No flicker of anger disturbed the composure of my mother’s face. People far older and cannier than I tried to rattle her every day and failed. But she stood again. The gentleness was still there, but it was swan’s down over iron.
“Test me in this, Amalia,” she said, “and you will see what I rule.”
I was still seething all through my lesson at the Mews that afternoon, which was especially unfortunate because it was a combat lesson.
Carrying a pistol seemed unwise in my case, since gunpowder and balefire might not be the best combination, so Marcello had decided I should receive instruction in the rapier. Balos was infinitely patient with me, but all my training had been with daggers, and I didn’t know what to do with two and a half extra feet of steel. It didn’t help to have Zaira and Jerith watching me from a bench at the edge of the practice courtyard, slowly demolishing a tray of pastries between them as they offered up commentary on how I was doing.
Balos finally called a break in our sparring session, rubbing his smooth brown scalp and shaking his head. I kept my mouth sealed as I carefully replaced my practice sword on its rack.
“I don’t know why you’re bothering.” Zaira lounged on her bench, nibbling almond biscuits. Scoundrel lay adoringly at her feet, snatching up any crumbs that hit the ground. “These lessons are pointless without magic. If the only useful thing Lady Precious here can do in a fight is say the release word, why don’t you have her practice that?”
Balos and Jerith exchanged glances. “Because balefire is incredibly dangerous and destructive, and one tiny accident could kill us all?” Jerith suggested.
Balos nodded. “Balefire isn’t something we can unleash in practice. At least, not around other people. It spreads too quickly. You should only unleash it when the situation is already deadly—when there’s no other way.”
Zaira grunted. “Tell that to the doge.”
I spotted Marcello on the far end of the practice ground, slumped on a bench, staring at his knees. I hadn’t realized he was there; he’d been out investigating a report of a rogue alchemist on the mainland when the lesson started. He must have come in quietly while I was sparring. I crossed the courtyard, propelled by frustration at both my lesson and my mother, ready to make some self-deprecating comment about my poor performance driving him to despair.
But he didn’t look up as I approached. Defeat dragged at the line of his shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” I asked softly, settling onto the bench next to him. “Did something happen with the alchemist?”
He lifted his face. His eyes remained dull and distant. “What? No. There was no alchemist. Just a jilted lover poisoning his rival without any help from magic.”
“What is it, then? Something’s bothering you.”
Marcello sighed. “Istrella. I need to tell her why we’re going to Ardence.”
“What? Have you still not told her about the cannon project?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice.
“I know.” He pushed his hair back from his forehead with both hands. “I went up to her tower last night resolved to tell her, but I couldn’t. She was so happy, working on her vanishing crown. I couldn’t ruin her day.”
“This isn’t like you. Letting fear stop you like this.”
“I promised I’d take care of her.” He gave me a helpless sort of half smile. “My mother left when Istrella could barely walk, and my father wanted nothing to do with her. I was seven, but I practically raised her along with our nursemaid, until the mage mark appeared in her eyes a couple years later.”
“That must have been hard.”
“No, it was all right,” he said. “It gave me purpose. Something worthwhile I could do, so I’d know my father and brother were wrong when they called me worthless.” His mouth flirted with an ironic smile. “The colonel herself came to take Istrella to the Mews, because we were a patrician family. I told her I was coming with my sister, to be her Falconer when I was old enough.”
I tried to picture Colonel Vasante ten years younger, looking down at this stubborn little boy. “So you went with her? You grew up in the Mews?”
He shook his head. “Only half the time, until I was fourteen and could become Istrella’s Falconer. The colonel declared that since the rest of my family had declined the opportunity to move into the Mews, I should spend at least half my time with them. She sent Istrella home with me as often as she could, to visit, since my father and brother didn’t come to the Mews to visit us there. But they were never glad to see us. We reminded them too much of our mother, and they considered the mage mark her parting curse. Istrella and I liked the Mews better.”
“So you’re all she has,” I concluded. “And you don’t want to let her down.”
He nodded miserably. “I’ve always told myself I’m not truly a failure so long as I haven’t failed her. I can’t ask her to make those cannons, Amalia. She’s just a child.”
I shook his shoulder. “Give Istrella more credit, silly.”
Marcello blinked at me. “What?”
“She’s a Falcon,” I said. “She grew up in the Mews. She understands what’s expected of her.”
“They’re talking about using her work to attack a city full of innocent civilians.” The anguish in his voice wasn’t for Istrella alone. I knew it too well. The same pain cut into my own heart.
“Worry about it when it’s more than talk.” I was too aware of the distractingly small distance between us, the angle of his body toward mine. “Everyone still wants a diplomatic solution. We have time.”
One of the doors to the practice courtyard banged open. A chime sounded, to warn anyone using dangerous magic. Colonel Vasante strode out into the practice courtyard, her boots ringing on the flagstones.
“Playtime is over,” she said. “We have a mission.”
Marcello and Balos straightened, and Jerith stood, dusting powdered sugar off his hands. I clutched my flare locket. “Please tell me it’s nothing to do with Ardence.”
She barely glanced at me. “Nothing so dire. They found that smuggler. Orthys.”
The pastry tray clattered to the floor as Zaira shot to her feet. Scoundrel barked, shying from the noise.
“Why does that involve us?” Marcello asked warily. “They shouldn’t need magic to bring in a petty smuggler and his band.”
“They got the information from a captured member of Orthys’s crew.” From the colonel’s tone, I didn’t want to know what they’d done to get the man to talk. “He also told them Orthys has some magical surprises. Artifice traps on his hideout, alchemical poisons, a crew member or two with a touch of magic. We’ll need Falcons to deal with that.”
Marcello checked the flintlock and rapier at his belt. “All right. I’ll bring an artificer and an alchemist.”
“Antelles.” The colonel pointed to Jerith and Balos. “You go, too.”
Jerith saluted grimly. Balos put away his practice sword and started strapping on a real one.
“Take an artificer to deal with any traps you find. I’ll get a couple of squads ready to join you.” She strode out the way she had come, the door chiming again as it banged shut behind her.
Zaira’s knuckles showed white at her sides. “I’m going with you.”
Marcello shook his head. “You can’t go. We can’t risk you or Lady Amalia.”
Zaira rounded on him fiercely. “I’m not asking you, rat-sucking bootlicker. I’m telling you I’m going. You’re not taking down Orthys without me.”
“You’re not going anywhere without Lady Amalia,” Marcello snapped, “and she is staying here.”
All the anger and frustration that had been boiling inside me since talking to my mother crystallized into an icy resolve. “I’ll go,” I said.
Marcello whirled and stared at me as if I were mad. “My lady, you can’t be serious.”
“You do not tell me what I can and cannot do.” The voice that came out of my mouth shocked me with its hard-edged surety. I sounded like my mother.
Marcello stiffened. His posture and tone went formal and distant. “No, my lady. I do not. But I do command this military operation. I determine which forces to bring. And I’m not unleashing a fire warlock inside the city under any circumstances.” He bowed. “Good day.”
He left on the heels of his colonel. Jerith cast Zaira a sympathetic look, then took Balos’s hand and followed. The bell chimed with mocking good cheer.
Zaira looked ready to rip a hole through the Mews wall with her teeth. “Demon of Madness split your skull, you smug, poxy—”
“Zaira.” My cold, angry determination remained. I was sick of being obedient. “Let’s go.”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “You heard him. He won’t have us with him. And your mamma wouldn’t let you chip your highborn nails in combat, either.”
“As it happens,” I said, “I am rather in the mood to do something my mother wouldn’t like. And as for Lieutenant Verdi, I’d never dream of interfering with his mission.” I smiled. “You and I are just going for a harmless stroll in the city. Isn’t that right?”
Zaira looked me up and down, as if judging how much she could get for my boots on the black market. “We’ll never get close enough to get any licks in on Orthys,” she said. “We don’t even know where he is. But all right.” She dusted sugar off her hands. “It beats sitting here waiting.”
“Where are we going?” I asked Zaira. I’d had my oarsman drop us off in a respectable market district not far from the Tallows, in case he reported back to La Contessa. Three bridges later, we’d reached a mazy neighborhood of chipped plaster with brick bones showing through, and laundry hanging between windows above the narrow streets. The foot traffic seemed mostly honest laborers heading home as the shadows lengthened; we weren’t near the more dubious precincts where I’d first met Zaira.
“The shipyards.” Her eyes skimmed everyone we passed, searching faces as if she hoped to find Orthys in disguise. “He’s not stupid. If there’s a search on for him, he’ll run to his ship. There’s no way he’ll stick around for a platoon of uniformed soldiers to arrest him.”
It made sense. My hopes we might actually find Orthys in time to help capture him lifted—and so did my trepidation. I had few skills applicable to a potentially deadly confrontation. Marcello had been right to leave us behind. This was a terrible mistake.
“Zaira …” I began.
She lifted a finger to her lips. Her stride remained smooth, but tension locked her shoulders.
“Be casual about it, but look behind you,” she murmured. “Do you see the man with the black cap?”
I glanced back. “No.”
“You’re as subtle as a bag of bricks, did you know that? I said to be casual about it. Now he’s bound to know we’ve noticed him.”
“That you’ve noticed him,” I replied, irked. “I didn’t see him.”
“That’s because you’re blind. Anyway, we’re being followed.”
I looked back again, instinctively.
“Grace of Mercy’s tits, woman!”
I flushed. “Sorry. I couldn’t help it.”
“You’re hopeless.” Zaira shook her head.
I believed her—that someone was following us, that is; I still held some feeble hope for myself. I could think of enough reasons why various people might want to follow one or both of us that it was a wonder we didn’t have a whole train of spies, guards, and assassins trailing behind us like ducklings. Still, I quickened my steps. Zaira matched my pace without objection.
A tradesman in a leather apron rounded a corner ahead; as he saw us, his craggy face lit up in recognition. He hurried toward us at once. Zaira’s hand fell to her knife.
But as he approached, he pulled out not a weapon but a wax seal on fine parchment. He glanced around as if to make sure no one was watching. “Lady Amalia.” He dipped his head in a truncated bow. “I have a message for you from your mother.”
He flashed the seal at me. In blue wax, nine stars surrounded the winged horse of Raverra.
“Council business?” I asked. Zaira’s hand stayed on her knife hilt.
He nodded, tucking the seal away. “We just captured another of Orthys’s men, and there’s new information. The lead the Falcons are following is a false one. It might be a trap.”
“Grace of Mercy.” Marcello and the others were already on their way. They could be walking into an ambush right now. “Is someone telling the Falcons?”
“Of course. But we’re not certain if this new information is genuine. La Contessa hopes your Falcon can confirm whether this man truly works for Orthys, so we know whether to call off the raid.”
“Wait a minute.” Zaira’s voice was sharp with suspicion. “How would La Contessa know we’re here?”
I laughed, not without a trace of bitterness. “She always knows where I am. She knows everything that happens in this city.”
The man in the leather apron bowed, with a wry smile. “As the lady says. We’re holding our informant nearby. Will you come identify him?”
I exchanged glances with Zaira. Lips tight, she nodded.
“All right,” I said. “Lead us to him.”
The man in the leather apron led us across several bridges and through the twisting labyrinth of Tallows streets to a small, dingy theater. Paint flaked off the masks hanging over the door. It was closed for the day, but our guide unlocked the scratched wooden doors and ushered us in.
A waiting hush filled the shadowy cavern of the theater. Rows of empty seats faced the red-curtained maw of the proscenium. Our footfalls disturbed a thick silence, as if we’d entered an abandoned temple. Not much sunlight filtered in from the gaps around the door, which our guide shut softly behind us; with no windows, only two flickering lamps flanking the stage alleviated the gloom.
“Where is your informant?” I asked as our guide waved us down the aisle.
He didn’t answer.
Zaira stopped suddenly, her heels digging into the carpet. “Bollocks. This is the trap.”
“Quite correct,” a voice called. “Well done, Zaira.”
Chapter Fourteen
Half a dozen armed men rose from behind the seats around us, leveling knives and clubs at us. Two more appeared in the balcony seats above, with flintlocks aimed down.
They were a rough-looking lot. One sported an odd scar along his jaw, almost like a handprint. The sight sparked a flash of recognition, but the situation was too urgent for me to examine it now.
A long-haired man in a scarlet coat pushed through the curtain onto the stage and bowed.
“Welcome, Lady Amalia Cornaro.”
Zaira drew her dagger. “Orthys,” she hissed.
My heart battered against my ribs as if it wanted to escape this theater as badly as I did. I put a hand to my chest, fingertips brushing the catch of my flare locket. “The villain himself.”
“Nothing so grand as a villain,” Orthys said modestly. “In fact, all I wish is to make my exit from the scene. But La Contessa has made that difficult.”
“You’ll get your exit,” Zaira growled. “In a hearse.”
Orthys laughed. It was a cultured, sneering laugh; for that matter, his accent was pure drawing-room elite, without a trace of the docks or the Tallows. There was something familiar about his voice. “Oh, but you, little fire warlock, are coming with me. I’ve got a buyer who’s been waiting for you for years.”
“Release me.” Zaira murmured to me, her voice raw and urgent. “I’ll burn them all down.”
Balos’s words stuck in my memory. This situation wasn’t deadly yet.
“I’d keep her hood on if I were you,” Orthys called. “She isn’t very discriminating about killing people close to her.”
Zaira started forward. “You shut up.”
“Zaira, no,” I whispered. “Can’t you see he’s baiting you?”
Orthys raised sculpted eyebrows. “Why, how do you think I found you? I heard about the sad, sad story of the tenement fire that killed t
hat old woman, and the miracle of the Graces that left a poor little girl unharmed.”
A strangled noise tore out of Zaira’s throat. The ruffians around us kept their distance, eyes wary, weapons ready. Not attacking, but blocking our escape.
“But that wasn’t all,” Orthys continued with relish. “I wasn’t sure, you see, because you hid yourself so well. So I did some research, and I turned up another tragic fire, several years before that. You would have been perhaps four? And once again, everyone in the tenement died, except for one little brat, who was miraculously untouched—found crying over the ashes of her mother and father.”
The Graces wept.
Zaira screamed with enough fury to shame a demon. She charged down the aisle at Orthys, knife in hand. He awaited her, unmoving, a smile curling his lips.
Before I could flip open my flare locket, or utter the release word, or do more than suck in a sharp breath of horror at what Orthys had just revealed, light flared in a circle around Zaira’s feet, and she jerked to a stop.
She’d run straight into an artifice circle, painted on a mat Orthys must have thrown down on the rug. Now it rooted her feet to the floor.
“That takes care of you,” Orthys declared cheerfully.
“Not hardly, you bloody-faced bastard!” Zaira crouched, ready to spring, straining against the circle’s power. “What are you waiting for?” she snapped over her shoulder at me. “Release me, now!”
“I wouldn’t.” Orthys raised a cautioning finger. “She’s already lost control, and she hasn’t even loosed her fire. Break your seal now, and she’ll take you along with us—and the whole city for good measure.”
“It’ll be worth it!” Zaira spat on the floor. “Do it, you simpering coward!”
He was right. He’d planned this too carefully. Even if Zaira retained control, some of his ruffians were behind me—Zaira’s fire couldn’t catch them without going through me first.
At this point, I doubted she’d care.
The Tethered Mage Page 19