Liar's Moon

by Elizabeth C. Bunce

  We were mostly silent the rest of the way, relying on Durrel’s familiarity with the district to lead us to our destination. I kept my eye out for Watchmen, but as we approached the theater, the streets filled up with other well-dressed young couples and clusters of nobs and gentry out enjoying the evening. Anyone looking closely would notice immediately that Durrel and I stood out. We were the only ones not making merry.

  We followed the queue into the theater, beneath garlands of grapevine draping the arched entry and past a respectable-looking footman who exchanged theatergoers’ tickets for silk masks. It was precisely the sort of event a man like Ragn Decath would be expected to attend. Rat’s tickets had secured us a box overlooking the stage, as well as a pair of more elaborate, sculpted-paper masks, and there we waited for Durrel’s father.

  “Leave that on,” I said as Durrel fidgeted with his mask. “If somebody sees you —”

  “Stop reminding me,” he said, but he sounded tired, not angry. His sandy velvet mask had a bulldog’s face whose mournful expression so matched Durrel’s own that I couldn’t help smiling. He lifted its velvet edge and peered out at me. “A bulldog? Really?”

  “Rat picked them out,” I said.

  “Yours is beautiful.”

  “It’s Zet,” I said. “It’s ridiculous” — an absurd concoction of white silk and gilded scrollwork that would never make me look like a goddess. “I’m just grateful it isn’t a mouse.”

  Durrel leaned back against the box rail and regarded me through his bulldog’s eyes. “A mouse? Certainly not. But a cat, perhaps . . .” He brushed a hand toward my face, where a strand of hair had come loose from its arrangement. “You have a whisker out of place.”

  We didn’t get a chance to say more, for at that moment, the box door creaked open. “Durrel? Celyn?” Lord Ragn stepped inside. He wore a strip of blue silk across his eyes, which were lined with concern.

  Durrel started to lift the edge of his mask, but my hand on his elbow stopped him from removing it. “It’s us,” I said, and Lord Ragn’s shoulders slumped with relief.

  “Thank the gods,” he said, reaching for his own mask. It was almost comical, how swiftly Durrel and I moved together to forestall him.

  “Keep them on,” I said. “That’s one of the reasons we’re here, after all.” And not meeting in some public circle with our faces exposed to everyone.

  Lord Ragn nodded, stepping forward to embrace Durrel, who stood stiffly beside me. I gave him a nudge, but he held fast to the balustrade and did not move. “Go to him,” I whispered, my mouth concealed behind Zet’s painted one. Reluctantly he stepped into his father’s arms, though their hug was awkward and swiftly broke apart again.

  Ragn stood silently, his mouth turned down, looking at a loss for what to do. Durrel had paced away again, staring out into the audience. “Lord Durrel,” Lord Ragn said, too formally. “I — Thank the gods you’re well.”

  The pain in his voice was palpable, and Durrel softened. “I didn’t kill her,” he said, and for a moment he was the lost and desperate young man I’d found in the Keep a few weeks before.

  “I know,” Lord Ragn said. “Of course you didn’t. I know.” He pulled his son to him again, and this time, Durrel did not resist.

  It was a private moment, and I felt clumsily out of place in the middle of it. I wanted to hear Lord Ragn’s explanation for what we’d seen last night as badly as Durrel did, but I settled quietly in the back of the box. The space was designed for discretion; they could speak normally, and the curved walls and velvet would soak up the sound till it was no more than a whisper.

  Watching them together, both of them masked, I had a sudden sense of disorientation. Durrel was the bulldog, Lord Ragn the blue silk, but if I hadn’t known that, I would have been hard pressed to tell father from son, younger man from older. They were the same size, the same compact shape, with the same gentle curve to the bottom of the jaw. They even had the same gestures, the way they put a hand against the back of their necks when they were vexed, or slumped forward with relief or weariness.

  At first I was touched by the similarity, but as I watched them, I felt a sick, dreadful heat wash through me. I was sitting no more than half a dozen paces away, and I could barely tell them apart. In the moonslight, from a distance, down a shadowy corridor — could someone who did not know them distinguish one man from the other?

  Talth’s maid Geirt had seen someone matching Durrel’s description leave Talth’s bedroom in the middle of the night. She had sworn to the hour and the identification, but who wouldn’t? Durrel had every reason to be in his wife’s bedroom. And yet he swore he was not.

  Maybe Geirt wasn’t lying. Maybe she had seen a Decath nobleman in her lady’s chamber.

  Just not the one she thought.

  Oh, pox.

  PART III

  KEEP YOUR

  MOUTH SHUT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I sat in that box for the rest of the show, as small and still and invisible as I could make myself, wishing every minute I could sink into the cushioned seat and disappear. Father and son were reunited, nobody was in gaol; my work was done and I could leave them to flee to Talanca together, if they were smart.

  My skin felt too tight, the air too thick to breathe. It didn’t matter what Geirt had seen or said she’d seen. Karst had admitted to killing Talth, and we’d found his footsteps and the murder weapon. Even if Lord Ragn had been in Talth’s rooms that night, for whatever reason, Karst was still the most logical suspect. He was the known Ferryman and Ceid employee with the history of violence and murder, after all. Lord Ragn was — Lord Ragn. That’s what I told myself, but the memory of what we’d seen on the docks and the warehouse reared up and shook my certainty apart.

  “You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Durrel said to me as we made our way back across town. We had a little money on us, thanks to Lord Ragn, and we were both tired, so Durrel hailed a coach from among those waiting at the theater. It was actually a smart move; probably the last thing any contingent of guards would expect was two fugitives dressed up like nobs and riding in an open carriage through nob streets in the moonslight. Lord Ragn took his leave reluctantly; he was leaving the city for a few days on Decath business, and I could tell he longed to take Durrel with him and never look back.

  “What did he tell you?” I asked, biting back all the questions inside that one.

  Durrel scowled into the night. “Nothing,” he said. “Mostly it was a lecture on how reckless I’m being.”

  “He cares about you.” When Durrel didn’t say anything, I persisted. “Did you ask him about — what we saw, last night?”

  “Oh, yes. And he was not well pleased to hear we’d been spying on him, in case you wondered.” That seemed supremely unfair to me; it wasn’t as if we’d gone to those docks looking to discover Durrel’s father involved in some odd business. “I asked him who those people were, in the boat, and he told me they were friends of the family who needed a little help getting safely out of the city. Servants of one of Amalle’s aunts, so he says.”

  “You don’t believe him.”

  “I don’t know what to believe. When I told him we’d found evidence that suggested Talth was working with Ferrymen, he was outraged. Called the Ferrymen common street scum and a low-city spook story, and asked how I could possibly imagine that anyone as dignified as the Ceid family could have any association with such people.” He held a hand to his neck and scowled out at the wide, curving street passing below us.

  “He could be telling the truth,” I said. “Maybe this was just what he said, and he was helping Lady Amalle’s friends get to safety. It does seem like what he would do.” A lot more than keeping magic users chained in the basement of a warehouse, anyway.

  “I’m not sure of anything anymore, Celyn,” he said heavily. “All I wanted was to clear my name, but the deeper we dig, the more confusing it all becomes. I’m not sure I even want to know anymore. Maybe I should have the coachman take
us to the nearest Watch station and turn myself in.”

  “Don’t say that!” I said. “Don’t give up. Not now. We just need that one piece of evidence that proves Karst and Talth were working together —”

  “As Ferrymen? Do you really think the city magistrates will care that they extorted and maybe held captive fugitive Sarists?” His voice was bitter.

  “No,” I said honestly. “But Talth was the victim of murder. And the Ceid will certainly care if one of their employees killed her. When we can tell them who really did it, you’ll be free.”

  He was silent as the coach bounced along, his hand braced against the rail. “Look,” I said, “I’m going to have another peek at the Ceid docks tomorrow, see what I can find out about Karst. I doubt he’ll recognize me, so I should be reasonably safe.”

  Durrel just gazed sullenly at the back of the coachman’s head, lost in his own dark thoughts. He didn’t speak again until the coach dropped me off on Bargewater Street — and that was a long, long ride indeed. I hadn’t voiced my real reason for tomorrow’s mission. I had to find Geirt again, ask her again what she’d really seen — who she’d seen. Would she have recognized Durrel’s father? There’s not much cause for a visiting gentleman to meet a lady’s chambermaid, so it certainly seemed plausible that she might have mistaken father for son. But had she done so deliberately? A curious possibility wormed its way through the questions. Could Geirt be the woman working with Lord Ragn?

  The next morning, almost itchy from all the doubts and confusion, I went down to the dockside warehouse where I’d met her before. Today the place was hopping, three ships at anchor at the pier, a bevy of deckhands and roustabouts carrying cargo from shore to ship — and a brace of Day Watch guards strolling along the waterfront, looking like stocky, armed seagulls in their gray uniforms. I pulled back behind a shed, hoping they’d pass, but they delayed, stopping to chat with a man on board one of the ships. If I kept my head down like a good little thief, they’d have no reason to notice me.

  From my hiding place, I looked over the moored ships. One sported a yellow-and-red flag hanging limply in the still air from her bowsprit; a Talancan ship, or one pretending to be, her name scribed in red about the prow: Belprisa. I slipped along the river’s edge, drawn toward the Belprisa’s graceful, sweeping hull. The Watchmen still chatted with the deckhand, and I rubbed at my collarbone as I gazed up at the looming ship. There was a shout from the deck of the nearer craft, and I jumped, realizing I’d wandered out onto the open dock, in view of anybody. I swore and tucked myself back behind my shed until the Watchmen finally moved on.

  Geirt, having come from her soft position as a lady’s maid in a fine home, was probably inside the warehouse building, taking inventory or working on the books. But I found the little office locked and empty, and the warehouse itself was staffed only by men, that I could see — including Barris Ceid. I spotted the friendly Tratuan dockhand who had been here before, making notes on a crate improbably labeled ORANGES.

  “I see you have my oranges,” I said brightly. “My mistress will be so pleased.”

  Confusion gradually gave way to recognition — and then alarm. “You again! Master Barris gave us strict instructions not to speak to you.”

  My eyes flicked to the office. “Did he say why?”

  The dockhand looked me over briefly, as if trying to guess. “No,” he finally said, and the tone of his voice told me Master Barris did not infrequently give orders without explaining himself, and that Dockhand made his own decisions.

  “Where’s the girl who helped me before?” I asked. “Maybe your Geirt will be able to get my oranges delivered properly.”

  “Doubtful,” Dockhand said. “She doesn’t work here anymore.”

  The heat pressed in on me from all directions. “Where did she go?” I asked slowly.

  He shrugged. “Your guess. Just up and disappeared one day a week or so back. Left after her regular shift one evening, then didn’t come in the next morning. Master Barris was fit to be tied too. Said she has a new post in Yeris Volbann or some such place, but he didn’t seem too happy about it. If you ask me,” he added, “it’s good riddance to that girl. There was something weird about her. Uncanny.”

  I almost shivered, even in the breathless heat. First Temus, and now Geirt. My witnesses were disappearing one by one. I was almost afraid to ask my next question. “Did you ever see her talking to someone called Karst — a big fellow with a thin beard?”

  “Karst? Of course. He’s our superintendent here. In fact, I think I saw him with Master Barris earlier. Let me get him.” And before I had a chance to decline that very generous offer, Helpful Dockhand had waved over a thickset, stoop-shouldered heavy in a shapeless dun brown jerkin, his thick boots clomping the boardwalk with every uneven step.

  “Master Karst, this — lady’s been looking for Geirt. Something about oranges.”

  Pox and bloody hells. Now what? Karst turned, and I stood there stupidly, staring up into the cruel, gray eyes of the man who had killed Temus and probably Talth Ceid.

  “Yeah?” Karst growled. “What’s this about oranges?”

  “I —” I squeaked, and then I had a positively terrible idea. “That is, I need to move some cargo, um, quietly?” Karst’s eyes narrowed as he scowled at me, clearly trying to make out just what variety of imbecile I was. I sent a quick prayer of forgiveness to any god listening, and said, “Fei sent me? She said you knew how to get people out of the city. For a price.”

  Karst regarded me implacably, arms folded over his chest. I held still as he stared me down, probably judging me a respectable, if naïve, serving girl who might be able to gain access to enough coin to make this conversation worth his while. There was a cold appraisal in that gaze, and it was hard to stand there and look right back at him.

  Finally he grunted and gestured vaguely toward a corner of the docks well away from the ships and crowds. He set off across the boardwalk and I scurried after, telling myself to be calm. Karst was just an ordinary city thug, no different than guys I’d known all my life, and I wouldn’t get another opportunity like this one, so I’d better learn as much as I could.

  “What’s this, now?” Karst’s voice was thick and gravelly, tinged with an out-city accent that might have been Yerin. “You’re asking about passage past the gates?”

  “Aye,” I said, remembering my own lost accent. “I heard you could do for that.”

  “You heard,” he echoed, his eyes sliding down my kirtle. “Where would you hear anything like that, now, a little girl like you?”

  I gave a shrug and turned away. “If you can’t do it, that’s fine. Sorry to waste your time.”

  One long, beastly arm curled around, not quite touching me. “Hey, now, I never said that. I may be able to arrange something, for a fee.”

  “And it’s quiet?” I said. “I don’t want attention from the Watch.” I said that deliberately, to see his reaction, but he was a solid lump of stone. “How much is it?”

  “Depends. Where you going?”

  “I never said it was for me,” I said. I edged closer to the building; I wanted that wall behind me. “But let’s say Tratua.” Tratua was the closest port city on the sea; the “Talancan” vessels almost certainly sailed that way when leaving Gerse.

  He shook his head. “Tratua’s bad. Too many checkpoints. You don’t want a river crossing. We go up to Yeris. Easier to get the licenses, make it look like grain or livestock.”

  And a longer trip, and probably a higher fee. But it didn’t track with what we thought we knew of his operations with Talth. “But that’s an overland route,” I said without thinking. “Isn’t that more dangerous?”

  Karst grinned and flexed his big hands. “We got plenty of protection,” he said. “Now, about the fee. It’s seven hundred crowns up front, another seven on delivery. You bring your own food, and luggage is extra. If you can’t pay . . .” he trailed off, still grinning, and drew his index finger straight across his throat.
<
br />   “Do — do you have a lot who don’t pay?”

  “Not anymore.”

  I believed him. “I guess I can manage that,” I said. “I heard other crews were charging a lot more —”

  “Ain’t any other crews but mine!” The words just — exploded out of him, and I flinched back against the shed. “Not that matter. Not anymore.”

  What did that mean? “But don’t you have competition for this kind of work? It seems, uh, very profitable,” judging by the exorbitant sums from Talth’s burned records.

  He shrugged, and I half expected the man to whip out a knife and start cleaning his fingernails. “I did. But that’s all been taken care of. I’m my own man now. Got my own ship, my own men, my own route.”

  I looked into his face, and let all my breath out at once. That’s why he did it. Get rid of Talth and out from under the thumb of the Ceid, strike out on his own, keep the profits for himself. Oh, sweet Marau. Kill one rival, threaten another’s son . . . Did it also explain why Lord Ragn might have paid a late-night call to Talth? If he had tried to warn her about Karst, but too late? And now Karst was threatening Lord Ragn — but Lord Ragn apparently had ignored the message, and was continuing to move people through the city. It gave me a chill like a fever in the steamy morning, and I had the sudden firm conviction that I should probably be on my way.

  I pretended to dither. “Fourteen hundred crowns is a lot of money.”

  Karst leaned over me. “Less than your bail if you’re arrested by Greenmen.”

  Well, that was a sales pitch. I nodded faintly. “Let me think on it?” I said.

  “Think quietly, little girl,” he said, and accent or no, there was no mistaking the menace in his voice. I tried to slip away from him, but that thick arm came up and blocked my path. I didn’t like the way he was looking at me — as if there were more to be gained here than my fourteen hundred crowns. “All kinds of dangers in the city these days. You wouldn’t want to fall in with the wrong folk, now, would you?”