The Duchess of the Shallows

by Neil McGarry

  For many years, she had been sure that her father was dead, but there had always been a part of her that held out even a shadow of hope that someday he might come for her. And now even that shadow had been taken from her, dispelled by the harsh light of realization, and she felt as if she'd lost him once more. Never again would she talk with him over scrolls of lore, or laugh as he teased Marguerite or frowned at Justin. He would never again take her on his knee and make the difficult explanations that seemed part of any discussion about the city and its history. He was gone, and he was never coming back.

  "With so many fires that night, who could say which were the work of Deeps gangs and which were not?" Minette gave her a moment, and then went on as if Duchess were not falling apart right in front of her. "Whatever plans your father made for his children, I imagine it was not that his youngest child be raised in a bakery. Some might speculate that you were...redirected."

  "By Gelda," Duchess said, certain. She rubbed away the tears. "Someone told her where to bring me, and gave her that coin to make certain she obeyed." How long had Gelda's loyalty been bought? For how many years had she shown the Kells one face while hiding another? Duchess saw that Lysander had not finished his wine, so she seized his glass and downed the remainder in one gulp. Minette had hinted that plans had been made for all of her father’s children; did that mean that Marguerite and Justin were hidden somewhere in the city, saved as she had been saved? She knew Minette would say nothing more on that topic even if pressed, but it didn’t matter; Duchess would soon have her own access to the Grey, and she’d find her family on her own. She waited until her hands were steady. "And the third mark you've come across?" It seemed easier to focus on that aspect of things.

  Minette smiled. "Why, I believe that one is in the pocket you were so desperately trying not to touch." She traced a finger across her own coin. "As you have probably noticed, this mark is well worn, as if it were minted centuries ago. No mark should be this old, and yet here it is. The one that arose during the Color War looked nearly as old, and I imagine the mark you received, the one that so caught Hector's interest, looks the same."

  Duchess thought of the Domae woman on the Godswalk and her altar. The symbol on the coin, of the snake devouring itself, was older than Minette suspected, older than Rodaas itself. He Who Devours has set his mark upon you. Something else Duchess knew which Minette didn't, which elevated the day from historic to mythic. But it would not do to say so; no doubt the older woman was hoping Duchess would reveal more than was necessary.

  "The city of Rodaas is a strange place, don't you think?" asked Minette. "Long periods of almost stultifying quiet, punctuated by sudden eruptions of violence and upheaval, in the same way a rainstorm builds even as the sky seems calm. In my time I have seen two such storms, and weathered both."

  Duchess shifted in her seat. "And during each storm comes forth one of these marks." She cast about for the right words. "Some might wonder if the coins bring the storms, or if they simply herald them."

  "They might," Minette agreed, smiling obscurely. "They might also find it interesting that, in the wake of the last storm, one of these special marks saw you safely stowed with Noam the baker, one of the best secret-keepers in the Shallows."

  The dawn broke; she now knew why Minette was telling her all this, and why she'd taken such an interest in Duchess over the years. She knew that someone had his eye on Duchess but she could not puzzle out why, and so had instead kept a watch of her own. Like the experienced hand at tiles she was, the mistress of the Vermillion had sensed a game at play but she could not pinpoint the players, and she hoped Duchess might lead her to them.

  If so, she was mistaken on two counts: that Duchess knew, and that Duchess cared to share. She'd be damned if she'd tell Minette something like that for free. Duchess had not lived in Rodaas all her life and learned nothing, nor did Minette have a fool for a pupil. But the woman's point was clear enough: this unknown player had, on the night of the fire, moved a piece – Duchess – from her father's house to where he needed that piece to be...and where he could find it later. He played the game as Minette played her own. Minette, who had seen Marcus Kell's daughter appear in the Shallows and had moved to take advantage. Minette, who had helped her gain access to the Eusbius estate, and thus the dagger, and thus the Grey. In life just as in tiles, Minette was investing early.

  Duchess chose to respond obliquely. "You sense another storm on the horizon, I think...and you aren't the only one."

  Minette sat back in her chair, not seeming displeased. "Sometimes in tiles, a player will invest in a piece before he knows what he intends to do with it. Perhaps he’s a novice player who isn’t sure of himself…or perhaps he is playing the long game, believing that piece will one day occupy the most important space on the board." She gave Duchess a look. "Of course, a skilled player would never make such an investment unless he believed that piece was very important indeed."

  Duchess thought back on all she knew of Rodaasi history: the Great Famine, the destruction of Emperor Vassilus and his bell, the deaths of Violana’s sons in the War of the Quills, the infamous Color War. All violent upheavals against the backdrop of traditions and customs going back hundreds of years. And even before her people had come to the great hill, the Domae at the height of a golden age had for some reason fled the city so quickly they could not be bothered to gather up their treasures. She now wondered if that great exodus, too, had been preceded by the appearance of a worn brass coin inscribed with an ancient symbol. It was as if some great game of tiles were being played in the city, except over centuries and not hours. Of course, some of those events had happened a lifetime ago, which meant the source of the marks had to be older than any living human being. Minette had been first to sense the flow of that game, but she clearly had no line on the player. Duchess knew little more, it was true, but that could change. With luck and will and time.

  Yet what did all of this have to do with her? Her father was dead, by his own hand if Minette were to be believed, and the War of the Quills had ended. Perhaps he had even played some role in that conflict of which she was yet unaware; Minette probably knew more but wasn't sharing, and Duchess knew better than to ask. If she were to learn more, she would have to do it on her own. It would not be too difficult once Hector had inducted her into the Grey.

  Hector and the Grey. Cellar doors and sealed envelopes. He Who Devours. Was she merely moving just as this player intended?

  She decided to be direct. "I've never head you speak like this before," Duchess said, careful not to offend. "Why share this now, and not yesterday, or last month, or last year?" She'd already guessed the motive, but she wondered what Minette might say.

  "Because there are other players, of course. In Rodaas, there always are."

  "And...?"

  Minette paused, then seemed to come to some decision. "And I think it is important you think on where your loyalties lie. In the days to come you will find helpers thick underfoot...an embarrassment of riches, much as Lord Nevin faced when he sought the help of One-Penny Will."

  "Whom to trust, amongst thieves?" Duchess thought suddenly of unsolicited advice and conveniently opened windows.

  "As I said," Minette went on, "I don't know who put Hector to the task he set you, but I have my theories. The Anassans are as good a guess as any." Duchess tried to keep her face perfectly still – so much for knowing something Minette didn't – but was certain she failed. "Most likely they acted through one of their precious prophecies, and then sent one of their number to the party to make sure everything worked out as planned. Which would make them the second force in this city willing to invest in a piece named Duchess."

  "Unless I miss my count," said Duchess, tilting her head slightly towards Minette, "I think I see a third."

  Minette allowed herself a small smile, but whatever reply Duchess thought to make was preempted by a knock at the door. Lysander peeked in. "Antony's waiting," he said, looking at them both expectantly. Minett
e smiled and said nothing, and from the expression Duchess could tell she'd given all the information she intended, at least for now. Duchess could not know how much of it was true, but then again she couldn't imagine why Minette would want to lie. And it felt true in a way that most of what she'd heard in this city never did. Cagey though Minette might be, in this instance Duchess sensed she'd spoken truly.

  Duchess stood. "I'll be there in a moment," she murmured to him. Lysander nodded, uncertain, then slipped out and closed the door. Duchess turned back to Minette. "I appreciate you watching out for my interests, for quite a long time, as I now understand. But what about yours? What did the Uncle offer you for this help?"

  Minette smiled widely and nodded approvingly. "Sometimes one may serve the interests of a friend and those of oneself in a single stroke. Learn that, dear, and you may yet thrive on the Grey after all." She set aside her empty glass, and Duchess considered what might have happened had saving Duchess not served Minette's interests...short or long term. Perhaps this meeting would have been less congenial, and involved a worse threat than a locked door.

  After all these years Duchess still didn't understand Minette.

  It was no good wondering now; she had work yet to do. She opened the door to find Lysander pacing worriedly. He grinned sheepishly when he caught sight of her. As she stepped through, she removed her purse, clinking with the gold she'd gotten from Hector, and handed it to him along with the wrapped dagger. "What's this?" he asked, confused.

  "Half of this is yours anyway, but if I don't come back you may as well keep it all. The dagger you should probably throw in the harbor." She looked meaningfully at Minette. "I'm ready. Let's see what the Uncle wants."

  Chapter Seventeen:

  What the Uncle wants

  As she followed the lumbering figure of Antony through the streets of Market District, she reflected that, despite her predicament, in a way she'd never felt safer. Anyone who caught sight of the red woolen cap set above that craggy, impassive face gave them both a wide berth. With Antony at her side, Duchess could have walked this route naked and with gold in both hands and no one would give her a second glance.

  She had met him in the front hall of the Vermillion, where he towered over both her and Lorelei, seeming nearly as wide as he was tall. His huge scarred hands held the traditional red cap of his order; it seemed Antony believed in removing one's hat when entering a home, even a home of such questionable repute as the Vermillion. Still, in every other way he seemed what Duchess thought a redcap should be: all restrained malice and quiet promise of violence. She'd approached him on legs that felt as wobbly as a colt's. "You have a message for me?" she'd asked timidly.

  He'd delivered the message with an odd formality in his deep, gravelly voice, and it was clear he was repeating something he'd painfully memorized. "My Uncle Cornelius asks the honor of your company at your earliest convenience. I will be your guide and guardian, if you choose to accept." Given the nasty stories she'd heard about Uncle Cornelius and the Red she was surprised at this show of courtesy; she'd half-expected to be dragged off by the hair. Still, it would not do to take either Antony or the Uncle lightly; the sandy bottom of the harbor was probably full of those who had done so. She had nodded her agreement and off they went.

  The day was still warm and wonderful, and so clear Duchess could see the movement of ships in the harbor, far away down the hill. The streets were alive with people delighted to finally shed their winter raiment. Children played at swords, using long sticks and trying to look swashbuckling and adventurous while they dodged carts, wagons and the occasional rider. A fool juggled balls of every color to the delight of a crowd of laughing sailors; a fishwife up from the Wharves, watched closely by a squadron of cats, cheerfully cried the catch; and a cluster of girls no older than Duchess gossiped and giggled merrily as they passed. For a moment Duchess felt a pang of envy; would that she could join them, instead of facing the chief of the Red.

  Duchess had never had direct dealings with the Red but of course she'd seen the hand-marks on the shops and stalls of those who paid their protection money. Those too stupid or stubborn to pay were left to fend for themselves against the rash of unaccountable vandalism, beatings and fires that invariably followed. But the protection the redcaps provided was real; no thief, no matter how daring or desperate, would filch so much as a bean from those marked by the Red, whom they feared far more than the city guard. After all, the blackarms would merely arrest thieves, whereas the Red would beat, mutilate and kill them. In extreme cases, the vengeance of the Red extended also to the families of those they punished, which made their threats weighty indeed. The Uncle himself was rarely seen but much feared, and Duchess had heard more stories about him than she cared to count. In the Shallows, rumors were more common than rats, but Duchess had heard one tale that she could never get out of her head.

  Some years ago, a toy maker named Lenard had set up shop in the Shallows, and by all accounts had done a thriving business. Duchess was only ten at the time, but she remembered that Lenard had been accompanied by a daughter her own age, and had owned a small monkey that would clap on command. The toys Lenard crafted, particularly his wooden puppets, were magnificently constructed and widely admired even in the higher districts, and it was not uncommon for scholars, priests and even nobility to make their way to his door, to honor him with their custom and their gold. The flow of florin did not long go unnoticed, and soon enough the Uncle went to see this puppeteer to educate him on the facts of life in the low districts. Lenard, his ego puffed up from the many worthies who had browsed his shelves, imperiously refused, believing his contacts amongst the wellborn would protect him. He complained to the local sheriff, having more faith in the guard than in the gods themselves. This was Ophion's predecessor, less corrupt but just as realistic, and he tried to explain the situation and advised Lenard to beg the Uncle's pardon and pay him his due. Lenard, the tale went, laughed contemptuously and said he'd sooner burn down his shop than dance on the Uncle's strings.

  The tale spread like wildfire, and the entirety of the Shallows held its breath, waiting for news, but it was not until sundown that the rest of the story made its way into the taverns and winesinks. Lenard and his daughter had been away in the high districts most of that day and had closed the shop in their absence. A noble caller, not minded to wait and convinced Lenard was merely laid up with a bottle, impatiently ordered his manservant to force the door. This he did, and inside they found Lenard's monkey, strung up like a puppet, with ropes attached to the ceiling and driven through the poor creature's limbs with metal hooks. Its mouth had been sewn shut and painted over with red in the hideous parody of a smile. Even worse, the lacquer Lenard used on his toys had been applied to the monkey's skin, freezing its tiny face in a terrible grimace of agony. The noble had screamed like a swamp hag at the sight and had fainted dead away when the eyes in that frozen face moved, fixing him with a gaze of unspeakable suffering. The horrified manservant put the animal out of its misery, and only then noticed the note that, although unsigned, had no doubt been left by Uncle Cornelius. In that note, the Uncle apologized for having missed Lenard, but hoped he appreciated the Uncle's own puppetry. However, if Lenard were still unimpressed, the Uncle would be happy to make another puppet, and what better companion for a monkey than a little girl?

  The matter ended there; Lenard paid the money and received a red hand for his doorpost, and to this day did business from the same shop. His daughter had grown up fair and tall and had married a tanner, Duchess seemed to recall, but Lenard had never gotten another monkey.

  Ten-year-old Duchess had heard the story from Lysander, who'd had it from Burrell, a recognized authority on all goings-on in the Shallows. At the time she'd marveled that the Uncle hadn't done his work on Lenard himself instead of the poor monkey, but Lysander had pointed out with grim logic, "If he did that, Lenard could never pay him." Duchess had had more than one nightmare of that little girl as a dreadful puppet, her face fo
rever frozen in pain. In the worst dreams she was that little girl. Even now the thought gave her the shivers. The author of that atrocity was the man she was now on her way to meet. She wiped sweat from her brow and tried to still her pounding heart.

  Far too soon Antony led her to a small, nondescript building in the northeast section of the district. Two more redcaps stood near the door, and they stepped aside at Antony's gesture. Still the perfect gentleman, he opened the door for her, then motioned her up a flight of stairs to another door. This he also opened, and he gestured for her to enter. Inside, she knew, was this troll, this demon of a man who'd summoned her, no doubt twice Antony's size and ten times his match in brutality. He had long curling horns, she was certain, and clawed hands that could rip down walls and break bones as other men might tear a loaf of bread. He spewed fire with every breath and lightning flew from his heels with each dreadful step. Knees quaking, she stepped through the door.

  She found herself in a richly appointed office, complete with wall hangings, rugs and drapes in browns and greens. At the center of the room stood a massive oaken desk, flanked by several wooden chairs and ornamented with a small crystal vase containing one white rose. Behind it sat a small, balding man, writing in a book. He was dwarfed by the desk, but Duchess guessed he wasn't much taller than she, even when standing. His arms seemed firm and toned, true, but they weren't clawed and seemed hardly capable of crushing walls. There were no horns that she could see, either. He looked up from his work with small, black eyes, and for a moment she was reminded of a rat, cold and watchful. Then his round face split in a wide grin and he gestured her forward. "Uncle Cornelius?" she squeaked.

  His smile widened. "The very same," he said in a voice larger than his size. "Do come in; I'm just finishing up these blasted accounts. Sometimes I think the sums I did the day before undo themselves." He set aside his quill and rose, stepping nimbly around the desk to greet her. He took her hand in a grip that was warm, firm and dry and guided her to a chair, which she gratefully took. He did not return to his own chair but instead perched on the edge of the desk, dressed smartly in a green embroidered vest over a spotless white shirt, complimented by finely woven black trousers. Lysander had never dressed so well, she had to admit, although she'd never tell him that. Assuming she ever saw him again.