The knife slid out easily and left behind a narrow gouge, clean through the bone. Had to hand it to the High Imperials. Gastel tore another length of pastry from the wall and used it to swaddle the knife like an infant. Inconspicuous. Great chefs often carried huge wads of puff pastry through banquet halls. He sealed the panels back the way he’d found them, now substantially worse for wear.
The labyrinth had been a trial before; now it was impossible. The revelers had reshaped it to their own purposes, secret chambers for trysts and diplomatic intrigue, panels hauled from one place to another with no care for the larger structure. The maze was choked with dead ends in which confused nobles, so stuffed with food that their dignity was seeping out of them, wandered from one blank wall to another, unable to find a servant who could explain what malign force had imprisoned them. Gastel slipped between panels when he had to, mapping a vague course toward the kitchen by the temple spire at his back and duke’s ornate ceiling above. He still had the duke’s ring tugging at his pocket. A feast without a Lord, how awful. The ring had a ruby the size of Gastel’s thumbnail. Maybe he would keep it. Seed money for his new life as an outlaw.
He peered into a gap between two panels. Before he knew what was happening, strong arms grabbed his collar and hauled him in. The Bear of the Kenemlands stared down at him, a wide smile stained with wine, massive hands tight around Gastel’s shoulders. “I found him!” the great man called. “Give praise to our worthy priest!”
A hundred voices hooted and yelled. A hundred costumed bodies pressed close, jewels glittering in the candlelight. They’d cleared a floor for dancing, dozens of panels shoved aside. It was a shock, after the labyrinth, to emerge into so much space filled with so many turning bodies. They were watching Gastel. He bowed low. “If I have shown you the barest reflection of Aballas’s table,” he said, “I hold myself blessed indeed.”
“But what have you got there?” asked the Bear, reaching for Gastel’s bundle.
Gastel jerked it away and attempted a beatific clergy smile. “Aballas has seen my good works and blessed me with a child. This babe will never leave my sight.”
“To children!” the Bear cried, and the dancers all joined him.
And here was Fladen, tugging at Gastel’s sleeve. He murmured something about the bottle of wine under his arm and pulled Gastel into a corner. “Now they’re saying a thousand marks.”
“What?” said Gastel. “Who?”
“To kill the duke’s kid.”
“Don’t,” said Gastel.
Fladen’s horrible face twisted. “What do you mean, ‘don’t’? You think I’d kill a kid?”
Gastel was struggling to see through the shadows. “Then why are you—?”
“I thought you should know. Someone really wants him dead. It could be a mess.”
“Thank you,” Gastel said, and then, “Good work,” and after another moment, “How do I get to the kitchen?”
Fladen pointed.
“Thank you. You’re not a murderer.”
“I know,” said Fladen. “Soup on your breeches.”
Gastel looked down. His knees were stained dull red.
“Got to be careful around that trough,” said Fladen.
“Fladen, listen, I need you to get the wagons ready. We might be leaving early.”
“But the wine—”
“These people are drunk enough. Please.”
The great hall now held enough dinner to feed a volcano, and still a servant burst into the kitchen every few minutes begging for resupply. More onion tarts! More darioles! An unnamed Earl has taken a servant hostage and swears he will shave the man’s head if more orange blossom mousse cannot be found!
The cooks had all been twelve hours on their feet, many closer to twenty. They had eaten, but not enough. They were carried through their work by momentum and by the meditative pleasure of letting their minds and bodies become simple machines set to simple tasks. Gastel watched them for a moment. It was an act of vandalism to halt a mechanism like this.
He paced through the room, past the tables of outgoing confections, to the first big work table, to his bucket of now tepid water. He plunged his head in and held it as long as he could. The clashing of ladles in pots, the rustling of woodstoves, the cries of the servants reached him muted and gentle. Gastel hated to be underwater, always had. He jerked out, sending a spray into the room. “Damsons!” he shouted. “Outside!”
In the corner of the room, Friaress Penidia was packing up her books. Gastel stopped short. “Blessed sister! Are you leaving already?”
The Friaress nodded. “Your book is in the cupboard.”
“Take it. Please. I can’t read it.”
The Friaress showed no surprise. She nodded thanks.
“Sister,” said Gastel, “as you walk, would you pray for us?”
“Of course,” she said. “For what intention?”
“Do you know the cook’s prayer?”
“Does it begin, ‘May our work today be well received’?”
“That’s right.” Gastel gave a weak smile and ran for the door. The Friaress prayed.
The air in the garden was cool and soft with the smell of the now-sputtering pastry furnace. A few Golden Damsons were occupied in the great hall, but the group gathered in the garden was enough for a quorum. No one was happy to lay their work aside, to pass responsibility for partially cooked food to household cooks and put urgent tasks on hold, but they trusted Gastel. They trusted him, at least, not to be frivolous.
“Right,” said Gastel, joining their circle. “Hidromel Galingale is dead. Bruet found his body hidden in the maze. If the guests don’t know yet, they’ll know soon.”
“Hidromel?” asked Mastic. “The touchy kid? I thought they wanted to kill the duke’s son?”
Gastel nodded. “They still might. But for now, it’s Hidromel. First off, Orach—I’m assuming you didn’t kill him?”
Orach was standing a few steps away from the group. He furrowed his brow, eyes on the dirt. “I prayed for his death. Fervently.”
“But you didn’t put a knife in his chest?”
“No.”
“Thank you.” Gastel unwrapped his bundle of pastry, taking care not to let the blood that had seeped into the crust brush against his sleeves. “Now, can anyone think of a reason this might have been stuck in Hidromel’s body?”
The cooks all leaned toward the blade, its dark marbled surface barely visible in the low light.
“Is that your knife?” asked Mastic.
“It is.”
“It’s a good knife,” said Mastic.
“It is a good knife,” said Gastel. “It’s an excellent knife. Do we suppose a murderer broke into the duke’s vault, saw this excellent knife, and thought it might be a particularly satisfying thing with which to stab a lord’s son?”
No one answered.
“Do we think the knife ever reached the vault?” asked Gastel. “Or do we think, perhaps, that Lieutenant Gaufres might have given it to the murderer? Do we suspect, perhaps, that Lieutenant Gaufres himself may have been the murderer?”
Again, silence.
“Where’s Cassiette?” asked Gastel.
“In the carts,” said Rennet, the apprentice pastry chef. “Getting a disguise.”
“Why does she need a disguise?”
“She wanted to see the banquet.”
“How would I have gotten the knife?” asked Orach.
“Sorry?” said Gastel.
“I couldn’t have had the knife. Why did you ask me if I killed the boy?”
“I didn’t ask you. I said I assumed you didn’t kill him.”
“It was a question.”
“I’m sorry. You did say you wanted to kill him. I thought it was prudent to ask.”
“They’ll try to frame us,” said Mastic.
“Thank you, Mastic. That’s what I suspect.”
“Where was the knife in the body?” asked Civvey.
“Interesting question,�
�� said Gastel. “It was stuck in his thigh bone. What does that mean?”
“How deep?”
“Clean through.”
Civvey shook her head. “You couldn’t do that with an ordinary knife.”
“What if you were very strong?” asked Mastic.
“No,” said Civvey.
“What if you used a system of pulleys tied to a horse?”
“Maybe. You’d probably just shatter the leg.”
“So it’s a wound that could have only been made with this knife?” asked Gastel.
Civvey nodded. “Or a similar knife.”
“There are no similar knives. Do you think they’ll notice? What am I saying! Of course they’ll notice. That mess of warmongers and antiquarian hoarders, they’ll probably probe the boy’s wounds with a shrimp fork.”
“Shouldn’t we tell his family?” asked Rennet.
Gastel blew a breath through his lips. “No. No, we should let them enjoy the banquet.”
That seemed to sit poorly with Thera, the apprentice who worked the roasting ovens. She made a small sound.
“We’re giving them time to build a reservoir of beauty against the tragedy they’re about to face,” said Gastel. “That’s what beauty’s for. You think these people are just paying for expensive bowel movements?” He bent at the waist and exhaled toward the ground. “Of course you’re right. We have to tell them. As soon as we can think of a safe way to do it.”
“Who knows the knife belongs to you?” asked Orach.
“An excellent point!” said Gastel. “Well-considered. Only Lieutenant Gaufres, and he took it. He’d look guiltier than me.”
“What about the new Earl Tezelin?” asked Thera.
“Doesn’t care for food,” said Gastel. “He’d never travel all this way.”
“But maybe he’s told some of the other guests about it.”
Gastel chewed his lip. “Maybe.”
“He’s embarrassed,” said Orach.
Gastel brightened. “That’s true! His brother gave away a priceless heirloom. He’s probably humiliated. He’d never tell his peers.”
“You should get rid of it,” said Civvey.
Gastel held the knife tight. “Is there any way I can keep it? It’s a very good knife.”
“No safe way,” said Civvey.
“No.” Gastel clapped his hands. “Right. So: who should we frame?”
No one spoke.
“It’s the safest thing. Let’s hear some names.”
“Shouldn’t we try to figure out who actually killed him?” asked Thera.
“How?”
“Who stands to benefit from his death?” asked Thera.
“Probably lots of people,” said Gastel. “Other suitors. His parents’ enemies. The Bear’s enemies. Maybe he insulted someone’s horse at a party. They’re nobles. They’ll kill each other over a bad dream. The practical thing is to just pick somebody.”
Another long silence.
“How do we feel about Count Wethery?” asked Gastel.
Thera balked. “He’s a war hero.”
“So we know he’s killed before.”
“I don’t know,” said Mastic. “Isn’t he supposed to be kind? When there was that drought in Costmary, he sent his personal guard to dig wells.”
“We’re not going to frame his guard,” said Gastel.
“What did he do to you?” asked Civvey. “Complain about the soup?”
“Well then, if Count Wethery is such a living saint, suggest someone else,” said Gastel.
Thera wiped her hands on her apron and squinted in the direction of the ballroom. “Lord Courmi,” she said after a moment.
Mastic hummed dramatically. “Lord of the Pit. He’s a bad one.”
Gastel tried to remember. “Doesn’t he make silverware or something?”
“He holds a silver mine,” said Thera. “A poisonous hive he populates with wrongly accused prisoners and the stolen children of the poor.”
“And worse than that,” said Gastel, “I hear he’s just murdered Hidromel Galingale. Did he have a motive?”
“His land borders Ulvos,” said Thera. “Maybe he wants to marry in. Decided to get the betrothed out of the way.”
“Excellent,” said Gastel. “Classic. Now who has time for subterfuge?” He held out the knife.
After a moment, Rennet took it, holding the very end of the grip pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
“Thank you,” said Gastel. “Tell a servant you’ve been given a letter for the Lord Courmi and you must deliver it yourself. Wink many times. Make the situation feel romantic and scandalous. Ask the servant where Courmi’s room is. Hide the knife in there and don’t be subtle. Bring a bowl of the tomato soup. Splash it around. Get it on the ceiling. Don’t let anyone see you. You are a very brave boy. You’re a thunderhead of courage. If we had a hundred of you, we could march on the bulwark of hell. Be quick. And if anyone catches you, tell them you’re a musician, drink the soup, and run.”
Gastel needed to change his clothes. Bloodstains or soup stains, a visionary artist-cook could not afford to be discolored. He’d run to his room. It wouldn’t take more than a few minutes.
But when he reached the corridor, he could hear a raucous clamor breaking out in the great hall, all crashing and panicked yelling. Only one thing that could mean.
Last chance then, for Gastel to gather his people and flee before the nobles had time to organize an investigation. The carts would be ready by now. They could be through the gate in half an hour. Of course, if they ran they’d be blamed, no matter who found what bloody knife in whose room. Hunted, cursed. But alive and free, at least for a while. No more commissions. Soup every night by the side of the road, a pot full of squirrels and sticks.
Ah, hell. Gastel let his long stride carry him into the great hall.
More yells, and louder. Distant people called unfamiliar names, searching for loved ones lost in the revels. How many bodies were hidden in these walls? Gastel chased the voices. He tipped and tilted panels out of his way, making no effort to follow the labyrinth.
The dread in Gastel’s stomach was softened, slightly, by this—he was not walking toward the smell of burnt lemon peel. But the voices came, high and panicked.
Gastel pulled two panels apart and broke into a clearing. In a wide space, the maze had been levelled, the panels flat on the floor or leaning on one another precariously. Wine and custard seeped from beneath the wreckage. Hollow-faced guests milled about in winish uncertainty, brushing pastry from their costumes or picking at the ruins or staring into the rubble. A young woman cried “Tirel!” into the mess, and two men rushed to the spot she seemed to be indicating, sending more panels crashing as they stumbled.
“What happened here?” asked Gastel. And then, louder, “What happened?”
“Tirel,” someone said. “He tried to lean on the wall and the whole thing—” Her voice caught. “He’s still in there.”
“He’s fine, Your Grace, just fine,” said Gastel. “He’s fortunate my pastry is lighter than air.” Gastel raised his voice. “But do not touch these walls! You see what can happen. Don’t brush idly against them. Don’t look at them, if you can help it.” Now they were all watching Gastel. Even the rescuers had turned from their work. Gastel pointed at them. “And find some wine for these heroes.” He stalked back into the maze.
Someone followed. Gastel could hear footsteps at his back. He turned a corner, then another. Behind him, he could hear the footsteps turn one corner, then another. Gastel paused at a table piled high with candied medlars. The footsteps paused. Gastel held a medlar a foot in front of his face and peered into the reflection in its shiny, candied surface. He couldn’t see anyone.
He dropped the medlar and fled the table at a canter. The footsteps followed. He turned a corner and waited in a low crouch. He’d jump for the knees. All of these nobles wore heels.
“I can see your shadow,” came a voice.
Gastel glanced at
the panel behind him. Sure enough, there he was in silhouette, coiled and scheming. “What do you want?”
“You have soup on your breeches.” An accent Gastel couldn’t place.
“Thank you. I haven’t had time to change.”
“A gentleman makes time. I’m going to walk toward you now. Don’t tackle me.”
Gastel made no promises.
A slight, fine-featured young man strutted around the corner. Or, no. Gastel squinted against the shadow. It was Cassiette, with a flowing wig on her head and a thick false beard. “What kind of accent is that?” Gastel asked.
“Commincer,” said Cassiette, rolling the rrr with great dexterity.
“It’s not,” said Gastel.
“It is,” said Cassiette. “I practiced with Thera.”
“Thera would say you were speaking fluent Oglian if she thought it would make you smile. Has anyone seen you?”
“No one recognized me.”
Gastel swiveled in all directions. He turned two panels inward, sealing himself and Cassiette in a tiny room. “A have a job for you.”
“Fine.”
“It’s a fun job. I need you to accuse someone of murder.”
Cassiette stroked her beard. “Anyone?”
“We have someone in mind. I want you to go to Lord Courmi’s rooms. You’ll find a knife. My knife, actually, but—” He waved this away. “Wait a little while. Half an hour. Some quince tarts should be coming out of the kitchen around then—wait until you see the tarts, then scream your head off that Lord Courmi is a killer. Or, no, ‘murderer’ is better. There’s a bloody knife in his room, say that. And Cassiette, don’t be subtle.”
“I’m a member of the Golden Damson Feasting Company,” she said. “We’re never subtle.”
“That’s hurtful,” said Gastel, and set the panels back where they belonged.
Gastel was plotting. Partly, he was plotting for self-preservation. There were probably worse things than being framed for murdering a noble, but right now, Gastel couldn’t think of any. Nobles murdered each other all the time, but commoners killed nobles so infrequently that when it happened, it made high society a little rabid. Outraged worthies pushed one another to heights of baroque revenge, casting the accused in bronze to loom in the public square for a thousand years or sealing him in a wine barrel and rolling him off a cliff. Probably, they would try to bake Gastel into a giant pie, something like that. Which would be a sort of legacy.
Ryan Eric Dull - [BCS317 S02] Page 4