The Fall of Ventaris

by Neil McGarry

  The fabric had been pulled too tight for her to unhook the clasp, and no amount of pulling would tear it. Her chest blazed with the need for air while the footsteps rang louder. Desperate, she scrabbled her dagger from its sheath and sawed at the cloak, praying she would not cut her own throat trying to free herself. The gods of ill fortune finally relented, the blade cut true, and she slipped free of the cloth and staggered away, gasping for air. Now the light of a lantern was visible, nearly upon her, so she snatched the cloak off the gate — now that she could breathe it naturally came free with one tug — and retreated into the shadows of the alley. She shoved her dagger into the torn cloak to hide the shine of light on steel and crouched, making herself as small as possible. There was nothing for them to see, she told herself, nothing at all...

  ...except the thief’s step, which was wedged halfway up the height of the gate.

  Her heart sank. The blackarms, if that was who the footsteps belonged to, would surely see the reflection of lantern light against the step. They probably had the key to the gate, and if not one would remain to watch the alley while the other summoned reinforcements. She would be caught, questioned...

  The light moved off, and she heard the rustling of shrubbery. She crept forward to peek between the bars and blessed Bartol and his varying patrol routes. The pair of blackarms she had seen earlier had returned, but this time they were beating the bushes in the garden where Duchess had lain not ten minutes before. Their backs were to the alley, but she dared not try to remove the step lest the guards hear the scrape of metal on metal. She looked at the cloak in her hand. It was black as night, black as the alley, and before she could think better (or worse) of it she draped the cloth over the step, doing her best to envelope the device. Then she faded back into the shadows and waited for the blackarms to either pass or sound the alarm.

  The moment seemed to stretch out for eternity, but finally she saw the guards resume their route without a glance at the gate. She bit her lip to keep from sobbing in relief. The cloak had done its job. She almost forgave it for strangling her.

  * * *

  The courtyard behind the shop was modest, hedged on all sides by the rear walls of other buildings, and accessible only by the alley Duchess had used and one other. She scouted along that second alley and found that it, too, was closed at the other end by a gate. There were a few lights in the windows of neighboring buildings, but even if anyone peered out, Duchess would be well hidden. The courtyard was secure...and empty.

  She approached the back door of the shop: heavy oak and banded with iron, with no keyhole to be seen. “The Atropi accept deliveries through the back of the shop...can’t have men traipsing through the sitting area with bolts of cloth and boxes of thread, can they?” Tremaine had said. “There’s a fearsome door that is kept bolted from the inside – that’s common knowledge – but what’s less well known is that bolt can be retracted from the outside with a key. The sisters occasionally like to come and go unobserved, and they use the back door for just that purpose.”

  “How do you know this?” Duchess had asked, suspicious. She didn’t think Tremaine would double-cross her, but in this city of lies one could never be too sure.

  Tremaine simply smiled. “Every apprentice in this city, even one who works for the Atropi, is registered with the guild. And I know of one apprentice with a past she’d prefer went unmentioned.” And that was that.

  Duchess examined the door carefully. It would be hard to conceal a panel in wood, but the iron bands were ornately scrolled and rust-free. She probed the metal with her fingers and soon found a small round section that swung outward on a hidden hinge, revealing a keyhole. She smiled; she’d have to thank Guildmaster Tremaine. She drew her lockpicks from her bag and got to work.

  The lock was hardly formidable, which made sense given that it was hidden. She probed around, feeling for the pins and finding them. As she neatly disengaged the lock she sent mental thanks to Lysander for sharing this particular skill, and to Tyford for honing it. She put her picks away and pulled open the door.

  Duchess had no fear of guard dogs – the kind on four legs at least – since a bit of fruning had revealed that the Atropi had a notorious dislike for animals. Even as young women they eschewed riding on horseback, instead taking a carriage or even walking where a carriage could not go. She stepped inside, lighting a stub of candle to keep her from falling over dressforms and furniture. Inside was Gloria Tremaine’s shop all over again: fitting rooms, storage closets, work areas, and a wide parlor that looked out on the street. Most interesting was the locked metal box, as large as a knapsack, she found hidden under a shelf in a closet.

  She hesitated a moment — she’d not come for money — and then gave in to temptation and drew out her lockpicks once more. Soon the candlelight gleamed on copper, silver and even gold. Clearly the Atropi’s idea of petty coin far outstripped her own. She felt as if she were in the safe room again, with Castor looking on disapprovingly. She itched to take the money but held back. Surely the Atropi kept records as well as the White. Any discrepancy with the box would be noted and investigated. If the sisters had the least suspicion that someone had been in the shop they might change the design of the empress’ dress and all of the night’s work would be wasted. Minette would no doubt advise her not to throw away the feast for the almonds. Biting her lip, she closed the box and re-engaged the lock.

  Tremaine had said the sisters’ private workroom was on the second floor, so Duchess found the stairs and climbed, holding her candle before her. The room took up the entire floor, and was outfitted much like the work rooms downstairs, but much finer. Nerrish rugs covered the wooden floor, fine drapes shrouded the windows and three overstuffed chairs were set out, no doubt for the use of the sisters when they rested from their labors. There were three empty dressforms, cloth of various shades folded on tables and shelves, or rolled up in corners, and there were needles and thread aplenty, but no dresses. Had she missed something?

  She went back downstairs and checked the shop from front to back once more, peering into every closet, corner, and cranny. In the apprentices’ work room she found dresses in various stages of assembly, but fine as they were, they were nothing fit for an empress.

  Panic coiled in her belly, snaking up to her throat as if to choke her as the cloak had. She’d missed something. She hurried back up the stairs, picked through stacks and bolts of cloth, looking for any hint that might lead her to the dress.

  Her hands were shaking, and she stopped, taking a deep breath to collect herself. This wasn’t helping. She moved to the center of the room and turned a slow circle, sweeping her gaze over tables, shelves, rugs, and walls. The room was a rectangle, she noted, except for one irregular corner. She moved to inspect it, holding up her candle so she could clearly see. All four walls were richly paneled in birchwood, but it seemed to her that on this wall the grooves between two panels were deeper than they should be. With her finger she traced a crack that ran from floor to ceiling. She set down the candle and probed along the surface for a hidden catch, but came up empty. She laid her hands flat against the wood and pressed, at first gently and then with more pressure. The panel held for a moment and then popped inward.

  She smiled, her chest loosening, and found that the panel could slide to the right. She pushed it out of the way and held up her candle to reveal...nothing. Except for another empty dressform, the hidden closet was completely empty.

  Her stomach tightened with dismay. If the Atropi had a dress for the empress, this was the place it should be. Why else keep a hidden compartment in their workroom? It was possible they’d been working on the dress in their manse in Garden, although Tremaine said the sisters always did their work at the shop. Had Tremaine lied?

  She closed the closet door and began to pace the floor of the workroom, her mind working furiously. Someone had given up the game, but who? Tremaine? The guildmaster had nothing to gain from such a ruse. Amabilis? He knew she had a quarrel with the Atropi
, certainly, but she could not believe that he’d make this kind of trouble given the trouble he’d barely eluded. With the threat of the Uncle and the Red hanging over him, he’d never dare.

  Somehow, some way they had learned of her plans with Tremaine. They knew. They must.

  She ran her hands through her hair and tried to think. If the Atropi truly knew Duchess intended to humiliate them in court, they would have hidden a squad of blackarms inside the shop, waiting to catch her at burglary. The sisters’ suspicions had been aroused, yes, but they did not know. They suspected something was in the wind and had prudently found the dress a new hiding place, but that was merely a general precaution. They did not know.

  And yet the problem remained that there was no dress. Her plan had failed almost before it had been put into motion. If Duchess went back to Tremaine empty-handed, the guildmaster would withdraw her help, and then everything Duchess had done tonight would be for naught.

  “No,” she muttered, fear and frustration boiling in her belly. “No.” She took a deep breath, and another, trying to still her pounding heart. A curious thought occurred to her: how would Tremaine know Duchess had seen the dress? After all, she herself did not know what it looked like. If she had, she wouldn’t have bothered sending Duchess on this mad mission.

  She continued pacing, considering. There was no dress here, but she did not need one. She merely needed to describe a dress that the guildmaster would find believable.

  She dared not be careless. Tremaine had ways of finding out what the Atropi were up to — the information about the hidden lock on the back door hadn’t come from nowhere — so while she might not know everything about the dress, she might know something. If Duchess brought back an obvious fairy tale, Tremaine would know she was lying.

  Minette had once told her one could know the shape of a thing not from seeing what was there, but from what was missing.

  She began to rifle the room again, more carefully this time, noting the colors she came across. White and gold, she found, and green; deep blue and violet, yellow and purple and brown and orange. But no red and not a stitch of black. Red and black were the colors of the dress.

  Red and black. What of it? What could she do with just that? By every god of the Walk, this was impossible. She barely knew what was in style, in season. She’d walked up the hill in the empress’ idiot daughter’s birthday dress. There was no way she could do this. No way she...

  No way she could.

  Lysander? He’d been to a thousand parties, seen a thousand designs. He’d drifted through a thousand candle-lit gardens and chatted and charmed a thousand ladies. Surely he...

  No. This seemed beyond even her lovely Lysander. He lived amongst the nobility, even the high Houses, but this was the empress. There was nothing either of them could imagine that would fool one master weaver was the work of three others. There was nothing to be done. She had failed.

  She would have to return to Tremaine empty-handed and hope the guildmaster would proceed with the plan anyway. There was no other choice. And if the guildmaster refused? She shrugged. She would simply have to proceed alone.

  At least the rest of this night would be straightforward, even if tomorrow promised problems. She would slip out the back and over the gate, fetch the thief’s step and then head back to the safehouse. At least Castor had managed to make that part of the evening a success...

  Castor.

  Castor who had been Pollux. Castor who had been an Imperial White. Who had been part of a brotherhood sworn to the empress’ line, who guarded her and her interests even when they were not visible. Castor, who must have followed silent, forgotten and ignored, a pace behind Violana for how many processions. Castor who had most likely been at the Fall itself, and seen the work of the Atropi year after year after damnable year. Castor, whose mind was like a trap, which let nothing, no detail pass. Castor.

  She set the workroom to rights and hurried downstairs, moving towards the back door and escape. As she passed the closet where the lockbox and its coins had been stored, she hesitated. The Atropi were expecting some kind of trouble, but if it never came they’d stay on their guard and perhaps take further precautions, precautions that might hinder Duchess’ plans. But if their petty cash went missing they might assume the blow had been struck and leave it at that.

  And if Tremaine heard about the theft it would make her tale and her false dress all the more believable.

  Or perhaps it was only her greed talking. Still, when her greed and her cunning concurred, she listened. The box opened easily enough the second time, and she left them not a single sou as she stole out into the courtyard and pulled the heavy door shut behind her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two: A fool's errand

  Duchess entered the warehouse for what she imagined would be the last time. She doubted Tyford would welcome her back after what she had to say. The old thief was drinking by the brazier, which was pleasantly warm after the autumn chill outside. He looked up at her approach.

  “I was just thinking that this wine would go better with a handful of sou,” he said, eyeing her over the rim of his cup. “Haven’t seen you in a while. So what can Tyford show you tonight, lass?”

  She smiled, taking a seat nearby. “I’m more interested in what I can show you,” she replied, more lightly than she felt. She’d only just dropped off her drawing with Gloria Tremaine the day before, and she’d been fretting endlessly that the guildmaster would see right through it, Castor’s help or no. He’d looked at her as if she’d grown a second head when she’d made the request. Still, he’d given her what he could, a memory normally used to remembering entrances and exits and possible threats now given over to silk and damask, the curve of a collar, the embroidery on a hem. Despite his confusion and his declarations of knowing nothing of fashion, his sharp mind had caught patterns, noticed trends.

  In the end, she hoped it was enough, for it was all she had. Tremaine had not said a word to indicate she thought it was anything other than truth, but still Duchess worried. Tremaine had not risen to head the guild by being a fool, and if she should become suspicious, Duchess’ foray into the Atropi’s shop would be wasted.

  Still, whatever happened with the guildmaster, this moment promised to be pure pleasure. “Tonight I’d like to show you that even though I may be new to the Grey, I wear my cloak as well as any.”

  “Oh?” He raised a bushy eyebrow. “Then let’s see your color,” he said calmly, taking another drink.

  She rubbed her hands together. “I ended up following that piece of information you sold me, about Adam Whitehall. I spoke to Preceptor Amabilis, and he confirmed some things I’ve been hearing about a rival sect of Mayu, some trouble between the Red and the Deeps gangs, and a certain dagger that’s gone missing once more. The one you stole from House Eusbius.”

  He laughed and swirled his wine. “You’ve got the wrong thief, girl. Look in a mirror and you’ll get it right.”

  “Oh, I did steal it, as well you know. How not? You quizzed me on every detail. At first I thought that was just part of my lessons, or because you were selling the information on the Highway, but now I know it was all so you could steal the dagger yourself. In fact, I’m almost entirely certain it’s why you agreed to train me in the first place.”

  Tyford shook his head in disgust. “Tyford’s retired, girl, as well you know. Even if I wasn’t, wouldn’t make any sense to steal something that’d already been stolen. No honor on the Highway in that kind of repeat performance.”

  “Precisely my thought. No one currently on the Grey would earn any renown from stealing the baron’s dagger a second time...but someone who’d hung up his cloak wouldn’t care about that, would he? I couldn’t figure out why you’d bother, but it came to me the very day you dropped your little hint about Adam Whitehall. You’re retired, as you keep telling me, but I’m betting a few of your marks are still floating around somewhere. Preceptor Amabilis had one, didn’t he?”

  Tyford watched her with those
blue eyes and said nothing.

  She laughed. “Oh, you’re good. Amabilis started sweating the minute I tugged his tail, but not you.” She picked up the flagon from the table and poured herself a cup. “I know you don’t frune any longer, which is why I felt safe approaching you for information on Amabilis. If you did frune I imagine you’d have already heard about Antony’s visit to the Halls of Dawn.” His eyes went hard, but she calmly sipped her wine. “It was when you told me about Whitehall that you gave yourself away. Your continued curiosity about the dagger, the fact that you just knew what happened to it afterward. You saw my asking about Amabilis as an opportunity.”

  “For what?”

  “To settle the score. No matter what you might think I take your lessons very seriously. You don’t like being used, and when you are, you strike back. Amabilis forced you to honor a mark and pull off the same heist I did, except you were left with nothing to show for it. So when you heard me asking after Amabilis, well, you saw a golden opportunity to get even with him. Tyford’s not one to fuck with, isn’t that what you said?”

  He grunted impatiently, but there was grudging respect there, too. “It’s worked so far.”

  She shrugged. “Some might say so. Still, Amabilis’ work in the Deeps — I’m pretty sure you know all about that, so don’t trouble to deny it — is over, and the whole thing’s been cleaned up. Mostly.”

  He frowned. “Mostly?”

  “Well, you see I’m not the only one who knows what Amabilis has been up to. Antony does as well. You know Antony, surely. Big, scary-looking fellow, wears a red cap? What Antony knows the Uncle soon finds out. I wonder what he’ll say when he learns that you were helping Amabilis with his little scheme?”

  Tyford was silent a long moment, weighing her with his eyes. Finally, he spoke. “Even if Amabilis is in some kind of trouble with the Red, that’s got nothing to do with Tyford. You’ve got no proof of anything, and I’ve been bluffed by better than you. So why don’t you go peddle your little story somewhere else and leave me in peace?”