by Hilari Bell
The Falcon, clad in a plain robe, was seated in front of her dressing table, which held a collection of bottles and pots that would have put any court lady to shame. Until they’d moved into the palace, Arisa had never seen her mother use face paint except as a disguise, but the Falcon had started life as a courtesan. Had she missed silks, jewels, and perfume in the harsh years of banditry?
If she had, she’d never showed it. Now her eyes met Arisa’s in the mirror, and a gesture sent her maid whisking out of the room.
“Why aren’t you getting into your costume?” the Falcon asked. “It’s almost time for the ball.”
“The ball doesn’t start for half an hour,” said Arisa. “And my costume’s not that fancy.” She gestured to the stand, which held something that looked like a great red rose. The skirts formed its petals, and the bodice was the same dark brown and green as the narrow leaves that supported the blossom. The elaborate headdress was a nimbus of thorns.
“I suppose you’re right,” her mother admitted. “I wouldn’t be dressing now, if I didn’t have to put on so much paint.”
Looking closer, Arisa saw a faint outline of leaves and rosebuds twining over her mother’s face. Beautiful, and so much easier to wear than a stuffy mask. Arisa didn’t care. “You haven’t answered my question. Where are the Mimms?”
The Falcon sighed. “You went to the cells, I see. They were released when the charges were dropped. All but Master Mimms, who was moved to the city jail since smuggling is handled by the city court. Only traitors, and prisoners of particular interest to the king, are held by the palace guards.”
“Then where are the rest of them?” Arisa persisted.
The Falcon’s white shoulders rose and fell. “I don’t know. They were released.”
She didn’t even know. They were free. Free, and safe, and probably staying with Mistress Mimms’ family. An explosive sigh burst from Arisa’s lungs, and she sank into the nearest chair as relief weakened her knees.
The Falcon watched, her expression torn between amusement and exasperation. “Did you think I’d dropped them into an oubliette?”
“No, of course not. But I was so sure they were still in a cell. When they were gone, I didn’t know what to think! Why didn’t you tell me they’d been released?”
“I told you the charges were dropped.” The Falcon dipped a brush into a pot of dark paint and traced the line of a rose stem down one cheek. “What else would we do but release them? Really, Ris.”
“Sorry,” said Arisa. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“You’ve got a habit of doing that.” The Falcon’s voice combined mother and commander in one. “You should work on breaking it.”
“I know, I know.” Her mother was always thinking. “It doesn’t come as naturally to me as it does to you.”
The Falcon laughed. “I have to stop talking now—I can’t paint if my face moves.”
“Then I’ll talk to you,” Arisa told her. “It’s a rare thing for me to get both first and last word.”
The Falcon grinned, then swore and picked up a cloth to wipe off a brush stroke that had gone awry. Arisa decided she’d better stop talking too, but she still felt restless. She rose and went to study the costume more closely.
The skirts were formed by layers of velvet and satin, scalloped and curled at the edges like real petals. The dark bodice was trimmed in dull bronze. It should have been drab, but against the deep crimson it looked richer than gold.
“You don’t usually wear colors like this,” said Arisa, looking at her mother in the mirror. “Your gowns are almost as demure as mine.”
The Falcon, busy with her paintbrush, shrugged again. The robe slipped open, revealing a glint of gold at her mother’s throat. A locket. The locket that Arisa had never expected to see again.
Her heart began to pound. Why was her mother wearing that tonight? She couldn’t be making a move against her enemies. She had no enemies now! But Arisa had never seen her wear that locket for any other reason.
She opened her mouth to ask, Why are you wearing that? But the words that came out were, “Are you wearing brighter colors because this is a special occasion?”
Say “Yes.” Say, “I’m wearing the locket, too because…”
“Mmm.” The Falcon was painting small sharp thorns on the rose stem. “I really can’t talk now, Ris. You need to get into your costume too.”
“You’re right,” said Arisa. “I’ll see you later.”
She escaped, before her stupid expressive face could give her away. Why shouldn’t the Falcon wear that locket? Just because when Arisa had seen it before, her mother had usually been cleaning and loading pistols… Well, times changed. Changed for the better!
She went to her own room, where her maid pounced on her and hustled her into the shepherdess gown. Arisa offered so little resistance that the maid finally asked if her mistress was feeling all right. “If you’ve a headache, my dove, I’ve just the thing for it.”
“No,” said Arisa. “I’m fine.” Which was a lie, for her temples were beginning to throb.
The Falcon hadn’t lied about the Mimms being released, she’d just failed to mention it. Failed to mention it, when it would have been completely natural to say, The charges were dropped against everyone but Master Mimms, so we released them and sent him to the city jail.
The Falcon knew that Arisa cared about Baylee and her family. She knew. Why hadn’t she wanted Arisa to know they’d been released? In case she told someone? Told whom?
Why was her mother so intent on celebrating the sword’s return, when Arisa knew she’d been angry about the sword going to Justice Holis?
And why, come to think of it, hadn’t she questioned Katrin’s killer about who else Ethgar was working with? Maybe they had, and the Falcon couldn’t tell Arisa because it was still secret. Perhaps she was wearing the locket because she and Holis planned to move against the others at the ball tonight! That made sense!
Arisa drew a relieved breath, and discovered that she’d been so preoccupied that her maid had slipped her into a set of corsets without her even noticing.
After a short, satisfying argument, Arisa was once more corset free. Her now-less-motherly maid set about dressing her for a second time, and brushed her hair into the mass of curls that went with the costume—though Arisa had never seen a shepherdess with hair like that either.
She resolved to check the stitching on every seam as soon as her maid left the room—though this maid hadn’t had time to pull Katrin’s trick, and it would get her fired as well.
Although Katrin hadn’t been fired… at her mother’s insistence. Her mother, who had hired Katrin to be Arisa’s maid in the first place. But Katrin couldn’t have been working for the Falcon and for Ethgar at the same time, could she? She’d certainly been working for Ethgar. Could Katrin have been working for the Mimms’ conspiracy too? The Mimms… who had just been freed by her mother, even though Arisa knew they had been hosting a conspiracy in their tavern. A conspiracy that involved naval officers, officers Master Mimms could have identified! Her mother had always had strong connections with the navy.
Her mother, who had just donned the locket she wore only when she dedicated herself to the destruction of an enemy.
But Pettibone was dead! Ethgar was dead too, though he had been more Justice Holis’ enemy than the Falcon’s.
The Falcon regarded Justice Holis as her enemy.
Suddenly Arisa was sure of that, but she had to be imagining the rest of it. She had to! Katrin couldn’t have been involved in two separate plots against Justice Holis! Could she? If all she did for Ethgar was to embarrass Arisa… If she knew that when she did so she wouldn’t be fired, couldn’t be fired because… No, that was ridiculous!
Then why hadn’t the Falcon fired her? Why hadn’t the Falcon questioned Master Mimms about the naval officers who’d met in his cellar?
When Arisa was dressed she dismissed her maid, but instead of tugging on all her gown’s seams, she went
to the bureau and pulled out her cards.
She shuffled carefully, longer than she needed to. When she cut the deck and turned the top card, the storm lay before her.
Good and bad in the same package.
Like daughter, like mother?
“This supports me,” said Arisa, her voice too loud in the quiet room. The fool’s bright motley appeared below the storm goddess’ feet.
Which was a flat-out lie—far from supporting her, her heart and her instincts were screaming at each other. Her instincts usually worked better than her heart. No!
“This inspires me,” she murmured, then closed her eyes in longing as safe harbor appeared above the goddess. She certainly wanted a safe harbor now, but that battered ship had to pass through a terrible storm before it reached the quiet bay the card displayed.
“This misleads me.”
Loyalty. She knew full well where her loyalty lay.
“This guides me true.”
Justice. Justice be hanged, if it meant turning against her mother! She had to be wrong.
“This threatens me.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper.
The tower fell to the storm’s far right. Arisa’s breath caught. Never, not in the most desperate scrape, the most foolish escapade, had the burning tower appeared in her fortune. More terrifying than untimely death, the tower signified absolute loss, the destruction of everything good and decent and dear. Of all that made life worth living.
Exactly the kind of thing that would happen to her life if the Falcon really had turned traitor.
Arisa’s hands were cold. Her face was cold. She offered up a prayer to any god who cared to listen as she turned the last card.
“This protects me.”
The hanged man’s blood spilled into the dust. But how could a sacrifice… No, not sacrifice. Weasel!
CHAPTER 17
The Storm: creation and destruction together.
Any force that brings both good and ill at the same time.
She found Weasel alone in his room, getting ready for the ball… after a fashion.
“What in the world are you dressed as?” she asked, momentarily distracted. “A beggar?”
“A burglar,” said Weasel, tying a dark kerchief over his hair and forehead. “Nothing to make you stand out on the street when you’ve taken the kerchiefs off, but for disguise…” He held up another kerchief, covering his mouth and chin, leaving only a slit for his eyes. “There’s nothing bright, and nothing that rattles or clanks. Soft-soled shoes.”
“Isn’t it awfully ragged for a ball?”
“For a ball,” said Weasel, “it absolutely guarantees that no one will ask me to dance.”
Arisa wished she’d thought of something like that.
“Forget about your costume,” she said, rather unfairly, since she’d asked. “I need to talk to you about something important. When’s your valet coming back?”
“Never,” said Weasel. “Well, that’s not true. He checks in twice a week and takes dirty clothes to the laundry. Justice Holis said that the prince’s new valet could serve me, too, but he thinks I’m beneath his dignity so he mostly ignores me—the One God be thanked!”
“You’re right about that,” said Arisa, suppressing a flash of envy. “Why does Edoran have a new valet?”
“The old one was in Pettibone’s pay,” said Weasel. “At least my costume is authentic. I don’t know much about shepherdesses, but that’s ridiculous.”
“My maid chose it. I think.”
Had Katrin really been working for her mother, as well as for Ethgar?
Weasel saw the change in her expression. “What’s wrong?”
“Weasel, I think… No, I’m not sure what I think, and I need to be sure. I need your help. But first you have to swear, on something you hold truly sacred, that you won’t reveal what I tell you to anyone else unless I give you permission. Not Holis, not Edoran, not anyone. You have to swear.”
Weasel snorted. “I don’t hold anything sacred, so my oath won’t do you much good. Oaths are silly, anyway. I don’t know of anyone except priests who won’t break one whenever they want to. Most priests will too!”
He was right about that, but… “Then I can’t tell you,” Arisa whispered. How could he help her, defend her from the tower’s catastrophe, if she couldn’t tell him anything?
Weasel frowned. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You really need me not to repeat this.”
“Yes.”
“Then I promise, for our friendship’s sake, that I’ll do everything I can to avoid it before I reveal what you tell me. If it’s that important, I can’t promise not to tell. I might have to break it, and you know you’d do the same. There’s no such thing as an absolute promise. So you might as well go ahead and spill it.”
He was right. And she had to tell someone. “Let me start at the beginning. My mother told me that Shareholder Ethgar hanged himself in his cell the night after he was arrested.”
Weasel’s brows drew down sharply. “Ethgar? That’s rot! He’d keep trying to find some way to slither out of it till they put the noose around his neck. If he’s dead, someone killed him.”
Hearing it said aloud chilled Arisa to the bone.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m afraid she did.”
Her mother was capable of killing. Arisa had always known that, but killing for a cause was different. Wasn’t it?
Weasel was still frowning. “She?”
Arisa told him everything—the Mimms’ release, and her mother’s failure to have Master Mimms identify the naval officers he’d met with. The flash of anger over Arisa’s giving Holis the sword, followed by her pushing for a celebration. Her insistence on keeping Katrin as Arisa’s maid, when anyone else would have fired the woman.
“Two different plots?” said Weasel dubiously. “It’s not likely.”
But he hadn’t said it was all rot, that she was imagining things and should drink a soothing cup of tea, go to bed, and forget about it.
“I don’t know what to do,” said Arisa. “If Holis found out about this and she wasn’t guilty… They have enough problems working together as it is. And my mother would never…”
No, she would forgive Arisa. She might even be flattered, and she’d certainly laugh. But some part of her would be hurt by her daughter’s doubts. And she’d be very hurt if Arisa went to her enemy, instead of coming to her.
“You’re right about that,” said Weasel. “We can’t go to Justice Holis, or anyone else till we’re sure about this—one way or the other.”
“We” was a wonderful word. The icy dread in Arisa’s heart thawed a bit.
“How can we get evidence before something happens? If anything’s going to happen—which we don’t know. Not really.”
“No,” said Weasel thoughtfully. “But it’s odd the Falcon suggested a celebration ball. A costume ball too, where everyone goes masked.”
Her mother might have worn a lot of dresses lately, but she wasn’t a ball kind of woman. She only wore dresses as a disguise. They had been a disguise, those demure gowns, Arisa suddenly realized. A way to keep the men she worked with from remembering who she was. But…
“But what could anyone do in a ballroom full of people?” Arisa asked. “Even if they’re masked. It doesn’t make sense!”
“We need more evidence,” said Weasel. “And with your mother on her way to the ball, I know where to start the search!”
“I can’t believe you’re breaking into my mother’s office,” Arisa whispered, looking swiftly up and down the long corridor. “It’s the middle of the evening! If we get caught…”
“If we get caught, it will be because you weren’t keeping watch,” said Weasel, twisting his pick in the lock. “All the clerks are gone for the day, and the servants are— We’re in!”
The door swung open and he scrambled through, with Arisa on his heels. She closed the door behind them.
“I’ll lock it again,” said Weasel. “That will warn us if some
one comes. You get those curtains and put something under the door.”
Arisa moved to follow his orders, even as she asked, “You said drapes don’t block all the light. Suppose someone sees it?”
“Then they’ll think your mother had to finish up some work before she went to the party,” said Weasel. The lock clicked once more.
By the time she lit the lamp, he was standing behind the Falcon’s desk. As the light bloomed in her hands, Arisa glanced up at Regalis’ arrogant painted face. This is all your fault, she told him silently.
She went to join Weasel, and regarded the piles of paper with dismay. Katrin’s desk hadn’t held enough to offer clues, but the Falcon’s desk held far too much. “It would take days to read all this.”
“So we take a shortcut,” said Weasel. He pulled open the top drawer and examined not the clutter of pens, sand bottles, string, and sealing wax but its depth compared to the size of the desk.
“You’re looking for a secret compartment?” Arisa asked.
“People don’t leave evidence of criminal activity where clerks might see it,” Weasel told her. “I’ve known enough criminals to be sure of that.” He closed the top drawer and opened the one below it, running his hands to the back and bottom, around the papers stacked inside.
“This desk probably doesn’t have secret compartments. It belonged to the old lord commander, who didn’t have any secrets at all.”
“You don’t know that,” said Weasel. “He might have had tons—”
The bottom drawer refused to open.
“Or,” said Weasel, “he might have stored anything secret in a locked drawer.”
Arisa felt almost numb now, but she had to argue. “Just because a drawer is locked, that doesn’t mean what’s inside is criminal.”
“No.” Weasel was already busy with his picks. “But it’s either valuable or confidential, because constantly locking and unlocking a drawer is a big nuisance.”
Arisa watched him work in silence. Was she betraying her mother? Could what they were doing be treason, if her mother had turned traitor first? She had to know. She had to know for certain before she saw her mother again; she could never conceal these doubts from the Falcon’s keen gaze.