The Fall of Ventaris

by Neil McGarry

  She said nothing, trying to conceal her disappointment. She’d have preferred hearing about break-ins, but she dared not press him lest he forget the story and set her to climbing again. Maybe she’d get something useful out of him anyway.

  Tyford settled back into a chair. “The moral of this story comes at the beginning: always know who the fuck you’re working for. And I’m not talking about just names either. You have to know who they are, what they are, and what they want. Anyone who hires a thief’s a liar to the core, and most anyone in this city’s playing at least two games at once.

  “I took the job because I was young and stupid. Like you, come to think of it. A pretty simple bit of business: steal some jewels belonging to a certain lady while she and her lord were at some party up the hill. Simple it wasn’t, though. The man that hired me was on the council, you see, and a friend to the sheriff of the district – his name was Bellis or Bellin or some such – and he’d decided to help out his friend by setting up a thief for him to catch in the act. Bellis-or-Bellin gets a nice collar, and the friend gets a boost for putting him in his job. Everyone makes out.

  “Except no one knew anyone. The friend didn’t know Bellis wouldn’t just be happy with a collar. Bellis didn’t know that catching me was just too easy and that his friend had set up the whole damned thing. And when I took the job I didn’t know that these two were going to bungle the whole business and leave me caught in the middle.”

  Duchess drank some wine and grimaced. She had been right; it was awful. “And I suppose that’s how you ended up getting backstabbed and wound up in jail?”

  He snorted, but didn’t dignify the question with a response. “Bellis turns me over to the Whites, who plant me in the imperial dungeons to wait for the inquisitor to get to me. This friend on the council nearly pisses himself, because when they hang me up by the thumbs the first name I’ll give them is his. Later I found out that he had something on the inquisitor, and he trades his silence for a delay in putting me to the question. None of that got me out of that cell, mind you, so there I sit. My hair’s full of lice and my stomach’s in knots because every godsdamned morning I wake up thinking that’s the day they put me to the question and next’s the one they hang me. That goes on for weeks.” He drank from his cup. “Either my employer couldn’t figure out how to spring me, or he decided the best thing was to just leave me to rot. I didn’t know any of this, of course, but after a few weeks I realized the only one getting me out of that cell was me.

  “As you can expect, I was thinking about escape before they’d even closed the door. Getting out of the cell was the easy part, but how to get out of the dungeon once I did? The door to the whole area was locked from the outside and guarded day and night not by some damn fool blackarm but a White. You don’t want to mess with a White and that’s for sure.

  “I sat in that cell long enough to see that there were about two jailors for every prisoner, and there were a lot of prisoners. Back in those days – just like today, I’ll warrant – when a man pleased someone important at court he’d be given a job working for the empress. The high-born became maids or clerks or secretaries, but the low-born...well, they couldn’t be seen around the palace no matter what favor they’d won, but they could be under it. So they became jailors.

  “’Course, the problem with all these jailors was that most of them didn’t know who all the prisoners were, and the Whites who guarded the door didn’t know who all the jailors were. And they were coming and going at all hours. So I watched and waited, and when I learned when the shifts changed, I made my move.” Tyford laughed again and poured himself some more wine. “I tickled open the cell door – any thief worth spit can hide a lockpick on him – and when one shift of jailors was on the way out, I just walked right on out with them.”

  Her brow furrowed. “You just...in disguise?”

  “Nope. Just walked out.” He laughed, obviously relishing her surprise. “Girl, going unseen isn’t just about knowing where the shadows are and sticking to ‘em. Sometimes if you look like you’re supposed to be doing whatever it is you’re doing, people won’t even give you a second glance.”

  “But what about your clothes! You couldn’t have looked like a jailor!”

  “The imperial quartermaster was slow in getting the jailors their livery, maybe because there were so godsdamned many of ‘em, so some of them were dressed like either one of us right now. I just turned my shirt inside out to hide the worst of the dirt, but most of them were just as dirty as the prisoners anyway.” He swirled his wine. “It’s all about knowing what people expect, girl.”

  She suddenly remembered that spring day in Temple, when she’d been looking for information about Eusbius. The old Domae woman had caught her attention with her certainty, the powerful, visceral force of her belief. She acted like any other priest, and Duchess, in turn, had treated her like one. She thought of the thousand gods at the center of the walk and the sweetness of cake on her lips. A smile blossomed on her face, and Tyford seemed to take that as appreciation for his story.

  “Besides, escaping prisoners don’t line up with their jailors to file past a guard, right? So when none of the others raised the alarm, neither did the White at the door.” He pointed his cup at her. “A good thief has the right skills, girl, but a great one has the right skills and the right attitude. Learn that and you might someday be worth the time I’m spending.” He gulped down the rest of his wine.

  He’d given her more than one lesson, and she’d gotten her money’s worth today. There was one piece of his story still missing, though. “So what did you do about your employer? The one who left you to rot?”

  Tyford’s mouth twisted. “That was back when I still wore the cloak, remember, so I couldn’t let it go by unanswered. I would have lost standing on the Highway, and for someone in my trade that could be death.” He nodded, looking grimly into the distance. “I showed that bastard Tyford wasn’t one to fuck with, and made sure everyone on the Grey knew it.

  “Though there’s something interesting,” he went on, gesturing for the start of her next lesson. “Me telling that story seems to have gotten us off the subject we’d been on. Half the Highway seems to know everything about how you got into Eusbius’ manor, but no one’s talking about how you got out.” He gave her a shrewd glance. “Funny that you still haven’t mentioned that.”

  “Yes,” she replied, savoring his evident, burning curiosity. “I’m funny like that.”

  * * *

  For a moment, she thought she was dead.

  Duchess was just approaching the wooden stairs to her apartment, her mind buzzing with plans concerning both Jana and the fallen White, when the big man lurched out of hiding, nearly upon her. She froze in her tracks, only barely stifling the startled shriek that bubbled up in her throat. Her hand twitched toward her dagger, but just in time she saw the red cap and held back. She hadn’t seen Antony since that fearful day she’d met with Uncle Cornelius, but there was no mistaking that chin scar and those huge hands. She eased her hand slowly away from the weapon. Draw steel before the second-in-command of the Red and she’d dance with Mayu within a heartbeat. She composed what she hoped was a politely attentive look.

  “Antony,” she said, after her heart had resumed its normal pace. “How good to see you again. What does the Uncle need from me?” She even sounded calm, thank the gods.

  Antony swept his cap from his head with a massive paw and bowed slightly, glancing about as if afraid of prying eyes. “I am here of my own volition,” he said diffidently, “and my appearance should not in any way imply a connection to anyone I may work for.” He frowned, as if coming to the end of a script and uncertain of his next line. He coughed into his hat and placed it back on his head. “I wanted to talk to you,” he said finally.

  Strange and stranger, she thought. She couldn’t imagine what business Antony would have with her that did not involve Uncle Cornelius. “Why don’t you come in and we’ll talk in private?” He nodded and she
led the way up the stairs, which creaked under his weight. As she was unlocking her door she glanced at the red hand painted on the sill. Everyone in the Shallows knew that mark signified protection by the band of thugs and murderers known as the Red. She hoped it also meant protection from the Red.

  Antony closed the door behind them and scanned the room as if expecting an ambush. Here was a man with fighting instincts, and she wondered briefly if anything she could do might wean him away from the Uncle and into her service. Then she regained her sanity and instead lit a candle and gestured for him to sit.

  “I was about to have a cup of wine. Would you care to join me?” He nodded briefly, taking a chair on one side of the splintered wooden table she’d inherited with the apartment. The chair creaked beneath his weight, but held. She lit a few more candles and brought out two wooden cups and a clay flagon of wine. Not an impressive vintage, but she hadn’t expected to host a redcap that day. And it was still vastly better than the cup she’d shared with Tyford. Antony seemed to have no complaints, and as he drank she settled on a bench opposite him.

  “What can I do for you?” She sipped calmly, as if she had such visitors every day.

  Antony toyed with his cup, absurdly tiny in his massive hands, looking desperately uncomfortable. “I, uh...my Uncle said that you might be able to do something for me.”

  “Any friend of the Uncle’s is a friend of mine.” It seemed the safest thing to say.

  “Do you know Julius?” he asked, looking anywhere but at her. She took another drink to buy time for thought. There was a man named Julius who ran the dice game in the back rooms at the Grieving Bier, and she seemed to recall hearing he was Grey, although she had never spoken to him. “He has something of mine and I need it back,” Antony went on. He finished his wine in a single swallow and thumped his cup onto the table. “I need it back now.”

  She tried to hide her surprise. Antony was clearly upset with Julius, which could only mean that Julius was being uncooperative. She could not imagine why any man would be so foolish as to refuse a high-ranked member of the Red. “What is this thing?” she asked warily.

  “Rosamile’s ring. She’s my fiance, Rosamile is, and I’d finally saved up for the perfect ring. Gold with a black stone, engraved with her name on the inside. Rosamile’s not lettered but she can read her own name, and there it was.” He fiddled with the frayed cuff of his tunic. “It was my own fault. We were celebrating, me and some of my boys, and they’d convinced me to try my luck before Rosamile had me by the purse-strings.” He smiled sheepishly and Duchess blinked; Antony’s face was not made for such expressions. “I started out winning again and again, and then something just changed.” He sighed and his fists tightened until his joints popped. “A dozen rolls later, I was out of sou and well...the boys were looking at me and the ring was in my pocket, so...” Duchess could fill in the rest. Julius was on the Grey, and when Antony entered the game, he was tacitly submitting to the rules. For a member of the Red to pick a fight with the Grey over an honestly incurred gambling debt...it was a tricky situation, not unlike the one the Uncle himself had been in over that dagger. The Grey had fairly stolen the thing, but when the baron had demanded his friend the Uncle get it back, Cornelius had found himself caught between colors. Odd that the Uncle’s lieutenant should so quickly find himself in the same straits.

  She knew little about the Color War — even Minette refused to say much about it — but from what little she’d heard the conflict had begun over a dispute about the respective rights of the Red and the Grey. That fight had ended over fifteen years ago, but even today any member of the Grey who felt that the Red had overstepped could “call the color” and summon his cloaked brothers (and sisters) to his aid. Such a conflict would result in a loss of coin and life, and could possibly invite imperial attention, which would be disastrous, so the members of both sides took pains not to tread on any toes. That explained why Julius dared to tweak the nose of a redcap, and why it was dangerous for her to intervene. “I’m sorry to hear of your...misfortune,” Duchess said carefully. “I could find a jeweler who could quietly make you another ring...”

  Antony shook his head.”I need that ring and no other. Rosamile was with me when we took it to be engraved. She’ll know the difference. Besides, Julius has been blabbing about how he’s gotten the better of me, so sooner or later she’ll hear about it.”

  Duchess was amused that Antony was so fearful of his fiance, and more so that he seemed certain Duchess could save him from her wrath. “Julius still has this ring?” she said, refilling his cup.

  He nodded curtly. “He won’t sell it back for any price. Normally I’d have cut his throat for him,” he said as if talking about the weather, “but there’s enough trouble in the Deeps without making more in the Shallows.”

  “Trouble?” She wanted to buy time to think, and in any case Lysander would never forgive her for passing up the chance to winkle some news out of a redcap. “The Deeps gangs are always trouble, I’m sure.”

  Antony shrugged, taking another drink. “They are, but now they’re working together...and bearing steel, although Mayu knows where they’re getting it. Haven’t seen anything like it since the damned War of the Quills.” Duchess perked up. The last time Deeps gangs had been armed and organized had been at the instigation of her father, in his struggle against the nobles. In the end the guildsmen he’d led had gotten representation on the imperial council, but the cost was his life and his House. It was disturbing that so similar a situation should arise. Conflicts between the Colors and weapons in the Deeps...too many cases of history repeating for comfort, it seemed.

  “I could pay you,” he went on before she could pursue the topic. “I offered Julius twenty florin, more than the damned thing is worth. I could give that to you to give to him.” He looked at her, his expression of desperate hope so out of place on a face normally so blunt and threatening.

  She thought quickly. If Julius were willing to anger a redcap over a gambling debt he was unlikely to be open to persuasion from her. She was also reluctant to risk her fledgling status on the Grey by developing a reputation for involving herself in petty disputes. Yet did she dare risk Antony’s ire, or the Uncle’s, by refusing? She was still living on the Uncle’s florin in a rent-free apartment, a fact she was sure had not been lost on him. On the other side of the coin, this was a chance to get into Antony’s good graces, an investment that might prove as profitable as her dealings with Jana. Besides, gold was gold, and if she could somehow get back that ring for less than twenty florin she could pocket the difference. That decided her. “Antony, my friend,” she said soothingly, “put your worries aside. The ring will be yours.”

  * * *

  She sat up a long time after Antony had taken his leave looking at the small pile of florin he’d left. Three plans, two promises, and not one notion of how to make good on any of them. Commitments to Jana and Antony, not to mention her little scheme about Pollux...perhaps Lysander was right. Perhaps she truly was mad.

  Noam had once said the only way to eat a flock of sheep was one bite at a time, and since Antony had put gold on the table, she’d make recovering Rosamile’s ring the first item on the menu. Although Julius was no redcap, he might still be dangerous. She wasn’t going to brace him without further information, and she knew of at least one person who could tell her all that she’d need.

  And, now that she thought on it, not just about Julius.

  Chapter Four: A thorn amongst roses

  Despite the name, the Common Gardens were anything but. Only those with sufficient title or wealth could obtain space there in Temple District, and it was mostly given over to petty nobility — those with an interest in cultivating plants and flowers but without a large enough estate to support a garden of their own. That morning, Duchess found the wide stone pathways thronged with the wives of the well born, moving sedately and directing attendants in weeding, watering, and pruning. The silk and satin of their gowns were no less colorful
than the floral blooms of yellow, red, and orange.

  The gardens were enclosed by thick stone walls and a glass ceiling, which kept the area warm in winter and stifling at any other time. Despite the airways created by panels propped open here and there, Duchess mopped sweat from her brow, but Minette seemed untroubled by something as unseemly as perspiration. In no case would someone from the Shallows, particularly one who owned and operated a brothel, be permitted a plot in the Common Gardens.

  Nevertheless, Minette had a plot in the Common Gardens.

  She moved among her botanical charges even now, with Duchess trailing behind, carrying a basket half-filled with an explosion of blossoms in white, red and pink. Yarrow, Minette said they were called, and Duchess thought them quite pretty. She remembered them from the garden on her father’s estate, and that they had been Marguerite’s favorites.

  “So when do I find out what’s got you practically bursting with questions?” Minette murmured, bringing Duchess out of her memories. The elegant woman was taller than Duchess and far more full-figured, yet she moved amongst the flowers with a comfortable agility. Her freshly powdered face was a stark white in the rare Rodaasi sun, particularly against the black ringlets of her hair and her even blacker eyes.

  “Don’t tell me I drew you away from a good song,” Duchess replied archly. A gentleman had been serenading the Vermillion’s mistress when Duchess had shown up earlier that day, desperate for a meeting. Her request had been granted in exchange for assistance in gathering flowers, hence the trip to the gardens.

  “Anything that’s got you in such a state is worth missing a verse or two. In any case, Marvis had just about used up his time.”

  Duchess gave her a look. “His time? Don’t tell me he’s a client?”

  Minette lifted an elegantly arched eyebrow. “Don’t look so surprised, my dear. Not every man who passes my parlor ends up between the sheets. Some want only to be held, others simply want someone who will listen to their woes. Marvis, for example, loves the thrill of the hunt but the prey holds no special interest for him. He loves the idea of love. He comes to the Vermillion not to be fulfilled but to be tantalized: eyes met, words whispered, a stolen touch. The game of romance and not its reality, in so many words. He’s not unusual. Some of my visitors are happy to pay me simply for the pleasure of my company. Which is more than I can say for others.” She glanced at Duchess significantly as she fingered a cluster of orange daylilies.