The Fall of Ventaris

by Neil McGarry

  She scanned the room for a man too light to be Ulari but too dark to be Rodaasi, and soon enough she spotted him, sitting alone at a corner table. His face was long and dour, but it was the same one she’d seen below the city on that dreadful night. Gathering her courage, she motioned to Castor and they weaved their way through the room.

  Finn hardly looked up as they approached. “Go away,” he said, waving at her with his mug.

  She ignored him and took a seat across the table while Castor positioned himself behind her chair, alert and expressionless. “No interest in company, then?”

  “No.” He glanced up from his cup. “You.” His surprise was obvious, but muted, most likely by whatever was in his mug. “You were there the other night, when — ”

  “When last I saw you,” she finished, before he said more than was wise.

  “And what were you doing there?” He glanced over at Castor. “Are you a spy for the White?”

  That guess was too close by half. “If I were, it’d be the least of your problems.”

  He raised a mock toast. “And there we agree.” He finished off the dregs in a single swallow, then banged his tankard on the table, calling for more.

  Duchess waited until the server had come and gone. “How long have you been working with Darley?”

  He picked up his mug again but did not drink. It looked for a long moment as if he would not say anything, then he shrugged. “Since last winter. She heard that I’m the one who knows people in the lower districts. I know how to sell things quietly, without raising any imperial eyebrows.” He glanced again at Castor.

  “Like the kind of things one might find beneath the city.”

  He shrugged. “She’d read things in her father’s papers about artifacts just lying about, free to any taker. Sounded too good to be true.” He grimaced. “It was. We didn’t find very much: bits of jewelry, an old coin or two – “

  “And a dagger,” Duchess said.

  Finn eyed her, but to his credit did not ask how she’d known. “And a dagger. Not the kind of thing you can sell to just anyone, but there are some people who’ll pay for old things just because they’re old.”

  “Ivan Gallius was one of those people.” Finn nodded blearily, but she felt no satisfaction, not where that dagger was concerned. For a long time she’d thought about what happened under the city, how those old bones had come to life when Darley had cut herself. Just as Duchess’ blood had made that bone dance for Keeper Jadis. There was no way to prove it, of course, but she did not doubt her guess. After all, they’d all touched the Key of Mayu, hadn’t they? The blade had lain under the city since the gods only knew, but given the symbol upon the hilt, the snake devouring itself, she guessed it was older than Rodaas. One of the treasures the Domae had left behind? A weapon of He Who Devours? Or was it, as Jadis seemed to think, truly of the goddess of death and justice? “But you told Darley you made money from that dagger twice. The first time you sold it to King Ivan. Who was the second buyer?”

  “And now you’re guessing,” he said, taking another long drink.

  She sighed. There was always blackmail, but that would leave him bitter and possibly vengeful. There had to be some other way. She watched Finn for a long moment, thinking. He was drinking heavily. It might have been over his argument with Darley, or the horror in the tunnels, but his mood seemed neither angry, nor scared. There was a resignation to it, a certain fatalism...

  She blinked. Then she called over the server and got Finn another drink, and one for herself. She glanced over at Castor, who shook his head.

  Finn looked at the offered drink suspiciously, but took it nonetheless and drank deeply.

  Duchess lifted her own mug. “So you’ve heard about Adam Whitehall, then.” He said nothing, but the look in his eyes told her he had not only heard but was very interested in finding out more. She was still guessing, but she was close. Tyford’s rumor had linked Whitehall with the weapon. Finn had made money on it a second time. And now Whitehall was dead. “The story is that one of the boys he killed had a father or a brother who finally caught up with him.” She toyed with her mug. “I saw him, you know, after. It could not have been an easy death.” Finn did not look at her, but as he raised his mug for another drink she saw fear flicker across his face.

  So that was the way of it. “But you don’t believe that, do you?” she said quietly, “It was odd that Whitehall should be in the Wharves, where one rarely hears of radiants wandering alone. He wasn’t even wearing his whites, which come to think of it is even odder.” She sipped her own ale and regretted it. The stuff was half water, if she were any judge, and she wondered how many mugs Finn had had to consume to get drunk from it. “Whoever killed him was bold, to risk waking the wrath of the Halls of Dawn. Perhaps there was no risk at all. Perhaps someone told Whitehall’s killer where the poor lad would be that night, all alone and without his radiant’s robes.” She left off, watching Finn carefully.

  “As you said,” he muttered in reply between gulps, “a spy for the White would be the least of my problems.”

  She leaned forward. “Because the preceptor is cleaning up after himself, isn’t he?” Finn hesitated, then nodded. “This time he used some grieving father or brother, but next time it might be the Brutes, or maybe even the Red.” His gaze flicked up to meet hers, full of desperate calculation. Whatever he had to tell her was near the surface, she sensed, and she had only to reach under.

  “I think we can help each other, Finn,” she said. “We share a common enemy, you and I.” He watched her, wordless. “I know Whitehall had the dagger, and either you gave it to him or he gave it to you. Either way, I need to know more. If you can tell me, I can protect you from Preceptor Amabilis.”

  He shook his head. “You’ll protect me from the preceptor? Who’ll protect you?”

  She shrugged. “Oh, Castor looks after me well enough, and I’m more formidable than I appear. Just ask Baron Eusbius.” Something dawned in Finn’s ale-reddened eyes. “That’s right,” she whispered. “My name is Duchess, and I know more about that dagger than most.”

  Finn looked at her for a long while, and on his face Duchess could see his desire to believe warring with his suspicion. Desire won out. “I didn’t sell the dagger to anyone. I delivered it to someone.” At her gesture, he went on. “Whitehall said he needed it taken down to a man in the Narrows. Someone named Morel.”

  She tapped the table, considering. The Narrows were the worst part of the Deeps, where no sane person went, so it was little surprise Duchess had never heard of him. “Who is he?”

  “A keeper, I think, or at least he wears the black robes. He runs a little group down there, a few dozen strong.” He smiled mirthlessly. “They’re trying to grow their own little garden, if you can believe it.”

  She exchanged a look with Castor. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could eke out a living in the Narrows without being murdered by Deeps gangs, nor why anyone would bother to try. There were other areas of the city far more hospitable. And this news about Morel was just as interesting. Hadn’t Lysander told her something about some kind of splinter sect that had broken with the Gardens of Mayu?

  “You said something about being paid twice for the dagger,” she said, turning back to the matter at hand. “That was Whitehall, yes? He paid you to take the dagger to Morel?” He nodded gravely. “But there’s something else, something Amabilis is trying to cover up.”

  Finn looked down at the scarred and ale-stained surface of the table. “The dagger...wasn’t the first weapon I took into the Deeps.”

  As he went on, she realized that not only had she found what she needed to pressure Amabilis, she knew precisely the man that could save Finn’s life.

  * * *

  Duchess watched the light that played along the length of the Delaying Glass. The Glass remembered, it was said, and she wondered just when this particular glow had first descended into the great crystal’s milky depths. This morning, when the sky ports were last open?
Last year, when she was a bread girl and the Grey only a fable? Or centuries before, when the Domae had called the great hill their home? She looked around at the few other worshipers — an old woman carrying a wicker basket; a large man, cloaked and hooded; a trio of well-born women only slightly older than she — but if any of them had the answer it did not show on their faces. Not that it mattered, today.

  The mysteries were not due to start for another few hours, but this time she had purposely arrived early. Only a few radiants were present, sweeping the marble floor or tending to the great gilded lanterns set about the Halls of Dawn, but she only needed one to carry her message to Preceptor Amabilis. As she faced the Glass, she heard slow footsteps coming up behind and knew that the senior radiant had received it.

  She turned to face him. “Preceptor.”

  “The errant mote.” Tall and lanky, Amabilis regarded her with deep-set eyes. “I did not expect to see you again.”

  “No, I suppose you didn’t. But I had a question. Regarding sin. And who better to ask than a preceptor?”

  He smiled faintly. “It’s been my privilege to instruct many on the ways of the Faith. What is this question?”

  She cocked her head and treated him to one of her father’s searching gazes, letting silence spin out just long enough to make him uncomfortable. “You know of the fate of House Kell, I’m sure: destroyed more than eight years ago, the family dead, scattered or lost. Some said it was the gods’ judgement.” Amabilis’ slight smile vanished, replaced by a furrow in his brow. “The War of the Quills started when the guildsmen demanded representation on the Imperial Council, and it ended when Marcus Kell persuaded the Red to unleash the Deeps gangs upon the city. I’m sure you’ve heard this story.”

  “As have many,” Amabilis said, his voice frosty. “But what is your question?”

  She tried not to show the sadness she felt at the mention of her family’s fall. “What would the gods do to a man who did the same? Someone who, knowing what happened eight years ago, armed Deeps gangs to further his own ambition?”

  Amabilis said nothing for a long moment. “Some would say that the gods punished Lord Kell’s folly through mortal agency. To the Father of All, even down-hill thugs have their uses.”

  “A lesson you appear to have taken to heart,” Duchess replied. “You were more circumspect than Marcus Kell, certainly.”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ve been told some tall tales, my little mote. In Rodaas, stories run up and down the hill like rats, and are worth even less.”

  “Not all stories are worthless, preceptor. Often their value can be found in who we choose to tell them to.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

  She smiled gently, almost feeling sorry for the man. “Antony? If you’d join us please?” One of the worshipers at the Glass, the one in the cloak, stepped forward, pulling back his hood to reveal a scarred face and a red cap. The preceptor paled and sweat sprang out on his forehead. She knew that particular fear well.

  “You were careful, I will admit,” she said as Antony approached. He was taking his time, his footsteps echoing across the hall. “In a way, it still makes little sense to me. Everything I had heard and seen of you showed you as a careful man. But to send Adam Whitehall down the hill to deal with the likes of the Throttlers? To arm them in steel to fight not only each other, but the Red?” She shook her head. “It did not seem like you. I’m sure you thought that by giving Eusbius’ stolen dagger to Morel you’d strengthen his sect and weaken First Keeper Jadis in a single stroke, but was it worth the risk?”

  “You dare not take me from this holy place,” the preceptor stammered through waxy lips. “You dare not. Not here. Not ever.”

  “Not here,” Antony rumbled, as he reached them. “Not now.”

  “But ever?” asked Duchess. She watched Amabilis a moment, his back still straight despite his obvious fear. “Will you remain in the Halls forever, then? Never step beyond the confines of your lord’s wheel? For if you did, you never know what might find you. Look what happened to Adam Whitehall on a walk through the Shallows.”

  He used a sleeve to wipe his brow, his eyes on Antony. “The Uncle wouldn’t dare. He knows the way the world works as well as any. I’ll call the color!”

  And there it was — his final tile. She’d half expected it, really. Minette had told her that intersections between the Grey and the Red must be handled carefully. Such a call could lead to something as bad as the Color War all those years ago. A fire in the house, and not in the hearth, as she might put it.

  “Are you sure it would work? No one wants another conflict between the Red and the Grey, and once I frune the tale of what you’ve been up to in the Deeps, you won’t have a friend left on the Highway.”

  Amabilis stiffened. “You have not a shred of proof.”

  “Since when does the Grey need proof? I can sow enough doubt so that serious questions will be raised. You’ve worn the cloak longer than I, but I’m betting someone knows something that will connect you to Finn and the weapons he was carrying. And the entire city knows you were connected to Adam Whitehall.” She crossed her arms. “Maybe you can convince the Grey I’m wrong, but the idea of Deeps gangs armed with steel would frighten anyone. Play this wrong, preceptor, and you’ll be hunted by both colors.”

  Amabilis’ gaze darted around — at her, Antony, the acolytes — until finally he turned back to Duchess with a resigned expression. “And this is the part where you tell me what I can give you in exchange for your silence,” he stated flatly.

  She smiled. “I’m glad we’re finally connecting, Preceptor. I’m not interested in causing trouble. All I want from you is the answer to a simple question. One answer, and I’ll never frune a word of this. Antony here has generously agreed to make sure the Red doesn’t take any action against you” — Antony nodded — “provided of course that the flow of weapons down the hill does not resume. You’ll find that Finn is no longer available to deliver them in any case, and I believe you’ve already dealt with Adam Whitehall.”

  “One answer?” Amabilis asked. “And we’re done? A better bargain than I would have gotten from many. Very well. What is this question?”

  “You employed Julius to send the Brutes against me and my business partner. Why?”

  Amabilis’ colorless eyes went wide with amusement. “I myself had no reason. Indeed, I’d met you only once, and I wouldn’t have known your Domae weaver if I’d fallen over her.” He smiled sparsely. “However, there are others in this city who know more than I, and it was on their behalf that I acted. So instead of one answer I shall give you three. I was approached by the sisters Atropi.”

  “The dressmakers?” she asked, incredulous. Why would they strike at her? Lysander had speculated that the Brutes’ real target had not been Duchess herself but Jana, but she had been too arrogant to see it. Jana’s admission to the guild had upset tradition, and the guild, or at least three of its members, had struck back. If Jana’s business failed, blame would redound to Gloria Tremaine, the Atropi’s worst enemy, for admitting her to the guild in the first place. Minette would have seen that earlier, she scolded herself.

  “I see that name ill suits you,” Amabilis murmured, obviously relishing her discomfiture. “The ear at the eave does not always enjoy what it hears.” He glanced at Antony and straightened his robes. “Now, may I get back to my duties, or was there something else you wished to blackmail out of me?”

  “There is one more thing,” she said. “Why did you do all this? Getting involved with someone like Whitehall, arming the Deeps...I’ve taken some risks, but that’s just mad. You’re a high-ranked priest and a member of the Grey, yet you risked everything on this scheme. Why?”

  Amabilis frowned. “It is...difficult to explain.”

  “Try,” muttered Antony, and she tried not to smile.

  Amabilis was silent for a long moment. “I take it you know the circumstances under which Lord Whitehall sent his son to us, yes
?” She nodded. “As preceptor, his salvation, and the expiation of his sins, was my responsibility. Before a sin can be forgiven it must be confessed.”

  “You already knew his crimes. Everyone did.”

  “But not the reasons behind them. Understanding is another part of forgiveness.” He gave her a look. “Whitehall was not a madman, at least not at first. He told me what led him to do such things — first curiosity, then wonder. He’d begun with animals, in some misguided attempt to understand life and its mechanics. But then, he said, he’d begun to see things in the creatures he had killed.”

  “See?” muttered Antony.

  Amabilis nodded, seeming to warm to the tale — one, she was certain, he’d not been able to share with another soul. “Visions, truths in the twisting of their viscera, augurs in the coils of their entrails. When he cut open a chicken, he was able to predict the next day’s weather. In the innards of a dog he foresaw a drought in the Territories. The higher the animal, the more significant the vision he received, until he decided...” The preceptor smiled mirthlessly, Antony rubbed his chin with one massive hand, but Duchess felt cold. The boys, a whole chain of boys, with Manly Pete at the end. “He searched for writings about what he was becoming and found mention of the haruspex — those that, even now amongst the Nerrish, practice the same divinations.”

  “But not on humans,” Duchess spat back.

  “No. Not on humans. And yet it was those visions that most caught my interest. Ventaris had given me many truths in my life, but none so clear, so specific as those Adam Whitehall whispered to me in his confessions.”

  “So he convinced you he had real power,” she said numbly, “and you decided to let him continue. Instead of helping him repent his sins, you enabled them.”

  “A small price to pay for the things he saw. I daresay the boys he used served more in dying then they ever did by living.”