Red Sister. Mark Lawrence
or perhaps to administer crueller justice of their own. Nona snatched the knife from the nearest girl’s plate and holding it before her, level with her eyes, she started to back towards the service door in the rear wall.
The men ignored her. They stepped to either side, clearing the main entrance, and raised their visors to reveal faces that admitted no more compassion than had been engraved upon the metal. The abbess came through the open doors behind them, one hand gripping her crozier, its golden curl rising above her head, the other resting on the shoulder of a blonde girl perhaps a year older than Nona.
‘Novices, this is Arabella Jotsis. She will be joining our order.’
‘As was foretold!’ Sister Wheel stepped out from behind the abbess, Sister Tallow to the other side. ‘As was foretold!’ She cast about rapidly, her watery stare challenging anyone to disagree.
Abbess Glass frowned. ‘We can be sure she is Arabella and that she is Jotsis. Anything else is open to interpretation.’ She struck the heel of her staff to the floor, the sharp retort cutting off the novices’ mutterings. ‘We can also be sure that Arabella will study hard and be treated no differently from any other novice.’
Sister Wheel seemed on the point of saying something but at a glance from the abbess closed her mouth with a snap.
‘Additionally, we may be certain that Novice Nona understands that it is impolite to point a knife at guests,’ the abbess added, tilting her head in Nona’s direction.
Nona set the blade back on the table with a guilty hand as laughter rose about her.
‘Gentlemen.’ Abbess Glass looked left then right. ‘Your duty is dispatched. Arabella is now the charge of the convent and her care rests in my hands.’
The four men inclined their heads and turned, marching out of the building without a word to either the abbess or the girl they had delivered.
Arabella herself didn’t appear to notice their departure. She looked, to Nona, like a different kind of creature, set apart from the dull and dirty humans who scurried about the world. Her hair seemed to glow golden in the light that reached through the still-open doors. Her travelling clothes were a wonder of brushed suede and fur-edged leather, with a magnificent dark red cape across her shoulders secured by a gold chain. Where others might be described by their collection of flaws Arabella Jotsis’s only identifying feature seemed to be that she was without blemish. Perhaps the Ancestor looked like this, but people didn’t.
‘Your table is at the end, Arabella. I’m sure Red Class will welcome you into their ranks. Nona too.’ The abbess nodded towards the end of the room and took her guiding hand from the girl’s shoulder.
‘Best behaviour!’ Sister Tallow added, running a hard stare across the room. And with that, Abbess Glass led the nuns from the refectory.
Arabella Jotsis surveyed her new classmates with a sort of serene confidence and stepped forward as if not only had she lived here all her life, but also as if she owned the place and paid the wages of everyone around her. As she drew near the table an older girl from table three hurried up behind her with a spare chair.
The girl whose knife Nona had snatched stood up the moment the doors closed behind the departing nuns. Tall, slim and pale, her hair a black and wild tangle of curls, she seemed less impressed with the golden newcomer than the rest of the novices. ‘You’ll find that the Ancestor doesn’t order any special treatment for royalty here, Arabella. Minor or otherwise. Your father’s title might let him crush honest men down in Verity, but up here fights are one on one and it’s skill that counts, not rank.’
Arabella hardly deigned to glance at the girl. ‘Your father put himself in prison, Clera Ghomal. He made a poor merchant.’ She sat, like a princess, in the offered chair. ‘And a worse thief.’ Her accent was new to Nona, rich and precise, words clipped, the emphasis on odd syllables.
Clera balled her hands into fists. ‘Be careful what you say—’
‘Oh please. You come from a family of money-grubbers who have lost their money … which makes them just … grubbers. Let it lie. From what I understand we will all have plenty of opportunity for hitting each other later. So do be quiet and let me eat.’ Arabella took a roll of crusty bread and broke it onto her plate.
‘Thank you for making it so clear.’ Clera sneered. ‘How terrible for you to have to endure the company of people who don’t own their bodyweight in jewellery. How can you stand to mix with us?’ She reached out and took Nona’s hand. ‘I suppose you hate Nona here most of all. Imagine, a peasant girl dining at the same table as a daughter of the Jotsis!’
Arabella spread butter onto the halves of her roll. ‘I’m not in the least interested in you or your skinny hunska peasant, Ghomal. Now do sit down, you both look ridiculous.’
Clera dropped Nona’s hand and took a step towards Arabella. ‘I—’
‘Clera!’ Suleri’s voice cut across her from the far end of the room. ‘Sit down. Shut up. Save it for Sister Tallow’s class or you’ll find yourself working in the laundry for a month.’
Clera sat down, mouth set in a vicious line. A heartbeat later she grinned, leaned back and pulled across a chair just vacated by a novice leaving the next table. ‘Nona. Take a seat. You look hungry.’
On his wagon Giljohn had fed Nona far better than her mother had ever been able to. At the Caltess the food had been better still and Nona’s bones had begun to sink from sight like a city child’s. The refectory at Sweet Mercy Convent put the Caltess meals to shame. Nona ate meat in whole pieces for the first time she could remember, not just a shred here or there but thick slices of bacon still hot from the pan. She wrapped them in crusty bread and chewed with dedication, scattering crumbs everywhere, while Clera chatted easily at her side.
The merchant’s daughter made no further mention of Arabella, not even glancing down the table in her direction. Instead she rattled on cheerfully about what could be expected from the day, requiring little from Nona in return save the occasional grunt or ‘yes’ in the brief gaps when her mouth wasn’t full.
‘Ghena’s the youngest in the class, she’s still nine. Me and Ruli are eleven. We’ll probably move into Grey soon – that’s Class Two. Class One is Red. Sister Oak is our mistress but we don’t see a lot of her.’ Clera paused to watch Nona eat. ‘You really were hungry!’
‘Mgmmmm.’
‘Our first class is Academia with Sister Rule – that’s everything from numbers and reading to history and geometry. Right now we’re doing geography.’
A full mouth saved Nona from having to admit that she didn’t know what geometry or geography were.
‘We have Blade this afternoon – we’re doing unarmed, but later we learn knives and stars, the older ones learn swords, and tactics and strategy too. In Red Class everyone studies everything. Later on the Holy Sisters do more Academia and Spirit classes. Martial Sisters do mostly Blade. Sisters of Discretion concentrate on Shade. Mystic Sisters spend their time learning Path. Everyone calls the Martial Sisters the Red Sisters, and the Mystic Sisters are Holy Witches – but don’t let a nun hear you call them witches!’
Nona kept eating, letting the confusion of names wash over her. It would sink in given time. She finished the bacon, struggled through the scrambled egg, but the bread bowl defeated her, sitting before her with three crusty rolls still nestled at the bottom. She had never stopped eating while food remained before her: to do so seemed desperately wrong.
‘Come on!’ Clera put a hand on her shoulder. ‘We’ll be really late.’
Looking up, Nona saw that they were the last two at the table. She glanced behind her and saw that only three other novices remained in the hall.
Clera