The Cleansing Flame

by Alec Hutson

  Deliah turns and scans the common room. “Who?”

  “Not here,” Mal says, motioning towards a small curtained entrance off to the side. “In there.”

  “Someone important, then,” Deliah says, arching an eyebrow.

  Mal doesn’t say anything, but he comes out from behind the bar and leads us to the doorway. I’d thought this was some kind of servant’s entrance, but when the barkeep pulls back the curtain it reveals a twisting corridor lit by flickering lamps. “Towards the back, on your left,” he says as we pass inside.

  It’s a warren of twisting passageways and small alcoves, most of which are empty. In a few places whispered conversations are going on between shadowy individuals, but it’s clear that in this part of the Word privacy is valued so I keep my eyes staring straight ahead. The corridor itself is filled with fierce-looking men bristling with weapons – I can feel their eyes slide over me, as if trying to gauge how dangerous I am. They’re here to protect someone important, that much is obvious. I don’t remember anyone going through the curtained entrance in the common room, so there must another way inside.

  The mystery of who we’ve been summoned to meet is answered when I see a dark shape detach from the wall outside one of the alcoves. The shadows melt away like mist before the dawn, revealing Xela and her crooked smile.

  “Talin, Deliah,” says the Zimani shadowdancer, sweeping her uninjured arm towards the entrance to the alcove. “Enter.”

  As I expected, the Contessa is seated at a small stone table, her hands folded in front of her. She’s wearing a robe of purest white hemmed with gold and the same white mask as in the garden of her estate. She gestures for us to sit across from her, and then turns her head back towards Xela.

  “Where is the daughter?”

  “She’s being fetched. Ah, here she comes now.”

  Moments later Bell enters the alcove. She looks haggard, and there are dark circles under her eyes. I haven’t seen her in two days, since we liberated the book from the poelthari’s lair, and it would seem like she’s done nothing since then except study its contents.

  “Sit,” the Contessa commands, gesturing at the bench where Deliah and I already are. Bell glances at the empty space beside the Contessa, but then seems to realize who it is we’re meeting with and instead squeezes in beside me.

  The Contessa makes a graceful gesture to encompass our surroundings. “Ah, the Word. It’s been a decade at least since I’ve suffered the smell of this place. Still as dingy and decrepit as I remember. But I have missed it, I suppose.”

  “You used to come here?” I can’t keep the incredulity out of my voice, and the Contessa chuckles.

  “Of course. I wasn’t born in a manse – very few of the Trust heads are, in fact. It takes a certain kind of desperate ambition to rise to the top in Ysala. I arrived in this city destitute and alone and spent many evenings learning and listening from those who frequent this place. If I were to take off my mask and walk into the common room I suspect I might even be recognized. But I didn’t come here to reminisce about simpler times.” She waves her hand, as if to dismiss what she’s saying. “We have much to discuss.”

  “Did you find out what the Marquis wanted at the temple?” I ask. This is the question that’s been gnawing at me since our disastrous attempt at spying.

  The Contessa sighs. “No, and it is not for lack of trying. The priesthood has closed ranks, and there’s nary a whisper trickling out from the Temple. This is despite the huge commotion caused when two of the flame’s guardians smashed through the temple’s walls and brawled in the streets with a group of thieves.” I can tell by her tone that she’s not so pleased with this. “The hierophant has declared it sacred business and refused any offer to help investigate the matter. No mention of the Red Trillium Trust, the Marquis, a Zimani shadowdancer, or the fate of Bishop Velishan. It’s all very strange. And my other investigations have proven fruitless. I am no closer to discovering why the Marquis wanted my glitter.”

  I steal a quick glance at Bell, but her lips are pursed, and she seems unwilling to divulge anything she might have learned from studying the book. I wonder if that’s because she hasn’t found anything, or if she simply doesn’t trust the Contessa.

  “However,” the Contessa continues, “there is another opportunity before us.” She steeples her long fingers and presses them against the thin slash of her mask’s mouth. “To be honest, I was hoping I would not have to take this risk. But I do not see any other avenues open to us.”

  “What is it?” Bell asks. It’s the first time she’s spoken since entering the alcove, and her throat rasps, as if this is first time she’s uttered anything in quite some time.

  “The Masquerade,” the Contessa says, and I feel Bell shift beside me.

  “Surely you don’t plan on breaking the truce . . .”

  “Bending it, perhaps,” the Contessa snaps, and I can hear the annoyance in her voice. “We must be desperate. Every day we delay brings the Marquis’s plans closer to fruition and your father closer to whatever fate awaits him when he is no longer useful.”

  “What is the Masquerade?” I ask, and I feel the Contessa’s intense stare settle on me.

  “It is a reaffirmation of the trust that binds the Trusts. Every season, on the night of the equinox or solstice, it is held in one of the Trust estates . . . and the next Masquerade will take place in the manse of the Red Trillium.”

  “What goes on there?”

  “Dancing, drinking, scheming. Everyone is masked, and each Trust is allowed an entourage. If there is any blood shed during a Masquerade, the offending Trust immediately becomes anathema, and its leadership exterminated. Its holdings and subjects are then divided between the remaining Trusts. This has only happened once before, a century ago.”

  “But you are going to risk something?”

  The Contessa strokes her moonstone ring. “No killing. But once we are inside the walls I want Xela and you” – she nods in my direction – “to sneak off and find the glitter and the scientist. You know what he looks like, and he will trust your words. Either rescue him, or at the very least discover what the Marquis plans to use the glitter for.”

  “And if they’re discovered?” asks Deliah.

  “They’ll be killed, of course, and likely the Marquis will seek some restitution from me. It would be tremendously embarrassing, so please be careful.”

  “This seems extremely risky,” says Bell, putting her elbows on the table.

  “It is,” sighs the Contessa. “But the Marquis has stolen from me. And I must know what he will do with the glitter. I feel it might tip the balance of power in the city and bring about another civil war. There hasn’t been one in Ysala for centuries.”

  “I’m going too,” Deliah says defiantly, but the Contessa dismisses her words with a languid wave.

  “Impossible. A lamias is far too recognizable. Not to mention your injury will hinder you.”

  Deliah growls something and starts to get up but I restrain her with a hand under the table.

  “What do you think?” I ask, turning towards Bell.

  She looks uncomfortable, but still she nods slightly. “I think we must take this chance. There might not be another way inside the Red Trillium’s manse.”

  “Excellent,” says the Contessa, abruptly rising. “I will let Xela brief you about the details. The Masquerade is in three days, so you should prepare yourselves.” She sweeps towards the entrance, but then pauses and turns to me. “Oh, and Talin – I’ll have some more suitable clothes sent to your room here. I refuse to enter the Masquerade with you when you look like such a ruffian.”

  19

  “Dashing,” Bell says from the bottom of the stairs when she catches sight of me.

  I flash her a smile as I start to descend from the second-floor landing, still fiddling with my silver cufflinks. “I don’t know how the Contessa got my measurements.”

  “She’s spent enough time watching you to have a pretty good
idea, I think,” Deliah says wryly, emerging from the common room and coming to stand beside Bell.

  She must have a tailor’s eye, then. The black doublet that arrived this morning fits me perfectly, and the pair of coiling silver dragons embroidered into the fabric matches my eyes. The breeches are cut from the same expensive black cloth and cinched by a belt of braided silver rope. A pair of boots were delivered as well, black and gleaming with silver buckles, and a silver half-mask completes my costume for the Masquerade.

  With my clothing came a vellum scroll bound with a crimson ribbon, in which in exquisite handwriting the Contessa instructed me to be ready for her carriage when evening falls, and that neither of my companions were welcome to join the gathering tonight. Bell had raged when I’d first shown her this, and it had taken most of the day before she’d calmed down and come to grudgingly accept that she would not be accompanying me to the Red Trillium estate.

  “I’ll go see if your carriage is here,” Deliah says, turning towards the door.

  I’m about to follow her, but Bell takes my arm as I reach the bottom of the stairs.

  “Wait,” she says, and from her tone I can tell that this is important. She looks conflicted, as if she doesn’t know exactly what to say, and her grip on me tightens.

  “Careful,” I chide her lightly, “this shirt is expensive.”

  “I know,” she replies, letting go of the glistening fabric. “What you’re wearing right now could feed a family in the Blight for a year. These people you’ll meet tonight . . . they are rich and powerful. They do what they want, and people like us are just pieces in their game. Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “Find my father. Even if you can’t bring him out of the estate tonight, let him know I won’t rest until he’s free.”

  Tears well in her eyes and she wipes at her face angrily. “I hate them so much. The Trusts. They think they are above justice. Above morality.”

  I reach out and put my hand on her shoulder. “You’ll see your father again, I promise,” I say, giving her a comforting squeeze.

  She covers my hand with hers and sniffles, then crooks a smile. “Thank you.” She steps closer, putting her arms around my neck. Her mouth finds mine, and I can taste the salt of her tears on her lips. Finally the kiss ends, and she pulls my head down so that she can whisper into my ear. “And I want to see you again, too.”

  “I promise you will.”

  “Good,” she says, one of her arms slipping from my neck. She takes something from a pocket and presses it into my hand. “Take this.”

  It’s hard and smooth, roughly the size and shape of a finger. “What is it?”

  “Something I’ve brewed up over the last few days. It’s part quicksilver, part water, and part arachnia silk. One of the substances the dear dead scholar who wrote the book did actually test. The glitter will react if you sprinkle this over it – even a small amount will render the glitter unusable. If you have the chance, I think you should destroy the stuff.”

  “But won’t the Contessa be angry?”

  Bell bites down on her lip. “I don’t care. It’s just too dangerous – I don’t believe any of the Trusts would use it responsibly.”

  “Did you find something in the book we brought out of the Necropolis?”

  “Only that the scholar believed glitter was the perfect fuel source for the Cleansing Flame. It would burn nearly forever . . . and incredibly hot. Hot enough to turn diamonds to ash. Can you imagine the amount of energy that would create?”

  “Perhaps they just want to light street lamps.”

  Bell snorted. “We both know that’s not what the Marquis desires. And I highly doubt the Contessa is so civically minded.”

  “The carriage is here,” Deliah says, entering the Word again. Her eyes settle on Bell and me, and I feel a little twinge because one of her arms is still around my neck. But there’s not the slightest hint of jealousy in her expression. In fact, she almost looks pleased.

  Gently, I remove Bell’s arm and smooth my creased doublet. “I’ll see you ladies tomorrow,” I say, then stride out the door and into the gloaming. Here in the Blight there are none of those modern electryc glowspheres, and only a few of the lamps hanging from poles along the streets have been lit. In one of these puddles of light the golden carriage we’d ridden in before waits, bedecked with colorful streamers. More of these silken ribbons are twined in the manes of the white stallions at the head of the carriage, and even the driver is now garbed in more expensive-looking livery.

  The carriage door swings open and Xela beckons me inside. “Come on,” she says. “The Contessa abhors lateness.”

  I clamor within and moments later the carriage lurches forward. Xela lounges across from me, her long spidery arms and legs sprawled across the cushioned bench at odd angles. She’s traded her dark leather armor for a seductively clingy sheath of shimmering black. In her hand she’s twirling an ebony mask, and onyx beads have been woven into her hair. She studies me with a crooked smile.

  “You look handsome.”

  I nod my head. “And you are beautiful. How is your arm?”

  Xela glances at the dark cloth wrapping her forearm. “It will scar, but no tendons or veins were cut.”

  “That’s good.”

  She tilts her head to the side, her eyes narrowing. “If you ever wish to leave Ysala, I believe you could make a fortune as a blade for one of the Matriarchs of Zim. They all compete to have the handsomest, most accomplished swordsmen at their sides.”

  “Perhaps after tonight,” I say. “I have a feeling we are going to make some enemies among Ysala’s powerful.”

  “Friends as well,” Xela says, reaching into an almost invisible seam in her dress and pulling out something that glints silver. She holds it out for me to take – it’s a small cat with pointed ears, intricately carved. The eyes of the lynx glitter green, flecks of what looks to be emerald. “You are under the protection of the Gilded Lynx Trust now.”

  I unpin the crudely fashioned wolf’s head Bell had secured for us when we’d entered Ysala and replace it with the much more finely wrought lynx.

  “Very few will bother you in Ysala when you are wearing that,” she says.

  “The Contessa trusts me.”

  “She does,” Xela says, and I can hear an edge of something odd in her voice. “And I’m not sure exactly why.”

  “She’s right to,” I assure the Zimani shadowdancer. “All I care about is rescuing Bell’s father.”

  Xela nods curtly. “Good. We should discuss what will happen tonight.” The carriage jounces, and I hear the muffled cry of the driver as he hurls a torrent of colorful curses at something outside.

  “The Masquerade is one of Ysala’s oldest traditions,” Xela continues, leaning forward. “It predates the establishment of the Trusts, but for the last few centuries it has been inextricably twined with them. It serves to reaffirm that the Trusts are united, and despite what petty rivalries might exist, the heads can come together and break bread without violence or rancor.”

  “Which we seem to be subverting.”

  “That is why,” Xela says, wagging a long finger at me, “you must not spill any blood. If you do so wearing that brooch it will severely damage the Gilded Lynx, and if your actions are deemed to have been countenanced by the Contessa herself the entire Trust might be dissolved. It has happened before.”

  My fingers drift to the hilt of my sword. “Then weapons are not allowed within?”

  “They are,” Xela assures me. “Because no one is foolish enough to use them.”

  That is comforting. “So what is our plan?”

  “We enter the Masquerade. Once we are inside we look for a chance to slip away and explore the Red Trillium estate. We find the scientist and learn what we can about the Marquis’ plan for the glitter. If there’s a chance to rescue the scientist then we take it. Otherwise, we leave him and inform the Contessa what he has told us – I suspect she is quietly building an alliance amo
ng the other Trust heads, and that they will publicly demand the Marquis to give up the glitter when his schemes are uncovered.”

  “And he will agree?”

  Xela nods. “He must. The Trusts rule through solidarity. As powerful as the Red Trillium have become, they do not have nearly the strength to deny the rest of the Trusts if they are united.”

  My thoughts return to the red-masked man in the Temple of the Cleansing Flame. I find it hard to believe that he will meekly give up the glitter or Poz without a fight, but I truly do not know these people. I settle back onto the cushions, preparing myself for what will come. I’m much more comfortable solving problems with my sword – the disaster when last I went skulking in shadows is still fresh in my mind. Worse comes to worst, if I have to tear down the Red Trillium Trust it will be easier to do from the inside.

  I notice with a slight twinge of anticipation that the carriage has stopped bouncing, the road outside having grown smoother. We are getting closer.

  Someone had once described the estate of the Red Trillium Trust as a bastion, and now I understand why. I alight from the carriage into a vast courtyard, and I’m momentarily awed by the imposing walls soaring around us – the spiky crenellations clawing at the sky are so high that for the first time I can’t see any of Ysala’s other great buildings. The Contessa’s home had reminded me of a manse of an ancient and proud noble house that had suffered through a long, decadent decline. This place feels like the fortress of a young conquering warlord. No wonder the other Trusts seem to fear the Marquis.

  A stream of well dressed, masked guests are moving from the courtyard towards a huge arched doorway. They seem at ease, their laughter drowning out the music of the stunningly beautiful harpist beside the entrance. She smiles, her fingers fluttering over the silver strings, apparently not caring that no one can hear her playing. The courtyard behind the Trust revelers is a shifting mess of carriages and palanquins and litters and strange saddled beasts. The driver of our own carriage bows gracefully to us and snaps his reins, hurrying to make room as more guests arrive.