The door opened, and the serving girl appeared with her trolley, another two plates upon it. She swapped them for the empties and introduced the latest dish, eyes anchored to the floor. “Fawn served with black truffles and an ox tongue gravy,” she said.
“And how does it taste?” Jal asked archly.
“I’m sorry, Mistress?”
“You have gravy around your mouth, little thief. Really, Lorella!” The girl blushed, eyes like a frightened rabbit. Jal waved her away. The door swung shut behind her. Well, that was awkward.
“This looks delicious,” Guyen said, turning his attention and the conversation to the more comfortable subject of the food. He’d picked truffles amongst the roots of hazel trees back in Krell, but these were a divine variety, dark brown on the outside. Jal picked up a knife and sliced one in half, revealing spidery white veins. He copied the action, forking a crumb into his mouth. The taste was chocolatey and subtle. He ate slowly to let her finish first, savouring every mouthful.
They drank more wine, far too much wine, at least, he did, her glass only ever required the merest top-up. All in all, the evening wasn’t going half as badly as it might have, in fact it was enjoyable. Maybe Mist had been right. He was a man, wasn’t he? And Jal was an attractive woman. But what was he to her? Some masochistic game? That would be for the best, given the consequences should anything happen between them. No, he’d just return the flirting and they’d go their separate ways. A vision of Mist wagging her finger flitted through his mind. She wouldn’t approve. Then again, considering how they’d left things, she probably didn’t care what he did.
By the end of the dessert course, a tantalising rose-flavoured soufflé dressed in mint and honeycomb, the room was starting to spin. It was time to be getting back.
“Will you join me in the study for a nightcap?” Jal said, nodding at a connecting door.
Guyen hesitated. “I should be going.”
She stood. “Nonsense. After-talk is as much a part of High Supper as the starters. Come through, just for a while, then I promise I shall order you a coach.” Her eyes proffered a challenge. “Remember, this is part of your service to me.”
He relented. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”
“Marvellous.” She cocked her head. “Aren’t you going to get the door?”
He stumbled to his feet. “Of course, sorry.”
The oak swung silently open, revealing a dimly lit room dominated by a crackling hearth. Now, this was cosy—overly warm, fusty leather furnishings, bookcases, paintings and maps lining the close walls… A human skull rested on the mantelpiece, socket eyes looming in and out in the firelight like extruded, black puddles. He wandered up for a closer look.
Jal shut the door. “Creepy, no?”
“What is it?”
She glided over. “One of Arik’s keepsakes. An Arifed skull, I believe.”
“Arifed?”
“The last pure race in the Feyrlands, according to my husband. But enough of his eccentricities. Tonight is about us. Sit, I have a treat for you.”
She pushed him back towards the chaise. He sat heavily, groggy from the drink. She went over to a cabinet. What would it be like to press up against her, he wondered, to pull her tight? She turned round, eyes glinting. Had she just read that thought? Where was this going?
She sat beside him, producing a bottle of viscous black liquid and two shot glasses. “Kanchee,” she said. “The perfect end to a well-observed High Supper. Have you ever tried it?”
“No, I don’t think so.” He was already too drunk. This was a bad idea.
She edged closer. “One shot can make or break a man, that’s what they say.” She filled the two glasses and pressed one into his hand, forcing it up to his lips. He let her. The aniseed smell warned of something nasty.
They drank. It burned, then a pleasing balm spread to every extremity. He swayed on the seat. “Hot!”
“Have another, I insist.”
“I shouldn’t—”
But she was already pouring. “Together,” she said, nudging his hand, and more bitter liquid caressed his throat, as her breath caressed his cheek. Now the room wouldn’t stop spinning, the roaring hearth trailing fiery light. No more, he thought hazily, stumbling to his feet. He staggered off-balance towards the mantelpiece, knocking the Arifed skull, clumsily catching it. Hollow eyes stared back. He replaced it, swaying, feeling sick.
She took his arm. “My husband would be displeased if you dropped that.”
He collapsed on the chaise. He really needed to lie down now.
She perched beside him. “Did you know Arik and I have an open relationship?”
“Huh?” Guyen managed.
“We have an understanding,” she said. “I let him have his indulgences, for the good of Sendal, thus I am free to my own liaisons.”
Her words blurred. He grabbed the back of the chaise, feeling sick, trying to sit up, sure he was falling.
“Do you like me, Guyen?”
“I’m… I should be—”
“I expect you get lonely here in the city, away from your family. There’s no shame in it, you know. We all need human contact, to feel another’s skin on our own.”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Stringing any kind of sentence together was proving problematic now.
“You do like me, Guyen. I feel it. I can help you, you need me, you could help others too, you want that, don’t you—”
Her words dissolved amidst the drunken fog.
34
Best Laid Plans
Guyen groaned, pressing his head firmly into the pillow.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Why wouldn’t it stop? He turned over. He was fully clothed, boots still on, and it felt like his head had been dragged through a rock. He pulled himself up. “All right,” he called. “I’m coming.”
The knocking continued. “I haven’t got all day,” chimed a high voice.
He stumbled to the door, opening it to one of the Gate’s messenger boys—a stocky, red-faced kid.
“Yorkov?” he squeaked.
“What?” Guyen snapped.
The boy thrust out a letter. “This came for you, dropped at the entrance.” He smirked. “Heavy night was it?”
“That’s my business. What time is it?”
“Eight.”
Fuck. Too early and too late both. The boy slouched expectantly. “Yes?” Guyen grunted. “Was there something else?”
“Er, I usually get tipped, sir.”
“Do you now?”
The boy offered a timid nod.
“Globes!” Guyen reached for his purse and retrieved a copper, placing it in the boy’s open palm. “Not that you deserve it,” he muttered, “after that horrendous noise.”
The boy sniffed. “I started quietly, sir. Reckon it would have took a stampede of mammoths to wake you up.” He ran off down the corridor.
Guyen shut the world back out and collapsed on the bed beside Toulesh. The simulacrum was still asleep, bully for him. The seal on the letter was familiar—Moth Canyon—the Flags team. Ignoring his thumping head, he broke the wax and stared at the letter’s contents.
Dear Alber, I do hope your clan derives where the truth lies. Killing heathens kindles wanton years for love and lost wasted youth, cast in flame—
The gobbledygook went on at length. Only when he turned the sheet over did it make any sense. The return addressee was a Viola Choeter. The Viola code. It was a Network message. He couldn’t decipher it now. He felt too sick. He stared up at the ceiling, rubbing his stomach in that place between vomiting or not. He closed his eyes, determined to ride it out, and fell asleep.
When he woke again, his head still hurt, but at least the room had stopped spinning. Toulesh sat patiently in the chair beside the window, looking none-too-well himself. Guyen pulled open the shutter, glad for the fresh air, the bright light not so much. He squinted at the clock over the quad. Gone eleven. He’d missed Elementals with Nekic. The Wield had been off
with him ever since he’d sent that canister crashing through his workshop ceiling. He wouldn’t be happy about this.
Mouth like a devil’s armpit, Guyen reached for the water jug and took a swig. Gods! He spat the liquid out on the floor, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. What the hell? The water was bitter, but fresh from the fountain yesterday. He peered suspiciously about the room. Had someone been in here? He’d not barricaded the door last night. Shit! He didn’t even remember getting back. He’d been in Devere’s study, but then what? He poured a little water into his palm. It looked clear enough. Damn it. Why did these things keep happening? He tipped the rest out the window.
He sat back on the bed, rubbing his head, and his eyes fell on the coded missive. It must have come through the Network. What could be so important? Up to the puzzle now, he wrote out the Viola key from memory on a spare scrap of parchment and arranged the two sheets side-by-side, decoding the text using the ‘e’ from this Viola’s family name, Choeter, as the key.
The initials at the bottom were straightforward enough—CdG—Dalrik. He hurriedly translated from the top. The first few letters got straight to the point, relaying the worst news, no matter how many times he checked his translation.
Y TAKEN BY OFFICE.
His heart sank. He tried putting the letters together another way. Could it mean something else? No, Y could refer to only one person—Yemelyan. The Office had him. Damn it! He’d been set on leaving for Tal Maran with the Outlaws tomorrow. He stared glumly at the empty water jug, again feeling he might be sick. He needed a drink, and a piss. He had to read on though. He decoded the rest of the message, hoping for better news, something to re-contextualise things.
CONDITION BAD. LOCATION UNKNOWN. CAPITAL PRESUMED. WILL JOIN SHORTLY. L SAFE.
That was it. The totality of the message. He stared at it, wishing the letters would rearrange themselves. But nothing in the remaining translation suggested he’d misinterpreted the first part. CONDITION BAD—had Yemelyan deteriorated further? CAPITAL PRESUMED? His brother was in Carmain? How? Where? L—that must mean Livia—Mother was safe? That was something, at least. Hell! How could so few letters spell out such dire news? Anger overflowing, he threw the water jug at the wall. It smashed. Toulesh jumped out into the hallway through the closed door. Guyen kicked the bed in frustration and stormed after him. The piss couldn’t wait.
He stumbled downstairs. This must have occurred a while back, given travel times. Well, there was no point going to Tal Maran now. He’d have to let Selius down. He made it to the latrine just in time and relieved himself, catatonic eyes fixed dolefully on the brickwork. The unwelcome figure of the sergeant-at-arms sidled up beside him.
“Gods!” Hielsen said. “I’ve seen rats with bigger penises. No wonder your women have such dour faces.”
Guyen redid his buckle. “Not now, Sergeant.”
Hielsen began to piss. “Heard all about yer late night antics, Krellen. Couldn’t even remember yer own name. Pathetic.”
“What are you talking about?” Guyen demanded. How drunk were you?
“Told ‘em,” Hielsen continued, “they should have left you out on the Bustle for the nighthawks. I’ve a good mind to report you to Rialto for behaviour unbecoming of a Maker. Perhaps Aylesday in the brig would teach you a thing or two about Sendali manners.”
“I don’t need lessons in manners from you,” Guyen snorted.
But Hielsen was in full flow, in both senses. “Coming over here, with all yer weird devil customs. Send you all back home, I would. Someone needs to teach you a lesson.”
“Like you, you mean?”
“I’ve a key to yer room,” Hielsen muttered. “You’d better sleep light.”
Something clicked into place. “You’ve a key to my room?”
“I have keys to all the rooms.” Hielsen’s stream petered out.
The world burned red. Guyen caught him by the collar, yanking him backwards into a headlock. “Thought you’d get away with it, did you?”
“What are you talking about?”
He tightened the hold. Someone needed to pay. “Don’t deny it!” he spat. “The rat’s heads, the snake, poisoning my water?” Surroundings blurred, nether light oozing from the walls.
Hielsen gasped, struggling for air. He threw an elbow, missing.
Guyen pulled his knife. “Admit it, you’ve been in my room. Tell me, or I’ll cut you a new one.”
“I haven’t,” Hielsen rasped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Guyen released the hold.
The sergeant staggered forwards. “You’re crazy!” he panted, fumbling for his belt.
Guyen managed a wry laugh, the world solidifying around him. “You don’t know the half of it,” he grunted. “Just stay out of my way.” He left the sergeant cursing—it hadn’t been him—he’d been too surprised at the accusation. Attacking the man had been a mistake though—he’d find a slice of retribution to serve up at the most inopportune moment.
Toulesh waited in the yard with a disapproving frown.
What would you know about it? Guyen sent. Return!
The simulacrum obeyed, folding in, dampening the unnatural anger. Another worry hit. Why had he lost control like that? He brushed the thought away. There were more important things to be concerned with now, like where the hell was Yemelyan?
The next week passed infuriatingly slowly, a sore desperation to find out what had happened to him plaguing the days and nights, no answers forthcoming. Rialto was away for the most part, but made sure to leave piles of work. Little time remained for thinking, and when it did, only fear and regret surfaced. Maybe it was time to cut and run? But where to? He was a rudderless ship battered whichever way the storm deemed fit.
Toulesh sulked most of the time, refusing summons whenever determination waned. Faze seemed harder to block out too—either it was strengthening or he was becoming more sensitive to it, dark moods robbing him of control. Jal avoided mention of their dysfunctional dinner date at the next Politique discourse, and he wasn’t about to bring it up, but her eyes signalled something had changed between them. Ariana did her best to fill in for Mist, still conspicuous by her absence, but although equally feisty, the scholar was too clever for her own good, most of her cutting remarks floating over Jal’s head. Still, what she lacked in entertainment value she made up for with her sparkling eyes and kind words. But she’d been walking out with Rossi again. That was a lost cause.
The stress was unbearable. Even Toulesh felt it, stalking shadows, standing guard every night. The despair at Yemelyan’s disappearance wasn’t confined to daytime either, visions of his brother, crazed and restrained, colouring his night terrors. Still, it was better than dreaming of Ariana and Rossi together. When the Outlaws returned the next week, having annihilated Moth Canyon as expected, Guyen worked every shift he could, hoping to see Dalrik. He didn’t show. Dasuza agreed to make enquiries into Yemelyan’s whereabouts, but wasn’t hopeful. Another posting to the hawkery spoiled Pixenday, Rossi baiting him at every opportunity. It was too cold and wet not to react, and the birds caught nothing.
Returning to the Junction on Wizenday, Dasuza absent, Selius sent him out with the stablehands to exercise the mounts on the moors beyond the city’s western wall. It was an opportunity to clear his head—riding was therapeutic once you learned how to relax in the saddle—just man, beast and nature, open skies and gorse. Unfortunately, the weather had turned bitterly cold, sleet pressing home an industrial advantage. Back by dusk, he was helping restable the mares when Dasuza walked up.
“Ho, Maker.” He doffed his hat.
“At last!” Guyen exclaimed. He threw a bundle of hay into the feeder. “What’s happening? Any news on my brother?”
“Actually, yes.”
Trepidation spiked. What sort of news would it be? “You’ve found him?”
“Not quite.”
“What then?”
“They brought him to the city.” Dasuza’s expression turned
serious. “There’s an entry in the duty log at Southgate that matches, and my contact at the Office confirms the papers were served for his arrest. But there’s no record of him—not at Karonac, not in any of the holding facilities. It’s like he disappeared once he passed the city wall.”
Guyen cursed.
Dasuza scanned the shadows. “There’s something else though, something unusual.”
“Really? What?”
“The arrest warrant was signed by the Culture Prime.”
Guyen stopped with the hay shovelling. “Devere? What does he have to do with the Office?”
“Not a lot, usually.”
“Why would he care about some Unbound case in a distant backwater?”
Dasuza shrugged. “There’s a mystery right there.”
“Fuck!” Guyen kicked the stall, startling the horse. It whinnied. “What’s so special about my brother?” he muttered.
“There’s only one thing I can think of,” Dasuza said.
“What’s that?”
“You.”
Guyen spiked a bale with the hayfork, wishing it was Devere’s head. “Maybe it’s a coincidence,” he said, “I mean, warrants have to be signed by someone, don’t they?”
“Maybe.” The pitman didn’t look convinced.
Guyen sighed. “Well, thanks for the information. I suppose it’s something to go on.”
Dasuza narrowed his eyes. “Don’t do anything stupid, Yorkov. There’s bigger things at stake than your brother.”
“Not for me.” Guyen closed the stall door and dimmed the lamp. They left the horses to sleep, and he headed back to the Gate.
Twenty minutes later, coming up on Silver’s Den, he was wondering whether to poke his head in to see if Mist was about when he became suddenly agitated for no reason. Toulesh vied for attention, pointing back down the street. Guyen glanced behind. Two shadowy figures followed. Nighthawks after an easy score? The pursuers’ silhouettes outlined in front of a street lamp, one fat, one thin, cloaks billowing. Shit. Vale and Yannick. Coincidence? Only fools believed in those. He quickened the pace, heart thumping, and sped around the corner, pushing smartly into the Den. Lyla was busy serving. He barrelled through the bar. “Just using the backdoor, Lyla.”
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