by Matthew Ward
“He killed Kasamor.”
“No. Wait. You said that brigands killed Kasamor.”
“I lied.”
“Why in Lumestra’s name would you do such a thing?”
“Because I was worried Kas had ties with the vranakin. I didn’t want to shame his memory.”
Malachi blinked. Kasamor had lived a life in the light, bright with honour. He’d not associate with thieves and murderers. “And he had magic, this kernclaw?”
She nodded. “He arrived in a storm of crow’s wings. He was fast. So fast.”
Malachi stared at her, familiar indecision coursing through his veins. What if Rosa had died on the road and what stood before him was some demon, or a cyraeth spirit come free of Otherworld to torment him? And if she wasn’t, and he turned away when his friend needed him most?
And he’d already lost too many friends of late.
He glanced again at the paper knife. The blade was dry, and seemingly clean. “I have to go. If I’m to have any chance of getting you out of here, I need to be at council.”
“I already told you, I deserve this.”
“This once, I don’t care what you think, Roslava Orova. If the Parliament of Crows had Kasamor killed, it was for a reason. Which means there’s still a chance to deliver him justice, and I can’t do it without you.” He took a deep breath. “As to what has become of you, if there’s an answer to be found we will find it.”
He stared at her, daring her to argue. To his relief and surprise, she didn’t.
“Yes, my Lord Reveque.”
The sardonic tone undermined her contrite expression, but it was a start.
“I really must go,” he said. “But promise me you’ll make no more renditions of that charming trick with the knife? Let that part of it remain between us. Please.”
“Yes, my Lord Reveque.”
“Is there anything else I can do in the meantime?”
She thought for a moment and stared down at her abused dress. “My uniform. Whichever road I walk from here, I’d sooner do it as myself.”
Malachi nodded. She’d not be permitted to keep it, not if she walked the gallows road. Nonetheless, it was cheering to see more of the woman he remembered shining through.
Which would make the hurt all the deeper if he failed to save her.
In the end, it took over two hours for Marek to get the Kiradin carriage underway for the Council palace – the time it took for Lady Ebigail to pronounce her daughter a fit sight for council. Even then, no amount of masking powder could entirely hide the bruises. Then had come the winding bridal procession that had blocked the streets between the Silverway River and King’s Mount church. It had been a battered train of carriages – too battered for the bride to hail from a family of true wealth and standing – but Marek had duly brought his journey to a halt until the streets had cleared, as was tradition. Weddings, like interments, were owed respect, for each marked flourish and sacrifice in their own way. Even Lady Ebigail voiced no impatience – though the hawker who’d approached the carriage window soon thereafter received the shortest and sharpest of shrift.
By the time they finally arrived, the palace’s reception rooms were a-bustle with bodies and abuzz with conversation. The noonday session was not yet underway and the lords and ladies of the Grand Council had yet to filter into the chamber. A sea of fine gowns and tailored jackets, it lapped around fluted columns and statues of worthies long vanished into the mists.
Lady Ebigail navigated a graceful path without ever slowing save to greet an acquaintance. Lady Sevaka fared less well. The sea of bodies that parted readily for the mother was less inclined to do so for the daughter. Marek remained confident that would change in time, as Lady Sevaka grew into her legacy. That was the way of things in Tressia. But for the moment, he was careful not to crowd her, lest his proximity spur unseemly haste.
“Ebigail! Ebigail, I must speak with you.”
The upstart Lord Reveque emerged from the crowd. Lacking, as usual, proper respect in both tone and manner.
Lady Ebigail slowed to a halt and regarded him with restraint. “I regret it will have to wait. I have business that will not.”
His face twisted in discomfort. “I . . . I need your assistance.”
“Really?” She raised an eyebrow, her tone warming from annoyance to amusement. “I suppose this is worth hearing.”
“Mother . . .”
“Yes, Sevaka. I haven’t forgotten. Very well, Malachi. Speak your piece.”
He guided her to as secluded a corner as the room allowed. After the briefest of delays and a glance at the door, Lady Sevaka followed. Marek brought up the rear and wondered why her ladyship bothered with so poor and disrespectful a fellow as Lord Reveque.
“Aske Tarev attacked Lady Roslava Orova last night.” The words galloped from his lips. “Lady Orova defended herself, and Aske died.”
“Shocking,” Lady Ebigail replied. “The escapades of the younger generation never cease to amaze.”
“Mother.”
Lady Ebigail raised a cautioning finger. “Kindly don’t interrupt, Sevaka. This is important. The niece of a grand councillor murdering Anton’s daughter? The poor man must be distraught.”
Malachi scowled. “He’s had his creature Horden cage Rosa like a rabid hound. Now he’s whipping the Grand Council up to a hanging verdict.”
“As is the man’s right, surely?”
“As is a wealthy and influential man’s privilege. Rosa was defending herself. As Kasamor defended himself against Aske a week ago.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting my son lowered himself to brawling.”
“I was there. Aske was a heartbeat from running Kasamor through when Viktor put an end to it.”
For the first time, Marek caught a flicker of surprise in Lady Ebigail’s expression. “And this help you beg of me? Twisting the law? I won’t do such a thing. Can you imagine the message it would send if the Privy Council opposed the common will?”
“Ebigail, please. I know we see eye-to-eye on little, but this is a matter of justice.” Malachi sucked down a deep breath, his brow furrowing. “Kasamor could have killed Aske last week. He chose not to, but what would you have done if he had?”
Lady Ebigail nodded sagaciously. “You’re correct, of course. Aske’s death was her own doing, and it is only proper that everyone gets what they deserve – however tragic the circumstance. I’ll see what can be done, but I’ll need you to drop this nonsense of seeking a truce with the Empire. Anton will demand it, if nothing else.”
By the evidence of his expression, Lord Reveque didn’t like that one bit. Nonetheless, he swallowed his pride and objections both. “As you wish.”
But Lady Ebigail wasn’t yet done. “If this reaches the Privy Council, I cannot and will not vote with you . . . but I will speak to Anton. Perhaps I can change his mind.”
Malachi’s shoulders slumped. “Thank you, Ebigail. I won’t forget this.”
“Neither will I. Come, Sevaka.”
From Lady Sevaka’s restless expression, Marek judged she had a hard time holding her tongue. However, hold it she did until they entered the deserted corridor.
“I can’t believe what you just did,” she hissed. “Pretending ignorance, when all the time you knew. Tormenting the poor man like that. Couldn’t you see he was sick with worry?”
Lady Ebigail spun on her heel. Sensing another argument, Marek hung back. There were few of Lady Ebigail’s conversations to which he wasn’t privy, but the illusion of distance was important.
“Consider this a lesson,” said Lady Ebigail icily. “Consider this all a lesson. Why do you think I wanted you here, even in this sorry state? One day, when I am gone, this Republic will be yours to guide.” She sighed. “It’s my fault. I’ve indulged you. Letting you play at pirate with those moustachioed ruffians who think themselves a navy? No longer. You have much to learn and little time in which to learn it.”
Lady Sevaka glared at her. “The Council leads the Rep
ublic. It will manage well enough without me.”
“We shall see about that,” replied her mother. “And if you’ve so fine an opinion of the Council’s good sense, why did you show up on my doorstep this morning, begging for help?”
Lady Sevaka’s eyes flared, then dropped to the worn carpet. “I’m sorry.”
“Good. Because the lesson isn’t over. Marek?”
Obedient as ever to his beloved mistress’s command, Marek strode past and opened the oaken door to the Grand Council chamber.
With a few cobwebs and a thick layer of dust, the chamber could have been a relic of the old city. It reeked of faded history, the air thick with the breath of spent years. The stone pews were graven with creatures of myth, few of which Marek could name. The marble statue of Lumestra behind the podium bore tell-tales of discoloured stone, betraying where modern masons had lengthened the goddess’s skirts and sleeves to match a more civilised age. The seascape mosaic of the floor was similarly mismatched, the roiling waves of the centre rendered in larger, newer tile than those at the edge.
Lord Tarev stood at the podium, forearms braced against the winged lectern. His lordship’s face was haggard beneath the salt-and-pepper beard.
“Marek?” said Lady Ebigail. “Remain at the door. Make sure we’re not disturbed.”
“Yes, lady.”
He allowed mother and daughter to pass, then set the door closed and turned the heavy key. As further precaution, he set his back to the timber, and kept one ear alert to footsteps in the corridor.
“Anton,” said Lady Ebigail, her voice thick with effusive condolence. “I could barely believe it when I heard. Sevaka and I are so very sorry for your loss. It is no easy thing to lose a child. As I know too well.”
Lord Tarev peered at her. Sevaka kept one file of pews between her and Lord Tarev, perhaps separating herself from her mother’s sentiment.
“Thank you, Ebigail.” His left eyelid twitched. “It is a cruel world. I pray Lumestra grants Aske peace.”
“Oh, I’m certain she will.”
Marek noted the dryness in Lady Ebigail’s tone. Lord Tarev, he was sure, did not.
“It is some small comfort that her murderer will go to the gallows before a new dawn,” said Lord Tarev.
“So soon?”
“Lady Orova has confessed the killing, and the Council shares my grief. The outcome is a foregone conclusion.”
Lady Ebigail drew closer, her fingertips tracing the lectern’s wingtip. “You could withdraw your support. A public expression of forgiveness, and an admission that Aske’s own recklessness brought about her death.”
He snorted. “Whatever her faults, Aske was my daughter. My blood.”
Lady Ebigail’s sympathy vanished like Lumenfade mist. “She was a woman who twice provoked a brawl. I understand Lady Orova wasn’t even armed.”
Lord Tarev’s expression turned cold. “My daughter is dead.”
“And better that way for your family’s reputation.” She gathered her skirts and sat at the nearest pew. “Maybe now the rumours can stay buried.”
“I haven’t heard any rumours.” The flash of guilt in Lord Tarev’s eyes told Marek otherwise. “I’ve nothing to hide.”
Lady Ebigail offered a thin smile. “Oh, there are always secrets, aren’t there, Anton? Or does your grandson know the truth? That the dead hero he believes his father was cuckolded by a wolf’s-head?”
“That isn’t true!”
She shrugged. “I expect you to defend Aske, of course. But a father’s protective instincts are nothing to a mother’s. When I learned of her attempt on Kasamor’s life – not from him, of course, he was always too proud to speak of such things – I made it my business to learn more.”
Lord Tarev gripped the lectern anew. “It’s no secret she hated the southwealders. She saw Kasamor’s marriage to Calenne Trelan as betrayal of everything our family fought for.”
“She didn’t hate all of them though, did she? Such a passionate child, your Aske. But she couldn’t have married a southwealder. Not with her mother and sister barely cold in their graves at Zanya. Not with a fiancé pining away in Tarvallion. It’s strange, isn’t it, how we so often vent our frustrations on those who have the courage to act as we cannot?”
Lady Sevaka stared pointedly away. Lady Ebigail’s stare didn’t waver.
“None of this can be proven,” Lord Tarev replied stiffly.
“No, but there are suspicious minds in this fine Republic.” With a regretful sigh, Lady Ebigail rose to her feet. “As I said, such a passionate child, your Aske. And her husband. Such an honourable man to pretend the bastard was his. The Republic could have used more like him.”
Lord Tarev, already haggard, paled a shade further. A note of pleading crept into his tone. “Please, Ebigail. I’d have no choice but to disinherit Jarron. He cannot be held responsible for his mother’s misjudgements.”
“Really?” Her face and voice held polite interest. “Not even when he is living proof? For what it’s worth, I agree. But nor should Roslava Orova be punished for defending herself . . . and my own dear Sevaka.” Her tone darkened. “Did you think I would forgive that?”
Lord Tarev swallowed, throat bobbing as he sought a way out of the trap. Marek had seen it more times than he could count. They always fought. And they always lost.
“You cannot ask me to choose between my daughter and my grandson.”
“I’m offering you the chance to acknowledge that Aske was a wild animal and to cast her adrift as such. Or you can see both destroyed.” Setting a hand beneath his chin, she eased it upward, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Choice has nothing to do with it.”
He broke. Marek could always tell when the light slipped from their eyes. Lord Tarev pulled away. His shoulders straightened with fragile dignity.
“When the mists take you, Ebigail, I hope they bury you so deep that the light of Third Dawn never reaches you.”
She cocked her head. “Is that a yes?”
With a snarl, Lord Tarev kicked the lectern. He was on the move before it crashed to the floor, striding for the exit. Receiving a nod from Lady Ebigail, Marek unlocked the door and stood aside.
Lady Ebigail righted the lectern. She smoothed a wingtip’s scuffed corner with a thumb and glanced at her daughter. “You may thank me now, if you wish.”
Lady Sevaka’s expression – her whole being – twisted in revulsion. “I can’t believe what you just did. He was your ally.”
“When it suited him. But he’s weak. They’re all weak. That grandson of his was a weight around his neck from the day he was born, but he can’t bring himself to let the brat fall by the wayside.”
Lady Sevaka shook her head. “He should have let you destroy the child?”
“Of course. I’m sure it would hurt immensely, but it would only be the once, and then Anton would be free. That’s the thing about pain, Sevaka. It fades. And it leaves you stronger.”
“And if positions were reversed, would you cast me aside so easily?”
She sniffed. “What secrets I have are hidden where Anton will never find them. You may rely on that. But no. With your brother lost to us, what hopes I have reside in you, and you alone. And if you ever are so foolish to bear a child out of wedlock, I advise you to smother the creature or bury it deep.”
Marek hadn’t believed Lady Sevaka could look any more disgusted. He’d been wrong. “This is just a game to you, isn’t it?”
“It is everything to me,” her mother snapped. “Power is not a prize at the end of a race, it is the race. You must always be moving forward, and never fall behind. We used to understand that. Years beneath a tyrant taught us well. But the lesson has been lost, smothered by luxury and entitlement. If nothing changes, we might as well open the gates to the shadowthorns and welcome the lash and the collar. At least Malachi now owes me a favour. That should attend nicely to his ridiculous ideas of begging for peace.”
“Not if I tell him that his favour bought nothin
g you were not already prepared to give.”
Lady Ebigail snorted. “You wouldn’t dare. You haven’t yet learned how to be strong, which is why I must teach you. And if you cannot bear to thank me with words, you may do so with deeds.”
Her daughter glowered but said nothing. She knew – as Marek knew – what was coming, for it had been the source of many arguments in past months.
“You will resign your commission with the navy, and you will come home. I shall teach you the way of guarded smiles and watchful tears. You will finally grow to be a daughter worthy of my pride and deserving of my legacy. This shall be your favour to me for saving Roslava’s life.”
Lady Sevaka’s lip curled. Her shoulders shook with silent rage. “And if I don’t?”
Marek wasn’t fooled by the defiance. You could always tell when the last hope faded. It broke his heart to see Lady Sevaka humbled, but he knew it was for her own good.
“Must I find Anton and tell him I’ve had a change of heart?”
Lady Sevaka hesitated, but the outcome was never in doubt. “No, Mother. I’ll . . . I will do as you ask.”
“You see? You’re too weak to face pain. Just like him. We’ll have to see to that.” Lady Ebigail left the podium and enfolded her daughter in a one-sided embrace. “In the meantime, you may carry the news to Malachi. It will do you good for him to look upon you with gratitude. Someone should.”
Twenty-Three
Rosa hesitated only a little before entering the Reveque household at Abbeyfields. She scarcely believed she was free to do so, having been released less than an hour before. Malachi had met her at the constabulary with a pressed uniform. He’d flinched as she’d hugged him, and then insisted on waiting out in the afternoon drizzle while she changed in the carriage.
“Thank you for this,” she said. “I don’t know that I could have faced my uncles.”
Malachi shrugged and set the door to. “For nothing. This is what friends do.”
“But how did you manage all this?”
“Allow me to keep some secrets . . . and to offer you a bath. There’s only so much clean clothes can do.” He beckoned to a rotund, balding fellow in a grey servant’s waistcoat. “See to it, would you, Braxov?”