by Neil McGarry
His gray eyes were still red and bloodshot, but now they seemed a bit clearer. “Light. Dim, and blurry.” He spat out more red and grimaced at the taste. “The Shallows? I think I’d rather it was hell.”
She smiled. “You’re not the first to say that. Here.” She handed him the wineskin Jadis had left. “Drink this. It’ll make you feel better.” He looked at her warily, and she snorted. “If I’d wanted you dead I’d have simply buried you in that shroud and thrown away the shovel.” His skeptical expression persisted. “Fine, fine...hand it over.” She took it back, popped the cork and drank deep. The wine was as sour as the smell had promised. “Not a remarkable vintage,” she remarked, “but hardly poison.” She handed back the skin. “Drink.”
He took a careful sip, holding the wine on his tongue a long moment. He grimaced. “You’re sure it isn’t poison?”
“For a man newly returned through Mayu’s gates, you certainly have a sense of humor. Take some more, but just a little at a time.” He took another mouthful, and she was impressed that she hadn’t had to grab the skin to prevent him from gulping. A man of discipline. They sat in silence for awhile, with Pollux sipping and Duchess watching. Although it was hard to tell in the dim light, she thought his color was returning, although the hand that held the wineskin still trembled. When he seemed able to keep the wine down, she passed him the grapes. “And now these,” she said, pressing the fruit into his calloused hands. “And before you ask...” She popped a grape into her mouth. It was luscious as Jadis had promised.
He went at the grapes as if they might suddenly vanish. “Whatever you gave me was in that tart, wasn’t it?” he said around a mouthful. She shrugged. “What in all the hells did you do?”
“I gave you a way out. And not through death’s door.”
“And where does Takkis think I am?”
“I hope he thinks you’re dead.”
He stopped eating and gave her a hard look. “Why?” he asked, and she understood his question had nothing to do with Takkis.
“You were in difficulty,” she replied. “I like to help people who are in difficulty.”
“And what will you want in return?”
“Your friendship.”
He laughed harshly. “My friendship is worth less than your wine.” He popped another grape into his mouth, chewed, swallowed. “What happens if I decide to just walk out of here and not look back?”
She shrugged. “Then I suppose I’ve wasted a good deal of effort.” She had thought hard about what to say next. Any future she had with this man depended on it. “But before you leave, consider this. Your old life is gone. You can’t rejoin the Whites, and if you go back to your cell...well, eventually someone will give you real poison, and that will be the end of that.” He said nothing, watching her with those gray eyes. “You can find work as a sellsword, but of course you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering if the caravan master or merchant who hired you might someday find out who you really are. Then someone — another White, a blackarm, or an assassin sent from someone from the imperial court — would kill you, and this time you’d stay dead. Or you could leave the city and try to lose yourself in the Territories, leaving behind everything you might have cared about.” She saw something in those eyes shift, and she realized she’d struck home.
“Are you offering a better choice?” he said at last, his voice flat. There was warning in that tone, yes, but also perhaps a bit of curiosity? She took a breath and plunged in.
“You can be reborn...resurrected...as someone new. Someone who won’t be stopped when he tries to take care of the things he loves. Someone who understands the value of friendship, and is willing to return it.” She smiled, trying to appear perfectly at ease. “It’s your good fortune that I’m someone who believes in showing my friendship first, otherwise you’d still be rotting in that cell.” She nudged Jadis’ bag towards him. “I’ve given you a new life, but for now you’ll have to make do with your old clothes.”
If Pollux was discomfited by the reminder of his nakedness he gave no sign, but rummaged in the bag and started to dress. “And what will this cost me? What will you want in return for my friendship?” he asked, pulling on a pair of breeches.
“Nothing you aren’t willing to give,” she replied, and watched him slip a stained tunic over his head. As he pulled on his boots she reached into her purse and produced a florin, which she extended to him. She almost hated to do it, considering how much she owed Antony, but she had to give him something. “With a new life comes new opportunities, if you’re willing to take them. The gold is a gift, nothing more. Before you make any decisions, ask around about Duchess of the Shallows. I think you’ll like what you hear.” Pollux closed his hand around the gold, and for a moment she was reminded of the three florin Noam had given her before she left the bakery.
“You’re a duchess?” he said at last, unsmiling.
She shrugged, grinning. “So they tell me. Makes me easy to find, don’t you think?” They stood there in the dark for a long moment, neither speaking. Then, with the slightest bow of his head, Pollux strode past her, up the stairs and into the night. She sank back into her seat, feeling weak-kneed.
She’d begun the evening waiting for death’s arrival and had ended it in the company of a rogue White. She wasn’t certain which was the more dangerous.
Chapter Twelve: A name for a prophecy
In the week since she’d rescued Pollux from the blackarms, Duchess had racked her brain for a way she might winkle a license for Jana from the weaver’s guild. Fruning was a wonderful tool, but it was not magic, and thus far it had yielded nothing more substantial than what she’d learned from Ferroc. In the right hands, that nugget of information concerning Tremaine’s religious affiliation was a lever that might move even the Guildmaster, but that meant approaching the faceless and enigmatic followers of the Lady of Wisdom.
Though ninth bell had hardly ceased its ringing, the Godswalk was already crowded with the pious and the penitent, a jostling mass of beggars, priests, and citizens both noble and common. For once the bustle failed to distract, for Duchess had eyes only for the pale marble steps that led to the Sanctum of Anassa.
She shivered, even though the morning fog had already yielded to the summer heat. She’d had no dealings with the facets since the night she’d stolen the baron’s dagger, which suited her just fine, but she couldn’t see any alternative. Simply asking Tremaine to admit Jana to the guild would do no good, and she lacked both the funds to bribe and the knowledge to blackmail. The only way forward went through the Sanctum.
Duchess crossed the grassy center of the Walk, heading towards the great statue of Anassa: a woman robed and masked, holding above her head the long and multifaceted shape of the Splinter of Wisdom. Along the length of that carven shard were inlaid countless mirrors that reflected the wan morning light in every direction, making the single-eyed visage of the goddess seem as if it wore a veil of light and shadow.
Her eye wandered past the statue to the Sanctum itself, and the mass of humanity gathered there. A thousand voices shouted a thousand questions to the Lady, and before them all, standing sentry, masked and still as their Lady’s image, was a row of facets. She noted, not for the first time, how unearthly the priestesses seemed, each one identical in height and girth, and every movement perfectly and elegantly coordinated. Her belly felt tight and hard. It was one thing to banter with a facet at a party, but quite another to seek entry to her very home, where few were permitted. Lysander’s warning about tempting fate arose in her mind, and she found herself turning away along the Walk, putting off the moment when she must face the facets.
She passed beggars, and petty priests of a thousand different faiths, the former concerned with the contents of her purse and the latter with the contents of her soul. She wondered which was the more sincere. Minette had taught her that money was power, but after that strange display in the Halls of Dawn, she had come to suspect that faith had a strength all its own.
She looked up to find herself near the other Lady of the Walk: Mayu, goddess of death, justice and growing things, holding her lamp aloft, with her gardens just behind. The ivy-grown walls and brick arch of the Garden were much more welcoming than the cold marble perfection of the Sanctum, and before she knew it, her feet had turned in that direction. Ordinary folk were welcome in the Garden of Mayu, or so she had heard, and she felt a sudden desire to explore...and to put off even longer a confrontation with the facets. She had barely taken a step when she heard a cough from behind and turned to find First Keeper Jadis and his smile, both attended by a black-robed coterie of lesser keepers.
“Contemplating mortality?” he asked gaily, as if greeting an old friend.
She smiled thinly to cover her dismay. Had the man lost his wits, to approach her so openly? The Godswalk was as public a space as could be imagined, and she was certain the rumors were already germinating. “I said we would meet again,” he said, and his voice was so rich with mischief she was certain he sensed her discomfort. “Although if you insist upon following me so openly, people will begin to talk.” He took her hand in both of his own. “Perhaps we should give them a reason, what do you say?”
Duchess gently disengaged her fingers. “First Keeper,” she said formally, keenly aware of the beggars watching from all sides. “I...had not expected to meet you here.”
Evidently unconcerned about who might be watching, he lifted an eyebrow in surprise. “Where else should I be?” he asked, gesturing to the great statue of Mayu along the Walk. “Perhaps I should ask what brings you here, under the very shadow of our Lady?”
Feeling both flustered and annoyed, she floundered for an answer. “I have never seen Mayu’s gardens up close, and I thought...”
“...that you needed a guide.” Jadis smiled broadly. “I would be delighted to serve in that capacity, my sweet.” He waved a pudgy hand at his retinue. “Leave us; the lady does not need more than one guide.” He winked at her. “I’ll keep her safe enough.” The keepers bowed and moved off wordlessly, and Jadis took her arm and steered her towards the arch.
“We shouldn’t be seen together,” she hissed.
“No? Is it not a keeper’s first duty to shepherd Mayu’s children?” He patted her arm soothingly. “Besides, our business remains ours. If others whisper in corners, what of it? Come now, the Gardens await.”
With no other choice she let herself be escorted. Great iron lanterns, mounted directly into the stone, glowed on each side of the portal, and by their light Duchess could see that the inner walls and ceiling of the arch were thickly festooned with green ivy. She hesitated. “How does it grow so well under here, without any sun?”
“Mayu’s garden grows as it will,” Jadis replied placidly. “Only in court is Ventaris ascendant.” She glanced at him, wondering, but before she could ask he ushered her through the heavy iron gates and into the garden proper. The space inside the walls was wide and grassy, with flowering shrubs, trees large and small, and tall hedges that formed nooks and alcoves where the faithful could reflect and pray with relative privacy. Either there were no worshipers at the moment or they were hidden by the cleverly placed topiary, but a few black-robed keepers moved about, clipping here, raking there. A few glanced in their direction but just as quickly looked away. Apparently, what the First Keeper did in the Gardens was his own business. “Now that we are alone,” he murmured as they ambled along, “Perhaps you will tell me why you are really here. On the Godswalk, I mean.”
She regarded him for a long moment, trying to divine his intentions. He seemed harmless enough, but of course no one rose to such an exalted position as First Keeper by being harmless. Then again, he likely knew more about the facets than anyone in the city. She decided a little honesty was in order.
“I suppose I came for wisdom. And a prophecy.”
He blinked theatrically. “Then I think you’re on rather the wrong side of the Walk.”
She frowned. “I’d hoped you’d have more to offer than that.”
By way of answer, Jadis gestured deeper into the Garden. She followed him along a crushed stone path and into a large, hedge-enclosed space filled with carved wooden benches and flowering plants. On a plinth stood a smaller version of the statue of Mayu Duchess had seen on the Godswalk: a woman, cloaked and hooded, wearing a belt heavy with tools, one hand holding aloft a lantern. They were in the heart of a bustling city, but this nook was so tranquil it might as well have been a thousand miles away. Even the air smelled green. Jadis seemed to note her appreciation and nodded approval. Her attention was drawn by a sharp clicking sound, like wood on wood. The noise seemed to be coming from amongst the plants, and, looking more closely, she spied movement in the soil.
“A deathwatch beetle,” Jadis said before she could ask. He stooped, reached out thumb and forefinger, and came up with a small black insect, smaller than the joints of his fingers. Looking more closely, she saw spindly legs, long mandibles, and a white marking on its carapace that resembled a skull. He placed the insect upon his open palm, where it ambled about in a slow circle. “It’s seeking food,” Jadis told her, not taking his eyes from the creature. “They are ravenous eaters and always hungry, particularly when they hatch.”
Duchess had been leaning forward, but now she pulled away. “Not the type of thing I’d want in my hand,” she pointed out. Jadis smiled.
“They eat many things — wood, cloth, vegetable matter — but never flesh. They are the beloved of Mayu.” He regarded the creature fondly.
She gestured to the air. “And that sound?”
Jadis nodded. “Their mandibles are small but powerful, and when they feed the world hears it. They also sound their call when someone is about to die. Hence their name.” He returned the beetle gently to the soil. “Some believe the sound indicates Mayu is listening, and that their prayers are heard, and shall be answered.” He looked at her. “What do you think of that?”
She eyed him in return. “How does a beetle know what a god hears?”
He nodded. “My thoughts precisely. And even the greatest of men are as beetles before Mayu.”
“So how do you know if Mayu hears your prayers?”
“I don’t.” She blinked at this bluntness, and he smiled. “I do not come to the Dark Lady seeking certainty. Those who do are on a fool’s errand.”
Duchess laughed, thinking it a joke, but he did not smile. “You’re serious,” she said, hardly able to believe it herself. “I never heard of a priest preaching doubt. Rather undercuts your message, don’t you think?”
Jadis shrugged. “That depends upon the message. I cannot think of anything more frightening than utter certainty. Life is much more interesting when it is ambiguous.”
“I doubt the facets would agree. Knowledge and certainty are their stock in trade.”
“And yet they convey ambiguity with every word and gesture. Even their prophecies confuse.” He shook his head. “There is a difference between understanding ambiguity and merely cultivating it. Everyone in Rodaas has secrets, but true mystery would make the facets as uncomfortable as any.”
“And you, Keeper?” she said. “What do you think of mystery?”
He seemed to consider her question. “I believe,” he said at last, “that I am one of the few upon this hill who understands that faith — true faith — is the ability to sit comfortably in not knowing.”
She shook her head, baffled. “You’ve lost me.”
Jadis laughed suddenly jovial again. “Then there is hope for you.” He leaned close, placing his hands upon her shoulders, but there was nothing prurient in his touch. “Hold on to that doubt. Pause in that moment of knowing that you do not know, and that you may never know. Will never know. Until the day you die, and perhaps beyond.”
“You’re certain of nothing? How can you — how can anyone live like that?”
He stepped away, raising his hands. “How can one live otherwise?” He gestured to the statue.
She shr
ugged, confused. “The same as on the Godswalk, isn’t it? Although that one is bigger.”
“Look closer.”
She moved in for a better look. Mayu’s face was hidden within the folds of her hood, and one hand held her lantern while the other clutched at her belt. That belt held many implements: hooks and spades and sharp sticks and knives. Her breath caught. There, amongst them was a familiar shape: a carved blade, double-edged and sinuous. She’d not recognized it before, but it was a smaller, stone duplicate of the dagger she’d stolen from House Eusbius. She reached out a tentative finger, feeling faint. “Is that...?”
“Yes.” Jadis had come up behind her. “The very same. Of that, at least, I am certain.”
Her head spun. She’d always known in her heart the thing had been more than it seemed. “It...belongs to Mayu?”
Jadis nodded reverently. “So say the tales. My Lady has many Keys, as many as there are gates to her hells. This one is the first, and the greatest.” He searched her face. “But you feared it?”
She nodded, although in truth it was not the dagger she feared. She could still remember the touch of fog under the earth where no fog should ever be. Jadis wore many masks – philosopher, priest, lecher, fool — each of them dangerous, and he was no one for her to trust. She said nothing.
Jadis smiled, as if her silence were answer enough. “I do not know if any of the tales are true, but I know only that for a moment, you touched the divine. All else is mystery. And that is enough.”
He gestured and they moved out of the hedge enclosure and back into the garden proper. Her chest felt tight, and she was glad to be in the open air. She steered the conversation back to her mission. “Faith and uncertainty are one thing, Keeper, but I do know what brings me to the Godswalk today.”
“You spoke of prophecy.” Jadis paused by a flowering bush, fingering a purple blossom. “The followers of Anassa do not gift their foretellings to just anyone. Nor without a price.”