by Gaie Sebold
“Oh, goodie,” Madis said. “So if we try to sell it on, we’ll have the entire Guild on our necks. Besides...” She looked at Lady Casillienne and sighed. “We can’t, can we? I mean, something like that...”
“No, we can’t, I mean, look at her! You want it used on someone else?”
“Oh.” Madis said. “Oh, well, that’s a proper bastard.” She rolled her shoulders. “Right. Orrie. You’ve worked this lock before?”
“One like it, yes.”
“Successfully.”
“Yes. Although you should be aware,” Orrie said, polishing her glasses, “that it was not on the first try. And in that case, the wearer was already dead.”
“All right.” Madis leaned over the woman on the bed. “If you want us to try to get this thing off you,” Madis said, “knowing the risks, make a sound.”
The wind battered the shutters and set the lamp flickering. The glow from the god’s jar pulsed.
Lady Casillienne whined. A single tear ran shimmering down her pale cheek.
Madis let out a breath.
“Alina, Orrie, go.”
Alina jammed her fingers into her hair, and closed her eyes. “Right. All right. Here goes.”
She took a deep breath, let it out, dropped her hands, and began to chant. The air thickened with the metal-spice smell of magic. The engravings on the belt began to shift and blur, and this time, it was no trick of the light.
Orrie took off her spectacles, and looked at Lady Casillienne. “Try not to move. Or breathe or digest vigorously.” Then she sighed, cleaned her spectacles carefully, and replaced them. She chose a pick and got to work.
Spin, finally, had come to a halt, releasing Lord Baridine, red-faced, panting, and furious. A weeping, grovelling Pettigis, unassisted since the servants had all urgently found other jobs to do, had scrambled the Whirligigs back into their crates. “Take them away!” Baridine yelped. “I never want to see the things again!”
“Yes, my Lord, my Lord, I can’t apologise enough, my apprentice, I...”
“Get out of my sight!”
“Yes, my Lord.”
The Dowager Lady Baridine, after giving Pettigis a glare that promised disaster, had retreated to her chambers. Lord Baridine called for another jug of wine to calm his shattered nerves.
As he sat scowling, gulping, and wiping his face, the Captain of the Guard looked at him, and decided that he would handle the unfortunate matter of the Lady Tanisal himself, and inform his Lordship tomorrow, after the wedding, when his mood should have improved.
Four
Milandree assessed the water-gate, the prepared corpse draped unceremoniously over her shoulder. Three guards were playing cards at a table by the dock.
“Terrible night,” one said.
“Awful.” The second looked around, and made a surreptitious rocking gesture with one hand. “May Ilianu protect us.”
The third made the same gesture, then looked shamefaced. “Don’t let the Captain hear that,” he said.
“Captain can go fuck a goose.”
Milandree decided that was a good moment to make her presence felt. She coughed, hard and racking, and staggered towards them, the corpse lolling on her back.
“What the fuck?” The guards leapt to their feet, cards and tankards scattering.
“Got to get this off the Rock,” she said. “Dead. Thunder Fever.” And coughed again.
“Go, go!” Said one, waving at the dock. “Just take a boat.”
“Waiting for her maid,” Milandree rasped.
“Another one? Little gods. Right, lads, I think I hear the Captain calling,” said the largest guard, who was already backing up the corridor.
“Do you?” Said another.
“Yes, he does,” said the third. “We’re urgently needed somewhere else.” Grabbing the slower guard by the elbow, he marched him at speed up the corridor.
Then there was no one but Milandree, the corpse, and a number of boats tipping on the swell. Even here in the shelter of the dock, under the lee of Brute Rock, the boats were dancing. Milandree eyed them uneasily. Alina was a good sailor and she herself could handle a boat in a pinch, but the night was getting wilder by the moment. The wind roared in the Rock’s throat like a vengeful spirit.
She picked a boat that two could handle, got the corpse on board, and settled herself to wait.
Orrie had stopped muttering. That was always a worrying moment. The only sounds were Alina’s voice rising to the climax of the spell, the faint scratching of the lockpick, and the thrumming of the walls as the wind and sea raged. Even the little god seemed to be holding its breath.
A shudder of light rippled across the belt, and the symbols stopped moving – now all looking slightly different. Alina let out a huge breath and folded to her knees, her head hanging.
Lady Casillienne’s eyes widened. Animation flooded into her face, like water rushing into a long-dry stream. Without looking up Orrie said; “Lady. Do. Not. Move.”
The shadows on Lady Casillienne’s throat shifted as she began to swallow, and stopped.
There was a click.
The belt opened.
Orrie sat back. “There,” she said, and eased the belt out from under her.
Lady Casillienne stayed still for a moment, her eyes shifting towards Orrie, and the belt in her hands. Then she sat up, and raised her hands, and looked at them, and looked up at the masked women beside her bed. She straightened, and shifted her head on her neck, much like an eagle that has just spotted its prey. Those pale blue eyes, now the life was back in them, were disturbingly sharp.
Madis opened the door. “They’re about to change the guard...Oh.”
Lady Casillienne looked at her. “Get me out of here,” she said, “and I’ll triple whatever you expected to get for the belt.”
“Right you are,” Madis said. “Alina. Alina!” She helped Alina to her feet. “Can you run?”
“I can try,” Alina rasped. “Gods, that was... Lady? Are you...”
“I am well,” Lady Casillienne said, “but my Adeptcy... I can’t feel it. Let us hope it returns.”
“Let’s hope,” Madis said. “Alina, go. Get to the boat.”
“But what about...” Alina said.
“We’ll manage. Now move – the guard’s about to change, I heard the order.”
Alina staggered for the door, turned back, and scooped the jug from the dresser. “Promised,” she said, and stumbled out of the room.
“Orrie?” Madis said. “We need to change things slightly.”
Orrie looked at Madis, and at Lady Casillienne, and sighed. “Right. I’ll meet you later.”
“Try not to get lost, all right? Now, Your Ladyship,” Madis said, “I suggest we get you into one of these guards’ uniforms. Fast.”
“You think that will work?” Lady Casillienne said.
“Not for long. But with luck, for long enough.”
Milandree spotted Alina weaving down the passageway. She glanced over her shoulder. Outside, the wind had gone from vengeful spirit to a whole graveyard of them.
She leapt over the side and scooped Alina bodily into the boat. “What in the name of...”
“Spell. Stronger than I thought. Oh, my head.” Alina put the jug she was clutching on the boards with a shaking hand. “Cast... cast off.” She put her hands over her eyes.
Milandree cast off. The boat began to drift sideways. “Alina. Alina! We need to get out of here. Tell me what to do.”
Alina stared blearily into the roaring dark. “It’s all rocking.” She crumpled to the deck in a dead faint.
“Oh, crap,” Milandree said.
“Put me in the sea,” said the voice from the jug.
“What?” Milandree was looking around desperately. She wasn’t a good enough sailor to take the boat out without Alina, not in this weather, and there was nowhere else to go but back into the castle, where they were more likely than not to run into the guard heading to the dock to stop them.
&nbs
p; That option was rapidly disappearing as the dock retreated, and the large boat on which most of the guests had arrived loomed nearer.
“Put me in the sea.”
“We’re about to hit that ship! We’ll drown and you’ll get crushed!”
Something like a laugh bubbled out of the jug. “No. You think it was the Sky God turned this Brute to Brute Rock? It was not. It was I. It was Ilianu. Put me back where I belong.”
Distracted, barely listening, Milandree said, “Fine, fine. Here you go. Bye.” She tipped the jug over the side, and bent over Alina.
Only her superb reflexes saved her from falling on top of the unconscious woman as the little boat suddenly rose and surged forward, borne towards the entrance of the dock at frightening speed, and against the wind. Spray plumed over the bow. Milandree swore, wrapped one arm around the mast and the other around Alina, and held on for both their lives.
Alina coughed, spat and shook wet locks out of her eyes. “Milandree?” She sat up and gaped. “What...”
“You all right?”
“Better. Wet. Wait. Milandree? The sail... the sail’s not set. How are we moving?”
“Brace yourself.” Milandree helped her to her feet. “And hold on.”
The little boat was scudding across the bay. The storm had lessened, but all around the waves still billowed and danced. The painter stretched from the bow into the water before them, thrumming with tension. Alina blinked at it. “Are we...” She stumbled back as something huge and sleekly dark breached alongside the boat, foam running pale down its sides.
“Escort,” Milandree said. “That little god? Not so little.”
“Oh, I meant to put it in the...” Alina broke off. “She was Ilianu, wasn’t she? Goddess of Quat Bay. I thought, when she said about worship from the servants, but...” After a moment, she whispered, “How in the name of anything did she end up in a jar on a market stall?”
Milandree gave her a straight stare. “Didn’t seem prudent to ask.”
“Ah. Maybe not. So... are we still going to make our landing?”
“Told her where we wanted to go. Are we going there?”
Alina pulled a compass from her pocket, and squinted. “Probably? We’re headed for the shore, at any rate.” She looked out at the tumultuous darkness, and ran her hands through her sopping hair. “Is there any food on this boat?”
Dawn was a stormy yellow streak on the horizon. Milandree and Alina watched as the quay came in sight. As they drew near, the painter went slack.
Alina grabbed it and called “Thank you.”
A flip of a gigantic tail drenched them with spray, and then their escort was gone.
“I was beginning to dry out,” Milandree said.
“Don’t be ungrateful.”
They bumped against the quay, deserted at this hour. Alina jumped ashore with the painter, and secured the boat.
Milandree followed, lifting out the now slightly damp corpse.
“Ladies,” said a voice.
Arden, accompanied by three men, less elegantly dressed but bearing identical, smug grins, appeared on the quay. “Please step aside.”
“Oh you’re joking,” Alina groaned.
Milandree said nothing, though there were enough daggers in her look to puncture an army.
“I’m really not,” Arden said, still smiling. “Ah, I believe this scowling... fellow... must be the famous Milandree. Now, my companions – not to mention myself – are real swordsmen. Will you let us take the prize without forcing us to be ungentlemanly?”
Milandree looked at the men, and at Alina, and shook her head.
“I’m a fool to ask, but will we at least get the half you promised?” Alina said, shaking water out of her skirts.
“Allowing the prize to be taken at this juncture proves that dear Madis is not the thief she thinks she is,” Arden said. “I really don’t feel she’s earned it, and therefore, neither have you. I assume she at least arranged transport for you, so we will take our leave before it turns up.” He gestured his men to pick up the corpse, swept them a bow, and left.
“Well,” Alina said. “That’s that.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Where in all the hells is Dagri? I’m freezing.”
Madis only stared into the night, where Arden and his men had disappeared.
“What do you mean she’s gone? Where the hell is she?” Lord Baridine hissed.
The guard shook his head. “She can’t have left the castle, Milord, unless...” his heavy face suddenly grew waxy with discomfort.
“Unless what?”
“The boat, Milord. The unfortunate Lady Tanisal. Last night. If you remember...”
“But... wait... you think she could have got on that boat? With the corpse? Wasn’t it searched?”
The guard, beginning to sweat, shook his head. “There was no reason to, My Lord. No one had any idea she might try to... I mean, that anyone would attempt a kidnapping! And besides, the fever...”
“Fuck the fever! Send out boats! Get men after them!”
“At once, My Lord.” The guard bolted from the chamber, boots ringing on the stone.
“The rest of you, search the castle!” Lord Baridine shouted. “Not one guest is to leave until everything’s been checked, bag, baggage and underwear, you understand me?”
“My Lord!”
“Wait!” The Dowager’s voice cracked over them like a whip, stopping the rush.
“Mother...”
“My boy, think.” She grabbed his elbow, pulling him close, and hissed in his ear. “If she has got away, and someone manages to get that belt off without killing her, you’re going to need every ally you can scrape up. And most of them are here. Any search must be discreet, and polite, and,” she gripped harder, making him wince, “driven by concern for your bride-to-be, who has been behaving strangely, and may be under some magical influence.”
“But isn’t that...” Baridine stopped at her glare.
“A lie laced with truth is a deal easier to swallow. It leaves us room to turn this to our advantage.” She turned to the guard, and raised her voice. “Lady Casillienne is to be found and safely detained. Anyone with her may be the person who is kidnapping her and should be captured if possible, killed if not. Tell the guests there’s a rogue Adept at loose, and make sure they’re kept in their rooms. Search the boats first, then the rooms of each party of guests. Count how many people are in each party and how many pieces of luggage they have big enough to hold a body. Once they’ve been searched, escort them to the boats. But if there is a single extra person, a single extra box, stop them, and check. All this is to be done with every possible courtesy.”
Baridine pulled out of her grip. “You heard the Dowager,” he snapped. “Get to it.”
Orrie bent her head and carried on packing straw around the Whirligigs as Pettigis, grey with hangover and bile, ranted about the room, waving his hands. “Ruined! I’m ruined! I should never have let you talk me into using those things, you wretched girl! Oh, my name, my reputation, I shall have to leave the city, I shall have to go to some wretched country town where no one can make a decent coat, I shall have to mend watches for peasants! It’s all your fault! After everything I’ve done for you... why are we even taking those horrible things?”
As he seemed to be pausing for breath, Orrie pushed her glasses up on her nose and said, “Leaving them here might remind his Lordship of the... incident. And they contain valuable materials that can be re-used. Or sold.”
“Oh, very well, very well. I shall need every penny since that wretched woman died before she could pay me for them! The minute we get back your apprenticeship is over, you understand. As soon as you’ve chased her estate for the money.”
“Yes, Master Pettigis.”
“And written letters of apology to Lord Baridine, and the new Lady Baridine, and the Dowager.”
“Yes, Master Pettigis.”
“And make it absolutely clear that while I was responsible for their... that you...
that it was your meddling that set things on such a course! If you’d left my creations alone, they would have been perfectly fine!”
Orrie blinked, and concentrated very hard on the crate. “Yes, Master Pettigis,” she said, her voice as carefully colourless as her clothes.
“Artisan! Open up, by order of his Lordship!”
Pettigis’ grey complexion gained a greenish cast as the guard hammered on the door. “A moment, a moment!” He looked around frantically and then shoved Orrie in front of him. “She’s the one you want!” He opened the door, and two guards blinked down at Orrie, who blinked up.
“Um, no, she isn’t,” one said. “We’re looking for Lady Casillienne. She... uh...”
“Her Ladyship is not herself and may be under magical influence,” the other guard said. “She’s not in her chambers. We’re searching the castle. For her own safety. And there’s a rogue Adept.”
“A dangerous rogue Adept,” the other guard added. “So you’ve to stay in your rooms until you’re escorted to the boats. For safety.”
“Well Lady Casillienne isn’t here!” Pettigis said. “But of course, please, do search, and do tell his Lordship I was entirely willing to help, and anything I can do...” He babbled on as the guard poked about the room, wincing as they tugged several fancy shirts from his trunk. Orrie winced in turn as they rummaged through a box of tools in which nothing bigger than a fairly small cat would have fitted, sending several clattering to the floor.
Finally they came to the Whirligigs. The guards looked at them, and then at each other. “Have to ask you to open them up,” said one, holding his spear at the ready – perhaps in case Spin decided to grasp him in the same embrace his Lordship had endured.
“Open them...” Pettigis said. “But why?”
“Well, could be someone hiding inside,” the guard said.
Orrie looked at the Whirligigs, then at the guards. “Um,” she said. “There isn’t room.”
“Open ’em.” The guard growled.