The Fall of Ventaris

by Neil McGarry

  She frowned. Having him take her lightly would not do at all. “Good, because I don’t want one.” She set down her cup. “If I did, I could have waved a handful of sou around on the docks and had a hundred takers, and let you remain comfortably in your cell.” She let that sink in. “But I don’t need a White either.” His eyes narrowed, but she pressed on. “Your days as Pollux are over. If you want to survive down here you need to forget that name and that life. I don’t know how things work up the hill, but in the Shallows everyone watches and everyone talks. Already half the district is wondering why the man with the gray eyes was asking after Duchess. If they hear even a whisper of who you really are, the both of us will be on a gibbet before the leaves fall.”

  His face was stone, but she could see that the contempt in his eyes had turned to something more speculative. Good and better. She thought of the awful night of the fire, the night she’d come to live with Noam. The old baker had been harsh with her, and perhaps wisely so, and she owed Pollux the same. “You need to not only take a new name but a new life. You are not Pollux. Pollux died in a cell in Temple District. You are not a White. So who are you?” To name a thing is to know it, the facet had said. When Noam had put the same question to her, she’d chosen the name of a cat. What would this man select? And what would it mean?

  He pondered a long moment. “Castor,” he said at last. She tried not to smirk. Perhaps the facet had been right, for Pollux had indeed chosen a name with meaning. Although it was not a well known tale, she had heard of the twin brothers who’d vied for their imperial father’s affection. In the end Castor had slain Pollux, but even as he’d turned the blade and the blood had run hot and red across his hands he’d wept bitter tears. He himself had not lived to sit his father’s throne, sacrificing himself to save his dead brother’s only son. So although Castor had slain his brother, he had never forgotten him...nor stopped loving him.

  “Then I am glad to know you, Castor,” she said, trying out the name on her tongue. “You’ll need to make sure to answer to that name. The best way to start is by becoming Castor, in here” – she pointed to his head – “and in here” she pointed at his heart. “Think of who he is, what he likes, where he’s been, and soon enough you’ll forget you were anyone else.”

  “Sounds like you’ve done this before,” he said, measuring her with his eyes. She wasn’t used to men looking at her with respect, but she thought she could get used to it.

  “Once or twice.” She grinned mirthlessly. “Ask me another time and I’ll tell you about it. Right now, I need your help.”

  He nodded. “What can Castor do for you?”

  “Do you know Gloria Tremaine?” she asked, pouring herself more wine.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Guildmaster for the weavers, if I remember right?” At Duchess’ nod, he went on. “Not noble but skilled at politics. There’s no other way someone of her birth could have risen so high. The Atropi called in every favor they could manage to keep her out of the master’s chair, but Tremaine had connections among the cults that won the day.”

  Duchess sipped, chewing this over. She had her prophecy in hand, it was time to make her move. “What kind of person is she?”

  “Arrogant as a noble,” Castor replied, fingering his cup. “Fearsome with her servants, or anyone who ranks under her, although with the facets she plays meek as a girl.” Duchess wondered at the truth of the last. Too much depended on it for comfort.

  She stood suddenly and headed back towards her bedroom. After a moment, he followed, stopping politely just outside the door, proper as any White. Good to know.

  “I need your help today, if you’re up for it.” She slipped off her tunic and tugged at her leggings. “I need...well, a bodyguard, I suppose.”

  “Some business in the Shallows?” She could tell by the sound of his voice that he’d turned his back. Castor was not the kind to peek, apparently. Also good to know.

  “Hardly. I’ve lived in the Shallows half my life and never needed a guard before.” She pulled out the dress she’d worn to the mysteries of Ventaris. Skirts sat ill on her hips, but today’s errand demanded more than her normal street clothes. She pulled the garment over her head and smoothed it out as best she could. A bit rumpled, but it should serve. “We’re off to see Guildmaster Tremaine.” She glanced at the scroll that lay on her bed. Its twin, wax seals still intact, was secure in the lockbox she’d acquired from Nigel downstairs. Once more she unrolled the paper, magnificent white vellum with ribbons and the official stamp of the Sanctum of Anassa:

  “To the Weavers of Cloth, an oracle:

  A change is come.

  The seasons shift.

  For all things have their time.

  To the tapestry,

  A thread is added:

  An unknown color

  Leading to unknown glories.”

  Was it too vague? She’d never seen an actual prophecy, but in the stories they were always open to interpretation, usually ruinously so. She’d simply have to make sure Tremaine understood that Jana was the new thread it referenced. She snatched up the purple scarf Jana had given her and tied it about her waist. For luck, she hoped.

  “Tremaine has seen — Pollux — before,” Castor warned as she stepped into the hall. “She may recognize me.”

  She smiled, lifting the scroll before his surprised face. “Not to worry. I rather think she’ll only have eyes for this.”

  * * *

  Upon seeing Gloria Tremaine, her first thought was of a dandelion caught just at the end of summer: tall, slender, with a sculpted swirl of thick white hair and a gown of deep rich green. She flowed like water: the ripple of her dress, the languid swinging of her arms as she moved along the street. Around her, much like the seeds a dandelion might disperse, hurried a group of a half-dozen women. They varied widely in color, age and disposition, but they all seemed to share the desire both to stay close to Tremaine and to avoid drawing her attention. She imagined the imperial court looked much the same, on a grander scale.

  Duchess and Castor stood across the street from Tremaine’s shop, located in Scholars District. Not near Terence’s house, Duchess was relieved to note. She had enough to deal with now without worrying about Darley and her secret tunnel. They had sheltered beneath a stone arch, trying to look inconspicuous while Duchess formulated a plan of approach, but all that had been forgotten when the elegant woman had appeared on the street, returning from some errand or another.

  And she was elegant. Her hair was pale but without even a hint of gray, her cheekbones high and exquisitely sculpted, and her nose thin and aristocratic. Her skin was flawless, either the result of distance or powder, Duchess could not be certain. She looked as if she might be in her forties, and although she was by all reports lowborn, she carried herself with all the confident grace of nobility. That might or might not make things easier, depending.

  The group came into earshot and Duchess leaned forward to listen. Tremaine was talking to a small Ahé woman in a modest yellow dress who kept pace, matching two of her short strides to one of Tremaine’s longer ones. The guildmaster’s diction was perfect, and her words were clearly audible even at this distance.

  “Yes, but I hardly see the point. When will the Bambrey order be complete?” Duchess was too far away to hear the reply from the woman in yellow but whatever she said stopped the guildmaster in her tracks. The rest of her entourage blundered to a halt an instant later, only just avoiding falling over one another.

  “Say that again.” Tremaine’s gaze focused like a beam of light. The woman consulted a slate and made a reply just below Duchess’ hearing.

  “I’m afraid I still don’t see the point,” replied Tremaine, punctuating each word with a pause. “Whoever is responsible needs to be made aware of this.” She glanced critically over the women behind her. “Who was to oversee the delivery to Earl Bambrey?” The question caused a ripple across the group, with several of the women edging to one side or the other, perhaps in the hope of be
ing passed over. One young woman stood unmoving, and Tremaine’s gaze settled upon her like a weight.

  “Ah,” she said, all smiles. “Rebecca.”

  The woman stepped forward uneasily. “Yes, guildmaster.” She seemed only a few years older than Duchess, a redheaded wisp of a girl with a weak chin and liquid green eyes. Before she could say more the woman in yellow murmured something to her mistress.

  “Nonsense,” said Tremaine, fairly laughing. “I hardly hold you responsible, Lynda, and in any case I’m not interested in laying blame. If this isn’t fixed, if this isn’t handled correctly, why — ” the smile she gave Rebecca was like razors, sharp and cold “ — things shall never get better.” Rebecca’s hands trembled at her side, and her mouth opened and closed like a fish. “Speak up, girl. What’s been done?”

  Her reply was still not quite audible to Duchess, but Tremaine heard it well enough. “You do realize that this needs to be finished long before the Fall. We have other clients, other orders.”

  Another reply.

  “Yes, I understand, but it was your job to figure that out. And you did not. Which is unfortunate.” Rebecca wilted but the others seemed to relax. Tremaine had found a target and they were safe, at least for the moment. “Do you have a solution in mind?” Tremaine asked. “Considering the circumstances, I’m sure you can understand that I am not in the mood to correct this issue for you.”

  The girl was talking quietly and rapidly, as if desperately trying to explain, but Tremaine was having none of it. “Perhaps you believe repeating yourself brings new information, but to me it is simply noise. What will you be doing about this?” The girl’s discomfort was so evident Duchess had to resist the urge to squirm. She flailed about for words, but evidently Tremaine had had her fill. She raised a graceful hand and the girl quieted instantly.

  “If you think that necessary. I do not.” She regarded Rebecca coolly. “Now I believe you have somewhere else to be.” Rebecca nodded and turned to go, tears streaming down her cheeks as she hurried off, back the way the group had come. Tremaine did not look after her.

  The woman in yellow spoke, more loudly this time. “Clearly she’s working hard to get it right.”

  Tremaine sighed. “And clearly some of us are still learning.” Titters rippled across the group, although Duchess noted that Lynda did not share their mirth. Tremaine turned and headed into her shop, her followers close behind.

  Duchess let out a breath, then glanced at Castor. “Was she like this at court?” The former White simply nodded. She glanced at the cloth-wrapped scroll she’d carried from the Shallows. “Well, I’ve got a god on my side.” She smoothed down her dress and straightened the scarf. “Wait here for me, if you please. If Tremaine doesn’t hear me out she’ll likely call for the blackarms, and I’d rather not spend the night in a sheriff’s hold.” He nodded again.

  As she turned towards the shop, she wondered, her brave words aside, if even prophecy would be enough for the likes of Gloria Tremaine.

  * * *

  “Oh, I’m not sure at all about this one,” said the woman, waving a finger. Her graying hair had been molded into a series of waves, flowing towards the back of her head into a loose bun. “Last time I was here Gloria showed me something much more...iridescent! Bring that one out.”

  The front room of Tremaine’s shop was a large, rectangular room that looked slightly green from the light that filtered in through tinted windowpanes. The freshly polished oaken floor glinted and the air smelled sweet and slightly sharp, seemingly untouched by the summer heat that lay full upon the city. About the room were set several padded chairs, a small round table that held a vase of yellow and orange blooms, and a long, pale rose settee. Upon it sat a woman all in blue — dress, hat, and gloves — skeptically appraising a bolt of red cloth held by a girl who hovered over her.

  Just then the Ahé woman in yellow — Lynda — stepped through an arched doorway. Fixing Duchess with a suspicious eye, she turned to the young shop assistant. “I’m sure we don’t need to waste Lady Miriam’s time with that, Kata.” Her Rodaasi was accented but perfectly understandable. “You’ll find something more to her lady’s liking in the stockroom, third shelf from the left.” Kata bowed her head and hurried off, and Lynda turned to the customer. “A hot day, my lady. Perhaps some iced wine for your comfort, yes?”

  Lady Miriam nodded. “Yes, Lynda, that would be lovely.” She smiled magnanimously, as if she were bestowing a great favor. “I always tell my friends that we need more Ahé in the city, and not fewer. No one understands the needs of their customers better.” She sat forward to sniff at the flowers in the vase, and Lynda clapped her wrinkled hands, summoning another young woman. “Iced wine for the lady, Marta.” Neither of these assistants had been in the group on the street, and Duchess wondered just how many young women Tremaine employed. Her musing was interrupted when Lynda stepped close.

  “And what do you want?” she asked in a low voice, without a trace of the solicitation she had shown Lady Miriam. The skepticism was understandable, given that compared to the lady’s garb, Duchess’ dress was a rag used to scrub floors. No one who wore its like shopped here. Duchess decided to be direct.

  “I need to speak with the guildmaster,” she replied, just as quietly.

  Lynda huffed. “Guildmaster Tremaine has other business at the moment. Do you have —” she appraised Duchess doubtfully “ — an appointment?”

  “No, but I have a message. An important one.”

  “Give it here, then.” She held out a hand.

  Duchess shook her head. She was not about to put so precious a delivery in the hands of a servant, even a highly ranked one. “This is something special, I’m afraid. I must put it in the guildmaster’s hands only.” Lynda’s gaze hardened, and before she could say another word, Duchess partially unwrapped the scroll, holding it so that only they could see the ribbons and seals of the Sanctum of Anassa.

  Lynda’s eyes widened and she gave Duchess a long look, doubt clear on her face. She looked at the scroll once more, then seemed to come to a decision. “Come with me.” She motioned Duchess through the passage Kata had taken, and Duchess found herself in a narrow hallway with doors on either side. Lynda opened one of these, revealing a storage room, with cloth, measuring sticks, and other tools stacked to the ceiling. “Wait here. And touch nothing.” Duchess stepped inside and Lynda closed the door behind her. Her footsteps hurried away.

  Duchess looked idly around the room. The cloth here seemed plain: wool and cotton and plain linen, with nary a silk nor satin to be seen. She smiled. Even in storage the finer things of the city were separated from the common. She wondered that someone like Lynda occupied so prominent a role as head assistant to the guildmaster. Normally Ahé were not accorded such honors, which boded well for Duchess. Perhaps Tremaine was open to the idea of the guild giving access to outsiders.

  The door opened again and Tremaine herself stepped through. She was even more imposing up close, her features at once delicate as glass and tough as iron. Her eyes were a hard mixture of green and gray, and they bored into Duchess with unsettling intensity. She closed the door quietly behind her, and Duchess was reminded of Minette in one of her dark moods.

  Tremaine looked her up and down, clearly not at all pleased with what she saw. “I was not expecting a message,” she stated flatly.

  “Nonetheless, you have one,” Duchess replied. “I am here on behalf of...a friend.”

  Tremaine smiled, but it was not a warm expression. “I presume that is a coy way of indicating your employer?” She frowned once more. “This encounter is becoming more tiresome by the moment, and a moment of my time is worth a great deal.”

  “Then I shall be brief. I believe you know my friend; she recently applied for entry to your guild. And was refused.”

  Tremaine’s smile vanished. “I’ve heard enough about that Domae, and enough from you.” She opened the door. “Get out.”

  Duchess shrugged. “Very well. Then I’l
l just take this with me.” She pulled away the cloth to reveal the scroll she carried, its seals and its ribbons. Seeing it, Tremaine quickly shut the door and fixed Duchess with a speculative gaze, then with impressive speed snatched the scroll from her hand. Duchess watched as the elegant woman unrolled the parchment and read, her hard eyes flicking back and forth across the page.

  When Tremaine raised her eyes again, Duchess saw mingled anger and fear. “A clever forgery.”

  Duchess shook her head. “If you truly thought so, you’d be calling the blackarms right now instead of standing there trying to bluff me.” Still, cold sweat sprang out along her back. The guildmaster was as tough as her reputation.

  Tremaine read the scroll again, as if she had expected its contents to have changed. “And what if I should tear up this little message?”

  “Would you treat Anassa’s own words so disrespectfully?” Duchess shrugged. “Besides, I have another copy around somewhere, and if this one should be destroyed, well, I’d have to find a more secure place for it. Perhaps at court.”

  Tremaine nodded. “Blackmail, is it?”

  “Is the work of the gods blackmail?” She smiled in her best impression of Jadis.

  “So Lady Anassa would have a brown, godless foreigner in my guild?” Her anger seemed earnest enough, but Duchess could not tell if Tremaine spoke as a true believer, or merely one who feigned faith. It made little difference she supposed. A lever of wood could move a rock just as easily as one of iron.

  “I don’t speak for Anassa, guildmaster.” She pointed at the scroll. “Those are her words. You may heed or ignore them as you please.”

  Tremaine was silent a long moment, and Duchess could almost hear the thoughts racing around her head. “Who are you?”