The Catswold Portal

This ball, the Harpy knew, was another triumph for Siddonie. The wedding of Princess Natalia to King Allmond had brought into Siddonie’s fold of politically subjugated nations the rich kingdom of Shenndeth, and King Allmond would be a loyal addition to Siddonie’s cadre of obedient monarchs.

They left the chamber of the prince and moved into Siddonie’s rooms, where Crandall Havermeyer waited.

Havermeyer’s back was to them. He stood at the window looking out between the black draperies, his squarely built figure silhouetted by the fading green light. The upperworlder was so heavily built that he looked at first glance to be a strong, solid man. But at second look one perceived a frail construction, as if his body was made of hollow bones joined insubstantially by ill-fitting joints. The overall impression was of a body improperly designed, a rickety machine that could fall apart under physical strain.

The pant cuffs of Havermeyer’s upperworld suit were wet, likely from the tunnel or the stream. His camel hair coat was wrinkled. His square jowls needed shaving. His skin always looked gray, dry as paper. His face was, as usual, without expression.

Siddonie looked him over with distaste. “Have you arranged to get Wylles and the Hollingsworth woman away from the garden?”

“I am arranging it. This is not something one does overnight.”

She snorted. “You make a major project of everything, even something as simple as this. Have her fired, Havermeyer. See that she’s offered a job in another state, one she can’t refuse. I want this done immediately, not in your usual tedious fashion. I want Wylles away from the portal. If the spells on him don’t hold, I don’t want him trying to return here. You will arrange this quickly. Do you understand?”

He nodded, stone faced.

“Once this is done,” she said, “I want you to go directly to the ranch.” She moved to the window, looking out. Her view was of the courtyard, where the gates were wide open. In the dark green evening, carriages were already arriving from Cressteane and Ferrathil. Lanterns swung, sending arcs of light across the milling horses. Soon the courtyard would be full as a steady stream of richly dressed monarchs and their entourages made their way through the palace doors and into the ballroom. Siddonie turned, regarding Havermeyer impatiently. “You and Vrech will select, from among the captive Catswold, the girl to train in Melissa’s place. She must be calico like all of their queens. She must be spirited, selfish, and tractable. I want a girl who is a fighter. I want a whelp of alleys, a slut who craves power.”

Havermeyer’s eyes hardened.

“Once the young woman is selected, Crandall, you will remain at the ranch for as long as Vrech needs you. You will help with her training in any way Vrech chooses. Do you understand me?”

Havermeyer nodded but still he didn’t speak. Vrech said nothing.

“What is this silence? What’s the matter with you two?”

Havermeyer shifted his weight. “You can’t train one of them. No one can—no spell can make them tractable.”

“Of course they can be trained,” she barked. “The upperworld Catswold are nothing, not like these Netherworlders. I should think you would look forward to it—a young, fulsome Catswold girl to do with as you please.”

She smiled. “You will train her to every power of magic you can force from her. I don’t care how you train her. I don’t care what methods you use. I want a Catswold woman who looks like a Catswold queen, who knows all possible Netherworld magic, who is totally ruthless. And who is totally obedient to me.”

“But she won’t have the power of a Catswold queen,” Havermeyer said. “There is no way to train her to that.”

“One can fake, with common magic, a formidable power. She must learn that magic. She must learn to manipulate. She must learn to feign sincerity just as convincingly as you, my dear Crandall, can fake honesty.

“And the girl must have charisma.” She moved to Havermeyer, touching his cheek. “Charisma counts for much, Crandall. In both worlds.”

The Harpy let the vision fade, preening her beak on her ragged feathers. To please herself, she brought a vision of the little calico being cuddled by the distraught Hollingsworth woman and then by the dark-skinned model. She smiled. Melissa would do all right.

When Mag came in from slopping the pigs, the Harpy’s mirror hung idle and blank and the Harpy appeared to be sleeping.

Chapter 31

Morian carried the little cat up the garden, snuggling her, admiring her patterned coat of orange and black and white. The cat glanced up at her companionably, then flicked her tail at a winging bird and chattered a hunting cry. When Morian laughed at her, she looked back clear-eyed and snuggled closer, relaxed and trusting.