Priest got in Macready’s way next, his large velvet-clad body serving as a substantial barrier. ‘You smell like a distillery, man,’ he said in distaste.
‘Fit right in here then, will I not?’ Macready slurred, gesturing at the empty wine bottles that littered the floor. His Islandser accent grew stronger when he drank, even to his own ears. Odd, that. ‘I’m here to see himself,’ he added loudly. ‘There isn’t one of yez can stop me.’
That made them laugh—Lords and Court alike. ‘Let him pass,’ Warlord drawled. ‘It should be entertaining, if nothing else.’
Priest moved aside with a smirk.
‘That’s better,’ Macready declared, making his way forward. He had a plan. The drink might have him all fogged, but he could still follow through.
A short demme in a sentinel’s uniform matching his own came forward next, to stop him getting near the dais. Kelpie. ‘Macready, what are you doing? You’ll get yourself killed,’ she added in an undertone.
He leaned forward and gave her a smacking kiss on the nose. ‘And wouldn’t that be a fine, fine way to finish off the day, my lass?’ He lurched around her. ‘Awake, my son! We’re all dying to hear from you, so we are.’
One gattopardo stood, stretching its body lazily. The second followed suit. Then their bodies blurred together, creating a form that eventually shaped itself into a red-haired cove, naked as the day he was born. He sniffed and picked up a nearby robe, throwing it casually over his nakedness. ‘I hope there’s a good reason for this sudden lack of manners, sentinel,’ said Garnet. Power and Majesty. Right bastard.
Macready fell to his knees in exaggerated obeisance. ‘Always, Majesty,’ he said roughly. ‘I came to—’ Kill you, I came to kill you. Our swords might be gone but I’ve a knife here with your name on it, so I have… ‘—tell you…’ He swallowed, tasting bile in his mouth. Either that or the booze had been nastier than he thought at the time. ‘…Ilsa’s dead.’
Garnet gave a flicker of a smile, reseating himself on the silk. He beckoned with one hand and Livilla came to him willingly, curling her body against his and sneering at Macready.
‘Remind me,’ Garnet said. ‘Which one was Ilsa again?’
Macready willed himself to stay steady, not to clench his hands into fists. He’d never get a knife near Garnet if he was that obvious about it. He opened his mouth to say something equally flippant, but nothing came out.
‘She took a wound in the last battle,’ Kelpie said, her voice only a little uneven. ‘It went bad. We were hoping…’
Aye, lass, hope. Precious little of that around here.
‘Goodness,’ said Garnet, sounding amused. ‘We are running low on sentinels, are we not?’
Macready’s head spun. He’d drunk more than was healthy. ‘You’ll not be happy till we’re all dead,’ he said out loud. He didn’t care any more about watching every word.
‘I don’t need you,’ Garnet said, utterly delighted with himself. ‘I never needed you. Ashiol might have relied upon the sentinels, but he was weak and now he’s gone.’
Macready knew exactly where the knife was, hidden under his shirt at the small of his back. It was the Silver Captain’s old dagger, may-he-rest-peaceful-enough, the only weapon that had been overlooked when Garnet took the blades away from the sentinels. It was made of skysilver, the one thing that could put Garnet in the ground. Macready could grab it, even drunk off his arse like he was. He could try. He could die trying. That option was looking pretty bloody good right now.
Garnet smiled, as if he knew exactly what Macready was thinking. As if he knew that Macready would never do it. Kelpie wasn’t so sure, watching him with wide, wary eyes.
No, Macready couldn’t use the knife. He smiled, acknowledging it to himself. The oath held him here. Kept him loyal. The sky could fall in and he still would serve Garnet.
‘Have you heard the news about the Daylight Duc?’ he asked instead. ‘Old codger finally kicked off. The granddaughter rules them now.’
Garnet’s expression did not change, though his stillness spoke for itself. ‘What makes you think I give a frig what the daylight folk do with themselves?’
Macready kept smiling. Knowing he couldn’t use the knife made him feel oddly free. ‘There’s a rumour that she’ll be bringing her cousin Ashiol back to the city, so she will. He’s her heir now, until she weds and starts popping out the babbies.’ He couldn’t stab, but he could sting.
Garnet lashed out and Macready braced himself for the blow. Instead, the Power and Majesty grabbed him by the collar and pulled him in, close enough to smell spiced potions on his breath. ‘I’ve known Ashiol Xandelian for longer than you have,’ Garnet hissed. ‘If you think he’s going to march back in here and challenge me, you’re wrong. I beat him and he crawled away. He won’t be back.’
Macready gasped a little, unable to breathe until Garnet let go, allowing him to drop back to his knees. The world tilted sideways, blurring badly.
‘Now,’ announced Garnet pleasantly, ‘what sort of punishment is suitable for a smart-mouthed sentinel who doesn’t know his place? Anybody?’
Around him, Macready heard the Lords and Court laugh. Vultures, the pack of them. ‘As long as it’s entertaining, my Power!’ called out one sly voice. Poet, Macready thought, smarming up as usual. He braced himself, waiting for the pain.
When it came, a burning shock that ran up his arm, he lost it finally and hurled the contents of his stomach at the foot of the dais. He ended up flat on his back, shaking with pain, aware that something had happened to his hand, something bad.
The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was Garnet, and it wasn’t much consolation that the bastard looked rattled.
Should have just fecking knifed him.
10
Ninth day of the Ludi Aufleuris
‘Ash, Ash, Ash!’ The boys crashed into the librarion, two lanky teenagers falling over themselves to get their side of the story out—it wasn’t Jemmen’s fault, or Zade’s, but somehow the statue in the west garden had got broken and Keeper was going to mash them, but it was only an ear or two, maybe they could fix it, if only he helped them. That was what big brothers were supposed to do.
If the alternative was working on the estate accounts for his mother, Ashiol could live with that. He put the pen down. ‘Explain it from the top,’ he suggested, and the boys launched into their saga once again. They were so noisy that none of them heard their mother entering the room.
Ducomtessa-Baronille Augusta Xandelian Lanouvre Diamagne was a woman born to be a matrona—more attractive in her forties than she ever was in her demoiselle days. Widowed twice and mother of six, she seemed oddly satisfied with this backwater estate and her life here.
‘Dearlings,’ she said in a firm voice. ‘I need to talk with Ashiol alone.’
Her two younger sons made themselves scarce, obviously worried she had overheard their troubles.
Ashiol shook his head, feeling like an old man. At their age, he had been in the city, dodging fussy ministers and public rituals by day and making his first steps into the Creature Court at nox. He had never been as young as those two, or had problems as minor as a broken statue.
‘What is it, Mother?’
Augusta had her careful face on. She sat on the far side of the ancient carved desk that had belonged to the Baronne di Diamagne, Ashiol’s stepfather. ‘Another letter from Aufleur,’ she said, and placed the heavy envelope on the desk between them. The Duchessa’s seal was bright and waxy.
Ashiol eyed the letter, making no move to open it. It would be the same as the others. ‘Don’t worry,’ he told his mother. ‘I’m not going back.’
There was a chiming sound from the hallway, and then another. His mother’s late husband had collected clocks, the kind with gears and levers and noise every hour. You never saw clockwork in Aufleur—another of the city’s mad restrictions or traditions—which meant Ashiol got an hourly reminder he was here and not there.
‘P
erhaps it would be good for you,’ said Augusta once the chimes had died down. She did not sound overly convinced.
He didn’t blame her mistrust. He had returned from the city half-dead and hollow-eyed, four years ago. His mother had no idea what had driven him into a black cloud of desperation, no knowledge of the Creature Court, or Garnet’s betrayal, or the fact that he couldn’t breathe in Aufleur now that he had lost his power, his animor, everything that made him sane.
She didn’t know he had been a hero once. All she knew were his failings. The potions and drink he had turned to when there was nothing else. The suicide attempts. But she had brought him home to heal, and he almost thought he had. Except when his damned cousin sent one of those letters.
‘It’s not like she hasn’t been ruling the city for years,’ he said sourly.
The Old Duc had succumbed to the ‘family complaint’ a long time ago. Their grandmother, the Old Duchessa, had served as his Regenta for years, then Isangell had taken over after her death. For an eighteen-year-old demoiselle, his cousin had plenty of practice at politics.
‘If only she’d find herself a husband,’ Augusta sighed. ‘She needs an heir of her own…’ She darted an almost-apologetic look at her son.
He laughed. ‘Believe me, I don’t want to be Duc. Can you imagine it?’ How would that be for irony? Cast out of the Creature Court, only to rule in the daylight. ‘Isangell has some crazy idea that my presence will help her with the City Fathers. She’s too young to remember why they don’t have a lot of respect for me.’
Ashiol was not going back. Here in Diamagne he could survive his loss of power. The sky never opened here. He could feel almost whole. Nothing Isangell could write in a letter would change that.
Later, after his mother left him alone, he cracked open the seal and allowed the words to wash over him.
Need you…please, Ashiol, I need a show of strength…they want me married off, and I won’t make that decision hastily…if not now, then at the end of my year of mourning: I need a consort to stand at my side for the Floralia, one without political implications…
It was the last paragraph that slayed him. You were always so strong. I need to borrow that strength.
Apparently his little cousin didn’t know him at all.
11
Kalends of Venturis
It was a new year, bright and cold, and the streets were streaked with slush. The snowfall had only lasted a few hours, and the perfect look of the frosted streets had lasted even less.
Velody’s boots were wet as she made her way to the Palazzo. She had an invitation to meet with some factotum or other to discuss a contract—livery she expected. She had made uniforms for one of the Great Families last spring: boring work but good income.
The Palazzo was a grand old building sprawled over the Balisquine hill. The stone was dark, like everything else in Aufleur. Sometimes Velody imagined a brighter city with yellow, dusty stone buildings, but she didn’t know where those thoughts came from. She had never lived anywhere but here.
Velody was taken to room after room, and finally waited in an eggshell-blue parlour for almost an hour, trying to keep her hands still. Finally the door opened and a demoiselle in a simple white mourning robe entered. She had a long braid of blonde hair and looked awfully young to be in the position of ordering uniforms for the Palazzo…
‘Thank you for waiting,’ the demme said apologetically. ‘Matters of state, you know.’
Oh, saints. Velody was an idiot. This was no factotum. This was the Duchessa d’Aufleur herself.
‘No trouble at all, High and Brightness,’ she said, relieved that she hadn’t spoken her error aloud. ‘How can I be of service?’
The Duchessa was pretty, though she had her grandfather’s nose—it dominated her face and gave her a rather stern look, except when she smiled.
‘I want a dress,’ she said, and in that moment she sounded like any old merchant’s daughter with a special dance coming up. Velody started to relax. One client was much like another, surely. ‘I loved the costumes you made for the Saturnalia columbines,’ the Duchessa added. ‘The sunshine dress in particular. Such a stunning effect.’
‘Bugle fringe,’ said Velody. ‘It creates a cascade effect.’ Those costumes had been worn by dancers in her local musette, the Argentia. Hardly the sort of place one would expect the city’s ruler to frequent, even if the Duchessa did go out in public, which she had not since the death of the Old Duc. ‘How did you happen to see them?’
The demoiselle blushed. Goodness, she was young. Velody had nearly a decade on her, and found it hard to take in how much power this near-child must wield from behind her walls.
‘Sometimes I go out in disguise,’ the Duchessa confessed, her eyes bright at the thought of it. ‘I love the musette. Far more than the sacred games, or any of the performances they allow into the Palazzo.’
‘And you want a dress,’ Velody said, oddly disappointed.
‘Oh, not for that,’ the Duchessa assured her. ‘My year of mourning ends just before the Floralia, and I’ll be taking a public role in the festival. It’s months away, but I need to look perfect.’ She bit her lip. ‘I know what they all think of me. The City Fathers talk over my head like I’m a child. I let them make far too many decisions for me when I first had to replace my grandmother as Regenta and they have grown used to such compliance. They will not take me seriously until I have the love and belief of the people to hold over their heads. That means I have to put on a show from the start of my public career. A good one. I want a dress that no one will forget, and when I saw those columbines…I thought anyone who can make a dusty old theatre look like it’s full of sunshine has to be the dressmaker I’m looking for. Will you do it?’
Velody was startled at the Duchessa confiding so openly in her. She thought fast. This was an astounding opportunity, and not just for herself. Rhian was working again, weaving flowers into garlands with Delphine’s ribbons, but she still wouldn’t set foot out of the house. They had closed the shop because she had panic attacks whenever male customers came inside.
‘Something with fresh flowers,’ Velody said. ‘For the Floralia. I have some ideas—I may have to bring in a florister as well. And a ribboner.’
The Duchessa nodded, looking absurdly grateful considering that she was the customer. ‘Anything you need.’
A dress that no one would forget. Velody could do that. And if this commission brought Rhian back to the real world at the same time, all the better.
12
Aphrodal, four days before the Kalends of Floralis
The third letter did not convince Ashiol that he should ride to Isangell’s rescue. Nor did the fourth, or the fifth. Each sweet entreaty worked like a drop of acid, reminding him what a coward he was.
He drank more, snapped at his younger siblings, and spent far too long staring at the blank, unthreatening sky.
His mother broke first. ‘If you don’t go back, you’ll never face your fears. You’re a grown man, and stronger than you think. Perhaps you should just go.’
Would she encourage him if she knew what he was really hiding from?
So Ashiol Xandelian entered the city of Aufleur for the first time in five years. His entrance was modest and uneventful, except that he spent the entire walk from the Aurian Gate Station to the Palazzo watching the sky and thinking Garnet, Garnet, Garnet with every step.
The sky told him nothing.
At the Palazzo, Ashiol was greeted with the usual flurry of servants and officials. He dodged the formal reception as soon as he could and made off in search of Isangell’s private rooms. Halfway there, he realised that he was heading for the nursery, which wasn’t right. The little Ducomtessa had become a ruling Duchessa; she would not be sleeping in a child’s cubby with bars on the window. Gritting his teeth, he hailed a servant and was directed to an elegant suite in the Inner Sanctum, alongside the Old Duc’s rose atrium.
The woman waiting for him was not the demoiselle he had
left. A tall, slender creature sat on the Duc’s favourite bench, her long fair hair hanging carelessly to her waist. Ashiol watched her for several minutes before she turned that tree-branch neck and saw him. Her wicked grin, at least, was much the same.
‘Hello, Ash,’ said the Duchessa d’Aufleur.
‘Hello, Isangell.’ He eyed the thin white shift that barely covered her to mid-thigh. ‘Is that what you’re wearing to the festival? The City Fathers might be overly aroused.’
She rolled her eyes at him. ‘The festival is hours away. Besides, my gown hasn’t been delivered yet.’
‘Cutting it fine, aren’t we?’
‘You’ll see why when it arrives. I have to wear it fresh.’
‘You are aware that festival gowns aren’t food?’
‘Someone told me, but I don’t believe a word of it.’ She stared at him and laughed. ‘You got old!’
Ashiol wasn’t thirty yet. ‘You too, gosling. Nineteen and not married? “Spinster” is such an ugly word.’
‘I’ve missed you,’ she said. ‘Everyone else refuses to be mean to me. It’s quite wretched of them.’
‘I’m sure your mother more than makes up for it,’ he said dryly.
‘Yes, well. The less said about that, the better.’ Isangell looked serious for a moment. ‘I’m glad you came. I need you here, in Aufleur.’
‘Because that worked out so well last time…’
Ashiol barely remembered the last few months of his time here, except that he had been sampling every mind-altering substance under the sun to blot out the pain of what Garnet had done to him. He certainly hadn’t left the city on his own two feet.
‘You look good,’ said Isangell. ‘I mean, better than before.’
‘I worked out my demons.’ Potions and powders were so difficult to purchase in the provinces. Easier to do without. ‘I don’t know why you want me here,’ he said abruptly. ‘I mean, I know why—I know the role you want me to play. But I have four strapping younger brothers, all with blood as fine and Aufleurine as my own. None of them have the history I have with this city.’
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