The Fall of Ventaris

by Neil McGarry

  Duchess wished she could go to him, but she dared not risk smudging her makeup. “Did you have to cut yourself before a tree?”

  He shook his head. “There was a keeper with a silver spade, and he buried the shirt while he said some prayer — ‘Let him not be lost along the way’ — that nonsense.” He was silent a moment. “I didn’t even like Pete all that much, you know. He always thought he was better than the rest of us, which is why I gave him the nickname.” He laughed softly. “’Manly Pete’. He hated being called one of the girls.” He fiddled with the cuff of his shirt. “So I’m standing there with this keeper going on and on about Mayu and her lamp, and I got angry at Pete. I told him Whitehall had a bad reputation, but like all his kind, he thought he was untouchable.” Lysander shrugged. “They don’t know how ganymedes live.”

  “Or women.” Duchess added quietly. “I saw Adam Whitehall the other day, in the Halls of Dawn. He’s become a radiant.”

  Lyander chuckled without humor. “I heard they’d found a place to put him.”

  “They?”

  “His father, or the council, or both. Apparently he opened up one too many boys for comfort.” He glanced at her. “That day we saw him, I never told you what he was up to, did I?”

  She shook her head. “I found out on my own.” And was sorry she had. Zachary had taken a little too much pleasure in telling the tale — of Whitehall’s games with the boys he found in the Shallows, far from his father’s estate up the hill. Of his ropes and his knives. Of the sou the family dispensed to keep things quiet. “Sliced up like fish in the market, they were,” the lightboy had gleefully informed her. “Opened belly to throat, everything inside on the out. Their livers and their lights. And the worst part” — he had paused dramatically — “he did it all while they were alive. He only let them die at the end.”

  “Did you find out why they packed him off to the radiants?” Lysander asked. “Not for justice, that’s for sure. He’d become an embarrassment, you see, and Lord Whitehall couldn’t have that.” He lauged bitterly. “And of course House Whitehall has a seat on the council, and it just wouldn’t do to have a madman sitting amongst the other good rulers of the city. It was all just fucking politics.”

  Duchess thought about what Jana had said about edunae. “So they got rid of him by putting him in a radiant’s whites.” She hadn’t heard this part, but it made a certain bloodless sense. It was neither unheard of nor dishonorable for a nobleman to join a cult, although that option was usually reserved for younger sons or, in the case of the faith of Anassa, girls with no prospects for a good marriage. Imperial law held that those who did so gave up all claim on their inheritances, lest the cults become even more powerful than they already were. Adam had been neatly removed from the line of succession without disgrace or undue attention. Still, something wasn’t quite right. “But Pete just died, and if Whitehall’s been a radiant for longer than that...”

  “Then the other radiants know he’s still up to his old tricks.” Lysander closed a fist. “Damn them and their gods.”

  What had Preceptor Amabilis said to her on the Godswalk? We all have our uses. Duchess’ heart felt as crusted and immobile as her face, and she didn’t know whether to rage or to cry. Instead, she joined Lysander at the window and they looked out into the Shallows for a long time, watching men and women as they went about their errands.

  After a long moment, she said, “Lysander, Minette once told me something about the gods.”

  His eyes twinkled with sudden mischief. “I’m sure I’ll have heard it before.” He pulled himself up and crossed his hands in front of himself in such an accurate imitation of Minette that Duchess could almost see the gloves. Lysander was especially good at imitating Minette, although he never performed that particular trick for anyone but Duchess. You never knew what Minette might hear. “So,” he asked, Lysander again, “what did she say?”

  She turned and hugged him close, feeling the humor go out of him. “In Rodaas,” she whispered in his ear, “some find the gods equally false, some find them equally true.” She hugged him harder, so he could not see the expression on her painted face. “But all find them equally useful.”

  Chapter Nine: A bitter sweet

  She hadn’t taken such a walk through the city...well, ever, and it promised to be a welcome distraction from her worries. Before she’d left Lysander’s garrett she’d covered up with the threadbare brown cloak and hood he’d lent her, but they both knew it wasn’t enough. Burrell was too familiar with Duchess not to recognize her even under makeup, and he’d want to know what she was doing dressed up like a feaster. Even if he decided to let her pass, by nightfall the tale would be on every tongue from the harbor to the Godswalk. She’d have to find another way into Temple District, and that, as Lysander had pointed out, meant the long way.

  She headed north from the garret, across Bell Plaza and through Market Gate, as far from Burrell’s watchful eye as possible. The traffic between Shallows and Market was thick and constant at that time of day, and none of the blackarms there spared her a second glance.

  She avoided Market Square itself, where she was almost certain to run into someone she knew. She could just imagine Midwife Marna asking her why she’d taken up with the followers of Naru. The only direct way from Market to Temple was through Garden, and no disguise would ever get her past that kind of scrutiny. Instead, she planned a long loop around the hill, through Trades and Scholars, and finally to Temple. That was a long walk under a cloak too heavy for the season, and she hoped that sweat would not ruin her makeup.

  She handed out her treats as she went, just as a real feaster might, careful to keep the poisoned tart hidden under a fold of cloth at the bottom of her basket. She handed one pastry to a lightboy runner, a second to a woman hauling laundry, and a third to a harried shopkeeper, who thanked her with an almost comic effusiveness. She said nothing during these transactions, but as Lysander had instructed waited for the recipient to take a bite of the pastry before moving on. And smiled.

  The hardest going was in Trades, the hilliest area of the city, crisscrossed by man-made canals that carried the water so necessary to the smiths, woodworkers, and other craftsmen who made the district their home. As she passed, she gave two more of her treats to a pair of blacksmiths resting near a fountain, who eyed her breasts as they dug in. She smiled nevertheless, although with a mental wish for them to choke.

  Scholars District seemed almost a paradise, with neatly cobblestoned streets clear of the trash and dirty-faced children one found everywhere in the Shallows. The houses were attractive, some with small gardens filled with grass, blooming flowers, and here and there even a small, blossoming tree. There were shops and alehouses here as well, but more elegant than their low-district counterparts, catering to much more sophisticated and wealthy customers. Had things been different, this district would have been her home, and those shops her haunts. Had her father’s city estate been rebuilt since that dreadful night of the fire? Was some other scholar living peacefully within its refurbished walls?

  She thought then of Savant Terence, who no doubt lived now as her father had then. After her conversation with Ahmed, a bit of fruning had confirmed that Terence’s position had indeed improved since the War of the Quills. He was now an imperial cartographer, with a notable position at court and a house in Scholars. She’d learned the location of that house, and part of her wanted to look for it now. So much for her certainty of leaving the past in the past.

  The folk who walked the streets were clean and well dressed, and they chatted amiably as they moved about on business or pleasure. A woman in livery herded a group of small children. A nanny for some worthy or another, Duchess guessed. A pair of blue-robed scholars ambled along, deep in conversation, and to her surprise Duchess saw that one of them was a young woman, red-haired, green-eyed, with a pug nose. Her companion was a stout middle-aged man who spoke to her in the condescending way men often spoke to women. Duchess did not know the scholars adm
itted females into their ranks, but there she was. The woman seemed to notice her scrutiny and tipped a wink as she passed, and Duchess hurried on.

  It was late afternoon by the time she crossed into Temple, trying to remain inconspicuous without looking as if she were trying. She avoided the Godswalk, where there were too many religious sorts who might notice any minor deviation from the normal pattern of a feaster. The long walk had worn on her, but her ash-and-clay make-up had not run or smeared. As usual, Lysander had known what he was about. By then the tarts were nearly gone. Next time she impersonated a devotee of Naru, she’d have to make more.

  Takkis’ hold was, ironically, located not far from Beggar’s Gate, so if she had dared pass Burrell’s leaguer she might have gotten there in a few minutes instead of a few hours. The place was a square, two-story structure set against the wall that divided Temple from Shallows. No gargoyles leered from corners or ledges, and the windows were little more than arrow slits, each protected by steel bars. Although the city had not known invasion for hundreds of years, she imagined that a number of determined defenders could hold this building even against a small army. They were certainly capable of defending it against a former bread girl from the Shallows.

  As she approached she tried to settle her stomach by reminding herself that the higher the risk, the greater the reward. She’d never dealt with Sheriff Takkis — her dealings were primarily with the Shallows blackarms who worked for Ophion — but by all reports he was stern and morally uncompromising. If she were to get in trouble here, neither bribes nor a clever tongue would save her. It was not a comfortable notion.

  She had two tarts left by the time she reached the hold’s entrance, and she handed the first to the tall black-haired guard at the door, careful to keep the other hidden beneath the cloth in her basket. “Another one, eh? If I had a penny for every feaster who’s come around...” He accepted the offered pastry readily enough, but surprised her by placing it in his pocket. She blinked, uncertain of the protocol. She was supposed to witness the eating, but she could hardly say so without breaking silence. She hesitated long enough for the guard to glower at her. “In with you then. Though good luck getting him to eat anything at all. Fool’s bound and determined to starve himself, not that it’s any skin of my arse.”

  She chanced a cough, smiled, and looked meaningfully at the pocket in which he had stored the tart. He scowled, crammed a hand into his pocket, lifted out the pastry and deliberately took a small bite, giving her a look that warned. Duchess smiled broadly, stepped past him and through the door as he slipped the remainder of the tart back in his pocket with a growl. A risky move, but one that, she hoped, would lend credence to her disguise.

  She stepped into a narrow corridor, and through doorways on either side she caught sight of armories stacked with spears, swords and clubs, and barracks crammed full with bunk beds and chests. Here she saw blackarms in various states of disrobe wandering about, some coming off duty, others catching a nap between shifts. One of them spied her and gestured brusquely. “To the left, Feaster. There’s only one back there, shouldn’t be hard to pick him out.” Duchess nodded and hurried along in that direction.

  The passage ended at a small anteroom furnished with two chairs and a rickety table that bore a single lit candle. The anteroom was empty, but the adjacent cell was not.

  Unlike the imperial dungeons, deep beneath the palace, the cells in a sheriff’s hold were not designed for long-term imprisonment. They held prisoners only until they could be moved to the dungeons, or else questioned and then released. Pollux, of course, was apparently a special case. She guessed that moving him to the imperial dungeons would be tantamount to admitting his wrongdoing, which no one wanted. And so here he stayed, caught between Takkis’ sense of duty and the empress’ unwillingness to suffer scandal. For all she knew, Violana intended to leave him here until he had the decency to die. Duchess was happy to oblige Her Imperial Majesty.

  She peered carefully through the iron bars, squinting in the dim light. She made out the shape of a man, sitting on the floor, legs folded before him. When he did not move she coughed, trying to get his attention. He lifted his head slightly, his face veiled by long stringy hair – she could not make out the color. Even sitting motionless, knees below his chin, but he was clearly a large man. Duchess lifted her basket and smiled hopefully, but Pollux did not respond. Apparently the guard had spoken the truth.

  She watched him, wondering how to convince him to eat without talking and proving herself a false feaster. She rustled the basket. Nothing. She reached inside and lifted the tart, holding it up to the light. Still he did not move. Unwilling to turn back now, she sat on the floor, placed the tart on her lap, and proved that she, too, could wait.

  His stillness was unnerving, and he seemed impervious to the discomfort of sitting on a cold stone floor. She mirrored him, still and silent, but she worried. If the door guard were to be believed she was not the first feaster to visit, but Pollux still wasn’t eating. Was he truly trying to starve himself, or was he just wary? He was surely aware of the discomfiture his crime had caused, and Jadis had suspected she was merely a cat’s-paw for a more powerful figure. Perhaps Pollux thought the same. Perhaps he was even expecting an attempt on his life, in the form of a charitable cake.

  She’d lost track of how much time had passed, but the next thing she knew Pollux was slowly rising. Yes, he was a big man, at least as tall as Antony although not as broad. She got to her feet as well. He stretched and moved towards her, and even unshaven and unwashed, there was pride in his step, and a lithe, fighting grace. He regarded her through the bars, his haggard face unreadable. His hair was brown, she now saw, like his scraggly beard, speckled here and there with gray. His eyes were gray as well, like steel.

  “Go away, Feaster. I told your brethren the same.” His voice was a bit rusty but still strong, deep and pleasantly masculine. She made no reply but instead offered the tart once again. He looked at her more closely this time, and she was about to step prudently back when his hand shot out between the bars and seized the front of her cloak. He pulled her roughly forward and she gasped, catching herself just short of a frightened squeak. She mustn’t make a sound that would bring the guards back here...

  “Who are you?” he whispered. She tried to jerk away but his grip was like iron. He shook her like dog with a rat with its teeth. “Who?”

  She could slip out of the cloak, but that would reveal her to the blackarms waiting outside and ruin her plan. She sighed. In life, as in tiles, sometimes you had to lay down a bet and hope it paid off. “A friend,” she replied in a low voice.

  He sniffed. “I have no friends.”

  “Do you want one?” she asked.

  His eyes pierced her. “And what do you offer me, friend?”

  She considered a moment, smiled, then held out the hand holding the tart. She’d crushed it slightly when he’d grabbed her and the top had cracked open — a gash of red and the smell of cinnamon. “An escape,” she whispered.

  His eyes fixed on the pastry, and in that gray gaze she saw resignation. She felt a pang of sympathy. Pollux’s life as a White was over. Even if he escaped his cell no one in the city would give him shelter, and the son he had imperiled himself to care for would be no better off. His honor and his child: he’d sacrificed one for the other, and now it seemed he was destined to lose both.

  The man seemed to reach a decision, and in a flash, she was free and the pastry was gone. He downed it in two large bites and an enormous swallow, coughed dryly, then retreated into his corner. “Tell your masters you’ve done your job. Go.”

  Without a word she left him to what he thought must be his fate. She hoped that the grace of Mayu, the wit of First Keeper Jadis, and the work of her small hands were enough to prove him wrong, lest the gods make fools of them all.

  Chapter Ten: To the dogs

  It wasn’t the first time the hunting dog of the gods had come in handy.

  The last time she’d
taken liberties with Teranon she’d stood on his back to climb out of Baron Eusbius’ art gallery. The stone likeness of the noble beast she now crouched behind was larger than that other hound, but he served just as well. Teranon was not the only statue in the small grassy area behind Savant Terence’s house, nor was he the largest, but he offered the best spot from which to watch unobserved.

  She rubbed a face that still stung from the scrubbing it had taken to wash away the clay and ash makeup. She’d returned to her apartment by fourth bell fully intending to rest, but after washing up she found she could not sleep. Although there was nothing left for her to do about Pollux except wait, she tossed and turned for a full three bells before she gave up the idea of napping. Despite her resolve at leaving old ghosts to rest, she’d found herself again thinking of Savant Terence, and if he’d somehow betrayed her father in exchange for a position in court. It shouldn’t matter what had happened so long ago, and yet somehow it did. That was when the idea of visiting his house went from idle musing to full-fledged plan, and she found herself climbing the hill for the second time that day, hoping to slip into Scholars before the gate was closed and the blackarms started asking questions.

  She had managed to do so, and spent the next few hours skulking about the district, in this alley or that back yard, and for once she welcomed the arrival of the evening fog, which made hiding easier. It wasn’t as if she were attempting to gain access to Garden, with blackarms and Whites patrolling every inch and where any outsider discovered would be questioned harshly. If she were caught here, she could say she was heading back to the Shallows after some tryst with a scholar.