The Queen of Lies

by Michael J. Bode

  Esme sat back against the wall. “I know what you’re doing. You’re going to play helpless and weak, and then, when I go to pull that knife out of your gut, you’re going to unleash your electric blast.”

  “Just take what you want and go…” Jessa rasped.

  “I timed this perfectly.” Esme continued blithely carrying on the conversation with herself. “You see, depending on exactly where you stab the abdomen, you can control whether someone bleeds out in minutes or hours, or even just nonfatally injure them. Your injury is fatal, and you should be done by the time we’re finished here.”

  Jessa closed her eyes. It was hopeless to fight.

  A loud crash resounded from downstairs along with a chorus of guttural rasps. Jessa forced her eyes open. She heard the swing of steel followed by the thunk of bodies hitting the tile in the foyer.

  And then a man very loudly sang off-key:

  Ohhh, I’d rather be a sword than a cutting board,

  ’cause cutting boards are boring.

  And I’d rather be a sword than a pillowcase,

  ’cause I hate to hear guys snoring.

  Esme grabbed the dagger from Jessa’s abdomen and ripped it out. Her expression was twisted into an inhuman mask of rage. She growled, “Sword…”

  I’d rather be a sword than a chamber pot,

  ’cause that is just disgusting.

  And I’d rather be a sword than a big codpiece,

  ’cause those take readjusting.

  With a heave and a ho

  and a thrust and a blow,

  all the heads will roll,

  and the bell will toll.

  I’m a big-ass fucking swooooord.

  Another voice responded, “How many verses are there to this battle shanty?”

  “Nine hundred seventy-two,” the other man’s voice replied cheekily.

  Cresting the stairs at the end of the hallway, a big Patrean with a gleaming bastard sword swung his blade in wide carefree arcs, chopping the heads off revenants the second they got into reach. Each time the blade sliced clean through the neck.

  The Vorpal Blade of Arix. The sight of it made Jessa smile.

  Behind him a dark-skinned priest strolled, arms folded behind his back. He wore white robes and medallions of office. They stopped when they saw Esme. The wolves gathered to either side of her, preparing to pounce.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t our old friend Esme,” the swordsman said. “I should have fucking known. She’s holding the accursed letter opener of House Setahari. I knew there was a reason I hated her.”

  “You mean…she’s like you?” the priest asked. “You didn’t mention this before.”

  “I didn’t see the knife. It’s easy to hide a few inches of metal.” He looked back at Esme. “Step away from the princess.”

  She cooed, “You have maybe a few minutes before she bleeds out. It’s a good thing the church teaches their killers how to heal. In fact let’s make it interesting. Heath—that’s your name, isn’t it?”

  The priest nodded, stepping forward with his hands raised. “You want money? Running smash-and-grab jobs on abandoned houses for trinkets is amateur. So what is it you’re really after?”

  Esme stepped back. “Themis, Theril, take what you can and meet back at the place. Give them the priest’s name.”

  The wolves darted off to Jessa’s room. Heath flicked his wrist, and long silver blades shot out of his sleeves, stabbing one wolf in the neck but missing the other. Jessa heard a crash come from her room then the breaking of glass.

  Heath brought his hands up and drew back his blades.

  Esme somersaulted back down the hallway another ten feet. “You can help her or help your buddy Sword. Your choice.”

  “Cover me!” Heath ran to crouch next to Jessa and pressed his hand on her wound. Immediately golden Light spread from his fingers, and the pain receded. The Light glowed with greater intensity as he focused his energy.

  Sword charged Esme, his blade aimed to skewer her. She jumped to the side and took a stab at his kidney, but almost as if he had predicted it, he twisted himself out of the way and elbowed her in the face.

  Sweat formed on Heath’s brow as he channeled his Light. “What the hell did they do to you? This feels like poison.”

  Esme staggered back and readied her stance, tossing her blade from one hand to the other. Sword raised his blade and brought it around in a wide slash aimed at her neck. She flung the dagger in the air and bent herself backward so the blow missed her. She caught the dagger in her hand as a few pieces of multicolored hair fluttered to the ground.

  “You were always so slow and clumsy,” Esme told Sword with a smile.

  “At least my house could afford the metal to make a real weapon,” he chided.

  “You’re really disparaging the honor of my house?” She laughed. “I was never bonded to Setahari like you were to Crigenesta. Who do you think leaked those secret letters that financially ruined my house in the first place?”

  “You destroyed Sarn, you fucking psychopath!”

  Esme shrugged. “Little old me. Not bad for a letter opener. I guess it’s true what they say—the pen is mightier than the sword.”

  He brought down a furious strike, and she ducked out of the way.

  She tried to take the opening, but Sword was ready before she could reach. They repeated the pattern. Esme was more dexterous, but he was a Patrean and incredibly fast for his size. They were almost too perfectly matched. Each knew how to exploit the other’s weakness but also seemed to know what the other would do.

  Jessa started to feel better as the Light spread through her body. She felt the flicker of power awaken in her blood. “You should go help him,” she whispered.

  “He’ll be fine,” Heath reassured her. “Something in your body is resisting the Light, reacting to something in your blood, thickening it somehow. If I don’t finish now, it’ll just worsen again when I’m at full strength.”

  Esme sneered, “You fight like a blind gorilla with a stick trying to hit a butterfly.”

  “Do you need a breather?” Sword feigned concern. “All that gymnastics looks awfully tiring…” He executed a flurry of slashes, weaving the sword in wide arcs with a single hand. Esme tumbled farther down the hallway and came up with her dagger drawn above her head, with her weight resting on her back leg.

  “Don’t get too attached to that body. There’s a reason they’re called Fodders.”

  Esme launched herself from the ball of her foot into the air, letting herself spin feet over head toward Sword. This time he stepped out of the way and readied himself for an attack as she hit the opposite wall of the hallway and launched herself at him.

  And then she flickered and vanished from sight.

  Jessa gasped as she saw Esme reappear behind Sword, still retaining her momentum, and drive her blade into his kidney. His brown eyes widened with realization as his chiseled jaw went slack and his arms fell limply to his side.

  Esme twisted the knife as she pulled Sword’s head close to her ear and whispered something in a language Jessa didn’t understand. She flickered and vanished again, reappearing on his other side as she slashed his neck.

  He sank to his knees as she flickered again and cut the other side of his neck. “Better luck next time.”

  Jessa could take no more. She flung her hand and sent a blast of lightning toward Esme. The girl stepped to the side with inhuman quickness. But Jessa no longer felt the stupor of the poison. There was a reason they called them lightning reflexes.

  Jessa threw out her other hand and tagged Esme in the shoulder with a secondary bolt of electricity. In fact she was just showing off at that point. Lightning, when not channeled, could go anywhere and often went everywhere.

  Esme flew backward and flickered away. But Jessa had seen the agony on her face. Her secondary bolt wasn’t as powerful as the first, but a lightning strike always left a reminder. She turned to Heath and shoved him off her. “Help your friend! I’l
l be fine. If she reappears, she’ll be outmatched.”

  “Sword’s dead.” Heath kept his hands on her abdomen for a while longer while the Light faded. “There. Finished.”

  “Did any of what they were saying to each other make sense to you?” Jessa tightened her night-robe and stood. “Who is she, and by what sorcery is she able to displace herself?”

  “It looked like Asherai shadow technique,” Heath said. “Never seen it before…just know it from reputation. I do know that she works for a very powerful woman in the Orthodoxy who has access to a lot of forbidden arcana. This doesn’t look like something she’d sanction…but for now we can’t trust anyone. I need your help.”

  “I owe you my life,” Jessa said. “And it’s my own stupidity that weakened me and led to the death of your friend. It’s a debt I fear I can never repay.”

  She walked toward Sword’s body. “He was so brave defending me. I know Patreans don’t have families, but I’ll gladly pay his death gratuity and whatever stipend is required for you to replace him with another of equal quality.”

  “I need to see your mother,” Heath said.

  Jessa tensed. “You’re one of her agents?”

  “Hells no.” He chuckled. “A friend of mine is being held in her cell. You’re the only one who can get access whenever you want. If you vouch for me as your spiritual advisor, then you can get me in.”

  “Maddox?” Jessa asked. “The drunken…homosexual?”

  “I couldn’t think of a better way to describe him.” Heath smiled. “He has information I need.”

  Jessa sighed as she knelt by the fallen swordsman. “I was rather hoping your favors would involve charity work, but I can arrange an audience. May I ask if this has anything to do with these intruders?”

  “I don’t know, but it very likely will. Either way Esme’s not my concern.”

  “Then I’ll do whatever it takes,” Jessa avowed. She looked at the bastard sword on the floor. It featured a large red jewel in the hilt, and the design was unmistakable. “May I also ask how a Patrean soldier came to possess the Vorpal Sword of Arix?”

  Heath stood next to her. “You recognize the blade?”

  “It’s a bastard sword with a thousand-carat gemstone set into the hilt and another of half that size in the pommel. There’s no other sword in Creation like it…nor would any sensible jeweler or blacksmith craft such a thing. It belonged to my third great-grandfather and apparently drove him mad. It was stolen by his squire more than a century ago.”

  Heath looked at the blade. “Then perhaps it should return to its rightful owner.”

  “I should hardly need such a thing, but it is marvelously crafted.” She bent down to grab the hilt.

  Heath’s hand snatched her wrist firmly. They exchanged glances, hers puzzled and his conflicted.

  He smiled. “You don’t want to touch it.”

  “But you just said…”

  Heath shook his head. “It’s cursed. Whoever touches it loses his or her will to the sword. It’s the same type of magic that possessed that poor girl he was fighting. It did likely make your ancestor crazy…but it’s also my friend. It’s just his nature. He can’t not possess people. I just need to find him a better home—and your child will need a mother.”

  “My child?” Jessa gasped. “Could you sense that?”

  “It’s why I needed to work so long to heal you,” Heath said. “The poison was concentrating on your baby, and his Light was fading. If I delayed a second longer, you would have lived, but he could have miscarried.”

  “He?” Jessa asked.

  “Congratulations,” Heath said. “It’s a boy.”

  Jessa hugged him. “Thank you.”

  He gently returned the embrace.

  “We can’t stick around,” Heath cautioned. “I need to find something to pick up the sword so my skin doesn’t touch the hilt. And you need to get dressed. When the wolf jumped out the window, he would have set off the alarms from the warding glyphs. Invocari will be here soon with the city militia. We can’t trust them, so you’ll need to lie convincingly about what happened. I would tell them—”

  “I don’t like deception.” Jessa shook her head. “There are secret passages throughout this place. Grab the sword. I’ll dress, and we’ll escape through the tunnels under the manor. That’ll put us out in the steam tunnels. From there we can make our way to the tower.”

  He grinned and shook his head slowly. “All right. Let’s go.”

  Jessa bolted toward her bedroom. Her mattress had been flipped over and torn open. And the Thunderstone was missing from the nightstand.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The Steam Tunnels

  HEATH

  HEATH AND JESSA made their way down the old servants’ corridors into the steam tunnels. The name was apt, as the air was hot and moist. These tunnels were arched, with greenish ceramic tile covering the stonework. There were ledges on either side of the passage, and deep aqueducts of river water flowed through the center. Brass pipes ran along the walls and ceiling, rattling and giving off periodic hisses of steam.

  There were no lights, so Heath conjured some from his hand to guide them. He carried Sword on his back, hidden under his robes. Jessa followed with evident interest. She wore a leather hunting jacket and long riding dress. She arranged her hair in a braid as she walked on the surface of the water as if it were made of glass.

  The tunnels were part of a utility network that provided compressed steam to power Rivern’s mechanical marvels—everything from pressure plates to elevators and sewing assemblies. Hot and cold running water also came from here for the families and institutions that could afford the luxury.

  A side tunnel ahead flickered with the amber light of a fire, and waves of heat radiated through the passage. Two bored seal mages sat on either side of a card table, taking turns hurling fire at the burner. They glanced at Heath and Jessa as they passed but didn’t get up.

  The tunnels were dark and uninviting, but they weren’t off limits to citizens.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” Jessa asked.

  Heath nodded. “There’s an outlet that will put us on the side of the Overlook, facing the Clockmakers’ District. There’s a bridge we can cross a few blocks down if we can’t flag a gondola.”

  Jessa frowned. “I have your friend’s song stuck in my head.”

  He flashed a smile. “I’m truly sorry. There are limits to what afflictions the Will of Ohan allows.”

  “Will you find him another body?” she asked quietly.

  Heath furrowed his brow. Speaking to Catherine and reliving Sword’s recollection of Reda made him waver in his conviction. He could round up another Patrean pretty easily, but he knew enough of them to know that despite their identical appearance they were unique individuals.

  He also was dying. He could feel the cancer in his body beginning to grow. He might have missed it entirely if it weren’t for Catherine’s warning. Blood mages and alchemists had treatments, but they weren’t guarantees. What would it be like to take the blade himself and share his final days with his only true friend?

  “Mother is quite fond of swordplay,” Jessa offered hesitantly. “And jewels. And family heirlooms.”

  Heath narrowed his eyes and searched her face for any hint of irony or deception. He spoke very gently. “The bonding is irreversible, Jessa. Would you really do that to your own mother?”

  “Is it…” She searched for words. “She’s acting out some grand scheme, and I’m at a loss as to how to neutralize her. I don’t wish her dead, but while she draws breath, even in a magically warded chamber, she’s a danger, and her schemes threaten me and my son. If she were to become an ally…Oh, it’s evil to consider such a thing.”

  Her idea was brilliant, but he needed to tread carefully. “The sword also takes on a lot of its wielder’s personality and sometimes acts in line with what its wielder wants. It’s almost like it becomes a new person. It’s unpredictable.”

  “My a
unts want her dead,” Jessa said finally. “If my mother doesn’t change her course, she’s destined for destruction. She’s her own woman, but her choices and her life affect more than just herself.”

  They continued down the tunnels.

  “Losing my mother was the hardest thing I had to face.” Heath went for the sympathy play. “It made me stop believing in…everything. She could be a strict woman, and we fought like hell when I ran with the dock gangs. But she loved me. I never once doubted that she wanted what was best for me, and she would have laid down her life to protect me.”

  Jessa placed her hand against her belly. “She sounds wonderful.”

  They came to an opening. The water spilled into the riverway, and the tunnel opened to a pair of flagstone landings with steps that led to the upper roads and causeways. The entire length of the river was contained in manmade walls five to fifteen feet in height. At this level Jessa could see massive waterwheels in the Clockmakers’ District.

  “What happens when it rains?” she asked. “It seems the city would flood.”

  “The whole river and waterfalls are controlled by dams and locks,” Heath told her. “They have boat tours that explain it. Maybe after this is over, we can take one.”

  Jessa smiled, and for the first time, she seemed playful. “I would much enjoy that.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Parlor-Room Intrigue

  SATRYN

  TYRAGORN: ISN’T DECEPTION your claim to fame? Why should I believe a word you say?

  ALESSANDRIA: Oh, no! You’re, mistaken sir. You’re thinking of the Queen of Lies.

  TYRAGORN: Is that not the person-creature to whom I address now with my eloquent mouth-words?

  ALESSANDRIA: While your mellifluous voice could be the bastard child of a poet and a mighty stag, I must protest that you are mistaken as to my identity.

  TYRAGORN: But you conform to the very description of her.

  ALESSANDRIA: Your perception is powerful indeed, but it is the Queen of Lies who uses my description to perpetuate her awful mischief, my burly lord of lords.