State of Sorrow

by Melinda Salisbury

  “What point?”

  “That we need them. I need them. Last night proved it, and Vine knows that. But as long as they’re working for me, the people won’t like me. So I’m stuck – vulnerable without them, hated because of them. Having one as my personal guard is only going to look like approval, and that’s why Vine sent her.” Sorrow nodded to the closed door that Commander Dain stood behind.

  Irris sipped her coffee. “I’ll write to my father and ask him if he can release one of the palace guards to take over once you return from Rhylla. You do need a guard, though, at least until the Sons of Rhannon are brought under control. You could have been hurt. Killed.”

  “I know,” Sorrow said, a shiver breaking along her shoulders. “What was that they threw at me?” she asked.

  “Quickfire,” Luvian said from the doorway. “It’s a powder that reacts with air after it’s been agitated in water. Add it to a bottle, seal it, shake it, and throw it. The bottle smashes, flames ensue.”

  Sorrow and Irris turned to him, and Sorrow was stunned to see how unlike himself he appeared. His suit was crumpled, as though he’d slept in it, stubble shadowing his chin, the top of his hair an almost vertical shock of black.

  “It’s Rhyllian,” he added, making his way to the table. “They use the dried version in their fireworks. You’ll no doubt see it in action at the Naming.”

  “You’re not still going?” Irris said. “Is that wise?”

  “It’s up to you,” Luvian said to Sorrow. “I’ll go along with whatever you say.”

  Though she wanted to go, she didn’t relish the idea of being out in a carriage, easily attacked. She didn’t want the Sons of Rhannon to try to finish what they’d started the previous night, when she was miles from safety, with only Dain, Luvian and the coach drivers to protect her. But if she didn’t go, if she stayed in Rhannon…

  “We’re going,” she said. “We’ll just have to take extra care. The worst thing I could do is hide away. Too reminiscent of my father. And I don’t want to lose the chance to see what we can find out about Mael.”

  She wondered then if he’d got back to his lodgings all right, and if he’d still go to Rhylla. Yes, she decided. He would. So she had to.

  Luvian sat down and poured a generous cupful of coffee, ignoring it when it sloshed over the rim and stained the tablecloth in a pattern that reminded Sorrow of the mark on the music hall ceiling.

  “Wait a second,” Sorrow said, remembering something. “Did you just say quickfire is Rhyllian? So is this Vespus’s doing somehow? The Sons of Rhannon are in league with him?”

  Luvian looked at her with tired, red eyes. “No,” he said firmly. Then, “It wouldn’t make sense. Mael was on that stage too. Very risky to have your own puppet in the literal firing line. The Sons of Rhannon are a problem, but a separate one from Vespus and Mael. You do seem to attract trouble.”

  “I hardly do it on purpose,” Sorrow said, and took a deep breath. She was ready to speak her thoughts from the night before. “But, while we’re talking about Mael…”

  “I thought we were talking about the Sons of Rhannon?” Luvian said.

  Irris tutted at him, and turned to Sorrow.

  “We know it’s unlikely he’s the real Mael,” Sorrow began. “But is it possible he doesn’t? That the way he behaves is because in his mind he is my brother?”

  “No,” Irris said instantly. “What? No. No, it’s him and Vespus in this together, we know that.”

  “Do we?” Luvian said, dragging a hand through his hair, answering before Sorrow could. “I have to confess, it’s crossed my mind before now, too. What if he believes he is the lost child? What if he believes what Vespus has told him, because he truly lived that life he told you about?”

  “Think about it,” Sorrow said to Irris, who was shaking her head. “All the times he’s defended me, the times he’s saved me. Last night he told me to run while he held them off. And he’s always so obnoxiously nice…”

  “It would make sense,” Luvian said, leaning across the table. “More sense to raise a child into a story than to get an actor to learn a script later. If he’d only joined Vespus in the last two years, there would be Rhannish people who would know him. Parents, friends, neighbours even. It would be too risky.”

  “So what?” Irris’s expression was thoughtful as she worked through their case. “He was stolen as a child, and given to this Beliss woman to raise, waiting for the right moment to bring him back? You said yourself, Vespus wanted the war to continue for his land, and then he tried to petition your father. Oh – what if he took advantage of Mael’s fall and created a backup plan? A boy he could hide in Rhylla in case he needed him?”

  Luvian nodded. “He’d be too young to remember where he really came from, and enough time has passed to make him unrecognizable to his real parents here. His appearance could have been altered to give him the birthmark – he could have been tattooed, or perhaps someone with a cosmetic ability added it?”

  “Abilities can only manipulate things that already exist,” Sorrow reminded him. “Ras could only get rid of pain that existed at that moment. Vespus can only work with plants if he has plant material to hand.”

  “Maybe Vespus found a kid with a mole on his neck?” Luvian suggested. “That would be something that existed. He could have had someone manipulate that.”

  Irris looked at Sorrow, who shrugged. It was the most likely explanation for it, barring the tiny possibility the birthmark was real…

  “So what do we do?” Irris said. “Because whether he knows it or not, he’s still almost definitely an imposter.”

  “I’m already working on it,” Luvian said. “I sent for the reports of every child that went missing, or is thought to have died, but no body recovered, during the three years before, and three years after, your brother was lost. That’s what was in the package that arrived last week. I’ve been going through them. We’ll also need to take advantage of our time in Rhylla to see what we can find there. Ideally, we find Beliss, though I expect Vespus will have hidden her away. But there are other avenues to explore. I have a plan.” Luvian reached for the coffee pot again. “So eat up. It’s going to be a long day.”

  Unmasking

  The plan, Luvian informed her as he rushed her to finish her breakfast, was to leave for Rhylla within the hour. They’d take a carriage to the bridge, and on the other side a Rhyllian carriage would collect them, to bring them to the capital city. But on the way they would stop overnight in an inn.

  “Where is the inn?” Sorrow asked.

  “Ah.” For the first time since he’d entered the room, a spark lit Luvian’s eyes. “We’re staying overnight in a place called Ceridog. It’s a small village, tiny school, a clay mine, the inn. Oh, but the clay mine is … unusual. It’s what they call a Rainbow Clay Mine, very rare. In fact, it’s the only one in Rhylla.” He paused, reaching forward for a pear from the bowl on the table. “Ceridog is a very popular place for artists to live and work.”

  Sorrow understood then. “The artist who painted Mael’s portraits is Rhyllian. You found him?”

  “No.” He looked momentarily chagrined. “But, seeing as we’re passing that way – and it’s such a hub for artists – who are we to turn down the chance to visit? If we happen to find the artist, and therefore discover who commissioned the portraits, and, if that person happens to be Lord Vespus, well … that would be a bonus.” He was sounding more and more like himself each moment, his expression brightening. “Obviously the primary reason for going is because I myself am an art lover; everyone knows it.”

  And despite herself, and everything that had happened the night before, Sorrow found herself smiling at him.

  Luvian took a bite of his pear with a satisfied crunch.

  The journey to the bridge was uneventful, though Sorrow’s heart had hammered the whole way, expecting at any moment for more quickfire to be thrown, or the carriage to be ambushed. She was almost grateful for Dain’s silent, hulking presenc
e beside her. When she saw the bridge on the horizon, the white stone blinding in the morning sun, she relaxed. They’d be over the border soon.

  It was too easy. As the carriage drew to a halt, she looked out of the window to see two of the Decorum Ward scrubbing at something on the ancient, mythical bridge.

  Luvian’s face tightened.

  “What is that?” She turned to Luvian. But then she saw it.

  Sons of Rhannon. In tall, red letters like blood. Like the tunic she’d worn the night before.

  Luvian was out of the carriage at once, Sorrow following a split second later, with Dain hopping down from her seat beside the driver to join them.

  “How did this happen?” Luvian demanded of the guards.

  The men turned slowly, looking at Luvian, their eyes shifting to Sorrow and finally resting on Dain, offering her a respectful nod.

  “We don’t know,” said one of the men; he was small, wiry, with pointed features.

  “You don’t know how someone managed to vandalize a bridge that is supposed to be under round-the-clock guard?” Luvian asked.

  “It was dark. They were very quiet.”

  Luvian’s face was thunderous. “I see.”

  Sorrow looked at the men. Their expressions were insolent, the same hint of a sneer Meeren Vine had worn gracing their lips. And she knew then that it was deliberate. That they’d wanted her to see this, before she crossed the bridge. Perhaps they’d even planned it. Last night hadn’t been a one-off, but a beginning.

  Sorrow’s eyes darted to the woman beside her, her supposed protector, and her fear grew. Was Dain part of this? How much danger was she in?

  Then, to everyone’s surprise, Dain spoke. “What is this? Get this filth cleared,” she said in a low growl.

  The men looked at each other, clearly shocked, as Sorrow looked at the commander, an identical look of surprise on her face.

  Commander Dain wasn’t finished. “And you make sure it doesn’t happen again. Because if it does, I will take it as an act of disobedience against me personally. And I won’t like that one bit. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  Dain looked to Sorrow and nodded, and Sorrow returned the gesture, still taken aback by the Decorum Ward commander’s actions.

  Luvian covered for her. “Come, Sorrow, we’ll be late. Let’s leave these good men to their jobs. It looks like they have a quite a lot to do, and the sun is only going to get hotter and higher.”

  With that he turned, taking Sorrow firmly by the elbow, guiding her to the Alvus gum waiting for them.

  Sorrow said nothing else until they were both seated in a new carriage on the Rhyllian side of the bridge, Dain up beside the driver once more, and the carriage was on the move.

  “They did it.” Sorrow moved to Luvian’s side and pitched her voice a fraction louder than the carriage wheels. “The guards, they painted it, and they wanted me to see. I think they’re trying to align themselves with the Sons of Rhannon. I’m the common enemy to them both.”

  Luvian turned to her, staring for a long moment before he gave a single nod. “I think you’re right.”

  “What do we do? If they control the bridge then they control who’s crossing it. What if someone comes after us – me – when we’re out there, miles from home?”

  Luvian chewed his lip, falling silent as he contemplated. “We’re safer there,” he said finally. “We’ll be safe at the castle; it’s well-secured and there will be guards everywhere. And no one knows we’re going to Ceridog apart from you, me and Irris.”

  “And the coach driver, presumably,” Sorrow said.

  “No,” he said thoughtfully. “I didn’t want to tip Vespus off, so I hadn’t planned to tell him until we’d stopped. The inn is booked under a pseudonym, for the same reason. By chance, it’ll keep the Sons of Rhannon off our tail. They won’t know we’re there, and they won’t have time to get to you even if they do find out. Win-win.”

  Sorrow was impressed. “That’s sneaky.”

  Luvian shrugged, his cheeks darkening. “Quite. In the meantime, you need to write to Lord Day. Tell him everything.”

  “I can’t. He has to be impartial.”

  “This is impartial. This is the country’s police turning on their potential leader. And that only ever leads to martial law. Sorrow, if Dain hadn’t been there today, Graces knows what might have happened. You have to nip this in the bud. If they’re being this blatant about it, they must already think they could win.”

  “Win what?”

  “Rhannon.” Luvian leant forward. “You’re not only fighting Mael for the country any more. You’re fighting the Sons of Rhannon too. As is he, but I don’t care about that. I care about you, and they’ve made it pretty clear that they have a grudge against you. Without the power of the chancellorship behind you, you’re vulnerable to them all. It’s more important than ever that you win.”

  The rest of the journey to Ceridog was sombre, and silent, Luvian working through his list, circling cases he thought were of note, and Sorrow writing to Charon, then watching the Rhyllian countryside roll by.

  She sent the letter when they paused to change horses, staying close to Dain while Luvian informed her and the driver of the change of plan. He didn’t seem put out, only commenting that he’d have to stay in Ceridog overnight too, in order to take them the rest of the way to Adavaria the following day. Luvian, it seemed, had already thought of that, and had booked him a room at the inn.

  “I didn’t anticipate you,” he said apologetically to Dain. “Though I’m sure they’ll have something.”

  “I’ll be fine on the floor outside Miss Ventaxis’s room,” Dain said.

  “You can’t—” Sorrow began, but stopped when Dain tilted her chin up, her jaw set, gaze steady. “Well, we’ll at least get you a pillow,” she said feebly, following Luvian back into the coach as Dain closed the door firmly behind her.

  The inn was different from Melisia’s – this building was four storeys tall, with black wooden struts studding the white walls, and tables outside. Luvian had reserved the two attic rooms for them, at the top of a crooked but private staircase, and a room on the floor below for the coachman.

  Dain checked both Sorrow’s room and Luvian’s before she took up a position at the base of their stairs without being asked, and Sorrow shrugged and went to see what a Rhyllian bedroom looked like.

  Before she could see her own, Luvian tapped her shoulder and beckoned her into his. It was small, and disappointingly unremarkable. A single bed slotted against the wall, a narrow wardrobe at the end of it. There was a bureau and chair opposite, and a door Sorrow assumed led to a bathroom. But it was clean, and bright, the window looking out on to the square below, swallows darting in and out under the eaves.

  Sorrow watched as Luvian reached into one of his cases and pulled out a rolled canvas. She gasped when he unfurled it, using shoes, a hairbrush and a bottle of cologne Sorrow had no idea he wore to pin the corners to the golden wood floor.

  This year’s portrait of Mael. He’d taken it from the Summer Palace.

  “You stole it,” Sorrow accused. “How? When?”

  “Hush. I’m about to say some very important things.” Luvian knelt down beside it. “Pay attention. So, I’m going to assume you know very little about art, given the state of the nation for, quite literally, your whole life?”

  Sorrow nodded.

  “Then allow me to educate you, Sorrow, dear. The Rhannish style of painting is to use small strokes to create a whole picture. Up close it makes no sense, but at a distance the image can be seen. But the Rhyllian style is long, continuous strokes. That’s one way we can be sure the artist really is Rhyllian. See?” He gestured at the painting and she saw what he meant.

  “The paints themselves differ too. Rhannish paints are oil based. Whereas Rhyllian –” he brushed a finger along the painted hair of the portrait and held it up to her, so she could see the thin layer of brown dust there “– are clay base
d. And when clay dries, it leaves a thin layer of powder.”

  “And here we are in the clay paint capital of Rhylla.” Sorrow remembered his words back in the North Marches, and Luvian beamed at her.

  “Indeed. A place so prestigious, there is a Registry of Colours.”

  “OK, now you’ve lost me,” Sorrow confessed.

  In reply, Luvian drew a small knife from the pocket of his coat and began to scrape the dark paint from the birthmark on the portrait.

  “What are you doing?” Sorrow watched in horrified fascination as he vandalized the painting.

  He didn’t reply, continuing until he’d made a small pile of purplish flakes, which he carefully lifted on to the tip of the knife, before tapping them into the centre of a plain silk handkerchief.

  “As I was saying, Rhylla takes art so seriously it keeps a Registry of Colours. The Rainbow Clay Mines mostly yield primary colours, which anyone can buy and sell, and mean very little, but every now and then, the pigments in the rocks mix and create pure, naturally occurring secondary and tertiary colours. Of course, that happens very rarely, so the artists buy primaries and mix their own. But they’re required to register the colours, and the paintings they used them on, with the Registry, so that art buyers can’t be cheated. See, an unscrupulous artist could claim the purple they used in your portrait was genuine pure colour from the mines, something they paid a fortune to procure, and therefore have to pass the cost on…”

  “I get it,” Sorrow said. “So, we can take those scrapings to the registry and find out who registered them? And that will lead us to the artist, which will hopefully lead us closer to finding out who Mael is, or at least who commissioned the pictures.”

  “Got it in one, Sorrow darling.”

  A burst of pleasure shot through Sorrow at his approval. “How do you know so much about Rhyllian art?”