangely musical.
“Where are you from?” he asked, following them.
“Here,” she said.
“No, I mean before.”
Ailsa said, “Gisela comes from Althing, the seat of the Arishat league.”
Connor had never heard of Althing, although he was glad Aunt Ailsa had mentioned the Arishat before so he wouldn’t feel so lost.
“Wow. Are there a lot of Althingers here?”
“We calling ourselves Althins,” Gisela said with a hint of irritation in her voice, but the accent was still pleasant. “And few only of us can visiting.”
The wonder of meeting someone from a new country reminded him of the night he first met Verena. One of the first Grandurians who’d crashed into his world, she’d challenged all the prejudices he’d grown up with against Granadure.
“You speak Obrioner very well,” he offered. Although Verena had lacked much accent, many of the Grandurians had spoken such tortured Obrioner, they’d been hard to understand.
“I be study all my life,” she said with obvious pride. “Mistress Ailsa, everything we are ready.”
She seemed nice, less condescending than most of the nobles he’d met. Maybe she’d tell him more about her country. Thinking of foreign countries turned his mind again to Verena. Connor followed the two women toward the building, but his thoughts were far away, lost in the blue-eyed gaze of a girl whose lips tasted of mint.
Chapter 11
The entire ground floor of the Sculpture House was a vast, open workspace held up by delicate-looking columns. Sculptures in every stage of completion crowded the huge room, making it feel cramped. Scattered tools and debris surrounded the works in progress, forcing Connor and the ladies to weave back and forth through narrow open aisles in their attempt to cross the room. A thick layer of dust covered everything, and the regularly spaced windows were dim with built-up grime that kept the room in perpetual twilight. The tapping of small hammers to chisels echoed through the huge room, and that familiar sound touched the center of Connor’s being and helped him relax.
This place could become home.
Although the building was smaller than Ailsa’s mansion, the workroom might actually be larger. The clutter and dimness made it hard to tell. Connor glanced at her, wondering if she regretted leaving her beautiful, private studio for this school workroom. If she harbored any doubts, she didn’t show them. Instead she smiled as she surveyed her new domain.
Connor didn’t smile. He knew what that mess meant, and groaned as he surveyed the chaos, feeling tired just looking at it. Sure enough, as Gisela towed Ailsa through the maze of statues, tables, and equipment in a hunt for the other five sculpting students, Connor noted her gaze lingering on dirt, disorganized tool boxes, and broken rock fragments. Every one of those glances added to the hours of work he would be assigned.
They eventually found the other students, although Connor wondered how many days Gisela had wandered lost through the vast maze before figuring out how to navigate its false turns and confusing twists. He was tempted to drop bread crumbs to mark their passage.
In sharp contrast to Gisela’s bubbling good humor, the other sculptors greeted Ailsa like a stranger they suspected might carry a communicable disease. Most of them shook her hand, although two of them tried to do so without bothering to wipe the dust from their palms first. In each case, the weight of Ailsa’s disapproving, emerald gaze reminded them of their manners.
She then greeted them warmly and found something about each of their projects to compliment. Connor couldn’t believe they would dare treat her so badly. They were students after all, weren’t they? Then again, if they were Petralist sculptors, they probably found it offensive to study under a commoner. The students looked older than Gisela, probably in their early twenties, although the heavy coating of dust added years. It appeared they all worked independently. Connor decided the workroom would never be a beacon of cheer, but didn’t seem too bad.
One student who was busy working on a particularly ugly gargoyle made of a dark, reddish stone Connor wasn’t familiar with, was almost entirely blocked in. He’d dragged worktables close together and piled them high with rock fragments and a jumble of sculpting tools. He barely glanced over his shoulder at Ailsa before turning back to his work.
“Connor, throw this disaster into the rubbish heap,” Ailsa said, her voice ringing, her eyes flashing with anger.
He wasn’t sure if she was referring to the student or the statue.
The student howled with protest and moved to intercept Connor before he could take a single step. “You can’t,” he wailed to Ailsa. “It’s almost finished.”
“You’re almost finished,” Ailsa said, crossing her arms and glaring at the frantic student. “I am Ailsa and I oversee this workroom now. Your work will continue if, and only if, I choose to allow it.”
The student glared. “Do you know who my father is?”
“Your father is not one of my students,” Ailsa said. “Therefore I don’t care who he is. If you wish to study here, I can promise you two things. First, you will work hard. Second, you will learn much, and you will leave this place with as much skill as that thick skull of yours can absorb.”
Under her blazing stare, the student wilted. He looked like he wanted to argue, but kept glancing between Connor and his precious, ugly statue. Finally his shoulder slumped and he made the barest of bows.
“Welcome to your post, Sculptress Ailsa.”
“Thank you,” she said with formal dignity and extended her hand, which he reluctantly took.
“We’ll discuss your projects later,” she declared, then swept out of the cramped little work area.
Before following her and Gisela, Connor took one step toward the statue. The student yelped, “She said I can stay!”
He didn’t bother to hide his disappointment, but did manage to conceal his grin until he squeezed back past the tables. He loved the idea of cowing the arrogant Petralist students in the workroom, and began plotting ways to make the most of his new position.
Gisela talked constantly as they worked through the rest of the workroom maze, and Connor enjoyed her accent. It made her simple explanation of the various projects underway seem far more exciting. It didn’t sound like any of them were actually sculpting power stones. He wondered if any of them possessed the affinity-sculpting gift.
At one juncture made of three towering statues of soldiers with upraised swords, she gestured toward a rubble-strewn gap between two tables farther to her left. “My projects are being that way.”
If sculpting didn’t work out for the girl, Connor could easily get her a job at the Powder House in Alasdair shattering granite. From the glimpses he caught of her work area, she had a knack for it.
They finally emerged from the claustrophobic maze two-thirds of the way across the room after easing past a mostly-completed granite fountain made up of what looked like a pedra with a fish’s tail. The room opened up, with only a few untouched blocks positioned on tables or pedestals scattered around the space.
Gisela led them to a column four feet into the open space and gestured to the remaining workroom. “All this is your space, Ailsa.”
“It will do nicely,” Ailsa said. No doubt she meant after Connor spent a week sweeping and cleaning it to her standards. After the clutter of the rest of the room, that project would be a breeze. If only he could tap basalt to help speed up the process.
Gisela pointed out a series of hooks on the ten-foot ceiling that allowed for hanging of heavy drapes that could make temporary walls if any of Ailsa’s projects required more privacy.
They rounded another rough stone on a pedestal, waiting for the touch of a sculptor to reveal its inner form, and found the final student working at the very edge of the clutter. He was busy etching fine engravings onto a nearly completed statue of a beautiful woman with long, flowing hair, wearing an elegant gown. The statue was made of a bluish marble that fit the image perfectly. Connor drew closer to admire the workmanship. This sculptor was highly skilled, his work as beautiful as gargoyle-head student’s was ugly.
“I love this,” he said with a smile to the sculptor who was just turning to greet Ailsa.
The sculptor, who stood a little shorter than Connor, with narrow shoulders and skinny frame, rounded on him with a snarl. “How dare you speak before your betters, you stupid linn?”
Connor’s good humor evaporated under the man’s withering glare. Part of him longed for Ailsa to order him to throw this arrogant sculptor’s work into the rubbish, although he’d hate to destroy something so beautiful.
Before he could mumble an apology, Gisela stepped close to the other fellow. “How dare you start acting like grouting mud-flinger? No will much impress new mistress, Edan.”
Ailsa matched Edan’s glare with her own. “My nephew may be linn, but my policy is that everyone be treated kindly.”
Edan grunted. “Not even settled in and already changing things up, are you? What else should we expect?”
“Much,” she said, her green eyes flashing. “Just as I will expect much from you.”
“I’m already the best sculptor here,” he said with an arrogant nod toward his nearly finished piece.
Ailsa regarded the statue critically. “If that’s the best you have to offer, we’ll have our work cut out for us.”
Edan drew himself to his full height, which was still a little shorter than hers. “I won’t stand for this. High Lord Berach himself commissioned this piece.”
“Well, I plan to prepare you to produce work suitable even for discerning customers.”
As he sputtered in outrage she added, “We can either get along, or you can have a miserable year. The choice is yours, student.”
His glare deepened when she stressed the last word, but he turned back to his work without further argument.
Connor barely kept from cheering. If only Hamish were around to lick the statue, that would really set the angry little man off. Hopefully the pompous fellow learned quickly. If he tried his mettle against Ailsa, it would not be her that cracked.
Gisela led them into Ailsa’s portion of the workroom. The finger’s thickness of dust layering the ground stirred in the stale air and Connor fought down a sneeze.
“What are thinking?” the girl asked with a grin.
“It will do nicely.” Aunt Ailsa made a slow turn, scanning the room anew. “A little cluttered, but not as bad as I feared it might be.”
Before Gisela could take them on a tour of the rest of the building, Edan called out from where he worked on his gowned woman. “Oh, I almost forgot, Mistress. The rounds will need your immediate attention.”
Gisela gasped. “You were have to delivery today more than hour ago.”
Edan shrugged. “I’m on a deadline here.” He added with a smug grin. “I’m sure our new resident mistress will insist on seeing to all of her duties.”
“I am many sorry,” Gisela stammered, looking terrified. “Classes already in sessions two weeks, so we rotate rounds among all.”
“Don’t worry my dear,” Ailsa assured her. “Connor will be happy to make the rounds.”
“I will?” He had only been half listening to the cryptic conversation while scanning the room for a broom.
Edan approached, new outrage on his face. “It is the clear responsibility of the resident sculptor to see to the rounds, Mistress.” Every time he mentioned her title, his lips would curl in a half-formed snarl and he stressed the word as if he found it particularly distasteful.
“I am seeing to it,” she replied smoothly. “Connor will make the rounds in my name.”
“You would trust this linn with so much?”
“I would trust him with my life,” Ailsa said with simple confidence, and Connor stood a little taller.
Edan grunted again. “Maybe you will, Mistress. If he loses even one portion, there’ll be the Tallan’s own fury to answer, and it will be on your head.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Ailsa said. “We’ll deal with the full consequence of your negligence later. The rounds are of utmost importance. Since Connor must make up for your failure, you will fill in for him until his return.”
“You can’t be serious.” Edan’s smug expression faded. Whatever tight spot he’d hoped to land her in by not doing the rounds was apparently coming back to clip his own fingers instead.
Ailsa leaned closer, her expression angry. “I’m deadly serious, young man. While you sweep my work area, pray I’m able to salvage your post in this workroom.”
Edan stared, mouth open, expression horrified, but he only made a strangled sort of wheezing. Connor had no idea what they were talking about, but he wanted less and less to do with it.
“I can sweep,” he offered.
“Nonsense,” Ailsa said. “Best to start things off on the right foot.”
Why did he feel like that foot would get broken by whatever was coming?
“Now, the key please,” Ailsa said. Edan dropped a large iron key into her palm and she shooed him off to find a broom.
He paused and whispered, “Today’s first class matches.”
For a second it looked like Ailsa would snatch the little hammer out of his hands and beat him with it. He quailed away from her wrath and scurried off to start sweeping.
Gisela’s face paled. “Mistress, the teachers will have much angry.”
“Then we’d best get this sorted.” Ailsa reined in her irritation and turned briskly. Moving with the confidence of one who already knew her way around, she led them to the far corner of the room. After rounding a concealing half-wall, she descended a wide stone stair to a heavy steel door, which she opened with the key. Inside they found a long storeroom filled with shelves packed with canvas sacks and rows of wooden trays.
“Which stones today?” Ailsa asked Gisela.
“Granite and basalt, Mistress.”
Under Ailsa’s direction, Connor took up a sturdy leather satchel and moved to one of the canvas sacks. Inside he found powdered granite.
“Alasdair White,” he murmured, taking up a handful of the precious white sand and letting it slide back through his fingers. He couldn’t help absorbing just a fraction of it through his skin. The itchy feel of granite skittering up his arm and through his torso helped settle his nerves. No matter what unknowns lay ahead, he could face them with granite, even if he couldn’t tap it.
“Careful,” Gisela cried. “Do you have any idea how much that’s worth?”
“I do,” Connor said. Of everyone in the Carraig, he best understood the true cost of this powdered stone. “Don’t worry, I know how to handle granite.”
