The Fall of Ventaris (The Grey City)

by Neil McGarry

  But not off limits to the likes of Savant Terence. After all, someone had to map the known portions of the tunnels. Duchess thought of the diagrams she’d found in the scholar’s study, drawings of gears and pulleys and scaffolding. “And this Ossuary Darley mentioned?”

  Castor shrugged. “Never been there, or even heard it called that. We only ever referred to it as the Pit.” She’d never seen the place, but the name nonetheless sent a shudder along her spine. She held out her cup.

  Lysander laughed as he filled it. “We’re all true Rodaasi here, aren’t we,” he muttered. She looked at him, confused. “Practical to the bone,” he said by way of explanation. “We’re faithful when we stand in the temples. We follow the cults when required. But we only believe what we see. The wonders and the miracles have always been in the past, from what I knew, yet you two are here telling me you’ve seen otherwise.” He filled his own cup.

  Castor had no answer. Nor did she.

  She drained her cup. “Speaking of practical matters...” She gestured to Castor. “How did you end up getting me down here from halfway up the hill?”

  He shrugged. “Getting you back to the surface was easy, but after that...I came upon a craftsman making a late-night delivery, and convinced him to lend me his barrow and his cloak, both of which fit you well enough.”

  “And the guards just let you dance out of Scholars District without a word, is that it?”

  Castor returned a bland expression. “I don’t wear the same armor, but there are a few people in this city who still know my name.” He set down his empty cup with a click. “Once I got to Bell Plaza I dropped a penny on a lightboy and asked about you.” He looked at Lysander. “You know the rest.”

  He was hardly telling the whole story, but she decided she did not care to press him. However he’d gotten her to the garret, she was there, and only somewhat worse for wear. Getting Castor out of prison had been risky, but she saw now that leaving him there would have been fatal. She might now be lying deep under the city, as dead and buried as any.

  “You have my thanks,” Duchess said, to bring the matter to a close. “I’ll need you again in a few days, but we can discuss that later. In the meantime, I have to see Midwife Marna to make sure I’m not going to die of infection, and then I have a lesson to schedule.”

  If Castor was intrigued by her last remark he showed no sign. He merely stood, nodded to her and Lysander each in turn, then took his leave.

  “You’ve got him well-trained,” Lysander remarked as Castor’s footsteps sounded woodenly on the stairs outside.

  “He came that way,” Duchess said, gingerly feeling her side. “Think I’ll have a scar?”

  He smiled ruefully. “Is the empress old? You’ll be showing that to your grandchilden, assuming you live long enough to actually have any.” He meant the remark lightly, but she found herself shuddering in delayed reaction to the horror of the previous night. She had looked into the faces of the dead, and they had looked back and seen her. What power had brought them to life? How could she ever feel safe in the city again? She covered her face with her hands and Lysander was there, holding her close as she shivered tearlessly. They stayed that way a long time, as the fire crackled and the bustle of the Shallows came through the open window.

  When they parted, she felt steadier but he looked more shaken than before, as if her anxiety had somehow transferred itself through the embrace. He looked into the fire for a long moment. “The last time you were under the city you had a scare, and now...do you think this has anything to do with...?”

  He did not say the name, but she knew anyway. He Who Devours. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I can’t even think about it, not now.” She tried on a smile. “Let’s just say that I won’t be venturing below ground again any time soon, unless it’s to a wine cellar.”

  Lysander stood. “We’d better get you around to Marna, and then you need food. You lost a good deal of blood, and they say meat is the best cure.” He hunted through his clothing. “Your breeches are fine, but that tunic was torn to shreds. I’ll find you one of mine.”

  As she watched him scout for a shirt, she thought how strange the world seemed in the morning light. The real had become ethereal, the solid uncertain. She felt untethered. Worries that had churned her stomach not twelve bells ago suddenly seemed very small, indeed.

  Lysander dressed her in the cleanest of what he could find, then helped her down the stairs. They stepped into Bell Plaza, slipping amongst the ghostly figures moving through the morning mist, heading for Market and the promise of healing. As they did, she wondered if perhaps the horrors of the night before had been worth it. After all, they’d taught her a truth far deeper than the simple mundanity of Darley’s secrets. She’d learned there were things in Rodaas far worse than the mere threat of violence and the promise of death.

  Minette, she thought, would be pleased that Duchess somehow drew comfort from that.

  * * *

  The Grieving Bier was much the same as ever. It was she who had changed. Julius — hells, even Antony — seemed far less frightening than the things she’d seen in the last few days. She hoped her newfound bravery and Tyford’s lessons would be enough to see her through.

  She slipped into the back room of the Bier to find the man and his dice game, both as lively as ever. Julius did not seem to notice her, nor did the dealer nor the large, beefy gentleman who watched the crowd with a gimlet eye. Duchess found a place to sit in the shadows and did the same, her latest lessons foremost in her mind. Bets were placed but before the dealer could roll the dice Julius raised a mug of ale to the previous round’s winner. There was an artful pretense to the act, much like when he’d snapped his fingers at her the last time. The players followed suit with a cheer, lifting their own drinks, but Duchess kept her eyes on the table. As she watched, the dealer picked up the dice and with a slight, nearly imperceptible motion, slipped them up his sleeve. They were swiftly replaced with another, identical, pair. She nodded. Duplicate sets of dice, no doubt weighted to produce different results. The dealer brought out one set whenever he felt a player needed a win, and then quietly replaced them with another when it was time to favor the house. In fact, he might have several pair of dice hidden away, each set to produce whatever result was required. Which explained Antony’s sudden run of bad luck.

  The dice flew and players cheered or groaned, and as the game progressed it became clear that the dealer was using at least three sets. Up his left sleeve was a pair weighted in favor of the house, and in his right a pair weighted towards the players. The third set tucked into his belt seemed fair, and the dealer used it often enough to make the game appear balanced. The man was quite skilled at switching them out, but Tyford had trained her to notice just this kind of trick. Fortunately for the dealer Antony hadn’t been as observant, or else he might have wound up floating face-down in the harbor, with Julius beside him.

  She stood, covering a wince. Her wound was healing well enough, but the pain was a reminder that she’d been through worse than what she was about to face. Then she stepped into the light.

  “Good evening, Julius,” she said politely. “Your luck seems to be as good as ever.”

  The red-faced, barrel-chested man looked up from the table. “Lady Duchess! Finally found your florin, did you?” He patted his own coin pouch, grinning smugly.

  She grinned in return. “I don’t worry about yesterday’s losses. I’m more concerned with today’s prospects.” She nodded to the table. “And I just remembered that the last time I was here I was so busy asking about Antony’s property I never even tried your game.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Care to roll the dice, then?”

  She nodded. “I do, and in fact I thought we might put the two interests together.”

  Julius’ eyes lit up and he shot a look at the ferret-faced dealer. “Ah...you want to play for the ring, is that it?” His sly eagerness was so misplaced she almost laughed. “But what’s the game? What have y
ou got to bet?” The other dicers had begun to take notice, and they quieted to listen.

  “What would you like? I’m an easy woman.”

  “Easy, are you?” He laughed, delighted. “Well then, if I win, I get you. Until sun-up.” He leered. “Or until I get bored with you. Whichever comes first.”

  Duchess hesitated, struck by the lecherous malice in his eyes. She was risking a great deal on her ability to beat a loaded game. Even so, a night with Julius was still less frightening than the prospect of telling the second-in-command of the Red she’d lost both his gold and his fiance’s ring. And pulling a blade on Julius in the quiet of his bedroom was less frightening than both.

  “Is that all?” she heard herself say. “If you’d said so at the beginning we could have saved ourselves a good deal of trouble.” She approached the table, trying to seem more confident than she felt, and the onlookers parted before her. “And what do these others have to bet?” she said, indicating the other players.

  “Oh, this one is just between you and me.” Julius grinned wolfishly. “Everything on one roll, I think. A man’s game!” The other patrons cheered and raised their mugs, but aware that Julius was trying to make her look at the candle, Duchess kept a careful eye on the dealer. Sure enough, she saw him switch out the fair dice with the ones up his left sleeve.

  “Then where’s your stake?” she said boldly. “Mine, of course, is right here.” She indicated herself, and the other patrons hooted and stamped their feet. Julius reached into a pocket and then dropped onto the table a golden ring with a black stone.

  “Before the night is over this is all you’ll be wearing,” he promised.

  “Is that all you think I’m worth?” she said archly. “I’m still missing my purse, after all, and if you really want to see me in nothing but that ring...” She left the rest unsaid, but the crowd shouted bawdy suggestions that would have made a ganymede blush. For the first time a hint of doubt entered Julius’ eyes. He reached into the cashbox behind the table and came out with her coin purse, which he held open for her. Inside she saw a clutch of gold coins, twenty or near enough that she could not complain. He dropped it next to the ring and the crowd ooohed with anticipation. He signaled and the dealer held out his right hand to give her the dice.

  As he did so, she thought on what Tyford had told her about pickpocketing. After visiting Midwife Marna, she’d demanded a lesson on the topic. “It’s less about what you do with your hands, and more what you do with your mark’s eyes.” He’d stood next to her and pointed off into the dark depths of the warehouse. “You can’t see it, but I’ve got a special form over there you can practice on.” She turned to look, and when she turned back he was holding up her dagger. He waggled it before her eyes with his left hand. “And while you’re looking there — ” his right hand held up the key to her apartment “ — I’m already dipping in your other pocket.” She goggled as he handed back her belongings. “Pretend you and your mark are in a dark room, and you’ve got the only candle. Wherever you move it is where he looks, and while he’s looking, you’re stealing. Just keep him looking at the candle.”

  She held out her right hand palm-up as if to receive the dice, and with her left she gently stroked Julius’ chin. “Julius, now you’re making me want to lose,” she purred, and while the crowd hooted, in one swift move she slid two fingers up the dealer’s sleeve. She touched two squares of bone and she quickly drew them forth. The dealer sensed the move and his eyes met hers, then turned to Julius, who was too distracted by her touch and the shouts from the crowd to notice. He was looking right at the candle, she noted with satisfaction, while the dealer was left openmouthed, not daring to raise an objection lest he give the game away. His fingers clamped tightly around the first pair of dice, hiding them from view.

  She shook her own dice with an exaggerated motion, giving the crowd time to focus. She wanted all eyes on the table for this. Then she let them fly, sending them clacking into a corner of the table where they came up double suns. The watching players cheered and Duchess quietly resolved to buy Tyford a nice, tall mug of ale. Julius froze and the dealer announced, with a marked lack of enthusiasm, “Player wins.” Julius glared, and Duchess could read the unspoken message that passed between them. Smiling modestly, she reached for her winnings, but was surprised when Julius’ hand closed over hers. “Watch yourself, woman,” he growled. The beefy man moved up menacingly.

  Before she could reply, one of the onlookers, a tall man with a ring of yellow hair, banged his mug against the table. “Here now, what’s this? The lady won fair and square, Julius!” His voice was thin and reedy, but other, louder, men echoed him. Julius’ eyes, filled with calculation, flickered to the crowd and back to Duchess. The Grey favored cleverness over violence, which had kept her from turning Castor loose on Julius, but now Julius himself was caught in the same snare. Worse, the patrons of the Grieving Bier were not an overly amicable bunch when sober, and most of them were now half-drunk. With a grimace he released her hand and waved off the beefy man, and she pocketed the ring and purse before he could change his mind.

  Lysander would likely have advised her to quit then, but she felt a burning desire to further humiliate this annoying little man. “Why, I think I feel like throwing again,” she cooed, batting her eyes at Julius.

  “I think we’ve all had enough,” he replied, reaching for the dice on the table, but Duchess was quicker. She held them up so everyone could see them.

  “Is this a man’s game or isn’t it?” she said with a curl of her lip, and the crowd roared approval. The tall man with the reedy voice hollered, “Let the woman play!” and other men took up the cry until the entire crowd was chanting as one:

  “LET THE WOMAN PLAY! LET THE WOMAN PLAY!”

  Julius looked fit to spit, but she could see he was defeated. He nodded brusquely and the crowd cheered, calling for more ale and mead as Duchess dug into her newly recovered purse for coin. She placed four sou on the table — the upper limit — dropping the coins one by one to focus the attention of the onlookers. Then she said, “And I’ll take any bets against me, of course.” Chaos ensued as men pushed forward to ante up. The press became overwhelming, so she promised the balding tall man a sou to keep track of it all, which he eagerly accepted and was soon busy taking names and bets. Julius was livid, but as Duchess still held the dice he was powerless to intervene.

  Finally it was all settled and there was a sizable pile of sou before her. All eyes were on Duchess as she theatrically shook the dice and threw. “Double suns!” the dealer announced, and there were curses and cheers from the crowd, depending on how each man had bet. Julius glowered dangerously, and she decided it was best not to push him any further. She’d once heard a radiant say the gods frowned on the braggart, and she didn’t need their anger as well as Julius’. She collected her winnings — nearly sixty sou — paid the bald man one sou for his trouble and two more for his honesty, then made her way to the bar to buy a round for all the betters. A show of generosity never hurt, and it ensured an ample supply of witnesses in case Julius tried anything rash in retaliation. The evil look he gave her as she moved off told her it was a wise precaution.

  As she drank she savored her victory. She’d return Antony his ring and his money first thing in the morning, keeping a hefty finder’s fee for herself, of course. He could hardly begrudge her that. Draining her mug and watching Julius’ face turn a shade of red deeper than she would have thought possible, she decided the Bier measured up to the Merry Widow quite well.

  * * *

  She told herself she was there because Darley was the last dangling thread, but she did not believe it. Learning the girl’s daily routine has been the easiest frune she’d ever performed, but actually approaching her was proving far more difficult. Mere days remained before Jana’s move and there was still so very much do be done. A thousand things vied for her attention, yet that morning found her hidden amongst the crowds of Market, following the girl.

  She w
atched Darley amble along the Silkway, the long street that was home to most of the city’s clothmakers, pausing here and there to stare through a shop window, browsing but not buying. She was alone, as she often was. She’d learned the girl had friends but the general consensus of rumor seemed to be that she did not do well amongst the petty nobility, nor among the society of scholars of the lower districts. Neither fish nor flesh, it seemed.

  Duchess told herself she’d learned these things in interest of discovering more of Savant Terence, but even that lie had begun to pall. Her interest in the scholar and his daughter was all muddled now, mixed with her anger at what had happened to her father, and the success that his friend had found. She tried to believe she did not see herself in the girl. Tried not to think if she felt relieved or resentful when she saw the life Darley lived, safe and secure in Scholars District.

  But she knew better.

  It was so easy to wonder what might have been, and what still might be. And so strange, that this girl who never needed to do the sort of things that Duchess found were her bread and butter flirted with such a life regardless. Her wandering in the tunnels, her games and manipulations. Would Duchess have ended up where she was even if she’d remained her father’s daughter? Was there something in them both that led them to the same place, regardless of their starting point?

  She shook her head and tried to concentrate on what was before her as she crossed the Silkway to stand at the girl’s side. Regardless of what Darley might seem, what possible pasts she might represent, she knew things about Savant Terence that no one else would. In the reflection of a shop window Darley noticed her approach and turned to face her. At first Duchess hadn’t been sure Darley would recognize her, but the frightened, wary look in the girl’s hazel eyes said she remembered just fine. “What are you doing here?” the girl whispered.