Enrique considered a retort, then looked at the bayonet and thought better of it. Bullet or no, that was still a sharp and pointy end.
“Greetings,” he said, roughening his voice. He held out his access card. “I am here to assist Monsieur Tristan Maréchal.”
“At this hour?”
“Does beauty follow the hours of the day?” asked Enrique, lifting his voice. “Do the heavens simply say ‘no, thank you’ because it’s a bit after midnight? I think not! My occupation knows no time. I don’t even know what time it is. Or where I am. Who am I? Who are you—”
The guard raised his hands. “Yes, yes, very well, I will accept the card. But know that I am under orders only to answer to Monsieur Maréchal. Not you. And the matriarch has requested that no one spend longer than ten minutes in the greenhouse, save for Monsieur Maréchal.”
Only ten minutes? Séverin hadn’t seemed to know that. The guard held open the door. Enrique walked inside. Tristan was waiting for him, elbow-deep in some hideous bloom.
“Corpse flower!” said Tristan excitedly.
He looked happy enough, but there was that strange blue tinge around his eyes that spoke of sleeplessness. Nightmares, even.
“Not my favorite term of endearment, I must admit.”
“No, this is a corpse flower.”
“Is that why it smells like death?”
“Taxonomy is rarely creative with its names,” said Tristan, standing.
The lights of the greenhouse were far brighter than those in Séverin’s room. For the first time, Enrique noticed how sallow Tristan’s skin looked. Usually, his round cheeks were bright with color, always propped up in a grin. But though he was cheerful enough when he saw Enrique, he had the look of someone depleted.
“Are you well?” Enrique asked. He carefully laid down the walking stick. He wouldn’t need it here.
Tristan swallowed. “Well enough. Or, at least, I will be soon.”
Soon. When they had found the Horus Eye. When Séverin was named heir of House Vanth, and the world itself might be within reach.
Enrique squeezed his shoulder. “Just one day more.”
Tristan nodded.
“What is this place?” asked Enrique, taking off his jacket.
“A poison garden—I made it myself. No spiders allowed, though. Stupid House Kore rules. Goliath would hate it.”
Enrique paused, halfway through unstrapping the prosthetic hump. He glanced at his jacket on the floor, where the candied violet lay in his breast pocket. An antidote for poison. It hadn’t surprised him that Laila had known, but why hadn’t Tristan? He would have planned for it.
Around him, the greenhouse looked far too peaceful to be poisonous, but he recognized venom all around him. Wolfsbane and oleander hung from the glass and steel ceiling. Widow’s ivy and black laurel grew in abundance. Larkspur the color of a late-evening sky flourished in the corners, and deadly Pied Piper flutes so pale they looked like orphaned clouds spiraled toward the sky as if they were trying to find the way back home. Enrique positioned his feet more narrowly in the path. Poisonous flowers and piranha solution was a terrible idea to mix together.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Enrique shuddered. “So beautiful I’m driven by envy to destroy it immediately.”
Tristan smacked his arm.
Using the key hidden in the heel of his shoe, Enrique unclasped the metal hump. He tossed Tristan a pair of small pliers that Zofia had packed, and a pair of needles. They set to work unlocking the base, peeling back the metal shelling and protective layers until the box holding the piranha solution broke free. Enrique and Tristan took out their foldable gas masks at the same time. Tristan poured some water in the lenses, and Enrique checked for any cracks. None. A single crack, and he’d lose an eye and get poisoned. Or worse.
Enrique held a small hammer in his hand, fingers trembling. If they did this wrong, he’d probably burn off his hands. Then again, he might not even notice because his vision would be the first thing to disappear. Tristan glanced at the door.
One chip.
Two.
The casing broke.
Enrique tossed it high in the air. He and Tristan had about four minutes before they were in any trouble.
“Let’s go—” he started, but right then he heard Tristan start gasping.
Tristan grabbed his fingers, nearly crushing them in his grip. His face went from pale to tinged with blue.
A knock sounded at the door.
“What’s going on in there?” demanded one of the guards.
“Nothing!” shouted Enrique.
“We are only allowed to accept orders from Monsieur Maréchal. Sir, is everything all right?”
Tristan tugged at his goggles. Then brushed something off his jacket. Petals. Frantically, he pointed at the poisonous Pied Piper flutes. Enrique had once read that the moment one touched the petals, they released oils that could seep into one’s skin. Tristan must have accidentally brushed against the flower.
“Monsieur?” demanded the guard. “Do we need to come in? We will take your silence in the affirmative if so.”
Tristan’s face turned blue.
“He cannot speak because he got too close to a poisonous plant!” shouted Enrique, thinking fast. “If he speaks, he will inhale a toxic fume and … and die!”
Outside, the guards began to shuffle back and forth, arguing with one another. Enrique reached out, shaking Tristan.
“Just croak out a word!”
Tristan’s eyes turned watery, limpid. Drooping. And then he slumped over.
“No no no no no,” muttered Enrique, throwing the tools into the metal hump and fixing it sloppily to his shoulders.
“We’re coming in!” shouted the guard.
The doors cracked open a sliver. For a moment, Enrique wondered whether he should just smash the rest of the piranha casing, but he couldn’t do that without risking severe burns. Several guards peered through, rifles at the ready.
One of the guards in the back whispered, “Wasn’t his hump on the other side?”
But the second one shoved him to the ground. “Monsieur Maréchal! He’s been injured.”
The other guards were clamoring to get inside. Shouts crowded the air.
“What’s that?” asked the first guard, staring at the piranha solution falling slowly from the ceiling.
A heavy mist began to descend on the plants. Plumes of sulfur unraveled into the air.
“I told you that if you let him speak, he would inhale too much toxic fumes. Now look at him. You should leave before you risk serious injury.”
“Wait a minute, that solution is eating into the ground—”
“Is it? That’s curious. I can’t remember it doing that.”
The first guard narrowed his eyes. “What happened to your accent?”
“Accent?” repeated Enrique, trying to slip back into his disguise.
The first guard stepped forward. “Your mustache is coming off.”
“Toxic fumes. You know. Mustaches are always the first to go.”
The first guard cocked his rifle.
“No! Don’t do that. Totally unnecessary. There’s just something wrong, perhaps, with your eyes.”
Enrique lunged for his walking stick. He couldn’t have the deaths—or disintegration—of these guards on his conscience.
“There’s nothing wrong with our sight, old man.”
“Are you sure?” asked Enrique.
He lifted the walking stick high above his head, then slammed it down, flinging his arm across his eyes. A white light burst from the wood, followed by an ear-shattering sound. Afterward he saw two guards lying facedown and unconscious. Enrique stepped over them gingerly, leaned down and whispered, “How are your eyes now?”
But the loud shouts outside the door snapped his victory in half. The piranha solution spread quickly over the terrarium floor, stopping just short of the guards. A blue sheen crept over Tristan’s skin. Enrique patted
down his jacket, his fingers shaking until he found what he was looking for: the candied violet.
Enrique shoved the candy into Tristan’s mouth, pinching his nose and forcing him to swallow. He had two unconscious guards, a thoroughly ruined mustache, and outside, the door shook from the sounds of the security team. Hope was a thin thread inside him, but Enrique reached for it anyway. It was all he had left.
16
LAILA
Laila fumbled in the dark, her breaths shallow and quick.
If you panic, you’ll lose even more.
The taste of metal filled her mouth. She winced. The sharp lock pick had scraped the inside of her cheek. She spat it into her hand, then started feeling around for the hinges.
In a way, this was her fault. Three weeks ago, she’d ruined a cake. Séverin, perhaps trying to console her, or more likely get her out of his study, had said, “It’s just cake. It’s not like there’s anything valuable inside it.”
“Oh really?” she had demanded.
She’d baked his favorite snake seal into a fruit tart, and left it on his desk with a note: You’re wrong.
So who was she to blame when Séverin had slid the note she’d written across her kitchen counter, told her about his plan, and grinningly said, “Prove it.”
And here she was.
Trapped in a cake.
Sneaking herself into the base had been easy once the whole thing had been assembled. The final task—locking it shut—required Zofia.
Her fingers fumbled until they finally found the clasp. Sweat slicked her palms. The metal needles were wet with spit and kept sliding from her hands. All she could hear was her heartbeat. And then the pick notched into something. She stilled. Listening. Listening for the slight gasp of metal, the muffled snick of things aligning …
Pop.
The hinges came undone, clanging to the bottom of the base. Laila grinned.
And then she pushed. But the compartment wouldn’t budge. She pushed harder, but there was something blocking her. Wedging the small metal piece between the edges, Laila pried. A gap opened, just enough for her to glimpse what was blocking her exit.
The servant who had wheeled her in must have placed the base of the cake against the bookshelf.
She was trapped.
Outside, the clock chimed eight in the evening. The sound of the nautch dancers’ anklet bells chimed through the halls. Her heart lurched as she heard the familiar straining of a sitar in the distance, the musicians tuning their instruments for the dancers. Any second now, and Séverin would be standing outside, waiting to help the lost dancer while she slipped him the key.
But there was no way she could get out in time.
Laila threw her weight against the metal board, but nothing gave way. Another bell chimed. Shoes shuffling outside the door. If Séverin had been waiting for her to slip him the key, he’d left by now.
Folded onto her side in the dark, Laila reached down to remove her slippers. The right slid off. Then the left. She shoved one slipper into the other, twisting them through the gap in the cake base. Her arms shook as she pushed all her weight into those interlocked shoes braced against the bookcase.
At first, nothing happened. The cart didn’t budge. And then an inch gave way. More light slid through the base. Laila pushed again, scraping open her elbow.
The wheels of the cart squeaked, rolling backward and giving just enough room for Laila to slide out one leg, then the next, before she finally uncrumpled onto the carpet. She let out a breath.
Laila checked the hollow base once more for any strands of her hair or scraps of cloth before making quick work of the locks. On the other side of the door, the sounds of the party reached her. She cast her gaze to the chaise cushion in the corner of the room where Hypnos had hidden her costume.
Laila pushed any tendrils of fear out of her thoughts. She would figure out how to get House Kore’s vault key to Séverin later. First, she needed the key itself.
The matriarch’s office looked like a sprawling, elaborate honeycomb. Hundreds of interlocking golden hexagons formed the walls, filled with books or plants or etchings of her late husband. The ceiling was a ribbon of gold shot through with crimson, a portrait of still flames. Far from the windows stood a nephrite desk, like Séverin’s. The bookcase behind it stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with as many strange objects as actual books: hollow skulls full of dried flowers, animal prints trapped in slick amber, jars upon jars of preserved things. If she wanted to, Laila could trail her fingers across the desk’s surface, reading for the image of a key that might have touched it. But instinct stopped her.
On the floor, Laila found a small paper clip and tossed it onto the jade surface. The desk glowed red in warning. Her mouth tightened.
Like Séverin’s, the desk was Forged.
She turned to the honeycomb walls, and threw another metal clip. The bookcase did not change color. Not Forged. But that didn’t help her get the key from the desk. If it was Forged to remember her touch—or hold her hand hostage—she needed something to counteract it …
Like a Forged creature, Séverin’s desk had a somno that turned off the warning mechanism. It was just a matter of finding out how to trigger it.
Sometimes people hid a plaster mold of their hands—Séverin hid one behind his bookcase—or there might be a piece of wax with a thumbprint concealed by a window. Chances were, the matriarch had something like that too. All she had to do was find it.
Hauling out the leather armchair, Laila balanced on the seat, letting her fingers trail down the wall of the bookcase. Energy flowed out of her veins. A headache crimped the edges of her vision.
As Laila searched the bookcase, her mind picked up images of contracts, receipts, love letters, and then she caught it: a thumbprint encased in amber. It was hidden in the pages of a book of love poems. She searched for the spine on the shelves, opened the book, and found it. A large amber coin. Laila muttered a quick prayer, then tossed it onto the desk. The red glow faded.
Grinning, Laila jumped down from the armchair. The noises outside the office grew louder. More urgent. There was no use trailing her fingers down the desk, trying to figure out where it kept the key. Forged things never answered to her readings. Laila reached for drawers and cabinets, rifling through papers as fast as she could.
Hundreds of keys filled the drawer inside the left cabinet. Laila plunged her hand through the metals, casting out her senses. The keys weren’t Forged, so the images flowed through her. Empty bedrooms. Halls of senate. Order of Babel auctions. And then … a dark vault, a ceiling full of painted stars, statue busts, and hundreds upon hundreds of rows filled with strange objects. Her eyes flew open.
The key to the subterranean library beneath the greenhouse.
Laila pulled the key and ran to the chaise lounge near the door. She lifted the cushion and found the nautch costume beneath wrapped in cloth. Quickly, Laila undid the wrappings, but she hadn’t anticipated what she would feel the moment she saw the outfits of her youth. The way her soul staggered, folding in on itself at the memories. The raw silk blouse the color of parrot plumage and edged in red. The heavy gunghroo bells and jimmikki earrings that looked so like her mother’s. Laila raised the costume to her nose, inhaling deeply. It even smelled of India. That mix of camphor, dye, and sandalwood incense. Looking at the outfit, a cold fury spread through her. She heard her mother’s voice curling through her thoughts: You want to feel real, my daughter? Then dance. Dance and you will know your truth. Laila had thrown her soul into dance, giving her body to the rhythmic invocations, the sharp movements that stamped out whole stories with nothing but her limbs. It could be sensuous. But it was always sacred. It was, her mother used to say, proof that she had a soul. That she was real.
But to people in the audience … it was entertainment designed to be something else.
What had Hypnos called it?
Titillating.
Laila changed her outfit, undoing her braided crown of hair
so that it fell thickly down her back. She shoved her House Nyx maid costume into the cushions, hid the amber thumbprint coin back in the book of love poems, and secured the key in her blouse.
The third bell struck.
At the far end of the room, no light appeared at the crack of the door. If Séverin had been waiting for her, he wasn’t anymore. The nautch dancers had probably lined up at the stage. She would only draw attention to herself if she ran out now. Laila pulled the silk scarf over her head and slipped outside into the empty hall. By now, the rest of the guests were already seated inside the vast amphitheater. All she had to do was get to the theater.
The guard yawned when he saw her.
“You’re late,” he said, bored. “The rest of your party is already assembling.”
“I was asked to perform a solo piece,” she said, crossing her arms.
The man groaned, flipping through the pages of the schedule. “If you can go on now, then—”
“Lead the way.”
She scanned the crowd … somewhere, Séverin was there.
The guard directed her to the musicians to choose a song. Laila recognized their instruments, and an ache dug into her ribs. The double-sided drum, the flute and veena and bright cymbals.
“Which piece shall we play?” asked the veena musician.
She peered through the curtain at the crowd. Men in suits. Women in dresses. Glasses in their hand. No sense of the story she would have tried to tell with her body. No language with which to decipher the devotion of her dance.
She would not perform her faith to them.
“Jatiswaram,” she said. “But increase the tempo.”
One of the musicians raised an eyebrow. “It’s already fast.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You think I don’t know that?”
Jatiswaram was the most technical piece, the distillation of music and movement. A piece where she could still perform and set her heart aside.
A few minutes later, an announcer cleared his throat. The stage fell dark. “Presenting a nautch dancer—”
Laila tuned out the presenter. She was not a nautch dancer. She was a bharatnatyam performer.
The Gilded Wolves Page 17