The Fall of Ventaris (The Grey City)

by Neil McGarry

  She couldn’t take the chance. “Fine,” she said tightly, digging into her purse. She clicked the coin on the table and turned back to the rope. “I’ll work on this knot while you share your tidbit. And it had better be worth it, for a florin.”

  He smiled broadly and picked up the gold piece. “Oh, you won’t have any complaints, girlie. This story should be near and dear to your heart, because it involves that lovely dagger you’re so famous for stealing.” She paused in her tying to look at him. “Remember how it vanished again? Well, it seems that not long after it reappeared in the Shallows.” His eyes twinkled with mischief. “In the hands of one Adam Whitehall.”

  The half-made knot dissolved between her fingers and slithered to the floor. “Adam Whitehall,” she repeated, to ensure she’d understood. “Lord Whitehall’s son? The radiant?”

  “Do you know another one?” He poured more wine.

  Her mind reeled. Whitehall was a ward of the preceptor, and if he had stolen the baron’s dagger Amabilis had to have known about it, or perhaps even ordered it. But how would Adam Whitehall have managed such a theft? A year ago he was a pampered noble’s son. Of course, a year ago she had been a bread girl, and that hadn’t stopped her from lifting the artifact from House Eusbius, but still. “What was he doing with it?”

  Tyford shrugged. “That I didn’t hear.” He drank. “Still, I’d say that’s worth a florin, wouldn’t you?”

  Duchess looked at the rope lying on the floor while her mind raced. Even while he was moving against her and Jana, Amabilis was playing a game all his own, and using Adam Whitehall as one of the pieces. If she could get a line on that game, she might gain a lever to use against the good preceptor. As much as she hated to admit it, this news might well be worth the extortionate price she’d paid.

  And, she reflected as she gathered up the rope, she’d gotten two for one. Tyford had just given himself away.

  Chapter Eighteen: Not in the cards

  Duchess knew a setup when she saw one.

  She and Jana had been busy, spending most of the day shopping for untreated wool, the dyes to color them, and the dye pots in which to introduce the former to the latter. Jana’s old dye pots would not serve, not for the demand Duchess anticipated, as she told Jana when they’d set out. “But this is much money,” the weaver had pointed out.

  Duchess had simply shrugged. “Noam always said you have to spend money to make money. Besides, since I haven’t learned to weave worth a damn, I’d better at least know something about dyeing.” After the previous night’s meeting with Tyford, Duchess felt less adrift but no more reassured. The enmity of a radiant as powerful as Amabilis was not to be underestimated, and she still wasn’t sure of her next steps. The shopping trip with Jana was as good a way as any to distract herself for a few hours. She had not burdened her new business partner with any of this, of course, and did not intend to; bad enough Duchess herself was losing sleep over it.

  Jana nodded. “Very well, but afterward we must celebrate the work we are about to begin.” Duchess opened her mouth to protest but Jana’s frown silenced her. “If I must spend this evening alone I will be cross, and when I am cross my wool is wrong. So, like shopping, this is business.” Outmaneuvered, Duchess had no choice but to agree.

  She was glad she did. Just before sunset, the two had set off for the Foreign Quarter, an area Duchess had visited briefly the night she’d stolen the dagger from House Eusbius. She had promised herself she’d return one day to explore, and she could have no better guide than Jana.

  Dock Street cut through the heart of the Quarter, and as the sun set and the fog rose they followed it to Jana’s favorite cafe, one that served traditional Domae dishes and where, judging by the respectful nods of the other patrons, Jana was well known. At first, Duchess was intimidated by the exotic-smelling dining room, filled with people all darker than she, but she found the patrons as friendly as any winesink in the Shallows could offer. They sat on the floor, on cushions much like those in the weaver’s apartment, before long, low tables. Jana ordered in her own tongue.

  “What did you ask for?” Duchess prompted, as Jana poured the tea the server had brought.

  The weaver shook her head, swaying her lustrous black hair. “Tonight is not for you to be worrying about taking charge, Duchess of the Shallows,” she reprimanded lightly, handing Duchess a cup. “Tonight you relax, and enjoy.” Definitely a setup. Still, there was no fighting it — she threw up her hands in surrender.

  Soon a platter of small brown cakes arrived. Duchess nibbled at one as Jana watched. “It’s made of potatoes,” she said after a moment, and Jana nodded, gesturing for her to continue. Duchess took a larger bite, and discovered that the cake was filled with mushrooms that tasted both sweet and sharp at once, delicious. She devoured the rest in a single bite.

  Jana smiled at her obvious pleasure. “Bataya,” she said, taking up one of the cakes herself. “Made from potatoes, as you said, with mushrooms spiced with anise.”

  Duchess laughed. “I knew that tasted familiar! It’s like the licorice I used to get in the market when I was younger.” She brushed potato crumbs from her hands. “I could never stomach very much licorice, but I could eat bataya all day.”

  Jana nodded, eyes shining. “My aunt used to make them for breakfast when I was small, and my brother and I would fight over who would get the first one. I am glad you like them. Go on — they are best when they are hot.”

  The next course was a dish of eggs fried up with onions and beans, milder than the bataya but no less tasty. Next came a salad of spinach, chickpeas and almonds, garnished with a sweet sauce made from raspberries, accompanied by a strange, flat bread that tasted faintly of garlic. Jana spurned the utensils, scooping up the vegetables with the bread, and when Duchess saw that others were doing the same she followed suit. Then they feasted on spicy ground meat served on a bed of rice, garnished with a creamy garlic butter sauce. Duchess had heard of rice but had never tasted it, and she vowed that this first time would not be her last. For the sweet they were served bowls of thick, white yaggat, smooth and cool on the tongue, rich and creamy. Duchess could not help but think of Jadis and the Feast of the Many, although she feared no poison here. When she finally put down her spoon, she felt ready to burst.

  And the meal was not all there was to hold her attention. Musicians armed with flutes and drums and small fiddles played from a shadowy alcove along the wall, and from time to time a man or group of men would set aside their food and take to the space in the center of the room which had been cleared for dancing. There they would leap, spin, tumble, and juggle whatever was at hand. Duchess noticed that each sought to outdo the others in audacity; if one man juggled spoons, the next would take up knives, and the man after him meat cleavers. It all seemed in fun, however, and she was relieved to see that not one lost his temper, or a body part.

  She leaned close to Jana. “Why are there no women in the dance?”

  Jana looked at her, surprised. “Women do not dance...not amongst the Domae.”

  “Not at all?”

  Jana shrugged. “Only when no men are about,” she said. “Dancing, for my people, is a sport for men who wish to attract a mate. You see how each tries to be the most daring? In doing so, he draws all eyes to him, in hopes of proving his value as a husband.”

  Duchess considered this for a moment as she watched the dancers. Certainly their movements were bold, and some frankly erotic, and she was reminded of the dancer she had seen in the Foreign Quarter. The men she knew — the ganymedes excepted — never behaved so flirtatiously but then these were not Rodaasi. Even in the Shallows it was easy to forget that the city contained so many different kinds of people. “I see some men do not dance,” she replied, gesturing to a pair who sat a few tables away.

  “Of course not. They already have mates,” she said. Duchess stared for a moment, not sure what she meant. “They have each other,” Jana clarified. “These men are — I do not know the word in your tongue
— they are made for other men. Like your Lysander.”

  Duchess kept her face a mask, but inside she felt a stab. She did not know the right word either, but deep down she knew, and had always known, what Lysander truly was. Their single night of passion had drawn them closer than siblings or the best of friends, but it would never make them lovers. She bit her lip.

  Jana seemed to sense her pain. “Here in this city things are different, but among the Domae there is no shame in being other. Sometimes I feel angry that edunae...Rodaasi...cannot understand that humans are not like animals, who can only cling male to female. I think Lysander might be happier if your people understood this.” She laid a hand on Duchess’. “And I think you might be happier, too.” Duchess blinked back sudden tears, feeling both wounded that Jana had seen her pain, and relieved that she no longer had to hide it. She’d spent most of her life hiding things from people, but with Jana it seemed natural to share.

  “It’s not so bad,” she muttered, toying with her plate. “Everyone loves Lysander.”

  “Yes,” said Jana in the same sad voice. “Everyone.”

  Duchess felt something both sweet and painful leave her then, though whether that was a burden or a blessing, she was not sure. “Lysander’s always been the better of we two. At everything. He can sing, dance, fight, read, and seduce anyone, anytime. It’s annoying.” Jana smiled without mockery. “Sometimes I think he’s just a better person. Kinder, certainly.” She’d thought many times that, if the situation had been reversed, Lysander would never have left her to the Brutes. The admission hung in the air between them.

  Jana only shrugged, as if Duchess had not said anything particularly difficult. “He can afford to, can he not?” Duchess frowned, confused. “I have seen much of men and women in Rodaas. Lysander can afford to be soft, for your people think him no real man at all, and so he need not be hard as your people seem to think men should be. But you cannot.”

  “I...cannot?”

  “No woman can, not here,” Jana replied, motioning between the two of them. “I have seen this in the guild halls, and in the streets, and I might guess that it is true even at the top of this hill. Women here cannot be soft. For others would see that softness and take it for weakness, and not for what it is.” Duchess considered, while around her the men danced and the women watched. Lysander had called her Silk and Steel, but she had certainly never seen him that way. Was it different for men? She’d not seen too much Silk from the men in her life, but had she ever looked? And how much Steel had she missed in the women?

  “Sometimes I feel as though we Rodassi are a bunch of unwashed savages next to your people,” Duchess confessed. “I can’t help but think you’d have done better to stay in the city and leave my ancestors in the hills, banging sticks together.”

  Jana looked at her hands, her discomfort palpable. “You may think so,” she said at last, “but no one is as they seem from the outside. My people have their problems and their prejudices, just as any other.” She sighed and looked up. “The Domae of today are hardly perfect. I do not think the ancients were any different.” Duchess found herself wondering what it was about her people that had driven Jana to the city of the soulless. She was not sure she wanted to know.

  “Now,” Jana said, shaking her head as if to dislodge her melancholy, “we must walk.” She reached into her pocket and left a handful of coins on the table.

  Duchess groaned. “After that meal? I feel as though I’ll need to hire a wagon to get me back up the hill.”

  “No, no!” Jana giggled. “You must always walk after supper, to help the digestion.” She rose. “And there is more you must see!” She pulled Duchess off her pillow and towards the door. “The night is young, after all. And so are we.”

  * * *

  Somehow, they managed to climb the stairs to the second floor without mishap, a small miracle given all the wine they’d drunk, and inside they collapsed on the floor pillows. Duchess watched the ceiling spin above her, then tried sitting up, and failed. She fell back, laughing, hearing Jana’s laughter as well.

  After leaving the cafe, Jana had led Duchess along Dock Street, which had thrummed with activity. They watched jugglers tossing wooden balls, torches, and knives. Dancers gyrated wildly to strange rhythms beaten on drums, and singers sang in every tongue. Duchess only knew a few of the songs, but egged on by Jana and the wine they bought at a makeshift booth she sang along anyway. She even tried her hand at the strange coin-flipping game she’d seen here and there. Wine hadn’t dulled her Tyford-trained reflexes, so she caught more coins than she dropped, to the delight of the crowd who had stopped to watch. That of course led to more wine, which she felt she could not turn down. And so she hadn’t.

  She tried rolling over and found that much easier. Jana’s grinning, drunken face swung into view, and Duchess suddenly remembered the day they’d met, and the woman who’d tried to rob her. She managed finally to sit up, sending the room for another spin. “Why do they call you a witch?” she asked, trying to point seriously at the girl, but certain she was failing. Jana looked at her, uncomprehending. “Those people who tried to rob me that day in the Deeps, remember? They slunk right away as soon as they saw you, and although I’m drunk I pretty sure they said ‘witch.’”

  Jana propped herself up on an elbow. “Perhaps because I am,” she replied mischievously.

  “Oho!” Duchess nudged her with a foot. “Then let’s see some magic!”

  For a moment she thought Jana might refuse, but then she rolled off her pillow, crossed the room unsteadily and returned with a carved wooden box that was just large enough to fill her hands. “This,” Jana said, settling back on her cushion, “is my magic.” She lifted the lid and removed from the box a packet wrapped in yellow silk, which she placed carefully on the floor. She unfolded the cloth to reveal what Duchess thought at first was a block of wax, pale yellow and shining in the lamplight. A closer look revealed a deck of cards of some hard substance, almost translucent, brightly painted. Jana gestured and Duchess put out her hand. Jana placed a single card there and Duchess found it strange — hard and cool but as light as paper. The card depicted three Domae women in long voluminous robes, each with flowers in her hair, and each holding a cup in an upraised hand. From their pose, Duchess guessed they were dancing.

  “I thought Domae women didn’t dance?”

  Jana waggled a finger. “As I said: only when men are not about.”

  Duchess ran a finger over the card, which seemed to warm in her hand, like a living thing. “What are these? And what are they made of?”

  “They are symbols. Eternal constants of the world caught in a way we might understand them. Or so my aunt told me.” She glanced at the tapestry that hung on the far wall, the one she had brought up from the Deeps. She gestured to the goat-like creature drinking at the river. “They are carved from the horn of the ibex, the most sacred of creatures.”

  Duchess handed back the card, and Jana placed it atop the others, then reverently handed her the stack. Duchess spread them in her hands, wondering at the images —so many and so complex. “What now?” she asked.

  “Now you shuffle.” Duchess complied, and the deck grew warmer, as if drawing life from her body. The ibex horn was smooth as glass, and the cards slid against each other almost as easily as if they were moving on their own, barely making any sound. When she was finished, Jana pointed to the floor between them. “Place one here, face down.” Duchess did so, noticing the back of the card was solid black. “This is the face you wear. Now three here.” She pointed to three points about the first card: to the left, to the right, and just above. Duchess placed three more cards. “What surrounds you. And now one more. What you stand upon.” She pointed beneath the first card, and Duchess placed a final card there. Then Jana took the deck and set it aside. “Turn the first card, and we shall see what the cards have to tell.”

  Duchess flipped over the first, revealing a smiling young man, striding blithely along a high path, a r
ose in his hair. The sun shone brightly behind but before him, only one step away, the path ended in a precipitous drop. Jana nodded. “What is it?” Duchess asked.

  “Balatro...in your tongue, the Fool.”

  Duchess laughed. “Well, it’s not the first time I’ve been called that!”

  Jana smiled. “It is the face you wear, though not necessarily what you are. My aunt told me this card is innocence, or ignorance. Not knowing.”

  Duchess thought of Jadis, suddenly. “Not knowing what?”

  “What is to come, or what has been forgotten. It is instinct, the wisdom within that needs no teacher.”

  “And the cliff?”

  “The danger of ignorance, and in trusting instinct too far. Balatro deorum — he who the gods have made a fool — is one of the stranger symbols.” She suddenly looked sad. “One of the last things my aunt ever told me, just before I left home, is that his like does not have a place in the world, but is fated to forever travel endlessly, with no certainty, no home. The most blessed...and the most cursed.”

  That felt a little too close for comfort. “Let’s do another,” Duchess said. She turned the left card, but found little comfort there: a lurid painting of two figures slitting each other’s throats. Two women, their arms wrapped around each other, the knives drawn fully across, blood pouring from the open wounds. Their mouths were grimaces of pain and rage.

  “Justice,” Jana muttered.