That was my fear as well. Courtiers murmured complaints of the “unnatural degenerates” who dwelt in the Undergrunnsby. It sounded like distant thunder rolling across a massive sky, but I was hearing this thunder more frequently lately. More worrisome still, some courtiers didn’t limit their condemnation to those who lived under the city. I heard denunciation of the residents of the Lavsektor more and more as well.
I had already made two new forays into the metropolis at night dressed as Raud Gríma, and I had succeeded in robbing some courtiers again. I’d left my takings in front of the door to one of the hovels near Spraki’s lab, after using the ability of my mask to peer through, so as to choose a home with children. Nevertheless, I knew that while the money I’d stolen might allow them to buy some food at the markets, it wouldn’t last long. Meanwhile, talk of Raud Gríma flared up again. I was not surprised when the court gossips blamed Raud Gríma’s crimes on the poor who lived in the Undergrunnsby and the Lavsektor, but it disturbed me all the same. I wanted to help them, to ease their suffering, not give the court another reason to want to exterminate them.
“It’s time I took things a step further,” I said aloud. Kolorma had been smoking in silence, wrapped in her thoughts just as I had been.
She raised an eyebrow at me. “I’m not ready to take on my… share.”
She meant that she wasn’t ready to kill Galmr. I shook my head. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about our friend.” “Our friend” was the way we referred to Raud Gríma, just in case someone was listening. “He hasn’t done nearly enough,” I continued. “I shall have a chat with him about it.”
Kolorma frowned. “Take care. It wouldn’t do to put yourself at risk.”
With a sigh, I said, “Kolorma, I swim through risk from hour to hour. What’s a little more depth in the pool?”
Her frown deepened. “You’ve important work to attend to here.”
“If our friend fails in his task, it won’t matter if I succeed at mine.”
We dared not speak openly; nevertheless it was becoming an old argument. Kolorma wanted me to keep to the palace, not risk capture or worse by prowling the night as Raud Gríma. When we first returned to Helésey, she agreed that fomenting a revolution among the poor had merit. Now, as I’d succeeded in seducing the konunger, she feared to lose the progress we’d made. I still believed that killing Eiflar and Galmr would not be enough. It certainly would not be enough to satisfy me. This city thrived on corruption. I would tear the whole thing down if I could.
“Don’t be reckless,” Kolorma pleaded, swinging her legs off the settee and leaning towards me.
I smiled at her. “I shall be the soul of caution.”
“What are you planning to do?”
Frowning, I gazed at her. She must be truly worried, to ask me so bluntly. “I’ve a plan,” I said.
“Then let me help you with it.”
When I shook my head, she huffed and turned away, sucking on the tip of the cigarette-holder.
“Just trust in me, Kolorma,” I said. “I shall take many precautions, as I always do.”
“Very well,” she said, waving a hand at me. Feeling dismissed, I left the room and made my way back to the Sölbói apartments.
Her lack of trust irritated me. Didn’t I trust her? Two weeks since our return, and I had seen no evidence of progress on her end. When I tried to probe she gave vague answers about observing Galmr’s schedule and learning his habits. Yet I knew she was committed. I knew she would tell me when it was time to strike.
As I strode down the halls towards the Sölbói residence I twisted a ring I wore around my index finger. It looked like an ornate bronze band with green colored glass leaves framing a mother-of-pearl center stone. In fact, it was one of the “tools” Spraki had given me on the day I retrieved the Raud Gríma costume from him. The mother-of-pearl center popped off, revealing a hollow with a sharp sticker in the center. The ring was a weapon for administering poison.
Spraki had given it to me empty, and I did not know whether he would supply me with a toxin when the time came, or if I would have to procure one somewhere else. I chose, for the moment, not to worry about the problem. Until I had some inkling that Kolorma was ready to strike, it was far from time for me to ready myself to kill Eiflar. Since I did not relish my task, I preferred to avoid thinking of it as much as possible.
Perhaps it was Eiflar’s blond hair that made me think of Bersi, or simply the moments he released his iron grip on himself and allowed the rare vulnerability inside him to surface, but either way, I could not stop seeing him as a mother’s son. Eiflar’s mother lived yet, although she remained far from Helésey, in Skardilund to the northeast at her family’s estate. I often wondered why she stayed so far from her son, and whether it was by choice. When I thought of murdering Eiflar, I always heard her mourning him in my ears. Just the thought of it—what it would mean to me if someone ever hurt Bersi—was almost more than I could bear. In a deep part of me I hoped I would not have to kill Eiflar. I hoped that Raud Gríma’s labors would bear fruit before Kolorma gave me the signal that she at last had everything arranged for Galmr’s death. Let the people rise up and overthrow this rotten régime. Perhaps it could be done with little bloodshed. That is what I wanted more than anything, although I did not believe it likely.
When I arrived at the Sölbói apartments I saw that Reister sat with Mother Tora in the salon. The sight of them together made me pause. I rarely saw Reister since our nasty exchange at the Asleifer’s soirée. On that night a hope that he might be an ally had died almost before it fully formed in my mind; I counted my blessings that I no longer had to hide my activities from him and left it at that. However, seeing him in a tête-a-tête with his mother sent an uneasy shiver through my body. As I entered the salon they looked up at the same time, and whatever they had been discussing died on their lips. I did not trust them.
“Reister, Mother Tora,” I said by way of greeting.
Reister gave me a short nod.
“Myadar, how splendid,” Mother Tora said with false warmth. “Reister was just asking which invitation you plan to accept for this evening.”
I hadn’t planned on accepting any of them, as I intended to don the mask and go into the city to make some mischief. I never discussed my activities as Raud Gríma with my husband and his mother; I doubted they would support the idea of a revolution. All Reister wanted was a return to the old regime, and to get revenge on the konunger and Galmr for making his life so difficult and costing him so much money. Still, Reister knew I was responsible for the fire that destroyed his warehouse and for the first street robbery. He suspected that two recent robberies that had everyone talking about the old legends of the highwayman were my work as well. I made no attempt to hide my comings and goings from the two of them. To answer Mother Tora’s question I might have simply said I had other business to see to that night, but I sensed something hanging in the air between them still.
On my guard, I replied, “The Hólmdórrs.” At least the Hólmdórrs were going to an opera—I could use the secret passage Finnarún and Liut had shown me and escape, unless I was very unlucky and Reister decided to accompany me.
Reister snorted and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Enjoy that,” he said.
I gave a short shrug and made my way towards the corridor, but Reister rose to his feet and intercepted me.
“Tell me, Myadar, how is the konunger these days?”
Anyone listening might assume I was in for a jealous scene. I knew better, of course. Reister wanted to see the konunger dead, and I was simply taking too long accomplishing this end.
“He’s well. Planning an extraordinary celebration, in fact.”
“A celebration?” Mother Tora echoed, her face taking on a pinched look as she puzzled over the news. Then she arched her eyebrows. “Not for the Dísablót, surely?”
Eiflar hadn’t said anything about secrecy. “In a way, yes. High Vigja Galmr’s h
ad a vision transforming the Dísablót into the Tyrablót. In honoring Tyr, Galmr claims we shall ensure a year of victory and plenty.”
Reister gave a scoffing noise and followed it with a glare at me.
“Don’t blame me,” I said lightly. “I suppose we must find a way to maintain some traditions. What would the artisans and merchants do without their fairs?”
“I once sold quite a bit of wine at those fairs, you might recall,” Reister said acidly.
“Yes, and it’s such a shame that wine had to be sacred to Alfódr, isn’t it?” I said, attempting once more to pass by him.
He blocked me again. “A terrible shame,” Reister said.
I inhaled deeply and fixed my eyes on his. “I’m working on it,” I breathed through my teeth.
“Pick up the pace,” he responded in kind.
I had to actually push past him, but at last I managed to exit to my own room. Once I was alone in my chamber, I spent some time sorting through the tools Spraki had given me. I selected those that I would need and packed them in the leather bag. I folded the disguise, as well, and tucked it in, closing everything up. The difficulty was that I must find a way to come back for the bag after I slipped away from the opera. It would be a terrible delay. If I left now I might find a hiding place for the bag in my favorite alley, but I was loath to leave it unguarded. What I needed, I realized, was an assistant. There was almost no one I trusted: Kolorma, maybe Spraki. Alflétta… I wondered what he was up to tonight. Alflétta had made appearances at perhaps three soirées since our return, always with Kolorma on his arm. From what I could glean, some courtiers accepted that they were indeed a couple, a larger number puzzled over it, and a smaller number refused to believe it. Of the last group, only two spoke openly about their disbelief, and they were not among the popular elite that had the konunger’s ear. I feared for Alflétta and Kolorma if the disbelievers ever gained ground, but it seemed that most who knew of Alflétta’s true nature or suspected Kolorma’s were content to at least pretend to accept the pretense that Alflétta and Kolorma were lovers. After all, I suspected everyone knew of Finnarún Vaenn’s appetites, and she was still a favorite of the konunger. One who dared denounce Kolorma for her “unnatural” orientation might endanger Vaenn as well, a risky proposition when Vaenn was so close to the konunger and might whisper a name in the same sentence as “heretic” in order to make someone disappear. And too many courtiers had invested too much time cultivating relationships with Vaenn to have her disgraced, anyway.
Despite how sought after she was for soirées and balls, Vaenn, I had come to realize, was widely disliked, for she and Liut had played their games with too many courtiers. Only her continued favor with the konunger stood between her and Liut’s fate. I had not seen him since the masked ball. No one invited him, and from what I had heard, any time he came out in public, everyone ignored him openly even as they whispered about him behind their hands. All of his attempts to invite others to dinner or to meet with some courtier or other had resulted in rejection. He was shut out.
As I stroked the firm, smooth leather of the black bag holding my costume and the tools, my thoughts returned to Alflétta. Perhaps I could ask him to help me—just once, just tonight. I would not endanger him more than that. I must speak with Kolorma or maybe Spraki about an alternative assistant for my future forays into the darkened city. I remembered they spoke of robots they had altered, the ones who would assail Liut should he ever try to betray us. Perhaps I might have one for my assistant somehow.
~~~
“I have one condition,” Alflétta said. I had struggled a bit to find a way to explain what I needed, taking care not to say anything obvious.
I stood in the main salon of his apartments, dressed for the opera in a knee-length gown of brown silk, lace, and velvet with stylized flowers embroidered with pearls on two panels in front.
My eyes traveled over Alflétta’s salon, searching for some evidence of his taste—at least the taste I’d seen at his manor house, in the porcelain tea cups and old-fashioned chairs—but the furniture here didn’t deviate from the latest fashion. The longest couch had a chevron pattern in the chrome ends of the armrests, a tall, prism-shaped crystal vase stood in one corner of the room, full of oversized silk calla lilies, and one divan was even upholstered in silver lamé. No doubt keeping up appearances was wise, but I longed for some token of Alflétta’s true personality just the same. I realized he was the first jarl I had met whom I’d liked, after Liut, who didn’t count since he’d betrayed me.
“Tell me your condition,” I said.
Alflétta laced his fingers together at his waist. “I want news.”
I raised my eyebrows. “If you’re hoping for me to bring gossip on a daily basis I might be able to manage the occasional visit—”
With a click of his tongue, Alflétta gave his head a quick shake. “No, you misunderstand me.” He grabbed my hand, and I felt a folded paper in my palm, for I had not yet donned my gloves. I dared not look at the note, and instead walked to the large, cold mirror that dominated the room. I fussed with my hair, slipping the note into the folds of the wide velvet headband I wore, just behind the spray of feathers.
“What can you mean, then?” I asked lightly.
Alflétta watched me. “I’ve heard a rumor about a holiday coming up,” he said softly.
Our eyes met in the mirror. No doubt Kolorma had told him. “My, how words fly through these halls. Indeed, the konunger mentioned something to me about it. It’s to be called the Tyrablót.”
“The Tyrablót,” he repeated, and he didn’t quite hide the sneer that formed on his face as he said the word. Then he sighed. “I want news of it; what the preparations entail. I plan to make a contribution to it, you understand, and I can’t do that without the right sort of information.”
“I see,” I replied, and turned back to him. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
Later, when all of the Hólmdórrs’ guests had climbed into their cars, I waited until we had arrived at the opera house and made a show of fiddling with my garter. The silly guests I shared the automobile with flushed uncomfortably to glimpse the thigh of the konunger’s mistress. They hurried out of the car to give me a moment’s privacy. My fingers found the folded paper in my headband and I peered at the words written on it. There were two. A name: Lini Madr.
Lini Madr must be Alflétta’s imprisoned lover, whom I had promised to attempt to free at the first opportunity. Alflétta wanted news of him. I could hardly blame him—each time I walked the city as Raud Gríma I always found my way to Sacred Comfrey Street, where I would spent too much time staring at the School of the Holy Hand. Once, I stood as heavy snow fell, freezing against my cheeks, but even the cold could not drive me away. Bersi’s face never came to the window as it had the first time, though I searched for even a glimpse of golden hair. Still, just knowing where Bersi was comforted me—how terrible it had been before I found the cursed place. I wanted nothing more than to scale the wall, find my son, and flee the city, but I needed help to do that properly, and I would not put my son’s life at risk with a half developed plan.
As I exited the automobile and joined the crowd of the Hólmdórrs’ guests making their way into the opera house I considered Alflétta’s condition. He was willing to sneak out of the palace and meet me with my bag in the alley I’d chosen if I would bring him news of Lini Madr. As the service I required was happening in less than an hour, Alflétta was trusting that I would deliver on my end of the deal at some later time. He must wonder whether Madr was even still in Grumflein. I turned as I reached the towering doors of the opera and cast a look over the skyline, illuminated against the black night. Grumflein Prison stood like an asymmetrical pike amidst the crowd of buildings that surrounded it. What horrors took place there?
I shuddered and hurried to catch up with the others.
Once inside the gilded grand tier of the opera house I purposefully stood at the rail and looked across and below, as if I
were searching for someone. Satisfied that I’d made myself seen, I retreated to the box Jarl Hólmdórr had assured me I would have to myself and waited for the house to go dark. Now and again a courtier paused and visited; I exchanged pleasantries with each, but no one stopped for long. As the lights dimmed, I held my breath, hoping no bold last-minute interloper would decide to keep the konunger’s mistress company in her box. My situation was unique—no other courtiers had a box to themselves, but it was a privilege the Hólmdórrs accorded me when I intimated that I would prefer solitude. They hoped to win my favor. No doubt they had some petition for the konunger to grant.
I could not sustain my current position for long. The courtiers who indulged my “whims” would soon grow tired of doing so if I never acted on their behalf in exchange, but I had no intention of bringing petty requests and grievances to Eiflar. I must not become another annoyance to him, no matter how much he liked me now.
Darkness deepened until the house was black. I slipped from my box and crept down to the one on the end; only that one had a secret passage, at least on this tier. Would the booth be occupied? I hoped not, but even if it was, I thought I might manage to move behind the seated courtiers in it unnoticed.
By the time I reached the end box my eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark. I saw no colors and little detail. As my fingers drew the curtain aside to see who was seated in the box, I could tell right away that there were four people, and they weren’t sitting. In fact, they were escaping through the secret door ahead of me.
Biting my lip, I paused. The stage curtain would rise in a moment or two, and when it did, the performance’s lights would brighten the house enough to make moving around far more risky. However, I could not simply follow the four courtiers out right away. I could not be seen leaving by anyone. Better to wait.
As the last courtier disappeared and the door shut silently behind him, I stepped into the box and stood in the corner nearest the invisible panel. The opera house was not an old building, and I suspected the panel, which led to a narrow passage full of pipes, wiring, and structural mechanisms, had been installed to allow workers to do maintenance and repairs when necessary. The passage led to a maze, although I felt confident I would find my way. I remembered the night Finnarún and Liut led me through it and we left the opera house to sneak off to the Perle like it was yesterday. After all, that was the night their game had started.
The City Darkens (Raud Grima Book 1) Page 31