Post by Kit on Dec 5, 2011 20:56:28 GMT 10
To: Em
Message: Spot the next P&P reference!
From: kit
Title: Cat's cradle -- part 2
Rating: PG-13
Wishlist Item: (1 - Sandry/Briar, Pride and Prejudice)
Summary: In this chapter, every body manages to offend everybody else.
Cat's cradle
In the tall, narrow house he shared with his sisters, Briar groaned, forehead thudding gently against the pale, scrubbed wood of the kitchen table. Tris, chopping something ferociously at the other end of it, snorted.
“You know,” he said, ruffled. “You girls could do more for a man’s ego.”
“Your ego tells you to kiss complete strangers,” Tris returned. “It could do with some quashing.”
Briar winced. “She was about to be lifted!”
“So you kissed her?”
“...I—”
“You. Kissed. Her.” Tris shook her head. “I thought Rosethorn had taught you not to just run around doing that.”
“She probably did,” Daja drawled, coming in through their back door and washing streaked hands in the sink. “Briar just probably thought it only applied to her. Or you.”
“Oh, honestly.”
Briar glared at the pair of them. “Would you two stop it—”
“—No, thief boy.” Daja let one hand fall solidly to his shoulder. “We won’t. You shouldn’t do that to any woman.” the smith made a face. “And you just happened to pick one with bodyguards. A mage with body guards.”
Briar winced, but couldn’t help a slow, wondering smile. “That was something. Who knew anyone so small could just—do that?”
“Best you?”
Briar shrugged. “That she did. But it wasn’t like I lay down and made it easy.”
Tris sighed. “It would have been easier if you had—”
“—oh, hush, saati.” Daja grinned. “It’s a good thing for Briar you can sweettalk His Grace so well.”
Tris, flushing to match her hair, glowered at the pair of them. “It’s hardly my fault that I’m the only respectable one among us.”
***
“Uncle, who was that man?”
Vedris, Duke of Emelan, surveyed his grandniece over the breakfast table, had a head full of figures and rights; legislative wrangling, the healer’s infuriating rites; taxes, and a longstanding correspondence with his youngest son that was not going to end well. It took him some time to return to the young, adopted citizen who had spent half the day before in the Ducal cells. He sighed.
“Briar Moss,” he said, watching Sandry shred a roll in quick, nervous fingers. “One of the city’s plant mages, and highly gifted. Temple educated, as you would have been.”
Sandry winced, though she could see no disapprobation in the older man’s serious face. “He is also a boor.”
“I have it on very good authority, my dear, that should he attempt any such thing again, he’ll be hung by the ankles in the nearest well.” Vedris smiled faintly. “And he would not fight it, since along with his considerable gifts—”
“—considerable? Uncle! I had him tied up!”
“—Along with these, he has two formidable foster sisters.” The Duke shook his head. “Without them, the city would not have survived in its current shape, or any other.”
Sandry’s eyes widened. “The Year of Sorrows? But they would have been no more than children! Like—like me.”
Reaching across the table, Vedris touched her hand. “They were fortunate in their teachers.”
Sandry flushed. “So was I,” she said.
“I do not doubt it, my dear.” Vedris did not quite smile. “Not when every other report receive from Namorn describes a clehame who can weave pure magic.”
Sandry looked at her plate, still tearing the shreds of her breakfast into smaller and smaller pieces.
“You must suffer your guards,” said the Duke, suddenly. “I do not think I have been able to say how glad I am to see you here, Sandrilene.”
***
It was stupid.
There was no need to return to the market. No need for trouble, with or without the assistance of a glowering guard at her shoulder. The man—the boy—this ‘Briar Moss’—would only annoy her if she saw him, Sandry was sure. Her face burned, remembering the kiss. His eyes had laughed at her, even when his mouth was occupied.
He had, she thought, unreasonably fine eyes.
Cat dirt. Vexed, Sandry looked around Market Square, eyes catching briefly on fabric stalls and someone who seemed to be selling particularly lovely samples of mother-of-pearl, and shook her head as she found she did not even see the plant mage or his work.
“If you’re looking for Briar, viymese, he has temple work each Firesday.” A low, slightly husky voice caught her from the side. Sandry turned to see a tall, dark-skinned woman leaning against a table laden with gold, iron, and brass. Her accent on the Narmonese title was perfect, and a smile seemed tucked into the corners of her full lips. “Are you his Duchess?”
Sandry, years of training stiffening her back, swallowed a splutter. “Since he was the one who had to be cut away from the road and dragged to my uncle’s dungeons,” she said, “I think he’s my dupe.”
The woman raised her eyebrows, but held out a hand. “I’m Daja,” she said. “Daja Kisubo. He’s my brother.”
“You have my condolences.”
Daja Kisubo’s brows remained near her hairline. “Oh, he’s not so bad. “
Sandry shrugged, weary of him. “I’ll say no more. My Uncle did mention foster sisters.”
“Did he?” Daja shook her head, smiling. “We’ve caused him a lot of trouble over the years, with the best intentions.”
Sandry, unsure what to make of this, reached out to touch delicate, gold filigree. “This is lovely.”
“Would you like it?”
“Oh. No—I couldn’t—”
“—it’ll be one gold maja, my lady.” Daja grinned, wicked, as Sandry blushed furiously.
“That’s outrageous.”
Daja shrugged. “It’s trade.”
“Kisubo,” Sandry muttered. “I thought I recognised the name. I also thought Traders refused to bargain with lowly kaqs.” The girl paused, taking in the long, ebony staff that lay a little distance from Daja, propped against the table. Its cap was brass, and mirror smooth. She could see an edge of Daja’s reflection in it, and the image stiffened as Sandry’s gaze lingered a little too long.
“I am not,” said Daja Kisubo, “A very good Trader.”
***
Dedicate Crane often looked like some peculiar combination of his namesake and an offended cat, but the whole ruffled, long-limbed lot of him seemed apoplectic as Briar stuck his head around Winding Circle’s Greenhouse door.
“Heard some news, old man?”
“You have…manhandled a countess. The wealthiest heiress in all Namorn and our own Duke’s only great-niece.
Briar groaned. “Would it have been just fine by you if she’d been a chambermaid?”
“Briar.”
“Lakik, gossip runs uphill to his place.” Briar addressed this to a young tomato plant, whose feathery leaves her currently trying to investigate his ankle. “Enough of that, please. His lordship’s already tetchy.”
The noise from the back of Crane’s throat could have soured milk. “I know you find it comfortable in gaol,” he drawled, “But this really is too much.”
“Crane.” A new voice, this. It was blurred—some called it barely comprehensible, these days—but it was waspish still, and dearer to Briar’s heart than seasonal rain in just the right place for new growth. “Half the week, your tea is too much for you.”
Dedicate Rosethorn, scowling in the thick, green-tinted heat of the greenhouse, stepped up to the two men, pushing silvered chestnut hair out of her eyes.
The Air Dedicate sniffed. “It is so often badly prepared.”
Rosethorn ignored him, turning to Briar and laying a small hand on his arm. “If you see that girl again, you are going to apologise.”
Briar flushed. Rosethorn, he knew, would look at her with disappointment in her lovely, dark eyes no matter if he’d upset a powerful mage, countess, or chambermaid. Looking at her face, he remembered the small, horrified sound the lady Sandrilene had made in the back of her throat; the brief fear that had been replaced with sharp, rather glorious anger; her body tense and unwilling under his hands. But there had been resignation as well as speed in her reaction. He wondered at it, and felt small.
“Yes, Rosethorn.”
“You’re also going to invite her to see me.”
“What?”
“Never you mind, boy. Just make sure it happens, if you see her again.”
Brair, staring at his teacher—who barely left temple grounds now he was big enough to fend for himself—could fathom none of this, at all.
Message: Spot the next P&P reference!
From: kit
Title: Cat's cradle -- part 2
Rating: PG-13
Wishlist Item: (1 - Sandry/Briar, Pride and Prejudice)
Summary: In this chapter, every body manages to offend everybody else.
Cat's cradle
In the tall, narrow house he shared with his sisters, Briar groaned, forehead thudding gently against the pale, scrubbed wood of the kitchen table. Tris, chopping something ferociously at the other end of it, snorted.
“You know,” he said, ruffled. “You girls could do more for a man’s ego.”
“Your ego tells you to kiss complete strangers,” Tris returned. “It could do with some quashing.”
Briar winced. “She was about to be lifted!”
“So you kissed her?”
“...I—”
“You. Kissed. Her.” Tris shook her head. “I thought Rosethorn had taught you not to just run around doing that.”
“She probably did,” Daja drawled, coming in through their back door and washing streaked hands in the sink. “Briar just probably thought it only applied to her. Or you.”
“Oh, honestly.”
Briar glared at the pair of them. “Would you two stop it—”
“—No, thief boy.” Daja let one hand fall solidly to his shoulder. “We won’t. You shouldn’t do that to any woman.” the smith made a face. “And you just happened to pick one with bodyguards. A mage with body guards.”
Briar winced, but couldn’t help a slow, wondering smile. “That was something. Who knew anyone so small could just—do that?”
“Best you?”
Briar shrugged. “That she did. But it wasn’t like I lay down and made it easy.”
Tris sighed. “It would have been easier if you had—”
“—oh, hush, saati.” Daja grinned. “It’s a good thing for Briar you can sweettalk His Grace so well.”
Tris, flushing to match her hair, glowered at the pair of them. “It’s hardly my fault that I’m the only respectable one among us.”
***
“Uncle, who was that man?”
Vedris, Duke of Emelan, surveyed his grandniece over the breakfast table, had a head full of figures and rights; legislative wrangling, the healer’s infuriating rites; taxes, and a longstanding correspondence with his youngest son that was not going to end well. It took him some time to return to the young, adopted citizen who had spent half the day before in the Ducal cells. He sighed.
“Briar Moss,” he said, watching Sandry shred a roll in quick, nervous fingers. “One of the city’s plant mages, and highly gifted. Temple educated, as you would have been.”
Sandry winced, though she could see no disapprobation in the older man’s serious face. “He is also a boor.”
“I have it on very good authority, my dear, that should he attempt any such thing again, he’ll be hung by the ankles in the nearest well.” Vedris smiled faintly. “And he would not fight it, since along with his considerable gifts—”
“—considerable? Uncle! I had him tied up!”
“—Along with these, he has two formidable foster sisters.” The Duke shook his head. “Without them, the city would not have survived in its current shape, or any other.”
Sandry’s eyes widened. “The Year of Sorrows? But they would have been no more than children! Like—like me.”
Reaching across the table, Vedris touched her hand. “They were fortunate in their teachers.”
Sandry flushed. “So was I,” she said.
“I do not doubt it, my dear.” Vedris did not quite smile. “Not when every other report receive from Namorn describes a clehame who can weave pure magic.”
Sandry looked at her plate, still tearing the shreds of her breakfast into smaller and smaller pieces.
“You must suffer your guards,” said the Duke, suddenly. “I do not think I have been able to say how glad I am to see you here, Sandrilene.”
***
It was stupid.
There was no need to return to the market. No need for trouble, with or without the assistance of a glowering guard at her shoulder. The man—the boy—this ‘Briar Moss’—would only annoy her if she saw him, Sandry was sure. Her face burned, remembering the kiss. His eyes had laughed at her, even when his mouth was occupied.
He had, she thought, unreasonably fine eyes.
Cat dirt. Vexed, Sandry looked around Market Square, eyes catching briefly on fabric stalls and someone who seemed to be selling particularly lovely samples of mother-of-pearl, and shook her head as she found she did not even see the plant mage or his work.
“If you’re looking for Briar, viymese, he has temple work each Firesday.” A low, slightly husky voice caught her from the side. Sandry turned to see a tall, dark-skinned woman leaning against a table laden with gold, iron, and brass. Her accent on the Narmonese title was perfect, and a smile seemed tucked into the corners of her full lips. “Are you his Duchess?”
Sandry, years of training stiffening her back, swallowed a splutter. “Since he was the one who had to be cut away from the road and dragged to my uncle’s dungeons,” she said, “I think he’s my dupe.”
The woman raised her eyebrows, but held out a hand. “I’m Daja,” she said. “Daja Kisubo. He’s my brother.”
“You have my condolences.”
Daja Kisubo’s brows remained near her hairline. “Oh, he’s not so bad. “
Sandry shrugged, weary of him. “I’ll say no more. My Uncle did mention foster sisters.”
“Did he?” Daja shook her head, smiling. “We’ve caused him a lot of trouble over the years, with the best intentions.”
Sandry, unsure what to make of this, reached out to touch delicate, gold filigree. “This is lovely.”
“Would you like it?”
“Oh. No—I couldn’t—”
“—it’ll be one gold maja, my lady.” Daja grinned, wicked, as Sandry blushed furiously.
“That’s outrageous.”
Daja shrugged. “It’s trade.”
“Kisubo,” Sandry muttered. “I thought I recognised the name. I also thought Traders refused to bargain with lowly kaqs.” The girl paused, taking in the long, ebony staff that lay a little distance from Daja, propped against the table. Its cap was brass, and mirror smooth. She could see an edge of Daja’s reflection in it, and the image stiffened as Sandry’s gaze lingered a little too long.
“I am not,” said Daja Kisubo, “A very good Trader.”
***
Dedicate Crane often looked like some peculiar combination of his namesake and an offended cat, but the whole ruffled, long-limbed lot of him seemed apoplectic as Briar stuck his head around Winding Circle’s Greenhouse door.
“Heard some news, old man?”
“You have…manhandled a countess. The wealthiest heiress in all Namorn and our own Duke’s only great-niece.
Briar groaned. “Would it have been just fine by you if she’d been a chambermaid?”
“Briar.”
“Lakik, gossip runs uphill to his place.” Briar addressed this to a young tomato plant, whose feathery leaves her currently trying to investigate his ankle. “Enough of that, please. His lordship’s already tetchy.”
The noise from the back of Crane’s throat could have soured milk. “I know you find it comfortable in gaol,” he drawled, “But this really is too much.”
“Crane.” A new voice, this. It was blurred—some called it barely comprehensible, these days—but it was waspish still, and dearer to Briar’s heart than seasonal rain in just the right place for new growth. “Half the week, your tea is too much for you.”
Dedicate Rosethorn, scowling in the thick, green-tinted heat of the greenhouse, stepped up to the two men, pushing silvered chestnut hair out of her eyes.
The Air Dedicate sniffed. “It is so often badly prepared.”
Rosethorn ignored him, turning to Briar and laying a small hand on his arm. “If you see that girl again, you are going to apologise.”
Briar flushed. Rosethorn, he knew, would look at her with disappointment in her lovely, dark eyes no matter if he’d upset a powerful mage, countess, or chambermaid. Looking at her face, he remembered the small, horrified sound the lady Sandrilene had made in the back of her throat; the brief fear that had been replaced with sharp, rather glorious anger; her body tense and unwilling under his hands. But there had been resignation as well as speed in her reaction. He wondered at it, and felt small.
“Yes, Rosethorn.”
“You’re also going to invite her to see me.”
“What?”
“Never you mind, boy. Just make sure it happens, if you see her again.”
Brair, staring at his teacher—who barely left temple grounds now he was big enough to fend for himself—could fathom none of this, at all.