“What if it weren’t you facing her?” she whispered. “Can’t you be the Viper for today rather than Longinus? The Viper doesn’t have a sister, right? Like in them stories you wrote. He ain’t afraid of…of her. Right?”
Longinus nodded.
“Plus I’ll be there,” she added, “and I know enough about swords to do some damage.”
“You can’t do much, Rory, or you’ll reopen your shoulder,” he replied. “And anyway, she’s a phenomenal swordswoman.” He fingered his baldric. “She’s unrivalled. I’m a good swordsman, but when it comes down to it I can’t… Well, you know.”
There was no time for Rory to answer. An escort of Varanguards arrived to take them to the docks. They deployed around Rory and Longinus, Rafe at their helm. His demeanour was so different, Rory almost didn’t recognise him. His eyes were dark and grim, no hint of his usual sardonic humour to be seen. The Varanguards wore ceremonial uniforms: purple with gleaming golden buckles, and at their wrists were golden spiked bracers. On their heads were the burnished helmets with their long horsehair ponytails and hidden knives. The helmets’ chinstraps were specially designed so that a particular movement of the chin was enough to unsheathe the knives.
The party made their way to Innec Dock, just a short walk away. The Old Girl was already there. The pale blue paste had been applied to her face thickly enough that her brown skin didn’t show through, making her look otherworldly. Her lips were painted a red so dark they almost looked black, and her eyes had also been painted dramatically. Her hair was piled high in thick coils held in place with heavy gold combs.
Next to her was another woman, who — other than a different chin and a lighter eye colour — looked like a younger version of her. She was dressed and made up identically, but where the Old Girl’s hair was iron grey, hers was shiny black.
“Ah, there you both are. This is my daughter, the Lady Martha. This is Longinus and Rory.”
Lady Martha nodded, seemingly as unaffected as the Marchioness at the prospect of an assassination attempt. Rory couldn’t remember what the etiquette was for the Old Girl’s daughter so she just nodded back, and nobody seemed to take offence.
“We’re going into the performers’ area,” said the Old Girl. “My bodyguards will keep a perimeter around us at all times. Longinus and Rory, you will walk behind Martha and me. You’ll each be paired with one of my Varanguards. If you see anyone that you recognise, or anything remotely suspicious, you are to inform them. I don’t need to remind you that your survival depends on me making it through today.”
Rory’s heart fluttered in her chest like a butterfly in a glass jar. It hadn’t quite seemed real earlier, when she had been reassuring Longinus, but now there was no turning back. She would be going head to head against Myran — against the Scarred Woman. She suddenly felt far too small, too weak, too inadequate for the task ahead. It was as though a great boulder had been put into motion, and unless she was quick, she was going to be crushed beneath it as it rolled past.
Overhead, the sky was full of roiling, iron-grey clouds. The atmosphere was thick and tense, as though the very air was waiting for Myran’s attack. Rory glanced up at the sky and fingered the talismans at her neck, praying that some god would hold the storm back until after the Revels.
“Move out,” called a deep voice.
And the procession set off.
* * *
Behind the gate was a maelstrom of artists, greasepaint, and feathers. Men and women contorted themselves into mad shapes as they limbered up, people rushed past in a blur of silk and sequins, and above them all rose the din of a hundred voices, louder than even the seagulls.
Rory kept a tight grip on the handle of her dagger, finding the cool, solid feel of it calming. She craned to see every single face they passed, head swivelling left and right like a weathervane. Every so often she glanced at Longinus, who was also scanning the crowd, his face drawn, lips pressed into a line.
When Rory spotted a woman with Myran’s height and build wearing black leather, she gasped. Immediately, the Varanguard next to her put a hand to his rapier and said, “Where?” But the woman in the crowd turned, showing a face that was distinctly devoid of scars.
“False alarm,” muttered Rory.
She opened her mouth to alert the Varanguard a dozen more times, and a dozen times she closed it as she realised her mind was playing tricks on her. Myran and Raynard danced in front of her eyes and disappeared as soon as she looked at them, blending back into the faces of strangers. So many faces, so many mirages.
The Marchioness and Lady Martha walked leisurely, taking the time to speak to each act, expressing their excitement ahead of the show. There was no rush, no urgency to their movements. No one would have been able to tell the threat they were under. Rory’s body, on the other hand, was so taut she felt like she might snap like a twig at any moment.
When they reached Cruikshank, it was a relief to see a familiar face that wasn’t an illusion. Rory felt her body relax a fraction. Cruikshank’s enormous spider was hidden under a tarp, and she was wrestling with a complicated-looking tool with three telescoping prongs. As soon as Cruikshank spotted the procession, she put the tool aside and went to speak to the Marchioness.
Norman walked past carrying an intricately engraved brass box.
“Hey!” Rory caught him by the arm. “Where you going? You should be helping Cruikshank.”
He yanked his arm back. “Got some errands to run. Mind your own business, anyway.”
The Varanguard stepped forward at once, hand on his rapier.
“Leave it,” called Cruikshank. Behind her, the Marchioness gave a tiny nod. “No need to worry, Rory, he’s working for a few different performers today. He’ll be coming back to me later. Leave the boy be.”
Norman scowled at Rory, but he gave the Varanguard a wide berth as he passed, shooting the man a wary glance.
The Marchioness and Lady Martha moved on, and the retinue followed. Cruikshank stopped Rory as she walked past.
“Here,” she said, handing her a pair of binoculars. “This will help when you get to the stadium itself. I’ll come give you both a hand as soon as I’m done.”
She gave Rory an encouraging smile and Rory tried to look confident as she took the binoculars. She returned to the procession and the visit continued undisturbed, until they reached the acrobats from Caracka. There was a flurry of panicked activity amongst the performers and stagehands. Beyond the rush of bodies, in the water, was a platform from which protruded five masts with perches along them and rope rigging. No doubt the acrobats would be performing various dives and jumps from the masts. At the top of the tallest, central mast was a long, horizontal beam, like the top of a ‘T.’
“What’s going on?” asked the Old Girl to a man who was rushing past.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he replied. “We’ve had to replace our soloist with his understudy, so it’s a bit of a rush to get things ready.” He sketched a small bow and ran off.
“I’m replacing him,” said a pretty woman with a haughty expression. She executed a graceful curtsy.
“How come?” asked the Old Girl.
“He died.” The acrobat’s face betrayed no emotion.
Rory felt every hair on her skin bristle. She stared and stared at the woman’s face, probing her memory for a sign of recognition. Nothing. She glanced at Longinus next to her, but he didn’t seem to recognise the woman any more than she did. A man with a swollen belly and short legs hurried over.
“A great honour, ma’am, truly, a great honour.” He bowed deeply to the Marchioness and then to Lady Martha. “I am Denbar, the manager of this troupe. You heard of our tragedy, our soloist…” He shot the understudy a warning look.
“What happened to him?” asked the Old Girl.
“He was drinking and whoring and he slipped,” replied the pretty woman, with careless contempt.
“He was inebriated,” said Denbar, stepping in front of her. “A terribl
e accident…”
The Marchioness turned to Rafe. “Find the whore,” she murmured.
“Oh, don’t trouble yourself,” said the understudy. “She’s over there.”
She pointed at a stagehand who was making some last-minute adjustment to a costume. Her eyes were red and swollen.
“Fetch her over, please,” said the Marchioness.
Denbar bowed and hurried over, bringing the girl back. She walked as though in a dream, letting him drag her along like a rag doll, and only executed a small curtsy when he prodded her. As she watched the scene, Rory felt a few drops on her hands and neck. She looked up worriedly at the sky, which was rapidly growing darker. She touched her talismans again, begging any god who would listen to hold off for long enough to get the Old Girl out of the performer’s area.
“We just heard of the terrible tragedy that befell the soloist,” said the Old Girl. “My commiserations. Could you please tell us what happened?”
“We were… He was drunk, and when he tried to get out of bed, he got tangled up in the sheets and he fell.” She began to cry softly, to the obvious disgust of the understudy.
“A most terrible stroke of bad luck,” added Denbar with another bow. “The nightstand was topped with marble and he hit the corner right on his temple.”
The stagehand cried louder, but her voice was lost in a deafening peal of thunder as the heavens opened. People shouted and ran for shelter, pelted by drops the size of pennies. Umbrellas appeared over the Marchioness and Lady Martha’s heads, the Varanguards hurrying to protect them from the rain.
“Have someone keep an eye on them,” the Marchioness called to Rafe over the din, as her bodyguards began ushering her towards the exit.
Rafe nodded, but before he could move a man shoved him aside, sprinting towards the Marchioness. Rafe threw himself forward, catching the man by one arm, while two more Varanguards pounced on him. Someone screamed. The Marchioness and Lady Martha were pulled to the ground and the Varanguards formed a screen in front of them.
It all happened so quickly, Rory and Longinus barely had time to draw their rapiers before the attacker was pinned to the ground and the Marchioness and Lady Martha were no longer visible behind the human wall of bristling weapons and slick black horsehair ponytails. Around them, the crowd had frozen with the stillness of held breath.
Rory noticed that the floor was littered with tiny sheaths. She carefully pointed her rapier towards the ground, knowing that a flick of a Varanguard’s ponytail would now be enough to slice her open like a ripe fruit.
Rafe got up, pulling the attacker with him. The man’s clothing was filthy and torn, and he smelled like a brewery. He was making vague gargling sounds, his body limp as a rag doll. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and the noises stopped. In his right hand was a stick with a darkened tip, and on his left hand was a line from which black veins were already spreading. Rory swallowed. He must have touched his own hand with the poisoned stick during the skirmish.
One of the Varanguards who had helped catch him was still laid on the ground, her body twitching, eyes wide with terror. On her breast was the golden crest that identified her as the captain. A tiny mark was on her cheek, smaller even than the one on the murderer’s hand. Darkened veins spread out from it.
Rafe let the attacker fall to the ground and knelt next to the captain. He removed the woman’s helmet, letting the rain fall on her face. The woman gasped and gurgled, eyes locked with Rafe’s. Then the twitching faded and she fell quiet.
Everyone watched in silence. The rain hissed, and water ran in great rivulets from noses and chins. The Old Girl and Lady Martha were still hidden behind their human screen of bodyguards, sheltered by several umbrellas. The Varanguards breathed heavily, watching for any other signs of attack.
“The paste,” said Longinus, startling everyone. “Wasn’t the captain carrying it? The rain can’t get to it or it will be ruined!”
An umbrella was immediately opened over the body. Rafe peeled back the woman’s sodden clothing with febrile hands.
“Shit.”
The jar’s lid was still strapped on, the fabric swaddled around it to protect it still in place. But one part looked like it had collapsed, no doubt crushed by the woman’s weight when she had fallen. It was soaking wet. Rafe hurriedly slipped it beneath his own clothing to keep it from the rain and stood up, staying under the umbrella.
“Move out,” he shouted.
Rory watched them push through a silent crowd that parted around them like water. Men picked up the attacker and the captain, and followed.
It had all taken little more than a minute, and in that time the full scope of the attack had crystallised in Rory’s mind. Myran didn’t have to carry out the attack, or any of her cronies for that matter. Anyone who could be bought could be given a deadly means of attacking the Marchioness.
The attacker hadn’t been familiar, he hadn’t been at the cistern with Myran and the rest, and yet Rory had seen countless men like him before. Men who looked and smelled desperate. Men who had fallen between the cracks. The entire crowd could be seething with assassins, each waiting for the right opportunity, and there would be no way to pick them out.
Chapter 41
Rory and Longinus hurried after the Marchioness and her bodyguards. The water stadium was a circular marina just off Innec Dock. A narrow channel linked it to the dock, allowing small steamers and barges to bring the performers through to the floating platform in the middle of the water. Tiered rows of benches rose around the water, each row already crawling with spectators, food sellers, palm readers, pickpockets, and street entertainers trying to make a few coins before the Revels.
The rain had begun to slow, and more bodies joined the crush, coming out from whatever shelter they had sought. Excitement seeped from the crowd, laughter and voices echoing against the stone walls that circled the stadium.
Across from the entrance channel, high above the water, was the Old Girl’s box. The Marchioness and her daughter were already within, seeking shelter from the rain. The Varanguards covered every possible entry point, but at a nod from Rafe they let Rory and Longinus through.
Beyond, the box bristled with yet more bodyguards, and there wasn’t so much as a cup bearer in sight.
The Old Girl’s face was grim beneath her protective makeup, now thickly streaked from the rain.
“Tell me,” she said, gesturing at the ceramic jar Rafe had pulled out from his clothing. Rory looked anxiously at Longinus’ face as he examined the paste within. He shook his head.
“Can you make more?” asked the Marchioness.
“There isn’t enough time for the reaction to take place,” he replied.
Rafe stepped forward. “We should postpone —”
“We’re postponing nothing,” said the Marchioness, interrupting him. “We’ve had the Revels in the rain often enough, and the winds are calm enough that there isn’t any danger to anyone.”
“Except to yourself,” pointed out Rafe.
“That may be, but if I postpone or cancel, the Emperor has won. I won’t be frightened into changing my behaviour. You two,” she said, turning to Longinus and Rory. “Find Myran.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Rory.
Longinus returned the broken jar with its useless paste, and they left the box in silence, striding past the grim Varanguards. Rory could see hard glints in their horsehair ponytails from the unsheathed blades. They would be able to hold back hundreds from where they were. But there were thousands in the crowd. How many had Myran armed with the poison? Rory looked at the crush of bodies beneath as they walked down the stairs from the Old Girl’s box. What if they were all poised for attack? Her skin crawled as she and Longinus plunged into the throng.
A cheer rose up around them. Looking back, Rory saw that the Marchioness had stepped forward to greet the crowd. The excitement from the people was palpable as they stamped their feet and clapped their hands and called the Old Girl’s name.
&
nbsp; The Marchioness lifted her arms to signify silence. The noise died down almost at once.
“Damsians!” Her voice echoed across the flat water. “Today marks the fortieth anniversary of Damsport's independence!” A deafening clamour rose up from the stadium in response. She raised her hands once more. “We welcome those of you who have come from abroad to commemorate this important day with us. The Damsian spirit is something to be celebrated. We are small, but we are fierce. No matter what happens, no matter what we face, we will always have our spirit, we will always have our independence!”
The crowd roared its approval. Over the din, the Old Girl called for the Revels to begin. Rory had to admire the woman. If Myran was listening, the Marchioness had told her clear as day that she was absolutely not afraid.
* * *
Rory and Longinus scanned the crowd as they moved through the spectators near the Old Girl’s box. Eager faces looked down at the Revels’ first performance, some already reddened by drink.
Music rose up from the musicians beneath the Old Girl’s box. Rory caught movement out on the water from the corner of her eye and she turned to look. Five Stuppaan men and women, their hair so fair it looked almost white, danced on the floating platform. They each held a long tube at the end of which were smouldering globes. They blew on one end of the tubes, twisting and swaying, so that the globes at the end grew and changed as though they were living things.
When the performance finished, five stunning statues of the finest glass were displayed on the floating platforms. In one swoop, the five dancers spun on their heels and smashed their tubes into the statues, shattering them in a tinkle of glass that made the crowd gasp.
This gave Rory an idea. She turned to Longinus.
“What if there’s a signal for the attack? Like them performers smashing the glass? Myran don’t even need to be here, maybe she’s given the poison to hundreds of people in the crowd, and told them to wait for a sign.”
Longinus shook his head. “No, she’d never leave something like that to anyone else. This isn’t just a normal assassination. This is theatrics; she’s putting on a show and she’ll want the eyes of the world on her. She’ll be here.”
The Viper and the Urchin: A Novel of Steampunk Adventure (Bloodless Assassin Mysteries Book 1) Page 23