It was early, and the weather discouraged casual errands, but just the same there were a dozen victims strewn about the place, puffing on their pipes or sunk back into oblivion. All but one was a heretic, though, so it was easy enough to find my man. He was huddled in a back booth, his head lying awkwardly on the table in front of him, and he didn’t react to my approach.
“Afonso Cadamost?”
He answered without lifting his skull off the counter. “Fuck off.”
I set an argent on the wood beside him.
The clink of silver brought his face up, and I wished him still prone. The tawny color of his race had been altered to a sickly gray, and his skin hung loose and heavy. Decayed teeth are the most common mark of a wyrm addict, but even expecting that, the black-green rot of his smile was unsettling. More unsettling were his eyes, ascetic, stygian things, angry dark dots in a muddled off-white saucer.
I dropped myself into the chair across from him, careful not to think about whose ass had rested there before my own. “I’d like to know some things,” I said.
He put the argent to his teeth, and I worried the weakened ivories might break against the metal. When they didn’t he shrugged and dropped the coin into his pocket. “Yeah?”
“I hear you were part of Operation Ingress.”
Fear is the last thing an addict loses—apparently Afonso still had enough on the ball for my reference to worry him. “What do you know about it?” He licked his lips, trailing saliva across the chain of sores that disfigured the lower half of his face.
I thought about lying but decided against it—he wouldn’t remember this conversation in twenty minutes, and no one would listen to such an obvious degenerate even if he did. “My unit was outside Donknacht before the armistice. I provided protection for a counterpart of yours.” Not very well, I might have added, but he didn’t need to know that. “Sorcerer Adelweid.”
“Adelweid,” he repeated slowly, like he was having trouble placing it.
“The two of you were classmates at the academy.”
“I know who he was,” Cadamost snapped back. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”
A junkie, obviously. Cadamost took a hit from his pipe to calm himself, doing little to alter my opinion.
“I remember Adelweid,” he began again. “He was the start of it, you know, the start of everything. He found a journal one day in the archives … the Crown had tons of that shit, papers they’d confiscated over the years but never bothered to look at. It was nearly ruined from age and written in a strange hand, but what was left …” His eyes darted about like a coursed hare. “You say you were there at the end?”
“Lieutenant in the Capital Infantry. We were the first into Donknacht, although you boys had softened them up pretty good by the time we got there.”
“Yeah, I suppose we had. You … saw one?”
“I saw one.” It wasn’t hard to figure out what he was referring to.
“Where do you think it came from?”
“Another world? I don’t know—metaphysics was never my strong suit.”
“Not another world, not a world at all. The absence between all of them. In the nothing between the universes, in the space where light doesn’t reach—that’s where she came from.”
“She?” I asked.
“She,” he confirmed. “She was dancing in the darkness when I called her, waltzing endlessly in the center of forever. Waiting for a suitor.”
I clenched tight on my revulsion. “How did you summon her?”
His breath reeked of carrion, fetid and unnatural. “She wasn’t some common whore to come at your beck and call! She was a lady, prim and proper, like one of those sweet-looking cunts you see out by the palace! She didn’t just spread her legs for me ’cause I crooked my finger! I had to court her!”
He took a hit, then coughed into my face. “What does that mean, you had to court her?”
“What are you, some kind of faggot, down on your knees at the bathhouse, sucking cock through a hole in the wall! Ain’t you never had a woman? You speak soft words to her, you tell her she’s beautiful. When the time is right, you give her something special—a token of your love.”
“What kind of token?”
“That’s the catch, isn’t it? She didn’t see like we saw—one human was the same as another. She needed something of mine to remind her, something special, something that had some of me in it.”
“What was it?”
“A bracelet—my mother gave it to me when I left Miradin.” This seemed an unwelcome memory, and he offered no further explanation. “I cast it into the void and when it came back to me it hummed with her song, hummed with it, morning through night. It’s what bound us together. She was beautiful and devoted—her love for me was as endless as the black sea she swam in. But she was a jealous mistress and quick to anger. The token connected us.” He smiled grimly. “Without it, she would have been very, very displeased.”
At the time I had thought Adelweid’s refusal to part with his jewelry was sheer vanity. That might also explain Brightfellow’s penchant for jewelry, though bad taste would do the same. “These … things,” I said, “you can summon them, but they can’t stay here?”
“She was too perfect, undiluted by the dross of our reality. It took the strength of my love for her to cross over.”
That jibed with what Adelweid had told me about his creature dissipating after completing its task. “There was another student in the academy with you—Brightfellow, Johnathan Brightfellow.”
Cadamost ground a dirty fingernail against the cracked skin of his scalp. “Yeah, I remember him. He was a few years older than the rest of us, came from some petty province up north.”
“What else you remember?”
“He had a temper. There was this little piece he used to follow—someone said something about her once and he lost it, cracked the boy’s head against a wall before anyone could think to do a working.” Cadamost strained to shake his mind out of its debasement, the simple act of recollection a marathon sprint. “He didn’t have much in the way of talent, maybe because he started learning so late—but he was sharp, sharper than you’d think, sharper than he let on.”
“And he was part of Operation Ingress.”
“Yeah, he was part of it. Most of us were, anyone with any sense and skill—you could tell what it would lead to, everything it promised. To see what came out when you cracked open the cage, to get a look at the bottom, way down at the bottom, the nothing that makes up everything. It wasn’t about the war—we let them think it, but it wasn’t about that at all. They were gods, and they wanted to look at us, talk to us and touch us, love us.”
“What happened to her?” I asked, though I already knew.
“The others were cowards. They didn’t understand; they wouldn’t let themselves understand. I knew what she wanted, knew what she wanted and wanted to give it to her. For that they feared me, and they took her away.” He stroked his wrist and gazed out past the walls, as if his obsession might reveal itself in the distance. “I can feel it out there, somewhere. They have it and they keep it from me!” He coughed this out, along with something that looked very much like blood.
“And the rest of the practitioners? They still have their tokens?”
“I was singled out for my genius. The rest of them were allowed to keep theirs, I suppose. Or at least they still had them when I was stripped of my rank.” His eyes squinted to slits in his rotting face. “Why? What’s all this about anyway?”
“Thanks for your help,” I said, laying another argent on the table.
The sight of more silver was enough to make him forget his concerns. “You’re a good man, to help a fellow veteran. There’s a spot in Chinvat for you, no doubt about that!” He laughed and reached for the bowl.
“Go careful on the next round,” I told him as I buttoned up my coat. “I’d rather mine wasn’t the coin that killed you.” Though on the way out I realized I didn’t care mu
ch either way.
I picked Wren up and spent the rest of the morning at a tailor I used to frequent, getting my outfit ready for Brightfellow’s party. The snow was not letting up. I had lived in Rigus for thirty of my thirty-five years, only leaving it to wage war on the Dren, and in all that time I’d never seen anything like this. The streets were deserted, the hum of city life dulled to an almost pastoral quiet, the season’s festivities canceled.
By the time we got to the tower I wished I’d hired a coach, though the inclement weather at least eliminated the first barrier toward entering the Aerie, the snow spreading a low hummock over the maze. Wren stopped at the incline. “I didn’t know we were coming here,” he said.
“I’ll only be a minute. I want to stop in and let Celia know what’s going on.”
“Say hello to the Crane if you see him.”
“You aren’t coming?”
“I’ll wait here.”
Waves of shaved ice came down on us like curtains. I set my hand on his shoulder. “Forget about the horn—I took care of it.”
He pulled away. “I’ll wait here.”
“Your pride’s gonna leave you frozen to death. Swallow it and get in the fucking tower.”
“No,” he said simply and evenly.
And that was the end of my willingness to debate the point. “You lose a digit from frostbite, don’t expect sympathy.” The Aerie’s guardian opened the door without comment. I found myself vaguely nostalgic for its quips.
Celia was waiting for me on the top floor, sipping tea by the fire, steam rising around her bright face. “I hadn’t expected we’d see you today.”
“I thought I’d check in on the two of you. How’s the Master?”
“Better. He was up and about for a while this morning. He ate breakfast and watched the snow.”
“That’s nice to hear,” I said. “I wanted to let you know I got your note. I’m going to pay the Duke of Beaconfield a visit tonight, take a look at what your working turned up. All goes well I’ll pass the information on to Black House sometime tomorrow.”
She wrinkled her face in confusion, or perhaps disappointment. “I thought we agreed this is too important to let the law muck it up. I thought we agreed you’d handle it on your own.”
“Unfortunately it’s still a crime to murder a noble. And anyway it wouldn’t square me with the freeze, not if I can’t show them why I did it. Besides, crossing out the Blade is something I’d just as soon leave to someone whose life isn’t as valuable to me as my own. Black House will handle it. With what I’ll give them, they’ll have enough to put the Question to him—after that it’s just a matter of time.”
“And what if he moves on you first?”
“He’s made his move. I’ll make mine while he’s recovering.” She rubbed her necklace between two fingers and didn’t respond. “When this is over, I’ll bring the boy around, and the four of us can build a snow fort, like when we were kids.”
Her attention snapped back to me. “The boy?”
“Wren.”
There was another long pause, then the smile returned to her face. “Wren,” she said. “Yes of course.” She patted me lightly on the arm. “I can’t wait.”
I headed downstairs in half a hurry. Whatever whim he was indulging, I wouldn’t let Wren wait long in the storm. Adeline would kill me if anything happened to him.
Four hours later I stepped out of a carriage and onto a roll of crushed red velvet. Two guards in speckled livery flanked the doors of Beaconfield’s mansion, stiffly at attention despite the bitter frost. It was my first time entering through the front. I felt very important.
In the parlor a servant with a roll of parchment guarded access to the delights on offer in the main hall. He gave me a deferential nod, but my pose as a member of the upper crust didn’t allow me to return it. I barked out my name and waited as he scanned for the corresponding entry.
It would intrigue the Blade that I’d asked for a spot on the guest list after he had sent men to murder me, and curiosity alone is often enough to get in with a noble, desperate as they are for anything that breaks up the monotony of profligate hedonism. If his instinct for melodrama wasn’t enough, self-interest might be. Though he had pushed us into open warfare, I didn’t figure he had the steel to play at it for long. He would hope that my message signaled a desire for reconciliation, and would leap at any hint of a truce.
That being said, it was one of the several potential hitches within my plan that I had not, in fact, been invited to the Duke of Beaconfield’s Midwinter party. It would be a chilly walk home if I’d played this wrong.
But I hadn’t. The doorman waved me onward, and I brushed past him and headed down the hallway.
Whatever else you wanted to say about the Blade, he knew how to throw a soiree. A cunningly wrought cage of filigreed silver hid the ceiling, giving the impression that we were carousing in the belly of some great beast. Baubles of glass and semiprecious stones trailed beneath it, drawing the eye with their cunning design. Closer inspection revealed every third of these was a tray of joints wrapped in brightly colored paper. The floor had been covered with glistening drifts of fake snow, ingeniously mimicking the genuine article. In the center of the room was a ten-foot-high ice sculpture of Śakra, his hand outstretched to bless the revelers below. The core of the sculpture had been filled with some sort of liquid light that permeated the chamber, reflecting off the ornaments and bathing everyone in a scintillating iris of color.
If Beaconfield was broke, you couldn’t tell it from the spread.
The decor was matched by the opulence of the guests, who filled the room with a low hum of festivity and amusement. Next to me a pudgy noble with bad skin and a cloak made of peacock feathers gestured flamboyantly to an anemic youth dressed in skintight, gold-threaded pants. To my left a middle-aged woman who might have been comely if she weren’t so desperate to appear youthful was wearing a choker with an emerald the size of a baby’s fist.
A server came by, shockingly beautiful in a silver costume that exaggerated more than it concealed. On her tray were flutes of champagne and the vials of pixie’s breath I had sold to Beaconfield the day of the duel. She accompanied these two with a look that suggested there was a third option on offer. I took a glass of bubbly and declined the rest, and the vixen cycled onward. The champagne was very good, as would be expected.
The woman with the choker slid over, inspecting me with all the subtlety of a dog in heat—it seemed she had no better taste in men than jewelry. Up close she looked like someone better seen from farther away. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” she began.
“Are you mad? I had you last year at Lord Addington’s spring formal! We went behind his pagoda and I took you from the rear. You said I was the best you’d ever had!”
The color drained from her face—clearly she didn’t find my scenario entirely implausible. Stammering an explanation she hurried off, leaving me to watch the celebration solo. I grabbed another glass of bubbly the next time a waitress came by.
Beaconfield was standing across from the statue of Śakra, as befitted his status as host and his general self-importance. He waved me over as if he’d just noticed my presence, though in fact he’d been watching me since I’d come in.
Up close the light was blinding, vivid orange-yellow washing away detail and nuance. The Blade had his arm tight around a perfect-looking Mirad woman, and smiled at me like we shared a joke. No reason to allow my slaughter of his associates to color our burgeoning friendship.
“Darling, this is the man I was telling you about.” He made no move to introduce us.
“Charmed,” I said, without taking my eyes off Beaconfield. “This is quite a party. It must have set you back a copper or two.”
Beaconfield leaned toward me, champagne overrunning the lip of his glass. “What’s money?”
“Nothing, if you got it. Wake up broke and you’ll start refiguring your scales.”
He swallowed the res
t of his drink. “I have to admit, I was surprised to hear you’d be joining us. I didn’t think you went in for this sort of tomfoolery.” His hand ran down the nape of the girl’s neck, her pleasant docility unaltered.
“I couldn’t let the evening slip by without paying you the compliments of the season.”
“I love Midwinter—the promise of rebirth and renewal, the past year forgotten, the new one yet ahead.”
“If that’s how you look at it.”
“And how do you look at it?”
“As a distraction from the cold,” I said.
The Blade turned hard. “The cold came early this year.”
“Yes, it did.”
Beaconfield’s woman broke the silence. “Do you have a resolution?”
“I’m resolving to make it to next Midwinter,”
I said. “That doesn’t sound too challenging.”
“Some of us will have trouble with it.”
I took the approach of another guest as an opportunity to make my exit. “Far be it for me to monopolize the attentions of our host,” I said. “And I’m afraid I need to find the powder room.” I bowed to Beaconfield and the slattern and made for an exit.
A guard slumped against the main stairway, clearly not ecstatic about manning a post four rooms away from a budding orgy. I built a roll into my gait. “Say brother, which way to the head? I’m about to drain down my pants.” While he decided whether household security took priority over service to the master’s guests I brushed past him. He offered my back a belated grunt of agreement, and I took a side corridor and found my way to the servant’s entrance.
Getting onto the mansion’s grounds wouldn’t be difficult for Kendrick, the defenses little more than a dozen acres of greenery protected by a tall hedge. Nor did I imagine he’d have much trouble with the lock, although it was new and well designed. But I’d been doing this too long to pass up an advantage, and I slid open the bolt and unfastened the bottom catch before heading back the way I’d come.
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