Tarnished City

by Vic James

  But he had to do something.

  And she had said she wished to be free of Skill.

  And Silyen was so very curious.

  He bent over his aunt and gently tipped up her face. Somewhere beside him, in the inky darkness of the absence of Skill, Dog was raving. But Silyen spoke quietly and knew she would hear.

  ‘I can take it – if you want.’

  His aunt’s reply was soft but unmistakable.

  ‘I want you to take it. Please, I want you to.’

  So in a world that was not quite this world – the world in which he had walked through cupboard walls that were no longer exactly there – Silyen thrust his hand into the heart of her. It was all he could do not to scream with the shock of it.

  Look closer.

  He looked. The threads of Euterpe’s Skill whipped and sparked as Orpen’s bright obliteration roared on.

  This was hopeless. The intensity of the threads was too fast for his eye to see or his hand to catch.

  Don’t look, he told himself. Feel. Reach.

  There.

  A point of movement, whip-quick. Silyen seized it. The end of a golden thread burned in his hand.

  ‘Please,’ his aunt moaned. ‘Take it.’

  But how? He had no memory at all of what he had done to Jenner, while Cadmus’s efforts had proved a disaster.

  Sparks danced between Silyen’s curled fingers. He hesitated. Then opened his mouth wide and crammed the brightness in.

  And swallowed.

  Was this what his father sought in alcohol? This giddying rush? Was it the palest shadow of this that Gavar and his Oxford friends were chasing, when eleven-year-old Silyen had caught them hunched over one of Mama’s antique mirrors with a bag of white powder? Did Jenner feel even a fraction of this when Abi Hadley kissed him?

  Silyen wouldn’t believe it. Nothing could compare with this. Not the touch of tool-calloused hands on your skin and a muscled body straining against yours. Not sitting in the Chancellor’s Chair, receiving the acclamation of one’s Equals.

  Nothing at all.

  He wasn’t drawing breath any more. He was inhaling pure Skill. Could feel it flowing from Aunty Terpy to him. He groaned and sank to his knees opposite his aunt. He wasn’t sure which of them reached out first, but they embraced each other to keep themselves upright.

  She was dimming, fading before his eyes. The pulse of her Skill thrummed through him. It was like receiving a heart transplant while your own still beat.

  His head spun. A galaxy revolved inside it.

  He tipped back his head and opened his mouth wide as the Skill poured in. He could feel it pushing at his fingertips, his toes, his ears, his eyes, as if it wanted to overflow and leak out of him. But he contained it.

  ‘Thank you,’ he heard his aunt whisper.

  Her light guttered – and went out.

  Silyen howled. Convulsed. Collapsed back onto the cold, grey ground. He licked his lips and tasted blood – he must have bitten them. Raising his hand into his line of sight, he saw it was as bright as the sun.

  He blacked out.

  The glass of water in his face brought him round.

  ‘Wouldn’t want you,’ Dog said, ‘to sleep – through dinner. Know how you love – rabbit pie.’

  Dog laughed and Silyen rubbed his face, disoriented. He was lying on a chaise longue in the antechamber of Orpen’s hall. Everything appeared to be in place. There were walls all around, none of them letting in the night. He looked up. The roof was in place. A ripe meaty smell wafted from the direction of the kitchen, turning his stomach.

  What had happened?

  He must have asked that out loud, because Dog supplied an answer.

  ‘I carried her – inside. Took her to – her room. She’s sleeping. Went back – for you. You’d come round. Fixed it all – already. All this.’ The man waved a hand to indicate the manor house around them. ‘Nice work. Then you – collapsed again. Anyway. Dinner time now. Your favourite.’

  Dog turned and disappeared back towards the kitchen.

  Silyen wiped a hand down his face and through his dripping hair, then swung his legs over the side of the chaise longue. When his feet touched the floor his knees almost buckled with his own weight. It came back to him, then, how he had felt outside in the garden, after he had swallowed Aunt Euterpe’s Skill. All fire and air.

  Just existing in this body felt like an imprisonment worse than anything the Condemned endured.

  He thought, briefly, of Luke Hadley.

  But Luke could wait for another day.

  With leaden steps, he crossed to the table. By the time he sat down, his appetite had returned. As he watched Dog carry in a large china platter on which stood a deep dish of rabbit pie, Silyen’s thoughts turned to his aunt.

  How would Euterpe be feeling? Exhausted? Liberated? Desolate? He had no idea. It had been plain, through the years, that her Skill disgusted her. What she had done when her parents died, and again in Kyneston’s ballroom after losing Zelston, had terrified her. And out there, in the garden, she had begged him to take her Skill.

  But would she regret this last, irrevocable decision? Because Silyen was pretty sure he couldn’t give it back.

  On the other side of the table, Dog had stopped in his tracks and was staring. Silyen twisted to look over his shoulder.

  Aunt Euterpe was dressed all in white. It was a modest outfit, long and high-necked and unmistakably bridal. It must be the dress she had chosen for her doomed wedding more than a quarter of a century ago. On her head was pinned a small spray of antique lace and pearls. The tips of the shoes peeking from beneath her hem were also white.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Allow me.’

  She walked to her customary seat at the head of the table and remained standing, gesturing for Dog to put the platter down in front of her.

  ‘Thank you both for keeping me company these past few weeks,’ she said. ‘And you, Silyen, for all that you’ve done here. No aunt could ask for a better nephew – even if it took me a while to realize who you were when we first met.’

  Her laughter was touchingly youthful. She looked right at him – those dark eyes, just like his, under curling dark hair, just like his. They were both Parva children. Were both of this line and belonged to this place.

  ‘Thank you for today, especially,’ she said.

  Silyen didn’t need Skill for something to tingle through him.

  ‘Rabbit pie was a family favourite,’ she told Dog approvingly. ‘We had it often when we were little. His mother’ – she nodded at Silyen – ‘never cared for it much, but I always thought it delicious. It was Winterbourne’s favourite. He asked for it every time he visited. Thalia used to tease me that I would serve it on our wedding day. And you know what? I intended to.’

  She smiled at them both, her expression serene. That smile was also Silyen’s. And now her Skill was Silyen’s, too. He didn’t think she regretted it.

  He held a plate towards her as she picked up the knife from the side of the platter to serve the pie.

  ‘So much love,’ Aunt Euterpe murmured. ‘And so much to be grateful for. So very much.’

  She lifted the knife too fast and too high and slashed her throat from ear to ear – no Skill left, now, to stop her.

  17

  Bouda

  Bouda could not believe what Faiers, the Speaker’s son, was telling her. That her godfather Rix was behind the Kyneston assassination, and that Lord Whittam – as he had always maintained – had been the intended target.

  ‘A grudge twenty-five years old,’ Faiers said, as he stood in her inner office having first asked for privacy. ‘Coupled with a hatred for the new Chancellor’s politics. Rix is a commoner sympathizer and always has been. He just masked it well.’

  ‘Tell me how you came by this information,’ Bouda insisted. ‘Show me.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ Faiers protested, as she readied herself to force the knowledge from his mind. ‘The person this came from could
be of much greater use to us in the future, if we let things unfold. Please let me protect their identity.

  ‘If you doubt me, you could ask your brother-in-law, Silyen Jardine. He knows. He blackmailed Rix to secure his adoption as heir of Far Carr. Or ask Rix himself, though I doubt he’ll sing all his secrets without encouragement.’

  Bouda considered for a moment. She had never been adept at using her Skill for mindwork. She might not even be able to do it, which would be humiliating. And if she was successful, she might injure Faiers, and she felt oddly reluctant to do that – the man was useful, after all.

  What he said made sense. Let him protect his source, for now.

  But – her own godfather? It hardly seemed possible. Bouda prided herself on knowing what people thought and what they wanted. She relished digging up information, then squirrelling it away until its time came. Had she really missed something as huge as this?

  And what should she do next? She could speak to her godfather privately. Surely she owed him that? The man was her father’s best friend, a constant presence in the lives of the whole family. She remembered her parents, before her mother died, sitting on the great terrace of Appledurham roaring with laughter at some story Rixy had told.

  But if what Faiers said was true, Rix might flee, if forewarned.

  Bouda remembered the treacherous adoption of Silyen Jardine to Far Carr, which should have passed to her or DiDi. That betrayal was both the evidence and the justification she needed to take this straight to Whittam.

  She turned to dismiss Faiers, only to find him watching her.

  ‘Heir Bouda, if I may,’ he murmured. ‘When you find that my information is correct, I have two requests, if you would consider them.’

  Faiers’ impertinence had made an impression on her at Grendelsham, that night he had approached her on the clifftop. This was more obsequiously phrased, but impertinence nonetheless.

  ‘Your kind do not make requests of my kind, Faiers.’ ‘Indeed, indeed.’ He bowed his head, though not before Bouda saw his mouth twitch with amusement. ‘But nonetheless, I would ask that you remember my loyalty in bringing this to you, and consider me for a place on your permanent staff.’

  ‘You seem to mistake loyalty for duty, Faiers. You’ve done nothing more than is required.’

  ‘Of course. But, a second request: once you have established Rix’s guilt, I would appreciate a moment with him before his punishment.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In your presence, naturally,’ Faiers added smoothly. ‘But, please.’ He lifted his head to look at her then, and the humour was gone. Something like anger flashed in those sky-blue eyes.

  ‘Why would you ask such an extraordinary thing?’

  ‘I have my reasons. Should you grant my request, you will discover them.’

  And then Faiers was gone, and Bouda could not remember if she had dismissed him or if he had simply left.

  Well. Faiers was a piece of work. He had departed her presence equally abruptly that night at Grendelsham, just his cigarette smoke trailing on the wind. His words came back to her. Your allies aren’t always who you think they are – and neither are your enemies.

  Was Faiers her ally and Rix her enemy?

  No. Equals had no need of commoners as allies, or as anything other than servants. Obedient ones. Although there could be a strategic benefit to bringing Faiers on side. As Speaker Dawson’s son, his presence in some token role might allay commoner dissatisfaction at the suspension of their parliamentary observers.

  She filed the idea away for consideration. But first: determining Rix’s guilt, or innocence. She hurried to find Whittam.

  ‘Bouda, always a pleasure.’

  Her father-in-law took her by the wrist and pulled her inside the Chancellor’s suite. He lifted her wrist to his mouth and kissed it, and it was all Bouda could do not to cringe away. Yes, she submitted to Whittam’s pawings – and worse. But it was never without a reminder to herself of the prize that lay within her grasp with this man’s backing.

  After all, Whittam was only interim Chancellor. He would at some point have to step down and call an election for a new incumbent. Bouda knew there were a few parliamentarians who fancied their chances, but none, surely, who could resist the combined alliance of Whittam’s backers and Bouda’s own supporters – the same who had ousted Zelston.

  No, the man now slobbering his way up the side of Bouda’s neck would handpick his successor. Which meant Bouda had only one real rival: her husband, Gavar. Bouda had been furious with him ever since the debacle at their wedding. Although in hindsight his demented incineration of the marquee was potentially useful – a public demonstration of his uncouthness and instability.

  And now this – the information Faiers had handed her. Surely this would cement her position as the worthiest candidate?

  She pushed Whittam away as playfully as she could (and her Skill crackled at the end of her fingertips with the repressed urge to throw him across the room), and refastened the top two buttons on her shirt. Her father-in-law’s spittle was tacky between her breasts.

  ‘Irresistible as you are,’ she said, pouting, ‘I’m here for business, not pleasure. I’ve been passed some rather extraordinary information.’

  And she unfolded everything that Faiers had told her.

  ‘This supposed grudge,’ she asked Whittam, who had been brought sharply to his senses by her news. ‘Is it true? What was it?’

  ‘I can barely remember. He’d impregnated some commoner and his father wanted her packed off. So I sent some goon to her. The usual routine: first offer money, then offer promises. It would have ended with offering threats, but she gave in on the promises. It’s always like that with these trollops. I had to do the same with Gavar’s little slut – that was why she ran away that night – but then my son took matters into his own hands.’

  Whittam laughed, and reached for the decanter that was never far from his grasp.

  ‘So after all that time imagining I had some foe worth the name – an agent of our political enemies in the Triad states, or even this troublesome commoner woman in Riverhead – it was tragic old Rixy? No wonder he botched it and ended up killing Zelston instead. I’m almost insulted.

  ‘And Silyen worked it out and fleeced him for an inheritance. I always knew that boy was brilliant.’

  That stopped Bouda in her tracks. She had expected Whittam to rage at his son for withholding the name of his father’s would-be killer.

  ‘Brilliant? He knew of a threat to your life and didn’t tell you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Whittam waved his glass, sloshing whisky on the floor. He appeared not to notice. ‘Rix is hardly a threat – as events showed. And what price did Silyen exact for his knowledge? A seat in parliament. I always believed my youngest’s great flaw was his lack of interest in politics. I supposed that as a third-born, he felt it was beyond his reach.

  ‘But no. What did he do with his hold over Rix? Levered himself into the House of Light. With Gavar proving such a disappointment, it couldn’t be better timed.’

  Fear and fury wrapped around Bouda, tight and constricting. What was Whittam saying? That he could see a place for Silyen as his parliamentary protege?

  No. No, that could never be allowed to happen. Not Silyen, who she was quite certain spent his life laughing up his sleeve at his entire family. Who already had Skillful power enough to spare, and didn’t need any more, of the political kind.

  ‘After all,’ Whittam was saying, oblivious to her turmoil, ‘it could hardly be Jenner – though I can’t deny it’ll be satisfying to have all three of them in parliament now.’ ‘Jenner?’ Bouda croaked. This day could hardly get more shocking.

  ‘My wife’s sister has passed away at Orpen. Seems she overtaxed herself with the rebuilding, or an accident of some sort. So the Parva title goes to Thalia, and as our only non-ennobled child, Jenner will become heir.’

  ‘You would allow an unSkilled to sit in parliament?’ Which hadn’t been the be
st way to phrase it, because Whittam’s bloodshot gaze fixed on Bouda.

  ‘I will welcome the second-born of the Founding Family to his rightful place – and so will you. Now bring in that godfather of yours, and let’s put an end to this sorry business. To think that your family has harboured him under your roof all these years, and you never suspected a thing. But then women do have a weak grasp of such matters.’

  Bouda stood there a moment, astonished that she had neither spontaneously combusted, nor that her Skill had blasted Whittam out of the immense window and sent him freefalling into the quadrangles below. It took everything she had to simply pivot on her heel, imagining Whittam’s face beneath it, and walk calmly out. Behind her, she heard the clink of the stopper being lifted from the decanter yet again.

  Bouda telephoned her godfather and invited him to dinner that evening. He readily agreed, with one of his usual roguish jokes, and Bouda hung up wondering if her father would ever forgive her.

  Poor darling Papa – to have lost his wife to commoner terrorists, and now to learn that his best friend had been a sympathizer for years. Perhaps when she told Daddy what her godfather had done, she would tell him only the part about Rix’s decades-old personal grudge, and not his deviant politics. Other than economic affairs, Papa had almost as little political interest as DiDi. He didn’t need to know.

  Then Bouda contacted Astrid Halfdan. Astrid was Skilled at compulsion and perception, which was why Bouda had asked her to lead the interrogations for the slavetown purges. The woman had burned with a fierce hatred of the unSkilled ever since her little sister’s abduction and abuse at the hands of a commoner maniac, a few years ago. She’d be glad to see a sympathizer brought to justice.

  Kessler was ordered to be ready and waiting in the office that night, with two Security colleagues, all armed with tasers.

  Bouda’s hand hesitated before dialling the final number. She was astonished that she even had it, but there it was in the Westminster directory, logged under ‘Speaker’s aide’.

  ‘Be at my office tonight at 9 p.m.,’ she told Faiers, on hearing him answer. Then she hung up.