by Neil McGarry
Terence nodded. “Inelegantly but accurately put.”
Duchess smiled. “It seems to me that Old Domani’s influence extends far beyond mere religion. What if you simply picked another example?” She went to the portrait painted on the stone wall. “You once told me that Philemon’s connection to the Ruling Mask of House Davari supported your own thesis as well as the tale of Iceni. She was the matriarch of her tribe, which is how the Rodaasi were organized back then, yes?”
Terence glanced at Cecilia. “You’ve been researching the Grey Emperors?”
“At my request, Savant,” Duchess put in, seeing Cecilia blush. “I suppose I’m following in my father’s footsteps.” Terence frowned but said nothing, which Duchess took as permission to proceed. “What did the tribes of the ancient Rodaasi become?”
Cecilia glanced uncertainly at Terence. “The great tribes became the great Houses, the seeds of present-day Rodaasi nobility. Iceni was first and greatest among them, because the tribes followed the custom of pure primogeniture; that is, the firstborn child inherited their rule, man or woman. The Nerrish of today do something similar, although they also require that heir to prove his or her worthiness through acts of strength and daring.” Cecilia seemed to forget her distress, caught up in scholarly discourse. “When she was denied the imperial throne, Iceni claimed the Ruling Mask for her and hers, and her line eventually became the Davari of today.” She turned to Duchess. “But like all noble Houses, the Davari follow the law of male primogeniture. A man’s title and wealth is passed to his sons, not his daughters.”
Duchess nodded. “Doesn’t it seem odd that things changed so quickly? Iceni obviously expected her claim to be taken seriously, but for some reason the tribes wouldn’t have her. The Rodaasi couldn’t have been in the city very long by then. Something happened when the two cultures merged, when the Rodaasi came to Old Domani, when Iceni’s battle was lost and she stepped away from the throne rather than lose her love.”
“She lost more than the throne,” Cecilia mused. “Her defeat was shared by all womankind, for ever after women were excluded from the line of succession, at least while male heirs remained. It’s presented as tradition, but of course the original traditions of our people dictate otherwise.” Her eyes went distant with calculation.
“Cecilia, do you recall anything strange about the lineage of the Grey Emperors?”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Three hundred years of unbroken male primogeniture.” She shook her head. “Somehow, in facing down Iceni, the ancient tribes took on the traditions of the Domae over their own.”
Duchess smiled. “How would the imperial court respond, if such a thesis were brought before it?” she said, looking into the painted eyes of Philemon. It seemed that ever since her people had come to Rodaas, some force had pressed them to abandon their ways and take on the laws and customs of the people who had fled the great hill. The Domae knew it as ouroboros, He Who Devours. Emperor Vassilus had named it the genius loci, the spirit of the place. She and the Grey knew it only as P, the secret head of the Highway.
Had Philemon been alive the day Iceni lost her throne, or was he already the ghost that still haunted both the city and her dreams? And what vengeance did his revenant seek?
A long time ago, Minette had told her of the patterns she had detected in Rodaasi history—long periods of stagnation interrupted by sudden, violent upheavals. The P coin, she had said, invariably appeared during these times, and Duchess had assumed that meant the force behind them was the cause. Now she wondered.
Perhaps Philemon was not a force of change but of stasis. Worse, retroaction, not only maintaining the status quo but somehow retreating towards earlier times, making her people a parody of those who had come before. In whatever form, Philemon had been there, on the very first day of the nascent Rodaasi empire. He had pushed, for reasons only he could know, against the traditions of the interlopers who had come to his people’s city.
If that were true, then perhaps the eruptions and the chaos that had punctuated Rodaasi history for eight hundred years were something pushing back.
An errant mote, Preceptor Amabilis had called her. A particle of chaos.
A fool.
Terence was not slow to take her meaning. “With Attys’ recent loss of support, the Imperial Council will be considering other options for the day Violana no longer sits the throne. This could open up such a possibility.”
“I have most of the preliminary research already completed on the topic,” Cecilia told him with rising excitement. “I’d just have to shift my focus a bit, consult a few primary sources, prepare an index, create a table of authority—it could be done fairly quickly.”
Terence tapped a finger against his chin. “However, it seems to me that we are simply replacing one problem with another. Cecilia’s original thesis was problematic because of its religious implications in a time of unrest. Given the current state of imperial succession, this new topic hardly seems safer. If Violana received this paper with displeasure—”
“She won’t,” Duchess stated firmly. Both scholars looked at her uncertainly, but she looked only at the savant. “The last time we met, you said there was more to me than meets the eye. That you’d once believed the same of my father.”
“That belief was justified at the end of the War of the Quills,” Terence replied sadly.
She clasped her hands before her, as if in prayer. “Then believe in his daughter. You know what I did at the Fall of Ventaris; you’ll soon hear what I accomplished at Banncroft. What’s happened to Attys was known to me long before it was known even to him.” The savant’s face remained grave, but in his eyes curiosity flickered. Before he could demur, she went on, “Wait one week, then approach a certain member of the Imperial Council with Cecilia’s proposed topic. I swear he’ll be as welcoming as you could want. I swear it on my name and my father’s.”
Terence considered this, and Cecilia and Duchess waited, hardly daring to breathe. Finally, he sighed. “If you can truly guarantee that, then I suppose we can proceed.” Cecilia squealed with joy and before Duchess could blink she was crushed in a hug that would not have disgraced a bear. Terence smiled guardedly. “Could you perhaps vouchsafe to us the name of this council member?”
Duchess extracted herself from Cecilia’s grip, pleased that she’d managed to help the girl. “Most assuredly. I know he’ll be more than happy to help.”
* * *
Even at this time of year, the Gardens of Mayu were green. Out on the Godswalk, the damp cold of a Rodaasi winter had arrived, but within the Lady’s domain spring still reigned. As Duchess trod the crushed stone paths that wound through the gardens, she wondered idly if, down in the Deeps, the trees in Morel’s orchard now bore fruit.
She found Jadis near the small statue of Mayu he’d once shown her, the day she’d realized that the dagger she’d stolen from Baron Eusbius was none other than the Key of Mayu. He was different than the last time she’d seen him; there were hollows under his eyes, and it seemed to her that his robes hung more loosely on his frame. When he saw her approach, however, his old smile revisited his lips.
“My dear,” he said, and she could see the lines of strain on his chubby face. “In your message you said you needed to see me urgently.” His eyebrow lifted in the faintest suggestion of a leer. “I suppose you’ve finally succumbed to my charms?”
She rolled her eyes; the keeper was thinner and more tired, but his lechery had not changed. “I just came to talk,” she assured him, “and I’m pleased you were able to make time for me, given how busy you must be with the Evangelism.”
“Busy losing it, I’m afraid,” he replied, uncharacteristically direct. “No fault of yours, if that is what you are thinking. Sending you to speak with Morel was a fool’s errand, and I fear not even his support could save me now.” He turned away and ran a hand over the base of Mayu’s statue. “You’ve heard, of course, about the changes in the Halls of Dawn?”
She had, of course
. “The new High Lambent?”
“Soon enough.” He turned weary eyes towards Mayu, with her lamp and her belt of tools. “Not that I mind an enemy enmeshed in internal struggles, but it has not improved our position. With both radiants and keepers in a weakened state, I fear ascendance shall go to the facets.”
“Things change.”
“They do, and soon. My order has obeyed the chains, but civility has not served us keepers well. The empress still refuses to make her preference known, and the Imperial Council seems deadlocked, so we must find...another way.” He gestured to the statue. “Mayu has many tools upon her belt, and none of them are chains. Violence is regrettable, but death comes for us all, in the end.”
She felt a chill as she realized what he was saying. “I didn’t think you were a fatalist, First Keeper.”
He smiled humorlessly. “It has been so long since I have felt certain of myself, I sometimes wonder who I truly am.”
“You told me once to hold on to my doubts. Are yours so frightening?”
He sighed. “Doubt can be a wondrous thing, for it is truth’s shadow, heralding her arrival and following in her wake. But I fear it is cold comfort when confronted with loss, the most certain of certainties.”
“You spoke of tools,” Duchess said, producing from the inner pocket of her cloak a cloth-wrapped bundle. “I have one you may find of use.” She handed it over, and Jadis took it with an air of skepticism. He unwound the cloth and what he saw inside made him catch his breath. His eyes flicked up to hers, then back down to what he held in his hands. “This—”
“Yes,” she said, not daring to name the Shard of Anassa even here. “I once offered you something similar, you’ll recall, but you said a piece of Mayu was too great for you to hold. What say you to a piece of Anassa?”
He made as if to touch the crystal, then seemed to think better of it and closed the wrappings once more. He shook his head. “You seem to have a knack for finding these things,” he said at last. “And for giving them away.”
He was right. Two must have passed your hands. “I never said I was giving it,” she pointed out. “But I imagine you’ll find it useful.”
“No doubt,” he said, weighing the item in his hands. “With this in my possession, I can force concessions from the facets. In fact, you may very well have just ended the Evangelism.” He gave her a long and searching look. “Not to seem ungrateful, but why offer such a thing to me?”
Duchess had thought long about the answer to that question. Preceptor Amabilis and the radiants had sacrificed Manly Pete and many others in exchange for Adam Whitehall’s bloody prophecies. The facets, nameless and faceless, had devoured Marguerite and gods only knew how many others, making them a part of themselves—many who were now one. “The radiants and the facets do all manner of terrible things,” Duchess said after a moment. “They believe what they do is right, which makes their sins all the more wrong.”
“All men have sins—as do all women.” Jadis’ eyes seemed to bore into her.
“Men like Preceptor Amabilis use their faith to convince themselves that their vice is virtue, whereas you and I name the wrongs we do as wrongs, knowing they are part of us forever.” She would not think of her own wrongs, not now. “If being a true believer means that bloody hands are clean, give me the cynics any day.”
Jadis laughed. “I have never been so eloquently called cynical.” Before she could protest, he added, “I think we understand each other. We should all fear those who hold no doubt in their hearts, for more evil is done by those who are certain they are right than by those who know they are wrong. You have grown very wise, Duchess of the Shallows.” He lifted the bundle. “Tell me then: what is your price?”
This was something else she had long considered. Everything she had seen indicated that the empress was, after a long absence, reasserting her power. Like Minette, Violana was on the move. The Evangelism had sown chaos among the faiths to allow her time and space enough to put forth an alternate candidate to the radiant’s choice of Attys. All she needed now was an opportunity. Duchess intended to give it to her.
So strange, she thought, to become a player of the game the long way around. If someone had told Duchess a year ago she’d be influencing the empress herself, Duchess would have laughed.
“I need the influence of the Imperial Council and thus will require your payment after your faith becomes ascendant.” He gestured for her to continue. “In a week or so, someone from the Scriptorium will approach you about a paper a journeyman scholar will soon publish. That paper will be of interest to the imperial court, and I want you to ensure it gets the right kind of attention.”
Jadis raised an eyebrow. “May I know what this paper is about?”
She shrugged. “You’ll find out when you see it,” she said. “I promise it is nothing treasonous or blasphemous. I have reason to believe it may even find favor with the empress herself.” At his dubious look, she said, “It’s my price for what you’re holding in your hand, First Keeper.”
He looked at the Shard, then back at her. “It will be as you say. I shall do all in my power to champion your paper.” He laughed lightly. “A long time ago I intended to ask you the name of your principle, thinking that you were but an agent for some greater player. If I am right, that player is not to be found in the city, I think, nor among mortal men. You’ve been touched by something greater, Duchess of the Shallows, and that thought fills me with wonder, and with fear.” He paused. “Did I make a mistake in not asking?”
She thought of Philemon, last of his line, his hand upon the Ruling Mask. She thought of Pete the Pearl and of those like him—herself included—beholden to a force at least as old as Iceni herself. “No, keeper,” she replied. “I don’t think it was a mistake. Better, perhaps, that the knowledge of the hand that moves me remain in doubt. At least for now.”
She left him there, in his Lady’s green embrace, with certainty in one hand and doubt in the other.
Chapter Thirty: A feast of fools
“Are you decent?” she called through the door.
“Never!” came the reply. “Come in anyway!”
Rolling her eyes, she let herself into the garret to find that Lysander was, indeed, indecent. He grinned in her direction and slipped on a shirt—now the only thing covering his nakedness—then set about gathering the rest of his clothing. Duchess had known Lysander for more than eight years and in all that time she’d never become used to his casual attitude about nudity. She went to the window to give him a modicum of privacy and through the glass she could hear the crowds already gathering below in Bell Plaza.
“Look at you in a dress,” Lysander marveled as he rummaged. She regarded the brown woolen garment, striped with dark blue; normally she preferred trousers, but this was a special occasion. “How long did it take you to get that on?”
“Less time than you,” she retorted. “Mayu’s mercy! We had to come all the way up from the shop, so you’ve had hours to get ready.”
“Late night with the girls,” he replied archly, and she could hear his wink. She’d already heard this from Jana, who’d been worried sick when she’d awoken in the morning to find Mikkos had not returned.
She turned from the window.“How’d it go?”
He’d pulled a black woolen doublet over his shirt and donned thick quilted breeches of dark gray. All the garments were well made—running those dice games had enriched him and Duchess both. He was wearing one shoe and looking for the other. “Oh, they were in fine form, but I’d warned Mikkos and he gave back as good as he got. Brenn thought Mikkos was going to take his place and was jealous, but we cleared that up quick enough. Deneys was cruel but fair, and Poor Gabe couldn’t keep his hands off him.” He grinned wickedly. “I cleared that up as well.”
Duchess believed him. Lysander had ruled the ganymedes for years with his will and his wit, and she was unsurprised to hear his supremacy was still unchallenged. Still, so much had changed for him in the past few month
s that sometimes she felt as though she were running to keep up. She thought suddenly of the question Mikkos had asked her about Dorian Eusbius, the night she’d delivered the Mask to Iris Davari. “Do you like him? Mikkos, I mean.”
“Yes. Yes I do.” She noted that, unlike her, he answered without hesitation. Perhaps she did overthink things. Lysander found his errant shoe beneath the bed and slipped it on. “He—he knows me, Duchess, even after just a few weeks.” He looked away, embarrassed. “I didn’t think something like this would ever happen to me, or ever could happen to someone like me.” He glanced back at her, his smile long faded. “But he knows everything I’ve done, everything I’ve been, all the way down. And he’s still here.”
All the way down. There were still so many things Lysander had never told her about himself. She’d not asked him anything about his encounter with Gauld in the Deeps—what the man had meant to him, or who Kit was. Yet, it seemed he’d found someone to share such things with, even if that someone was not her. She smiled. “I’m happy for you,” she said, and found she meant it. They both stood there, silently watching one another, and she could feel her eyes misting even as Lysander’s seem to shine.
“So!” he shouted, clapping his hands and clearly changing the subject. “What’s that you’ve got?” He gestured to the velvet bag she carried. “You know how I love presents.”
She laughed. “Lucky for both of us then, that’s precisely what it is.” She handed the bag to him and he tore at the cord that tied it shut. “Seeing as it’s gotten so cold this winter, I thought you’d appreciate it.”
His expression was priceless, and made all the trouble she’d gone through over the past year worth it. Ferroc had done a beautiful job with the expensive fine silk, far more luxurious than the nondescript gray cloak that Hector had thrown over her shoulders so long ago. He shook his head. “Is this—? You didn’t—”