by Neil McGarry
Taggart stood silent for a long moment, eyes distant with calculation. Then he nodded curtly—once at Duchess, then at Castor—and relaxed his stance. He tossed a small coin pouch at Lepta’s feet and went inside the house without ever having spoken.
Hadron glared at Lepta, then turned back to Duchess, and even in the dim light, she could see the sheen of sweat on his brow. “Now what happens?” The knife was still in his hand.
“I want you to understand exactly what your partner here has done.” She glanced at Lepta, who was trying desperately to appear nonchalant. “The last time we met, you told me that I’d have moved against you if I could, which was very perceptive, and, at the time, very true. If you’d left it at that, you might have gotten away with it. But you got greedy, and when you started this Doctor Domae thing, the Grey noticed. I’m guessing one or two people stopped by after a show with some pointed questions and you remembered our talk about the Highway. Then you came up with the idea of claiming you were Grey and when they pressed you on who’d given you a cloak, you used the only name you knew: mine.” Duchess looked at Hadron. “Clearly she had no qualms about lying to you as well.”
Duchess had a certain grudging admiration for Lepta—it had been an incredibly audacious move that had worked mostly by luck. Not being Grey, there was no way for Lepta to know that Duchess’ reputation had fallen so low that she’d likely never find out the truth. And of course the more the Grey heard that Duchess had cloaked someone like Lepta, the worse her reputation became. If it hadn’t been for Darley’s greed, Duchess might still be ignorant of the whole business, simply falling further and further in the Grey’s estimation.
Duchess smiled. “What happens now is that I tell you precisely just how close to the precipice you stand. You’re on the wrong side of the Grey, and that means you don’t have a friend in this city, as Ophion’s reaction should have made clear. The Grey want you punished, and they’ve given me full discretion in how you’re to be dealt with.” No messenger had appeared at her door, true, but the general consensus was clear. “I could kill you both right here and now and no one would blink an eye.” She stated the last as blandly as she could, trying to keep the quaver from her voice. “The blackarms wouldn’t investigate, and even if they did, any witnesses would find themselves unable to remember anything that happened. There wouldn’t even be a priest to say a prayer over your graves.”
“So then we’ve got nothing to lose by fighting,” Hadron said, although he did not seem eager to start.
Duchess shrugged. “You could try, but the Grey doesn’t look kindly on those who murder its members, particularly in a situation like this. Even if you succeeded in killing the three of us, you’d soon get another late-night visit.” She let that sink in, then added, “Luckily, I can offer you a third option, if you’ll drop your blades and listen.”
Hadron stared at her a long moment, then slowly and carefully laid his knife on the ground, gesturing for Lepta to do the same. The woman obeyed, grudgingly. “We’re listening,” he said.
“Excellent.” Duchess stepped forward and took Hadron and Lepta each by one arm. Hadron glowered and Lepta flinched slightly, but neither stopped her. Then she began walking them away along the lane, with Castor and Aaron close behind. “We’re going to head for Tradesgate, and when we get there, you’re going to walk right through it and keep walking. In fact, you’re going to walk for a very, very long time. Understand?”
“What about our things?” Lepta squealed.
“Your wagon and the rest? Oh, that’s staying. You’re leaving in the clothes you stand up in. People as clever as you shouldn’t have a problem making a fresh start somewhere else.” Duchess had to admit that she was enjoying this part entirely too much. Yes, she wanted whatever money she could wring from that dreadful wagon to pay back Nigel for his losses, but money really wasn’t an issue any more. What she really wanted was for Lepta to limp away from this little encounter.
“We can’t get through Tradesgate at night!” Hadron protested weakly. “The guards won’t let us.”
“Oh, they surely will,” she reassured him. She glanced over at Castor and smiled. “We’ve a way with the blackarms, you see, and I wouldn’t want your journey delayed for any reason. There’s a whole world out there for you to explore. How exciting!”
Chapter Twenty-One: Face to face
Of all the ways she’d dreamed of finding P, she’d never expected to meet him face to face.
She’d spent the afternoon going over numbers with Lysander in her office, huddling near the hearth to warm against a strange and sudden cold that had descended upon the city with the end of fall. The dice game she’d pried from Julius had turned out to be more profitable than she’d ever anticipated, but that meant a good deal of record-keeping. She had to admit that Lysander was doing a good job keeping on top of it all. The Grieving Bier received a cut for hosting the game, as did Aaron, who made sure none of the customers got overenthusiastic.
“How’s he working out?” she asked, as they were finishing up.
“He’s just as much an ass as when he was younger,” Lysander replied bluntly, “but he’s an ass I know how to handle. A good thing, too, with the Feast of Fools coming up. Every gate in the city will be opened wide, and the nobles can be shaken clean of every last sou before they head back up hill. If we play it right, we’ll make a fortune.” He rubbed his hands together. “I like these new problems we’re having!”
She was walking Lysander to the door when the knock came.
“Zachary?” Lysander lifted an eyebrow when Duchess opened the door to reveal the leader of the Tenth Bell Boys. “Better check your purse; he probably lifted it before you even opened the door.”
The lightboy flashed a gap-toothed grin. “Like you never slipped a hand into a pocket or two!” He scratched at a thicket of brown hair and produced from his own pocket a folded piece of parchment. “Anyways, I never steal when I’m on business. Been carrying this all morning for you.” He handed Duchess the paper and she noted the wax seal stamped with two books flanking a scroll. The mark of the scholars’ guild, if she were not mistaken.
While she broke the seal and read, Lysander pulled Zachary into a hug, earning a squeal of disapproval. The boy might look innocent, with his wide eyes and easy smile, but no lightboy stayed innocent for long. Their lives were hard, dangerous, and often short, and it was good to know that Zachary was still around.
“When are you two coming back to The Merry Widow?” Zachary was saying. “Shari was asking about you, as were the other boys.” He made a face. “And the girls.”
Lysander did not miss the reference to the other ganymedes, for whom Zachary had little affection. “You miss us?”
Duchess finished the letter, feeling a tickle of unease in her belly, but she said nothing. “He’s a real softie, this one,” she told Lysander, tucking the letter away.
“That’s what everyone says.” Zachary made no sign of leaving, and Duchess dug in her pocket for a sou. A big tip for one message, but these days she could afford to be generous.
Zachary eyed the coin. “I didn’t even open the letter!” he protested. She rolled her eyes; Zachary had likely heard of her recent successes and was holding out for more. She couldn’t blame him, really; when you lived like Zachary, you took your coin wherever you could find it. She added another sou. “That should hold you over until we see you at the Widow, where you all miss us—buying the rounds, that is.”
Zachary shrugged. “Why can’t we miss both your company and your coin?” He held up the money with a wink and then was out the door.
Lysander chuckled as he watched the boy go. “He’s got a point, you know. All of this business and responsibility has gone a bit too far, if you ask me. Hells, I haven’t seen the girls in an age.” He focused on her. “You look grim. What was in the letter?”
She wished for a cup of wine but instead went for her cloak. “It’s from Cecilia. She’s found something.”
* *
*
Cecilia fell upon her as soon as she came within sight of the great, gargoyle-festooned building in the heart of Scholar’s District that was the Imperial Scriptorium. Marcus Kell had never brought his daughter here, claiming that the place was not for little girls, but everyone knew that the imposing structure of gray stone was home to all of the city’s scholars, serving as guildhall, headquarters, and a vast repository of lore of all kinds. By imperial edict, the scholars were entitled to copy any written work that came to their attention, so they were forever adding to their libraries.
Duchess had often dreamed of the Scriptorium when she was small and still remembered her childish desire to wear a blue robe and spend her days wandering among quills and ink and the smell of paper. Those dreams had burned in the fire along with everything else, vanishing just as surely as Justin.
“What took you so long?” the red-haired woman in blue robes asked, clutching Duchess by the arm. Without waiting for an answer, she whispered, “I’ve found it!”
“Found...?”
“I can’t explain here. Come.”
The entranceway was guarded by men in blue leather armor, with steel-shod clubs hanging from their belts. They glanced at Cecilia’s robes, as if assuring themselves that she belonged, and did not bar the way as the scholar pulled open the heavy iron-bound doors.
“The scholars have their own guards?” Duchess asked as they passed inside into the cool, arched dimness of a wide corridor. The pale sunlight slanting in through the tall windows did little to dispel the gloom.
“They’re novices,” Cecilia explained. “Everyone who takes the blue has to serve the Scriptorium in whatever capacity is necessary: cleaning, cooking, copying old works, and even guarding the doors. They even made me do it, which they seemed to think would discourage me from continuing my studies. But I put on that armor and stood my watches like the rest.”
They left the corridor and entered a hall that would have made Anassa’s Sanctum seem small by comparison. A great square space, with arches on every side, and pillared galleries stacked one atop the other, nearly reaching the ceiling one hundred feet above. Looking up, she could see that those levels were full of rows and rows of shelves, containing an endless profusion of books. Thousands, easily, and that was only within her immediate view; how many were stored in other parts of the building?
Everywhere she looked were blue robes reading at scroll-laden tables, conversing in corners, or carrying scrolls and papers this way and that. Although no one spoke above a murmur, the echoing gray stone hall was filled with the susurrus of a hundred conversations. Cecilia led the way towards an arch on the far side of the chamber, seemingly unaware of the fact that conversations tended to falter as she passed, as their participants glanced at her with looks of blended curiosity and contempt. Noticing those glances, Duchess felt a flash of sympathy for Cecilia; it wasn’t easy to be a woman in this city, particularly a woman with talent. Both law and custom favored men, but somehow it wasn’t enough to keep them from viewing women with suspicion.
They exited through an arch, turned along several corridors, and passed through another great set of doors, overseen by another set of guards. Beyond was a room out of Duchess’ dreams. Row upon row of wooden lecterns stood under great windows that flooded the room with light. At each, a robed figure stood with two books laid out before him. These must be the copyists her father had spoken of, when he had told her tales of his own journeyman days in the Scriptorium. Apprentices spent years in this room, learning by doing, duplicating endless words, pictures, and illuminations upon the pages. There was no murmur of conversation here, but only the dipping of quills in ink and the scratching of quills on paper. Between the rows walked the masters, looking over shoulders and giving an occasional word of encouragement or correction.
As a girl, she would have happily spent years here, with an endless stream of words and ideas passing under her hands, but Cecilia did not slow. She led Duchess through another doorway and around a few more twists and turns. “It’s through here,” she whispered, “in one of the meeting rooms.”
“What is?”
Ceclia flashed a smile. “I’ve found the owner of your coin.”
Just then they rounded a final corner and came to a man seated at a table with several scrolls laid out before him. He seemed to be consulting the first two and then jotting notes upon a third. At their approach he looked up with bored brown eyes which hardened when they saw Cecilia. “Lady Payne,” he sneered. “The meeting rooms are off-limits to acolytes.” He turned back to his scrolls. “As well you know.”
If his words or his tone touched her, Cecilia gave no sign. “I haven’t been an acolyte in years, Porthos,” she replied, “as well you know. Savant Terence has the room reserved and has for weeks. Now let me pass.”
Porthos glanced up again and frowned. “Terence is trusting you rather further than he should.” For a moment, he seemed ready to argue, then gave a disgusted grunt and waved them on dismissively. “He’s going to regret it one day,” he muttered to their backs as they passed.
“Actually, I reserved the room,” Cecilia whispered once out of earshot, “using the savant’s name.” She rolled her eyes. “Porthos is just showing off for you. He was a novice longer than I was, even though we were admitted to the Scriptorium at the same time. Also he’s jealous that Savant Terence is my mentor, whereas he’s stuck with a master who likes beer almost as much as books.”
“Are they always like that? Not just Porthos, but all of them?”
Cecilia shrugged and stopped before a polished wooden door. “You get used to it or you leave. Those are your options,” she replied. She flashed another smile and fumbled for a key. “I’m sure you can guess which I’ve chosen.” The woman’s determination was heartening, and Duchess found herself smiling as well.
Cecilia unlocked the door and swung it open. Inside was a large, well appointed room, with richly upholstered chairs and settees on a deep rug, a table piled with books, a fire burning in a hearth large enough to roast an ox, and tapestries hanging from the walls. The air smelled of honey and lilac.
Duchess followed Cecilia inside and closed the door. “So why did we have to come all the way back here?” she asked. She caught sight of the rubbing Cecilia had taken earlier, lying on a stack of scrolls. “If you wanted to show me something in a book you could have done that just as easily outside.”
“Oh, we’re not here for books,” Cecilia replied, her smile widening. She strode across the rug towards the far wall, where there hung a large tapestry of a mounted hunter riding through a forest with a pair of leaping dogs. Cecilia pushed one of the chairs against the wall next to the hanging and climbed up, gesturing for Duchess to do the same on the other side. Confused, Duchess did as she was bid and watched as Cecilia began fiddling with the hooks to which the tapestry was fixed. “It’ll come down quickly once I’ve gotten this untied, so be ready to catch it. The thing’s heavy, too; I nearly threw out my back the first time I did this.”
“What are we doing?”
Cecilia’s face was flushed with effort. “The Scriptorium,” she grunted, pulling at her side of the tapestry, “like many of the buildings in the upper regions of the city, dates back to Old Domani. Only buildings in the lower districts were knocked down.” At this she gestured to the wall, made of the same gray stone as was found throughout the city. “This building, the Imperial Palace, half the guildhalls—they’re all either built on Domae foundations, or else they’re Domae originals that survived intact. Hard to believe, isn’t it, that any structure could last so long?”
The tapestry began to slip to one side and Duchess helped hold it up. “The wonders of the Domae, I suppose, but what does this have to do with the coin I showed you?”
Cecilia’s eyes focused on some far distance, her hands still working behind the tapestry. “It’s not only the old walls that survived, but what lay upon them. Have you ever seen the inside of the palace dome?”
Duch
ess remembered the procession during the Fall of Ventaris, when she had witnessed the enormity of the Imperial Palace with Gloria Tremaine. There, far above, the faces of the ancient Domae had looked down upon them. “Paintings,” she said, realizing what the scholar was driving at.
Cecilia nodded, smiling triumphantly. “Here it comes,” she said as the tapestry buckled and began to fall. Duchess helped her lower it to the ground. “Lady Duchess, allow me to introduce you to Philemon.”
Painted on the gray stone was a portrait, amazingly well preserved, of a Domae man in his thirties, standing in a room very like the one in which they now stood, as if the wall were only a mirror. Some of the color had flaked off here and there, and there were a few cracks in the wall, but the image was still remarkably brilliant and clear for having laid upon the stone for centuries. The man was smiling, the skin crinkling around his dark eyes even as he stood very properly with his left hand on his hip. He wore a thickly-embroidered gray robe chased with silver and gold, with long, heavy cuffs and a collar nearly hidden by the thick waves of his black hair.
In his right hand he held the Ruling Mask of House Davari.
Place it on his face, she thought, tatter those robes until only a gossamer filament remained, and it would be the figure from her dreams.
Duchess reached out for the chair to steady herself. “Who is he?” she asked, not taking her eyes from the wall.
Cecilia seemed to not notice her reaction. “Who was he, you mean,” she replied, striding to the table. “Philemon was the last emperor of Old Domani.” She gestured towards the table full of tomes and Duchess followed on unsteady legs. The scholar carefully placed two books before her and beside them she gently positioned the rubbing she’d taken, now covered in notes. “He oversaw the end of his people, the last of his line.”