by Alec Hutson
“Then you’re saying . . .”
“. . . that the Gilded Lynx is about to go to war. But not with Zim.”
7
The Contessa’s carriage clatters over the stones as we race through the city. The driver shouts and cracks his whip as he urges the horses faster, and from the shaking and ominous creaking sounds this gilded box was never designed for such haste. The Contessa seems unconcerned, however, as she has slid open the window slot and is pensively watching the city rushing past. I, in turn, study her face, as she slipped off her silver mask as soon as she’d thrown herself into the carriage. She is not beautiful in the classic sense – her nose is slightly hooked and her chin pointed – but there is an undeniable charisma to her, a cast to her face that suggests deep currents flow beneath the surface. I wonder what thoughts are behind her silver eyes. When she finally turns away from the window and looks at me, I know I’m about to find out.
“Give me your key.”
“What?”
The Contessa sighs in exasperation. “Your key. The one Ezekal must have given you so that you could journey back to our world. Surely you couldn’t be so foolish as to lose it.”
In truth, I have lost the key on several occasions, but managed to recover it every time. In the chaos of the last few days I’d forgotten I was still carrying it. I pull the chunk of dark stone veined with silver from my belt pouch, shivering as its coldness prickles my fingers.
The Contessa holds out her hand, and I pass her the key. Power seems to rush through her as her fingers close around it, as almost immediately her breathing quickens and color rushes to her cheeks.
“What are you going to do with it?”
A tremor goes through her. “I am -ng- I am going to remake the pathways laid down in this key. Erase what Ezekal has written and then scribe something new. It is . . . taxing to do this, but I do not have the time to wait until I am back in my workshop to imprint your journey onto one of the keys I have already forged.”
“Journey?”
“Yes,” she says, strain showing in her face. “The one you will soon be departing on. Now, be quiet while I concentrate.” The Contessa settles herself cross-legged on the cushioned seat of the carriage, the key hidden within her hands. After a deep intake of breath, her eyes roll back. The coldness I felt when I touched the stone has begun to seep out from between the Contessa’s fingers. I shiver, goose pimples rising on my arms. In moments, the air inside the carriage is gelid.
By the time the wheels of the carriage are running over the smoother stone of the richer districts the coldness has dissipated, and I can no longer see the plumes of our breath. The Contessa’s eyes flick open just as we lurch to a shuddering stop; despite the cold that enveloped us, her pale skin is lathered with sweat, and her hair clings to her face and neck.
“Done,” she rasps. “Unpicking the threads and replacing them without ruining the whole weave is so much more difficult than simply making something new.”
I’ve been dutifully silent, as she requested, but I’m bursting with questions.
“Where do you think I’m going?” I ask her as the door swings open. She ignores me, wincing as she uncoils herself stiffly and then pushes past the coachman, who looks shocked by the wash of frozen air escaping from within the carriage.
“Home,” she says over her shoulder as she quickly ascends the steps to the Gilded Lynx manse.
The young castellan is there to greet us. “Mistress, welcome –”
“Gather all our guests,” she says, interrupting the boy as she sweeps past him and into the manse. “Even the shadowdancer, if you can find wherever she’s skulking. Bring them down to my sanctum immediately.” She pauses beneath the branches of the thorned stone tree that looms in the entranceway. “Listen to me carefully. Some or all of the Trusts will shortly be invading these grounds. Tell everyone and have them be prepared to fight.”
The boy looks shaken, his face even paler than usual. “How long do we have, Mistress?”
“I expect the first wave before evening falls. Even as we speak, the other Trust heads are rushing back from the parley, and whatever warriors they have at their manses will be dispatched as soon as they return. The most ambitious might even attack the other raiders, hoping that they will be the one to deliver Valyra to the emperor. This alliance we had to save the city was always a fragile thing, and now that there are prizes to be won from the emperor I’m certain it is no longer standing. Instruct our warriors to take defensive positions and see if we can bring the other Trusts into conflict with each other. Let us use their greed against them.”
“Y-yes, Mistress,” stammers the castellan, and then he dashes away, shouting commands.
“Come,” the Contessa says to me as she strides away purposefully. “We must also finish getting ready.”
“Ready for what?” I ask, hurrying after her, but she ignores me as she takes a torch from its bracket on the wall and starts down a spiraling stone staircase. It deposits us at the edge of the great chamber filled with the cowering stone statues – the girl who had been imprisoned in stone has been removed, shards littering the cleared space where she’d been. The Contessa leads me back to the comfortably appointed chamber, though it is chilly now that only mounded gray ash remains in the fireplace. She goes over to the door in the far wall and inserts a key into its lock, then glances over her shoulder at me.
“Don’t touch anything,” she warns, and then the door squeals as she pushes it open.
An electryc light globe flickers to life, bathing the chamber in a harsh white radiance. It’s a work space of sorts, and I’m reminded of Poz’s laboratory, though there are fewer scorch marks on the ceiling and no strangely colored liquids bubbling in vials. Long, dusty tables are instead covered with chunks of rock, and among this detritus are the tools of a stone mason or sculptor. Set flush against the wall is a small archway fashioned from a familiar opalescent material. It shimmers in the brightness of the hanging glowsphere.
“You have a Gate,” I murmur as the Contessa goes over to an elaborately carved cabinet of red wood.
“Yes,” she says, unlatching the cabinet and opening it to reveal a shelf that holds three very distinct-looking rocks: one is the swirling green of malachite, another a translucent piece of purple crystal, and the last is a faded red shot through with strands of black. “It’s one of the smallest doors I found in my travels. I wasn’t sure if it would still open into the paths if moved here, but my experiment was successful. It still responds to the keys.” Reverentially she lifts the green rock from the cabinet and holds it up in her palm, studying it critically. With her other hand she withdraws the dark stone I’d given her in the carriage. Her brow creases as her attention flicks back and forth between the two stones, as if comparing them.
“Hm. Ezekal’s handiwork is a little less elegant. The sorcery is strongly bound, but the protections woven for the bearer are not nearly as precise. I wonder if that’s why your memory was affected.”
“Those are your keys?” My eyes are drawn to the red stone veined with black – the longer I stare at it, the more certain I am that I’ve seen it before. I’d wager that was the key that Fen Poria used beneath the Umbra when she abducted Valyra.
The Contessa looks up from the two rocks she’s holding. “Yes. The only three I brought with me to this world. As you can see” —she sweeps out her hand to indicate the stone-strewn workshop— “I’ve tried very hard to fashion new keys with the material I’ve found here. But to no avail. I cannot figure out how to imbue the stone of this world with the same power.”
Noise arises from back the way we came. At first it is indistinct, but a moment later I hear Bell’s voice raised in strident objection.
“No, I demand to know what’s going on! Has Talin returned? Why are you holding a dagger? Why is everyone running around the manse like they’re being chased by swarms of hornets?”
Through the open door I see Deliah and Bell enter the comfortable waiting room, wi
th Fen Poria trailing behind them. Bell is half-turned around, arguing loudly with the feral, so it’s Deliah who sees us first.
“They’re back,” she tells the scientist’s daughter, then slips inside the Contessa’s workshop. Bell mutters something that sounds rude to Fen Poria as she follows the lamias. Her gaze slides over me without pausing, more interested in the chunks of half-carved rock and the tools scattered about.
“How did it go?” asks Deliah. She’s wearing her full complement of armor: a cuirass, greaves, pauldrons and vambraces fashioned from the black carapace of some great insect. Her glaive nearly brushes the ceiling, and from the look in her eye she seems ready to unlimber it here and now if I give the word. I don’t think she trusts the Gilded Lynx very much.
“An unmitigated disaster,” the Contessa says, laying the two keys on the edge of a table. “Talin decided to begin the parley with an unprovoked verbal harangue directed towards the emperor of Zim, and though we didn’t stay for the end, I’m fairly certain the other Trust heads vowed to exterminate the Gilded Lynx.”
Bell blinks at this, taken aback. “They would side with Zim against you? Why?”
“Apparently, the Contessa has a spy in her house who told the Zimani that Valyra is here,” I say. “And they were likely given the choice of bringing the girl before the emperor or having tens of thousands of soldiers fling themselves at the city walls.” The Contessa scowls as I say this.
“So what are we doing down here?” Bell asks, glancing around the workshop.
The Contessa holds up her hand for patience. “In due time, Bellamina. But first . . . come out! I don’t have time for your games right now.”
For a moment nothing happens, and then a patch of darkness in the corner of the room shivers and Xela is revealed. She brushes a few clinging strands of shadow from her arms and eyes the Contessa warily.
“Greetings, Xela,” the Contessa says tartly. “It’s good to see you again.”
“You too, Mistress,” mumbles the shadowdancer, as if embarrassed to have been found.
“And where is Valyra?” continues the Contessa, craning her head to see past Fen Poria. “I need them all here.”
Fen Poria makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan. “Fucking sorceress barricaded her gods-damned door. Didn’t want to come. Still angry at this one.” She jerks her chin my direction.
The Contessa rips her mask from her face, and the feral flinches back before the anger in her silver eyes. “Well, knock down the gods-damned door,” she says in a cold and level voice that is somehow more frightening than if she’d screamed in rage. “We don’t have time for childish tantrums.”
“Yes, Mistress,” the feral mutters, avoiding the Contessa’s gaze as she turns away.
When she’s gone, the Contessa pulls out a chair from the closest workbench and sags into it, tossing her mask carelessly among the stone fragments. The anger has drained from her face as quickly as it came, and she kneads her temple with two fingers like she’s fighting back a headache.
After waiting for her to say something for a few moments, but with nothing forthcoming, I open my mouth to demand some answers. Before I can speak, however, a sound from the room’s threshold interrupts me. A red-faced young warrior has appeared, straining to carry a few heavily laden packs.
“Where, Mistress?” he gasps, and the Contessa gestures vaguely in the direction of the tables.
He slides the packs from his shoulders, then after casting a furtive glance at Deliah scurries out of the chamber.
I step forward and unclasp the buckle securing the pack. Inside, I can see loaves of flatbread, strips of dried meat, and bulbous water skins. I look at the Contessa and find her watching me. “These are for the journey you spoke of?”
She nods. “I had hoped there was another way, but the emperor has forced my hand. Well, him and the avarice of my fellow Trust heads.”
“Maybe they will surprise you,” I suggest, and the Contessa crooks a grin.
“I know them too well,” she says, then cocks her head as if listening intently. “Ah. This may be the fools already.”
A moment later I hear it as well: the pounding of footsteps and the clash of metal.
“What about Valyra?” I ask, a serpent of fear coiling in my stomach.
The Contessa frowns. “Perhaps we must go and find her.” She rises to her feet, a thin stiletto appearing in her hand. “Come. There are ways through this old house that few know about.”
We follow the twisting passage back to the statue room, but before we can enter the maze of anguished stone figures a loud clattering comes from the stairs. The boy castellan is rushing down the steps, and behind him comes a wave of armored warriors. I take a step forward to go to the pale boy’s aid, but the Contessa’s hand on my shoulder stops me.
“No,” she says simply, sadness in her voice.
The boy reaches the bottom, the Trust warriors only steps behind him. Rather than fleeing into the statues, though, he stops and points across the great chamber at us. The warriors surge past him bellowing battle cries, swords and pikes upraised.
“Oh, by all the dead gods,” I mutter, drawing my sword. “That little bastard.”
A score or more are wending their way between the contorted stone figures, with more pounding down the steps.
“Bell, get back,” I say, putting myself between her and the onrushing Trust warriors. Deliah steps up beside me, her glaive in her hands. We share a quick look, and I know what she’s thinking – as skilled as we both are, eventually the sheer number of soldiers will overwhelm us. And yet she crooks a grin and winks at me.
“Let us have a competition,” she murmurs as the first rank of the soldiers approaches. “If I kill more, you must pleasure me any way I want.”
“And if I win?”
“You can pleasure me any way you want.”
I can’t help but give an exasperated chuckle as I set myself in a fighting stance, raising my sword.
A sharp crack sounds from somewhere, and suddenly the warriors are stumbling, holding hands to their faces to try and stanch vicious-looking wounds.
“How?” Bell says from behind me, and then comes another rapid series of explosions. For a moment I can’t tell what is happening, and then one of the statues closest to us erupts in a shower of stone chips. I raise my hand to protect my face as jagged shards bounce off my armor. A few strike my green-glass blade, eliciting chimes. Amidst the statues the Trust warriors have slowed, looking around uncertainly for what is attacking their fellows.
“Apologies,” the Contessa says in a strained voice. I glance at the Trust head – her face is sunken, bones etched starkly against her pale skin, and a point of red stains one of her silver eyes. “You should all get down,” she manages to say just before an invisible surge of something rushes over us, making my skin tingle and my blood thrum in my veins.
“What?”
“On the floor!” she hisses, and realizing what’s coming next I leap at Bell, bearing her to the ground.
I bury my head in my arms, but it sounds to me like lightning has somehow lanced down through the manse. From the ringing in my skull I wouldn’t be surprised to find blood trickling from my ears. I raise my face from the ground, blinking, the swirling stone dust that now fills the chamber making my eyes itch. The statues are gone, all of them. Unmoving bodies are scattered in the gray mist, but there are still shapes stumbling about – most are naked men and women, their faces slack with shock. There are also a few of the Trust warriors, armor shredded by flying debris and clutching at the wounds pockmarking their exposed flesh. One of the warriors who had nearly reached us falls to his knees, a long sliver of stone embedded in his throat. He tries to say something, but only blood issues from his mouth, and then he falls face-forward onto the floor.
“Tainted Saints,” Bell whispers – or perhaps she shouted it. It’s hard to tell with the echoes of the explosions still reverberating in my head.
A thud comes from beh
ind me and I twist around to find that the Contessa has collapsed. I struggle to my feet and rush to her, searching for any wounds that might have come from the flying shards. As I touch her she weakly pushes me away and sits up, coughing.
“I’m fine,” she croaks, wiping a hand across her dust-smeared face. “That was . . . draining. It’s been a project of mine, trying to free these victims of the Kaleki Gorgon. The stone encasing them has some of the same resonances as a key from our world . . . something that my power can control.” She looks out at the dazed men and women lurching through the still-swirling grit. “Somewhat crudely, though.”
Across the chamber, one small figure climbs unsteadily to his feet. It’s the young castellan, the traitor who led the Trust warriors down here. He stares in astonishment at the scene in front of him, and then dashes for the stairs. In an eyeblink, he scampers out of sight.
“Is anyone feeling well enough to go after him?” Deliah asks, pushing herself into a sitting position as she brushes back the cascade of purple hair that has fallen across her face. She grimaces in disgust when she notices the stone dust splotching her hand.
“Leave him,” the Contessa says wearily, using my arm to help herself stand. “We have more important matters.”
A thump and a strangled scream comes from the stairs, followed by a wet gurgling. We glance at each other and then back to where the pale boy vanished just as he comes tumbling back down the steps. From the way he’s splayed at the bottom there’s no doubt that he’s dead. Something sharp and glittering is lodged in his neck.
His murderer bounces down the steps a moment later and plucks her throwing knife from the body. Fen Poria turns and sees us and snaps off a jaunty salute.
Behind her, Valyra is slowly descending the stairs, a horrified look on her face as she surveys the chamber. Almost all of those who survived the eruption of the statues are on the ground now, either passed out from blood loss or curled up in exhaustion or shock. I can’t see a single Trust warrior still standing.