by Neil McGarry
Before she stepped back into the street, she turned to Fiona. “All the city knows of the curse that withers any who would dare touch the Ruling Mask of House Davari. Don’t you believe it?”
Fiona raised an eyebrow. “I do not believe it; I’ve seen the results.”
“Then why do you think I can steal the Mask when all others have failed?”
Fiona did not react as expected. “I’ve spent a good deal of time watching my siblings, both with my own eyes and with those I have purchased over the years. Venn controls the family wealth, but I have my own incomes about which he knows nothing. So I know my kin better than any of them know me, and I can tell you that Iris is the most capable of the bunch; intelligent, cautious and perceptive. Were women permitted to inherit before men, she would have made a fine heir for our father. If Iris is convinced that you can succeed, then so am I.”
“So you trust her?”
Fiona laughed. “I trust neither of my sisters.” She gestured at Duchess’ hands. “Iris depends on faith. It’s why you met her at the Gardens of Mayu, I presume. I imagine she believes you both followers of the Dark Lady, and her faith blinds her. Something I presume you knew, or guessed.”
Duchess resisted the urge to hide her hands. “And Isabelle?”
“Isabelle depends on fear. I presume she threatened you with Gregor’s wrath?” She sighed. “That was unwise. Gregor is precisely as dangerous as Isabelle told you, but her leash on him is not as tight as she’d have you believe. Gregor’s passions have a way of running away with him, and when his blood is up he is quite capable of anything—including ignoring his dear, sweet sister.”
“And you, Lady Fiona? What do you trust?”
“Trust?” Fiona laughed again. “I trust no one, including and most especially you. Still, I need not trust Iris to heed her judgment, nor do I need to trust you to make use of your services. I need trust only myself and my understanding of the rest.” She gave Duchess a long look. “Trust will kill you, my dear, particularly when you are dealing with a Davari.”
Chapter Twenty-Six: The best lies
Duchess had thought Cecilia’s quarters would be the eye of the storm. She could not have been more wrong.
“You’ve come for your report,” Cecilia said with a marked lack of enthusiasm. The scholar looked the worse for wear—her orange hair in disarray, blue robes wrinkled and unkempt, eyes red from lack of sleep or crying or both.
Duchess stepped inside and closed the door behind her, feeling her jaw tighten. With her hands full with House Davari, the last thing she needed was trouble from Cecilia Payne. Lysander might believe she could do the impossible, but from where she stood, things were spinning out of control. She was now juggling all three of the Davari sisters, each one certain that Duchess was working for her and her alone. It was becoming difficult to remember what she’d told to whom, and which parts were actually true.
The tiny room Cecilia called home was a chaos of parchment, scrolls and books. A small writing desk and a smaller bed were barely visible beneath the debris. Cecilia sullenly offered her the room’s one chair, rubbing her eyes when she thought Duchess wasn’t looking. “I hope you had no problem finding me,” she said flatly, taking a seat on the bed, her back perfectly straight.
“None at all,” Duchess said truthfully. Most of the junior scholars slept three or even four to a room, but a different arrangement had been required for the city’s only female scholar. As with everything else about her, her fellow guildsmen hadn’t quite known what to do with regards to sleeping accommodations. In the end, they’d placed her in a private chamber normally reserved for visitors, which Duchess was certain bred even more resentment among the girl’s colleagues. Cecilia might see obstacles everywhere, but she came by that view honestly.
The scholar dug into the pile on her bed and produced two scrolls, which she offered to Duchess. “As we agreed.” The scrolls were freshly inscribed and covered with Cecilia’s small, neat handwriting. “I’m afraid that I no longer have your father’s diaries. The savant was quite clear on keeping them.”
Duchess blinked. “Terence has them?”
“That was the plan, was it not?” Cecilia said sharply.
“What do you—”
Ceclia went on as if Duchess had not spoken. “It took some doing, as I’m sure you presumed—the work on your research, I mean.” Duchess opened her mouth to respond, but the scholar overrode her. “Your original query about the Domae belief in the supernatural was vague, but I believe I’ve managed a rather workman-like response.”
“Cecilia, I don’t know what—”
The scholar spoke over her again. “The central theme of my findings, you’ll see, is vengeance, so it is not surprising that the most commonly mentioned supernatural being is the revenant. In Domae mythology, revenants are sins given form who provide justice by haunting wrongdoers, even beyond death.” At this she snatched one of the scrolls from Duchess’ hand, unrolled it and began to read. “Stories of the revenant, or the implacable as they are sometimes known, appear throughout history, most notably approximately three hundred years before Domani’s fall, dominating all further references from that point onward—”
“Cecilia...”
The hands that gripped the scroll tightened until Duchess thought the paper might tear. “The revenant, once formed, is linked to its victim, hounding him ceaselessly until he destroys himself. In some tales, the revenant itself is capable of—” She glanced up at Duchess, her face hard. “You can read the rest, but I conclude with a quote from your father, made reference to in his own work: For those whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.” The scholar thrust the scroll back at Duchess and stood. “There. We are finished. I have done what I have promised, and so have you. Precisely as promised, and nothing more. Now I am busy, so if you would—”
“Stop it!” Now Duchess was on her feet as well, uncomfortably close to Cecilia, but there was nowhere else to stand. “I don’t know what you think—”
“What I think?” Cecilia snapped. “What I know. I took my initial draft back to Savant Terence, along with the diaries. And he said no. As you knew he would. As you two had planned. Giving me what I thought I wanted, even while you passed along all of my research to the savant. It’s obvious that all of this was nothing more than a mere delaying tactic.”
Duchess found herself gaping. By every god of the Walk, the girl was mad. “Precisely what do you think Savant Terence and I were up to?”
“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?” Cecilia clenched her fists. “The savant plans to publish my thesis as his own!”
Laughing was a terrible thing to do in the face of such anger, but Duchess couldn’t help herself. The giggles burst from her lips before she could stop them, and she sat down again lest she fall over. She was reminded of her own experience in Meadowmere Manse, the night before the Fall, hiding in the rafters while the Atropi sat below. She had expected three terrible old monsters meeting to discuss her downfall, but had instead found three wrinkled old women who fell asleep over their tea and didn’t even know she existed. That made her laugh all the harder, and it was Cecilia’s turn to gape while Duchess got control of herself.
“Cecilia,” she said at last, wiping tears from her eyes, “I may be the first person in your life to ever tell you this, but it has to be said: you are not that important.”
Outrage and curiosity warred on the scholar’s face, but Duchess went on before she could reply. “I know how it is to see plots everywhere, and I know that here in the Scriptorium you’ve had to fight tooth and claw for everything you’ve gotten. You have this idea that the entire city revolves around thwarting you in some way, and now you’ve worked me into your little fantasy.” She waved the scrolls. “Yes, I let you think those diaries would convince Terence to approve your paper even when I knew they wouldn’t, but that wasn’t the only deception here. You deceived yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“I m
ean that there’s a religious war on, as you may have noticed. Savant Terence certainly has, and he’s wise enough to know that this Evangelism’s got the city on tenterhooks. Your paper, if you ever published it, could get you charged with heresy, and Terence is not going to let that happen. He cares about you, you fool.” She realized the truth even as she said it. “He had a chance, long ago, to make me the scholar my father thought I might be, but that was taken from him—and from me, I guess. His own daughter...well, let’s just say she has no interest in following in her father’s footsteps. In you he sees another chance, perhaps his last.”
Cecilia’s face seemed to collapse, and Duchess felt some hope that the scholar would actually listen, for once. “But he doesn’t—I don’t...”
Duchess sighed, suddenly feeling worn out. “Cecilia, you’ve gotten as far as you have by being more clever than everyone else. By being better, knowing better, and not letting anyone get a word in edgewise. But please believe me: things in this city are hard enough without you making them even harder.” She turned to the door. “Write a different paper, earn your blue robes, and work towards being a savant. By the time you get there the Evangelism will be over, Terence won’t have authority over you, and you’ll have earned the right to act the fool.” She stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind her. As she walked away, she told herself the sounds she heard were not Cecilia sobbing.
* * *
“Martin knows,” Fiona told Duchess the moment she stepped into the carriage, parked a few streets away from Market Square. The men at the reins were the same ones Fiona had employed last time. One was sporting a bandaged hand and the other a fat lip, and both had given her evil looks. Duchess had looked back without remorse.
“Martin knows what?”
“About the plan. About me, and Iris, and perhaps about you, too.” Fiona was clearly upset; there was tension around her eyes and lips, in every movement. “Isabelle must have told him. She was always weak, and you were a fool to put your trust in her.”
Duchess pressed her fingers against closed eyes and tried to marshal her thoughts. She glanced out the carriage windows to ensure no one nearby was listening. “How do you know this?”
“Because Venn met with me last night to give me a most important mission,” Fiona muttered, her voice dripping with contempt. “I’ve been tasked with approaching the radiants and strengthening their support for Attys’ claim to the imperial throne.”
Duchess’ mind raced. “And what’s wrong with that, precisely?”
“The radiants already support Attys,” Fiona said, as if Duchess were quite simple. “There’s no need to strengthen an alliance of iron. And there’s more.” She took a deep breath. “Iris was given the task of making overtures to the keepers.” She paused, and when Duchess did not react, she sighed, exasperated. “Don’t you see? Iris and I have been given tasks—mine unnecessary and hers impossible—to occupy our time. It’s all to culminate with a fete at Albastone, Lord Whitehall’s seat, a grand attempt to peacefully end the Evangelism and an official announcement of Attys’ betrothal to Isabelle. It’s obviously all a ploy to keep us too busy to move against Venn—and Martin. Oh, yes, I see Martin’s hand in that particular glove. As far as I know, Isabelle hasn’t been assigned a thing beyond attending, further proof that she’s betrayed you.”
Duchess thought quickly, knowing that she could not afford to show doubt before Fiona Davari. “If Isabelle told Venn the whole story, then why hasn’t Martin moved against me? I’m the linchpin; remove me and there is no plan. Martin must be clever enough to know that.”
Fiona seemed to take this in, nodding slowly. “True. He’d move to eliminate the source of the problem, if he could find it.” She tapped her fingers against the seat cushion beside her. “Like a hunted animal, he scents something in the wind but does not yet see the wolves in the woods. He’s frightened.”
Duchess smiled. “Precisely how you like him.”
Fiona grinned like shark. “Always.” Some of the tension seemed to go out of her. “How go things with my sisters, then? No signs of dissension?”
“Not with Iris, certainly. She’s done everything I’ve asked thus far. She gave me a potion to deal with Gregor’s hounds, enough to put them to sleep without harming them. She tells me the substance will need an hour to work, once administered.”
“Which is Isabelle’s part.”
Duchess nodded, trying to stay two steps ahead. “This party you mentioned, the one at Albastone, sounds precisely like the opportunity we need. Isabelle can administer the potion before you all leave, and when the Mask vanishes, you’ll all be in Martin’s view and above suspicion.”
Fiona nodded. “Martin can hardly complain about us all attending when it was his idea.” Her eyes narrowed. “What else have my sisters promised? And what have you promised in return?”
Duchess glanced out the window once more. “Iris will leave my lockpicks where I can find them. Each of them believes that I will leave the Mask in her chambers.”
Fiona leaned back in her seat. “I must say, that part of the plan is rather brilliant; you’d never get the Mask past the guards in any case. Still, we needs must discuss how you will get it to me.”
Duchess recalled Isabelle’s sketches of the estate. Fiona’s chambers were in the northernmost tower, barely sixty feet from the outer wall. Martin’s, of course, were in the opposite tower, as if even a manse as great as Banncroft were not large enough for the two of them. “Simply leaving it in your chambers is not sufficient, I presume? You don’t have a lock on your chamber door?”
Fiona rolled her eyes. “You do realize you’re speaking of the Davari, yes? We’ve been sneaking into each other’s rooms since we were old enough to walk. If that Mask is left unattended, one of my brothers or sisters will find it, on that you can rely. And before you ask, I’ve no hiding place I’d trust for something like this.”
Duchess smiled encouragingly. “I have an idea where I might put the Mask so as to be safe from even Martin.”
Fiona’s eyes narrowed. “If you think to betray me by stealing away with the prize, think again. Even if you truly are able to handle the Mask without injury, you’ll never get out of the estate with it. The guards will search you on the way out, and if you should think to climb the wall, know that Gregor’s dogs patrol the grounds as well as the house. You’ll be torn to pieces.”
Duchess tsked. “Such suspicion, my lady! I wouldn’t dream of breaking our trust, or trying to elude the dogs.” Fiona seemed somewhat satisfied with that. “And you’re sure Stavros will be home the night of the party?”
Fiona snorted. “Martin’s made certain to keep an eye on everything important and Stavros does not fall into that category. The boy has whined about being excluded, but I’m certain once I tell him of the gift I’ve arranged, he’ll be eager to stay home that night.” She frowned. “Now, tell me where you intend for me to hide the Mask from my sisters, my servants, and most particularly my dear brother Martin.”
Duchess grinned wickedly. “Tell me my lady, do you ever shop in the Shallows? There’s a little curio shop there you simply must visit.”
* * *
“You killed Julius.”
She put her head in her hands, uncertain whether to scream or to cry. This was absolutely the last thing she needed, not after days of lies and half-truths and plots and schemes, and certainly not the day before she was to steal from House Davari.
“You killed Julius,” she repeated. She glanced up at him, standing there in front of her desk, but he kept his eyes firmly on the floor. He hadn’t said a word since she’d had Castor bring him in. She wished she could deny it, but the rumors were too many to discount: Aaron had stabbed Julius and shoved his corpse into the harbor in a clumsy attempt at discretion. She’d first met Aaron when he was a boy, and then again when he was with the Oddfellows, and although she’d never held a high opinion of his intellect, she’d never thought him stupid. Until today.
“Wh
y, Aaron? Tell me why you decided you had to kill Julius. I’m dying to know, I really am.”
“His dice games,” Aaron mumbled at last, still looking down. “You’d make his games more profitable, you said so yourself.”
She gaped. “I seem to recall we spoke of moving in on his other games before the Feast of Fools, yes. I do not recall asking you to make me a murderer.” She rose from her seat, hands flat on her desk. “Do you realize what you’ve done? Do you know what Uncle Cornelius will do when he finds out?” That made Aaron look up, and little wonder; the Uncle was the most feared man in the lower districts. The story of what he had done to the recalcitrant puppet-maker was well known throughout the Shallows, and had lost nothing in the telling. “Contract killings are the province of the Red, and not carrot-brained oafs like you.”
Aaron’s hands balled into fists and she sensed rather than saw Castor take a step forward. “Julius tried to kill you out there on the Coast Road, and you said for a half-penny you’d do the same to him! I thought that was what you wanted.”
She fell back into her chair, flabbergasted. “You—you took one careless comment as a license to murder? Aaron, by all the gods, it was just something to say.” She felt sick to her stomach, tasted acid in her mouth. Aaron was her man, and anything he had done would be read by the Grey as her crime as well. Every rumor Pete and Nigel had ever spoken about her killing people would retroactively be proven true.
She gripped the arms of her chair and tried to order her thoughts. It was no good trying to cover this up; half the Shallows knew what had happened, and the rest would find out by morning. Her reputation was only just recovering from the beating it had taken, and any ham-fisted attempt to deflect blame would put her right back in the hole. When the Uncle learned what had happened, he would start asking questions, and sooner or later he would learn the truth. Even worse, the Uncle might well interpret this as a breaking of the peace between Red and Grey. The Color War had happened more than fifteen years ago, but the tales told of that conflict were dreadful. Aaron might well have provided the causus belli for a second conflict. Since Aaron was her man, both Red and Grey would blame her. It was just like the story Minette had told about Nereus—