by Neil McGarry
She ran a hand over the surface of the stout, octagonal table. Lady Fiona had been suspicious when Duchess had instructed her to purchase it, but Duchess had realized early on that the lady reveled in her own cleverness and appreciated it in others. She only hoped that when this was all over, the lady would appreciate how cleverly she’d been tricked.
Duchess ran her fingers over the nooks and crannies of the table, pushing here, twisting there, just as she’d practiced a hundred times after Nigel had shown her the way. She was amazed at the sophistication of Hadron and Lepta’s puzzle lock, and even more at Nigel's ability to figure it out on his own. The table had many moving and sliding panels and there was a precise order to its solution; one wrong move would lead a would-be thief into a loop which might take hours to work back to a previous state. The thing reminded her uncomfortably of the Shard, for by the end of the pattern it was as if her hands were moving of their own volition.
Finally she made the last adjustment and opened the large panel to reveal what lay within. It was, in a way, another puzzle and one she’d practiced just as well, except this time with Castor. She removed the stock first, revealing the tools the former White had left for her. Next was the crosspiece—the lath, Castor had called it. This was the very crossbow she’d taken from the Red Smiles on the Coast Road, but she’d never thought she’d have to take the damned thing apart, much less reassemble it.
Once more, her hands moved almost without direction, carefully fitting the pieces together, drawing the whipcord across and through, and finally setting and cranking back the single quarrel she’d hidden inside the table. Its point was entirely unsuitable for combat, but then, fighting was not what she had in mind. Sweat dotted her brow and spread along her back as she worked, and she prayed to Mayu that no industrious servant would come in to leave a late-night pot of tea for the Lady Fiona.
The table contained two more treasures. She carefully removed the first: nearly eighty feet of thin, greased cord, tightly coiled to fit inside the compartment. She lay it on the table and then pulled out the second: the chimney creep she’d last employed in the Uncle’s office.
She was sure Tyford would appreciate her finally using the damned thing as intended.
She moved to the windows, folded back the shutters, and looked out into the night. Fiona’s window was only fifty or sixty feet from the outer wall of the estate, but it was what was on the other side that concerned her. She could not see the wagon from this angle, but there, peeking over the top of the wall like a mockery of the faces upon the inside of the palace dome, was the absurd wooden head of Doctor Domae.
She could see it clearly—Lysander, bless him, must have placed a lantern on the roof of the wagon to guide her. Not for the first time, she wondered if he was a better friend than she’d ever been to him. Well, if tonight went as she hoped, she’d do what she could to balance the scales.
She carefully placed the chimney creep high within the window, pulling the two halves of the device until they sat tightly against the frame. Then she carefully tightened the bolt at its center. She wrapped both hands about it and pulled, testing it. When the creep did not move, she set about tying the cord securely around it. She then affixed the other end of the cord to the quarrel.
She retrieved the crossbow and rested it on the windowsill to ensure a steady hand. She carefully took aim. “Mother Mayu,” she whispered, getting her bearings, “help me now.” Then she pulled the trigger.
The crossbow thunked, seemingly loud enough to wake half the city, and almost instantly she heard an answering chunk, not as loud, from beyond the wall. The creep shifted slightly above her as the line drew taut, but the knots Tyford had taught her held. She smiled grimly; she hadn’t nailed the bastard between the eyes, but she’d hit Doctor Domae all the same. She paused a moment to see if any guards had reacted to the sound, but no hue and cry was raised.
She set down the crossbow and unwound her belt, revealing it to be a velvet bag with a metal hook. She slipped the Mask inside, tied the bag shut, and hooked it to the line. With a final prayer, she gave it a push, sending bag and Mask sliding smoothly out into the darkness.
The bag seemed to take forever to swing and spin its way down the greased line, and for a moment, it seemed as if it would catch upon the inner side of the wall. Duchess snatched up the line and pulled the cord tight, and was relieved to see the bag clear the wall and come to rest against the good doctor’s head.
She thought about replacing the crossbow in the table, but then decided there was no time. She did close up the table, wondering if Fiona would bother trying to open it or if she would wait for the promised instructions from Duchess.
“The Mask does me no good locked inside a table I can’t open,” Fiona had pointed out when Duchess proposed the plan.
“Oh, you’ll be able to open it—once I’m safely away from Banncroft. Meet me in the usual place and I’ll be happy to provide the combination.” Fiona had looked ready to protest, but Duchess had preempted her. “What was it you said? Trust will kill you. Never let it be said I don’t listen to my betters.” Fiona had had to be satisfied with that.
She slipped down the steps and back towards the chamber where Lord Stavros hopefully still slept. She would, of course, return the change of clothes he had so graciously provided. She would then make her way out past the guards, giving them ample time to search her.
After that, all that was left was to remove the Ruling Mask from its proper perch upon a Domae face and deliver it to a Davari. She scratched at her arm satisfyingly as she made her way to the ground floor, thanking every god of the Walk that she would at last be done with these damnable bandages.
* * *
The estate of House Whitehall, Albastone, was not nearly as lavish as Banncroft, but its gates were no less guarded. The invitation Lysander had presented had persuaded the guards to let them inside the yard, but no farther. She and Mikkos were told to wait with the carriages while Lysander went inside.
“He’s been gone a long time,” Mikkos said from his seat behind the reins. He wore simple clothing, much as a Domae hired to drive a wagon might wear. They’d packed that outfit in the back, along with the finery Lysander had put on before entering Albastone, and the heavy blue dress Duchess now wore. She was no fan of skirts, but Lysander had insisted that Garden District demanded no less, and anything was better than those damned bandages.
She glanced down at the bag in her hands. “He’s not been gone all that long,” she whispered back. “And please try to keep quiet. The other drivers aren’t that far away.” She was more worried about the Whitehall house guards, if truth be told. They’d looked askance at the wagon when they’d dropped Lysander off, even though every sign of Doctor Domae was hidden. Hadron and Lepta were clever, she had to give them that. Each piece of the wagon and its stage could be turned inside-out, leaving the thing looking a bit strange and over-sized, but a simple wagon nonetheless. Still, if the guards got suspicious they might ask for a look inside, and that would not do.
She tightened her hands around the bagged Mask, unnerved that the item she carried could so easily maim or perhaps kill. She’d done her best to keep it away from Lysander and Mikkos, but she kept imagining them accidentally brushing against the thing. She remembered with dread the force that had clamped down upon her like a pair of giant hands, searching and seeking. She had to get rid of the Mask and she had to do it soon.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when Lysander came around the corner of the wagon, looking glorious in a white doublet with light blue sleeves. For some reason, everything he had packed was flawless while her dress was a wrinkled mess.
“She’s there, along with the rest of them,” he murmured, smoothing the front of his doublet. Mikkos extended a discreet hand, which Lysander took in his own. “Just about anyone with a title is here, which is the only reason Stephan got in. Attys must be courting every noble in the city.”
“When’s she coming out?”
Ly
sander sighed. “That’s the problem. Martin’s watching her every move, and every time she tries to slip away, he has Venn call her back. The sisters, too. She can’t get away.”
Her stomach clenched for the hundredth time that evening. “Can’t you do something?”
Lysander shook his head. “Not this time. Gregor’s here, and when he saw me lurking about he gave me a look like death. I’d need a title before my name before I could face down that one, dearheart. And you know Stephan’s no better. After what happened with Gregor, he won’t even be in the same room with a Davari.”
Her mind raced. At this point, thinking was easier than feeling. A title. A man with two names. “Is Dorian in there?”
He nodded. “Oh I noticed him, I’ll tell you that. He’s wearing these tight hose that make his arse look—”
Mikkos chuckled, but Duchess rolled her eyes. “It’s not his arse I need right now.”
Lysander raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Seems to me that’s exactly—”
“Gods preserve me,” she muttered. “Dorian’s got a name Martin can’t deny and a sword Gregor can’t ignore.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Find him. Tell him I need his help. Tell him to get her out here. Tell him—” Her mind went blank. She’d spent the whole night on edge, keeping two steps ahead of everyone, and she had nothing left. “Tell him that I’ll do whatever he wants.”
“Oho!” Lysander guffawed. “In that case I’ll expect all the details.” And then he was gone.
If the waiting had been intolerable before, this was torture. She tried not to appear too on edge lest the guards wonder what she was really about, but it was hard to act casual when she was carrying death in her hands. She shifted from foot to foot, rubbed her arms to warm them, looked up at the night sky, but nothing could distract from her distress.
“Do you like him?” Mikkos asked softly, and once again she nearly jumped out of her skin. It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t talking about Lysander.
“I—well, he’s handsome, and very pleasant.” She hadn’t expected to discuss this with Mikkos, whom she still didn’t know well.
“Yes, but do you like him?”
She frowned. “Lysander’s been a bad influence on you.” She sighed. “I suppose I do. There are some things about him—about his position in the world, how sheltered he sometimes seems—that I keep snagging on. But he’s not like most nobles you meet. He actually thinks about the way things are in Rodaas and doesn’t just accept it like some divine law. But of course it would never work out, not with who he is, with who I am. He has two names and I don’t. I do like being around him, but—” Mikkos was grinning. “What?”
“Lysander says you always make things more complicated than necessary.” There was no mockery in his tone, and she found herself smiling. She wondered what she’d been missing, not spending more time with the boy. Lysander seemed to think the world of him, after all.
“He’s beautiful, you know,” she said at last. “Lysander, I mean. I wouldn’t be anything if not for him.”
Mikkos reached down to take her hand in his own. “Somehow I doubt that. Still, he is your family,” he said, and she thought for a moment she might cry. “You have taken care of my sister. I will be sure to take care of your brother.” They smiled at each other until the sound of footsteps intruded.
Iris Davari wore a severe black gown whose only adornment was a small triangle of purple spinels sewn into the bodice, but a smile played around her lips. “Dorian Eusbius is quite the dancer,” she remarked with good humor. “He swept me away and twirled us ‘round half the room before Martin could so much as protest. Someday you’ll have to tell me how you enlisted his aid.” She glanced in the direction of the guards and lowered her voice. “You did accomplish your task?” Duchess opened the bag and Iris glanced inside, maintaining a look of nonchalance that was betrayed by the gleam of triumph in her hazel eyes. “You are as good as your word, Duchess of the Shallows, and so am I. House Davari shall have a new ruling lord, and with it, a new attitude regarding Attys. He shall no longer have our support.”
Duchess inclined her head and handed over the bag. For a moment, she considered leaving things as they were, but something had hold of her, and tying off the few loose threads seemed for the best. “There’s...one other thing, my lady.” Iris looked up from the Mask, eyebrows raised. “Your sister Isabelle mentioned in passing that your father once married for love?”
Iris nodded, seeming confused at the turn of conversation. “As she reminded us all when Venn declared her betrothal to Attys.”
“And that marriage was to your mother—and Venn’s?”
Iris nodded once more. “Lady Agiri, namesake of an ancient empress, the first of my father’s wives. What of it?”
“And Venn is the elder of you two?”
“He is, but I don’t see what—”
Duchess held up a hand. “That Mask you’re holding—I didn’t find it in your lord brother’s vault. I picked it up from Martin’s art gallery. The ‘replica’ he was showing off at your party was the true Mask, and a false one was locked away where one might expect to find the real thing.”
Iris shook her head. “Why would Venn take such a risk?”
“He didn’t. Martin did.” Iris looked at her as if she were mad, but Duchess plunged ahead. “Fiona told me she could not imagine why Venn was allowing Martin to so dominate him—she called him Martin’s pet. What if Martin had some hold over Venn, something Venn was desperate for no one else to know?”
Iris frowned at her. “What secret could Venn be hiding that would be worth handing over the Ruling Mask?”
“The fact that he daren’t touch it.” Before Iris could protest, Duchess said, “Think about it, my lady. Venn looks like you—you share the same eyes—but not like any of your siblings.”
Iris was not slow to catch her meaning. “My father married my mother for love, and there were rumors...great Mayu. She carried another’s child when he married her.” She put a hand to her forehead. “Venn is my half-brother, and no Davari at all.”
Duchess nodded. “Venn would give anything to keep that secret, don’t you think?”
Iris closed her eyes. “It makes too much sense. Martin somehow discovered the truth and must have offered to help our lord brother keep the secret...for a price.” She looked at Duchess with eyes that at that moment seemed as black as the night. “I have always wondered if father’s accident truly was an accident. He fell from his horse, you know, or so we all believed, but now I wonder. Martin was last to see him alive.”
“Venn wore the mantle while Martin wielded the power; if Venn resisted, Martin would reveal him. After all, the Mask itself would prove that Venn is not Davari by blood.”
Iris chuckled without humor. “What a tangled web,” she muttered. “If only daughters were allowed to inherit before sons.”
Duchess thought on what Fiona had said about Iris being a better heir. She thought of Violana’s machinations in the wake of the Fall of Ventaris, of Esmerelda, of Far. “That may not be an idle wish.” Iris’ gaze sharpened. “I think that perhaps a change is coming, my lady. A change that may affect us all.” She leaned close, her voice below a whisper. “Watch and wait, Iris—and stay ready.”
Iris regarded her for a long moment, and in those hazel eyes suspicion warred with the desire to believe. “And until then?”
Duchess shrugged. “Take a leaf from Martin’s book. He made Venn his servant. Make Stavros yours. Let the boy wear the lord’s mantle while you control everything from the shadows—and while you gain the support of your sisters. I’ll bet you can win over Isabelle simply by letting her marry whomever she wants, and Fiona—”
Iris smiled. “Anything that discomfits Martin will win her favor. Now that I think on it, the family has some holdings in the north that might benefit from Martin’s supervision. I think a few years of him shivering in the most distant corner of the empire should please Fiona qu
ite well. Yes, in this I think the Davari sisters might find common cause.” She looked at Duchess shrewdly. “But what if Martin should choose to reveal Venn as no true son of our father’s?”
Duchess had spent too much time with Minette not to recognize a question whose answer was already known. “Then Venn is humiliated, Martin is still exiled, and you still control the Mask. In fact, some might say you didn’t need me at all. From what I’ve learned of Fiona and Isabelle, if the three of you had trusted each other enough, you might have done what I did tonight long before.”
Iris stroked her chin. “Perhaps, but we would still have lacked the only person in this city capable of surviving contact with the Mask who is not named Davari. Some day you must tell me how you managed that.”
“My lady, that’s something I’d like to know as well,” Duchess answered with total honesty. “Regardless, we don’t have time for that now. Your brother is no doubt looking for you.”
“I’m sure he is, but this is the last time I need worry about that.” Iris’ chuckle was deep with satisfaction. “Speaking of my sisters, you might have dealt with any one of us, it seems to me. Both Fiona and Isabelle were as eager as I to be rid of Martin, and to choose our own destiny. How did I earn this honor?”
It was a good question. “Perhaps because you seem the cleverest of your sisters, or perhaps the most trustworthy.” She raised her hands, palms out. “Or perhaps it was merely because I swore upon my scars.” She grinned. “That said, your sisters are unlikely to be happy with the results of this evening.” She glanced up at Iris. “If you could see fit to ensure that their wrath does not fall upon me...”
Iris grinned back. “Ah. So my working with my sisters would serve both you and me.” She nodded. “Consider it done.” She glanced down at her own scars. “When I first saw you, that night at the party, you asked why I helped you. Perhaps tonight I have my answer. May our lady’s lantern guide you, Duchess. May you not be lost along the way.” And with that, she turned and was gone.