by Neil McGarry
Jana paused, fingering a square of yellow cloth. “Selling to a single customer would make things easier, yes. Since we would have only one customer we could turn the shop into a workroom and concentrate entirely on weaving. But I cannot forget just who that customer would be. Gloria Tremaine made it very difficult for me to join the guild, you will remember.”
As if Duchess could forget; the events leading to the Fall of Ventaris had happened because of Jana’s inability to get a license to work. “That wasn’t personal on her part,” Duchess pointed out. “I wouldn’t take it that way, if I were you.”
“If you were me, I would be you, and there would have been no issue in getting a license,” Jana countered gently. “When someone thinks me unworthy of her time because of the color of my skin, how can I not take that personally?”
Duchess bit her lip, abashed. It was easy to forget that in Rodaas, suspicion and disdain for Domae was as common as the evening fog, and just as unremarked. If she had to deal with the everyday shunning and shortchanging that was the Domae lot, she might feel less inclined to dismiss Tremaine’s opposition as mere business. “I should have seen that,” she conceded. “It’s not always easy to see things from another’s point of view.”
Jana smiled and put a hand on her arm. “It is not, but you at least try.” She went back to folding. “There is something else here I do not like. Tremaine says I must produce more cloth, and that she will provide all the apprentices I need. Such apprentices would be known to the guildmaster, picked by her—”
“—and would report to her,” Duchess finished. “So Gloria Tremaine not only gains a monopoly on our product, but neatly places a spy in our midst.” She gave Jana an admiring look. “How suspicious of you, Jana, to think of such a thing. We’ll make an edunae of you yet!”
Jana giggled. “Maybe next I will join this Grey, yes?” She glanced around before she said this. Jana knew enough to know it was wise never to mention the Grey carelessly. Yet they were alone in the shop and Duchess found her caution endearing. “Tremaine will invite you to a party, you said. Who are these Davari?”
“The most powerful family in the city. Hells, in a lot of ways they are the city.” She tried to recall what she’d read about them in her father’s study, long ago. “They’re an ancient family, going back to the founding of the empire.” A memory came to the surface, unbidden. “There’s a story about them that I both loved and hated as a child.”
Jana smiled. “Then I must hear this story.”
In her mind’s eye Duchess could see herself as a child, draped over the scroll, reading the same account over and over for a whole afternoon. “It was at the very beginning of things, when my people first came out of the north, after your people had abandoned the hill. The great families of the northlands entered the city, driving out the tribal folk who had squatted here after the Domae had left, and found the great artifacts the Domae had left behind—the Avenue of Trees, the Godswalk, the Delaying Glass, all of it. According to the story one tribe fought to the end, desperately holding the very top of the hill near the imperial palace.” Duchess noted Jana’s rapt attention and wondered fleetingly if Cecilia had ever come across this tale in her studies.
“There was a great battle,” she went on, “and the northlanders fought their way to the top of the hill and there they found the tribesmen making a last stand around a statue that they believed was sacred. Upon its face was a mask and one of the Rodaasi, the greatest warrior of her family, realized it was the key to their victory. She cut her way to the statue, snatched up the mask and placed it upon her face, claiming it and all she surveyed for her and her children and their children for all time.”
“Who was she?” Jana asked in an almost reverent whisper.
“She was called Iceni, and according to legend she founded House Davari. I never read much else about her, beyond this one story. Maybe she never really existed.” Duchess shook her head. “In any case, when the tribes saw this they broke and ran, leaving the city to the Rodaasi. It wasn’t long after that that the northlanders, remembering Iceni’s claim, began to argue among themselves over who would rule.” She smiled sardonically. “Which sounds rather Rodaasi.”
“They were choosing an emperor?” Jana asked, a strange look on her face.
Duchess nodded. “I think so. It’s funny, the things I can remember about the tale, even now.” Part of her could still feel that long-ago scroll, dusty and dry under her fingers as they traced the words. “Iceni claimed rule by right of conquest—after all, it was she who’d broken the last resistance—but the other leaders were jealous of her power. They said that no woman would lead them, even if she killed ninety-nine men that day. And so a deal was struck: if Iceni could defeat the first hundred men sent against her, she would be empress.” She well remembered this part of the tale, for it had been illuminated with figures fighting for their lives. “Iceni was mother of a great family, as loved as she was feared, and yet one hundred were found to stand against her. One by one these chosen were sent, and one by one they fell to her blade. Ninety-nine died, and when the hundredth came forth to face her, clad in a mask of his own, he moved like a man in mourning. Iceni assumed it was because he knew he was about to die, but it was of no consequence to her. She fought like a demon, blocking each blow and turning every thrust, hacking at her opponent’s shield until it was smashed to splinters.” She hadn’t told this story in years, and in the interim it had lost none of its savor. “She disarmed her foe and when he fell to his knees before her, she ordered him to show his face, that she would know whose death had won her a throne.” Duchess felt a sudden pang of nostalgia for that long-ago afternoon. “When the mask was pulled away, she saw the face of her husband, pressed into service by the other great families. The face of her beloved, sent to his certain death. She threw down her sword and lifted him to his feet, and that was the end of her ambition.”
Jana clapped. “How wonderful! You tell that tale so well, and it has a happy ending. I see why you loved the story, but why would you hate it?”
Duchess grimaced. “Because Iceni lost. The great families tricked her and chose a man to become the first emperor of Rodaas.”
“But what did she lose?” Jana seemed honestly puzzled. “She did not need to kill her man to prove she was the greatest warrior of her people. In sparing her husband’s life she may have lost her crown, but she kept her true love. He was family. What is more important than that?”
Duchess frowned. “You have a strange way of looking at things, Jana. I never thought of it that way before.”
“And what became of Iceni and her beloved?”
“She was still mother of a great family, and that family survived. In time, the tribes became the greater and lesser houses as we know them today. As for the mask...”
“Yes?” Jana asked, looking suddenly serious.
“The first emperor tried to take it from Iceni,” Duchess replied, wondering why it was so important to know, “after he’d been crowned.”
“But he could not take it.” It was not a question.
“Correct. Iceni did not lose everything that day, for when the emperor placed his hand upon that mask, he cried out and fell back, and everyone saw that his hand was withered. Iceni claimed the mask for her and hers, for all time, and it’s said that even to this day only those of Davari blood can safely touch the mask.” She’d always dismissed that as a child’s tale, but given the things she had witnessed—the walking dead, the voice from deep beneath the earth—she found herself less skeptical.
“So this mask is real?”
“So I’m told, though I’ve never seen it. Apparently, whichever Davari holds the mask rules the House, so whenever a lord dies his children snarl over it like wolves. Old Man Davari passed only a month ago, just before the Fall. I imagine there were some fine old fights before that was settled.”
Jana laughed. “That part of the story is not as romantic.”
Castor’s entrance spared her a resp
onse. His cloak was wet and his boots muddy, but she sensed victory in his bearing. As the warrior stepped inside he glanced upwards at the sounds of laughter from above. “He upstairs?”
Duchess did not have to be told who he was; Castor always asked after Far the moment he came back from wherever he’d been. “He and Lysander are making a mess of the third floor.” She met his gaze squarely, almost daring him to object, but he held his peace. She sighed. “So did you ask around about apartments?”
He nodded. “You were right. I found them just where you said they’d be.”
She smiled. It was nice to have things go her way for a change. “I’ll extract Lysander from the battle and pay our friends a little visit shortly.” She raised a hand before he could ask. “No need for you to join us. You’ve done enough for today. Besides, someone might have seen you asking about, and I don’t want those two to see you around until we’ve had a chat.” She paused, then smiled. “Go spend some time with your boy.” She turned back to Jana. “I’ll leave the rest to you,” she said, heading towards the stairs.
“Where are you going?” Jana asked.
She called up the stairs as she took them two at a time. “Lysander! Who’s off with me to con a con?”
“No one!” came his laughing reply.
Chapter Six: Hearsay and heresy
“You have to admit they’ve got taste,” Lysander said, turning a slow circle to look around the room. The apartments behind the tailor’s shop were large and well appointed, with Ulari rugs and wall hangings and comfortable chairs around carved wooden tables. Lepta and Hadron lived in style, although they might have done better investing in stronger locks. Lysander had tickled open theirs in half a moment. Neither of the pair were present at this hour, just as the tailor had assured Duchess when he’d taken her silver.
“Con artistry apparently pays well,” she replied, examining a blue settee with yellow silk pillows.
Lysander slouched in one of the chairs. “So I’ve heard.” He smiled like a shark. “Not that I’d know.” She snorted and sat down in another chair while Lysander propped his feet on a table, unmindful of the white cloth that covered it. “How did you find them, anyway? It’s not like you could frune around their names, which are probably phony anyway, and certainly not with Nigel listening.”
She shrugged. “I guessed Lepta and Hadron would be living well, which left out Deeps, Wharves and Shallows, but not too well, which meant either Market or Trades.” It went without mentioning that people like Hadron and Lepta couldn’t even get arrested in the upper districts. “The folks in Trades all tend to know each other, which left Market. It was easy enough to have Castor ask after who’s been renting rooms recently and then to eliminate the ones that didn’t fit Nigel’s description. If you also count out the apartments that are noisy, stinky, or near the blackarms’ holdfasts, the only two left are this one and a place owned by a radiant and someone whom I presume is his mistress.”
Lysander lifted an eyebrow. “I thought radiants weren’t supposed to have property.” He paused. “Or mistresses.”
“You do recall Preceptor Amabilis, I hope? They may wear white, but some of the faithful are redder than Uncle Cornelius.” She stood and paced about the room, noting the small figures and statuettes that stood on the tables. “Speaking of priests, things are getting worse on the Godswalk.”
Lysander blinked. “Worse than what we saw?”
“Much. How do false prophecies strike you?”
“There are true ones?” Everyone knew that the facets sold their prophecies for gold, but that wasn’t what she meant.
“No, I mean false as in faked.”
That got his attention. “Really? Who’s stupid enough to forge a facet’s augury?”
Duchess grinned. “Oh, but there was no forgery. The scrolls looked authentic at a first glance, but apparently they were all signed at the bottom, which the real ones never are. That was enough for the Imperial Council to rule that no true forgery was committed, but that didn’t keep the people who’d received them from flooding the Sanctum to ask what Anassa meant when she said that the day of the painted whore was nearly upon them, and that all men of good heart should put on their best underskirts.”
Lysander could not breathe for laughing. “Whatever else you might say about this Evangelism, it’s certainly been entertaining. Please tell me you got hold of one of those scrolls.”
Just then, the noise of footsteps came from outside, and Duchess motioned him to silence. She stood near the hearth, one hand near the hilt of her dagger. She didn’t expect trouble from these two, but you never knew. A key rattled in the lock and the door opened, admitting a woman perhaps ten years older than Duchess, with fair skin and hair and eyes as black as pitch. Not especially attractive, Duchess reflected, but certainly striking. No wonder Nigel had been taken in. The woman stopped dead when she saw them.
“Who—do I know you?” Her voice was a bit lower than one would expect, but silky nonetheless.
“Not yet,” Duchess replied, “but you will. They call me Duchess.”
The woman’s dark eyes measured her coldly even as her lips turned up in a tentative smile. “And who is this?” She indicated Lysander, who’d not bothered moving from his seat. A nice touch, that.
“He’s here to keep things even, in case Hadron is with you. He isn’t, is he? Well, that gives us girls a chance to talk.” She resumed her seat. “Please,” she said, indicating a third chair.
Lepta sat, puzzlement flavoring her smile. “I’m rarely given permission to sit in my own home,” she said lightly, but Duchess could sense her tension. “What is it we girls”—her glance included Lysander—“need to discuss?”
“Nigel, for a start. You recall him? He runs a pawn shop in the Shallows. He and I have a...professional relationship, and he seems to think you’ve cheated him. Something involving a table you ‘inherited’.”
Lepta let not a flicker or twitch betray her, Duchess noted with a certain admiration. “I’m afraid you have the wrong woman,” the woman said in tones of honest regret and confusion. “I’ve not inherited anything recently, table or otherwise...”
Lysander barked laughter. “Smoother than silk, this one is.”
Duchess frowned and tried to summon her best imitation of Minette. “Now, let’s not start our relationship by denying things we both know are true. I respect anyone who can live by her wits, but I think here you’re in over your head. In Rodaas, no one does just as she likes, and we can’t just cheat whomever we please. There are rules that must be observed. And when it comes to clever work, you need the permission of the Grey.” Lysander glanced at her, obviously surprised she’d mention the name so openly. “You’ve heard of the Highway, I presume?”
Lepta’s face was so still it might have been made of stone, the confusion and regret long gone. “Rumors,” she said neutrally. “Nothing more.”
“The Grey is rumor, that’s true, but I can assure you it’s much, much more. Just about every dirty deal that’s done in this city is done by the Grey or with its blessing, and we don’t brook outsiders upsetting the apple-cart. In cheating Nigel, you didn’t upset the cart, you burned it down. In Rodaas, that can get you in a good deal of trouble.” She leaned back in her chair, now emulating Uncle Cornelius. “I hate trouble. Things will go much easier for you if we manage to work together.”
“Work together how?” Lepta drawled, her face still impassive, but her eyes sharp.
“First, you’ll have to hand back the money you took from Nigel, that’s a given. Second, you’d need to perform some small service for him, one that only someone of your talents could accomplish. I’m sure you’ll think of something.” That should mollify Nigel. “Third, when that task is done, you and Hadron will leave the city, never to return. Ply your trade as you like elsewhere, but don’t make the mistake of plying it here. The Grey doesn’t give second chances.”
“Leave the city.” Lepta tilted her head slightly. “And if I do not agree
? What then?”
Duchess sighed theatrically. “Well, then I’ll have to make certain that everyone knows that someone not of the color has been stepping where she shouldn’t. They’ll find you easily enough.” She gestured to Lysander. “We did, after all. And after that, well...things could get very nasty indeed.”
Lepta paused for a long moment, as if weighing her options. “You know, I’d heard of the Grey before coming to Rodaas, but I thought it was just a legend the locals like to tell foreigners.” It was her turn to sigh theatrically. “You managed to tell me an interesting tale, but while this Grey Highway of yours might be real, your threats are utter fiction.”
Duchess set her hands on the table, taken aback, and Lysander sat up. “You don’t believe I’ll do as I say?”
Lepta grinned like a cat in cream. “Not remotely.” She tapped her chin with one finger. “Let’s assume for a moment that the organization is real and that you belong to it. If you really intended to turn me in, you’d have done so already. Then you would have recovered that little man’s gold from my corpse after the Grey failed to give me a second chance. Instead, you’ve simply threatened me. Why? I think you’re either not a part of the Grey, or you are but you’re afraid to get them involved here.” She gave Duchess a long and searching look. “Perhaps you’ve something to hide? Or you’re not certain the Grey will take your part in this?” She shrugged. “It hardly matters.” Lepta rose from her chair and went to the door. “Don’t try to bluff a bluffer, my dear; I was telling lies before you were born.” She opened the door with a single graceful motion. “Now get out.”
* * *
“Damn,” Duchess muttered as they made their way back to the Shallows.
Lysander nodded. “I completely agree. That was an impressive performance.”
She gave him a look, but only a brief one. Market District was busy, and they had to watch their step on streets filled with men and women carrying bundles or pushing wheelbarrows. “You’re not helping, you know,” she growled.