"Yes, Gospozhyn."
"Any reason you chose her?"
Megan looked at him blankly, shook her head. "No, Gospozhyn. I just thought of her. The whole City was talking about her roses."
He gazed at her a minute longer. "You have this committed to memory?" he asked, gesturing with the piece of paper. She nodded. "Good," he said, and held it in the candle flame. "Go do it."
Of all the dumb things I could do, she thought. Why did I have to pick this one? The rain was a steady drizzle making the rock where she clung slipperier and colder.
She rested her arms, trusting all her weight for a moment on the climbing claws on her left boot. She was on the ridge near Sobota Gate, a good long fall away from the street. Vaizal Marteshkya's manor was at the end of Ulitsu Lane, at least the gardens were, the terraces and walls rising to the facades set into the ridge, one of the old manors with rooms deep in the rock. Megan, in the rain, both cursed it and was thankful. Few people stuck their noses out in the wet and it made a dark night dimmer.
She climbed carefully past the last wall fringed with wooden spines, each tipped in painted iron. She d gotten Varik to help her plot the possible manrauq traps, because she still wasn't manifesting. He'd told her where they were likely to be that he could see, or had heard of. She bit her lip as she climbed, remembering his impatient click of tongue against teeth. He expected me to manifest long before. She headed for the window farthest from the wall, the one least likely to be protected, hanging on to rock that leaned out over the garden with hands that ached and trembled inside the climbing gloves. Anyone heavier wouldn't have made it. I'm glad I don't have to try it even a few months from now. The roses. I would have to pick something that expensive and recognizable. I'm risking strangulation, not just having my hands broken. The latter punishment was only for petty theft. She reached the window, rested the toe of one boot against the sill, and waited. There was a flicker and the window bulged, reaching with clear paws. Megan bed and they swung toward her. She froze—I am a shadow, not a person. I'm not here.—and they withered into the rain and washed away. The window smoothed out. Megan shifted a bit more weight onto the sill, watched the same thing happen, freezing again until the illusion faded.
Good image. If Varik hadn't told me, I would have tried to get away and started believing it. It would have gotten me. The third time the glass only seemed to ripple before it subsided. Vaizal paid someone top price for that trap. Too bad. She put both feet on the sill.
Nothing happened. It was a half-second's work to open the simple latch. Depending too much on manrauq, tsk. A soft step down behind heavy curtains onto thick carpets. It was like the Wizard's library, the same sort of feeling, though more dangerous than it was then. She knelt and eeled under the heavy curtain, into the dressing room of what should be a guest suite. If I do this… never mind, keep your mind on what you're doing when you're doing it. Think about after, after. It was dark, except for the dim glow of the brazier set into a carved alabaster screening bowl, but she stopped a minute straining to see. This room was supposed to be empty, and was. It was bigger than the two rooms on the Dogleg; twice as big, and it was only the bedroom. There were faintly glittering tapestries keeping the damp of the walls out.
The inner door wasn't locked. Dressing room. Guest's servant's room. Sitting room. Another sitting room. Each one was a different color, she'd heard, but they all felt the same; thick silk and spider-wool carpets, silk hangings to warm the stone behind. Even though there wasn't a guest in them, all three rooms were kept fresh. She could smell fresh flowers, when outside not even the snowdrops had bloomed yet.
She was dry enough now that she didn't drip anymore and she paused at what had to be the hallway door, listening, then eased the door open a crack—metal hinges.
The hallway, with a spindly Enchian chair and a heavy sideboard, was full of space and the odor of beeswax, lemon, cinnamon wood, the wooden floor elaborately inlaid.
From downstairs, the strains of music drifted up with the scents of spicy food and mulled wine, the sounds of Vaizal's dinner party. Gospozhyn had been invited and the Kievir would be showing off her roses. He wouldn't expect Megan to have sneaked in tonight. In the dim hall, she grinned to herself. On the stairs, a board creaked and a light grew. She backed up a step or two toward the door she'd come out of, realized she wouldn't make it, dived for the sideboard.
There was only a double handspan of space and she wiggled frantically under it. My hips, shit I'm stuck with my legs out, shit, don't panic, SQUIRM!! The sideboard rocked a bit, her hips slid past the skirt, and she pulled her legs in just as a servant, humming bits of popular songs to himself, mounted the last step. He carried a candlestick in one hand, a bundle of linen in the other, and noticed the vase rocking on the sideboard. Megan held her breath, watching his feet in painted silk house-sandals walk toward her hiding place and pause as he steadied the vase. He called, "Puss, puss?"
When no cat appeared, he shrugged and continued into the guest room Megan had entered from. Megan waited until she thought she'd die if she had to wait one second more.
It'd almost be easier to get out and give myself up to him. She squashed the thought. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. Just wait… until they spring-clean you out if they have to.
Finally he came out and went back downstairs. She slid out, more carefully than she'd gone in, and padded after him, staying just outside the ring of light the candle cast.
Down one floor to a main corridor, carpeted with jewel-colored rugs. All the candle-sconces were silver statues of women, their hair and hands outstretched to hold the colored wax tapers that matched the green silk on the walls between honey oakwood panels.
Megan slipped into the shadow of a Rand vase twice as tall as she was at the main staircase as the servant went on down to the back stairs. The vase stood by the banister covered by a long-haired northern giraffe hide hung over it. Below was Vaizal's Great Hall, done in green and gold. Chandeliers that were hundreds of teardrop-cut quartz kraumak gave a yellow/green light. The Enchian style glass doors on the left led to the glassed-in garden/dining hall, where she could see the guests, still seated. From her studying, she knew that the heavy ticking was another fancy clock, in Vaizal's study just behind her, with its famous stained glass windows.
She settled down to wait, hidden by the vase and the fur, watching. After dinner, the guests would likely promenade through to the main salon across the hall and servants would be in to clear the dining things. Then, if she were lucky, she'd have a few minutes to sneak in, snip a rose—maybe two—before the room was locked. She'd have to be out before the dogs were let loose in the halls for the night.
It wasn't dusty, though she'd somehow expected it to be. Stupid, Vaizal has almost seventy people for this manor alone. They wouldn't dare let it get dusty. She half smiled to herself, trying to imagine beating the dust out of a fur this size, and waited. Thinking of dust made her want to sneeze.
Her legs were cramped before the servants opened the salon doors and the musicians, playing foreign instruments, began a passacaglia. Even so, the guests waited for Vaizal and her escort to lead and it took some time for them all to cross the parquetry, the back of each pair's hands touching, elegantly raised to shoulder height. The women's finger chains flashed gold and silver, gems matching their vested skirts and their makeup.
Gospozhyn looks gorgeous! He's wearing the best I've ever seen. He usually looks a bit mussed and lost. He and his wife wore matching dark purple, with black satin trim. Among the guests were the famous soprano and tenor pair Lilya, called the Diva and Zima, called the True, Baron and Baroness Iyetska, and Zingas Avritha wearing red and gold, though her husband or father weren't there to escort her.
Vaizal herself wore all red and white. A white silk shirt, a white vest, with ermine trim, woven white-on-white and embroidered with a delicate red vine pattern over red pants and boots. Her eye-paint fanned out to form a delicate butterfly on her cheeks, rubies and diamonds glittering on her hands and
against her dark hair falling in loose waves to her waist.
One of those stones would keep a marriage of six and all their children fed and housed for a year.
The Grand Salon doors were shut behind the guests by two footman so no one would have to watch the servants clear up. She crawled along just under the edge of the fur, with it tickling her nose, till she was almost at the head of the great stairs.
She peeked over the edge; the green marble steps seeming to flow away from her like a waterfall, ducked back as the butler, chatelaine and footmen and women came in to carry away the leftover food and the plates.
The great platter took six people to carry, even carved over, a small stag, gilded antlers lying askew in the gravy, herb garlands wilted and torn. Bowls and bowls of vegetables—potatoes yellow with butter—platters of breads and cakes, half-emptied bottles of wine and Saekrberk and brandy. Megan had eaten cold maranth porridge that morning, and day-old bread mid-afternoon washed down with chai. She watched the food be taken by almost underneath her, her mouth watering, pressing a hand against her middle, afraid someone would hear her stomach growling.
One footman carried the metal underplates while another carried the scraped glass liners. Three people carried away the goblets, another the silver eating picks and knives. They came back once more, to polish the lacquer table and arrange the cushions around it, carry away the bucket for plate scrapings—I'd even eat that— and sweep the floor, dim the lights. The chatelaine surveyed the garden room, nodded at the butler, and closed the doors. Then there was only the empty hall and the faint sound of dance music through the wooden salon doors.
Megan ghosted down the stairs past the life-sized crystal panthers at the bottom, eased the garden door open and closed behind her. She stood with her back to the wall so no one would see her through the doors, just breathing in the strange odor of the room. It was warm and moist air moved along her skin from unseen vents. The room was full of flowers—roses, lilies, tiny potted flowering cherry trees brought from the main greenhouse, orchids. Hummingbirds hovered, red and green and purple. Tall palm trees, imported from the Mitvald Islands, grew in the corners. It smelled earthy as well, as if summer had climbed into Megan's lungs. The roses are in here, somewhere. Probably near the table. Very faintly she could hear one of Vaizal's guests singing. The Diva.
The lacquer dining table sat in a lake of black polished slate, with soft chamois leather cushions around it, one perfect red bowl by Tze Finiz gracing its center. A wall of climbing yellow roses framed the head cushion. Megan looked for the vase or tray that would display the roses sculpted out of soft gold, but couldn't see anything like that anywhere. Is it here? It's supposed to be. The air whispered through palm leaves, a soft, alien sound, rustled lower bushes and made the blossoms nod.
Where is it? I can't have gotten this far and fail because she's had the sculpture moved. I can't, I can't. Her hands clenched with frustration and she could have cried. I could take something else, but I said I was going to get the roses. It had gone so perfectly till now and somewhere in her a small voice whispered "Hurry! hurry!" tugging at her muscles with the will to do something, anything. She wiped a stray wisp of hair out of her eyes. I have to think—that breeze is nice, but I don't have time… Her jaw dropped. The breeze was moving all the leaves at that end of the room, except the climbing roses.
She cast a glance over her shoulder to where the light came through the doors from the Great Hall and tiptoed over to the wall behind the head of the table. The roses gleamed in the faint light, glossy leaves showing dimly against the black marble wall. She reached out a gloved finger to touch one flower. The gold was almost soft enough, pure enough, to dent with the fingers, the leaves carved of green tourmaline, malachite and jade, even the pale green thorns. They looked real enough that she was tempted to smell them. She shook herself, pulled the box out of her belt.
They were set into the stone with gold pins that sheared off easily with her knife. One, two, three. Don't be greedy. She laid the heavy flowers in the padded box and strapped it shut. Done. Now all I have to do is get out. It'll be easier now that my scent is mixed with all the other guests, it'll confuse the dogs.
She made it out to the stairs before her luck went bad.
A servant, carrying a tray of sweetmeats to the salon saw her and yelled. She bolted up the stairs. Shit. Oh, piss. Behind her the noise grew as the salon doors where thrown open. "An assassin or thief in my home?" Vaizal. Megan darted down the long, straight hall. Hide. I have to hide, Goddess help me. I have to get out. They’ll break my hands, my legs, then strangle me. throw me to the ruts. She lunged at the nearest door that might lead to an outside room.
Study. Clock. Windows… sealed oh shit oh shit… The crash of glass.
When the Vaizal's guard plunged into the room it was empty, one of the windows smashed, strands of leading twisted outward, rain blowing in.
"On the wall," Vaizal snapped, leaning through, careful of the broken glass. "Check the gardens, go! Retrieve that chair and get those dogs out of here!" The gardens were flooded with witch-light flares, burning eye-hurting white every hundred feet along the wall, throwing light so nothing could have moved without being seen; dogs running, dragging handlers on leashes to begin quartering the ground below.
Vaizal turned to the crowd of nobles standing clustered in the doorway, chatting as if this were all part of the evening's entertainment and raised her hands in dismissive waves. "No need to get excited. It's all right. My people will surely catch whoever it is. Why don't we go down again and let them work? I'm sure we can find something amusing to occupy our time until the miscreant is caught." Her voice was almost more amused than angry or upset.
'My father is right about the City riff-raff," Avritha said as she turned away, her hand on Yarishk's arm. "If they're this bold, one must be harder on them."
As the nobles moved back downstairs, laughing, Vaizal turned to her chatelaine. "See that this is cleared up in the morning. Have someone block that window so nothing else is damaged."
"Yes, Kievir." The chatelaine bowed.
Squeezed inside the cabinet of the clock, Megan could barely hear what was happening, the TICK/clack, TICK/ clack clipping bits out of everyone's words, the pendulum swing just brushing her hair as she sat in the bottom, crouched with her face on her knees. She was shaking, trying to be as still as possible, biting the cloth of her pant leg. It's dumb to cry, now. They haven't found me. I'm safe, for now. It's dumb to cry. Be still, be quiet.
The box with the roses in it gouged into her ribs and one of the weights brushing her shoulder gradually got heavier and heavier as the clock wound down, but she didn't dare move for fear that the door would burst open.
TICK/clack, TICK/clack, TICK/clack. She tried counting ticks, lost count after six hundred or so. By then, her shivering had stopped.
The weight slipped off her shoulder to thump against the wood. She waited for someone to open the door and drag her out. When no one did, she pushed the door open a crack. No one was there. The mess was cleared and the window boarded. She fell out onto the rug, the clock jangling faintly. She was so cramped that she couldn't uncurl at first but just lay there.
Out. I have to get out. The study door was half open so she shook her arms and legs, wobbled out of the room and behind a hall tapestry. She sat there for a time, with her face in her hands. I have to get out, now. It took her twice as long to get up to the hall where she'd gotten in, holding herself back from running, jumping at shadows.
In the guest hall she paused by the sideboard, flinched, and nearly screamed as something brushed her ankle.
"Meoow." The cat stropped against her again. She caught her breath, leaning against the wall.
"I get scared one more time and I'm going to die," she whispered to the cat, stroked it, and nipped into the guest suite she'd come in by, closing the door so the cat couldn't follow.
Standing at the window she saw that the weather had turned freezing again, the rain i
cing on the rock. Oh,
joy. Thief's weather because only a thief would be out in it. She fought down the irrational urge to giggle. You're not out yet. She had to wait until they doused the witch-lights. She stood in the warmth, heavy velvet curtains resting against her back like a congratulatory hand.
As she stood and waited, she cursed suddenly and turned back into the room. I worked hard to get in here, why am I wasting it? There was still room in her pouch, aside from the box and she'd never be able to sell the roses, they'd have to be held for "reclamation." A small gold candlestick was what she grabbed; all she could carry.
When the lights died, she pulled on her climbing gloves and slipped out the window into air icy on her skin. From a window below she could hear the party music and people laughing. Soaked through in an instant, she took a couple of deep breaths and forced herself to climb slowly down the way she'd come, slowly so she wouldn't slip.
Yarishk, when he went to unlock his office next morning, paused with one hand on the door. He nodded to himself and turned the key. His wards had been disturbed, but he knew the by the feel who it was.
Inside he stood looking down at Megan, asleep on his cushions, with the knit blanket pulled up around her chin. Her hair had dried in draggled wisps across her cheek and her clothes were hung here and there around the room to dry.
He started the samovar boiling, dropped in a handful of leaves. She blinked awake at the smell of steam, yawned and stretched. "Good morning, Gospozhyn. I'm sorry I borrowed your office."
"As you should be. Goddess morning to you, too. I have some idea why you might have gotten in here." His face was stern. "That's why I left my protections mostly down this Hand. If they weren't down, they might have killed you. Don't do it again."
Megan looked down at her hands. "No, Gospozhyn."
"Well, I'll send Barela down for some breakfast."
"Yes, Gospozhyn." When he went down the hall, she scrabbled her clothes together and darted down the hall to the jakes.
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