The Duchess of the Shallows

by Neil McGarry

  After years of experience in verbal dueling with Minette, fruning wasn't nearly as difficult as she had expected. Some small part of her wondered if that had been Minette's intention, throughout all those years of visits and tiles and wine. Just how far ahead did Minette plan? Duchess wasn't sure she wanted to know. It was enough to know that Minette was a friend, if one of only questionable reliability. In fruning she had learned some interesting pieces of gossip. The Old Mater had been seen with yet another new child, as usual claiming it was her own. A certain ganymede had angered his escort at Lady Vorloi's last party by dallying with a broad-shouldered, stormy-eyed stableboy. (She had her suspicions on that one, but Lysander wasn't talking.) A young Domae weaver had petitioned for entrance to the guild, so far unsuccessfully. And finally, the strange dagger that had caused so much stir had mysteriously reappeared on Eusbius' manor, though the baron did not plan another party to display it. His humiliation at the first one was still the talk of the city, although already the story was beginning to pall as the nobles found more interesting scandals to discuss. Besides, most of them were already planning their yearly migration to their summer estates and the parties that would follow. By the time autumn came and they returned to the city, Eusbius and his dagger would be old news. Fruning was for spreading information as well as gathering it, and by chatting with these suddenly friendly merchants Duchess had done what she could to put her story on the Grey. A hint here, a nod there, the occasional (but deliberate) slip of the tongue…it was not only easier than she had anticipated but more enjoyable. She made sure to include Lysander's role in the story, for the day when he, too, might be admitted to the Grey. She did not fear that the tale would get to the blackarms; Shallows folk had no truck with such, and the Grey looked after their own.

  Even half of twenty-five florin was a small fortune for someone like her, and she and Lysander had celebrated accordingly. Now that she was Grey no one in the Shallows questioned the source of her newfound wealth because most of them already knew and those who didn't were quickly informed by those who did. Lysander's jealousy over her rise in status had been ameliorated by both the gold and her insistence upon touting his role in her adventure, and she thought that despite all that had happened, in time it would bring them closer, two thieves who shared the glory of what even Minette admitted (in her own coy way) was a daring heist. Still, she thought it was time she found her own place to live, another concern on her list.

  The day of the letter Duchess had been returning from a visit with Ferroc, a prominent member of the weaver's guild and a rumored friend of the Grey, one who would take the coin and do the work without asking awkward questions. It was said that half the burglars in the city commissioned her to make dark clothing, masks, and other accessories. After her successful escape from House Eusbius, Duchess had warmed to the idea of making a living stealing the valuables of those who didn't need them. In her most secret moments, she entertained the notion of becoming the next Naria of the Dark. But it was not burglary that brought her to Ferroc; she needed a mark. Marks, as she'd learned, were tokens that represented those who made them, and were a proxy for one's influence and position on the Grey. They were given as payment for favors received, or as a promise of some future service. They were always adorned with the personal symbol of their owner so, when necessary, they could be traced back to their source. Much as the colors - the Grey and the Red - were a mockery of the White, marks were in their way a lowborn reflection of the nobles and their family crests and sigils.

  Marks could take almost any form, although they were always small, easy to hide and to carry, and of little inherent value, such as P's brass coin. She hadn't shown that mark to anyone else since Uncle Cornelius; she hadn't dared. If the Uncle's tale of a secret leader of the Grey were true, the mark had incalculable value, far more than all of the gold she'd gotten from Hector. Someday she might need a large favor, and on that day the mark would come in handy. And even more importantly, the mark and the snake symbol it bore was somehow linked to the very history of Rodaas and the rippling pattern of stasis and change that Minette had observed.

  None of this, of course, had gotten her any closer to deciding on the design of her own mark. A coin just seemed wrong, and in any case having custom coins stamped was more expensive than she liked. She had kicked it around for a few days before her mind went back to the piece of tapestry she'd cut in Eusbius' gallery, in which she had wrapped the dagger. She'd saved the cloth as a souvenir of her adventure, but she thought that it could serve as the model for her own mark.

  The status of the guilds had only improved since the War of the Quills, and with that in mind, Duchess had approached Ferroc, a small, quiet woman with gray hair rolled into a tight bun, with a certain respect. Ferroc's shop was located in the more respectable area of the Shallows just outside the market, where she and her nieces plied their trade. She'd not acted as if Duchess' request for a dozen silk handkerchiefs, crafted into triangular shapes that would resemble pieces torn from a larger cloth, was in any way odd. She had not blinked as Duchess described that the fabric should bear a pattern that resembled a map, and that each piece of cloth should be embroidered with a D. Duchess asked for them to be delivered to the Vermillion in a few days, partially because Duchess was uncertain where she would be living by then, but also because one of them was already promised to Minette in exchange for her help with the Uncle. Her first mark, promised before Duchess herself had risen to the Grey, but well earned. After all, with Minette's help she'd survived a visit with the Uncle, and not many bread girls could boast as much.

  She was mulling over these thoughts when she felt a tug on her sleeve and turned to find a small child, one she recognized as a runner. Like Zachary with Hector, the lightboys often took work as runners during the day, carrying messages all over the city, through all of the districts. She'd seen them often enough during her work for Noam and had paid little attention. She wasn't important enough to have anyone bother to send a message to her. "You're the Duchess, right?" he said, all wide eyes and scraped elbows and knees. "The Duchess of the Shallows?"

  "I...I guess I am," she replied, bemused; it seemed she'd been restored to the aristocracy, all unknowing. Without a word he handed her a neatly folded piece of parchment sealed with red wax. She'd never gotten a letter before (at least, not from a lightboy), but she knew enough to offer the boy a penny before he scampered off to his next errand.

  She moved to the side of the street to examine the letter and sat on an old wooden box someone had thrown away. The red wax indicated the message originated with the Red, which was probably why the boy had not dared to spy on its contents. She slit the seal with her dagger and unfolded the paper, and something heavy fell out. She managed to catch it before it hit the ground: a tarnished metal key. Her curiosity further piqued, she turned to the letter and read:

  My Dear Duchess:

  I must again thank you for the delightful talk we had the other day. It's always refreshing to speak with young people who are just starting out, particularly those as sensible as you. Helps me keep my perspective, and I might wish for that sort of cleverness in some of my own boys, although of course they wear a different color. Still, it is good to have sensible friends of any shade, wouldn't you agree?

  I hear you've straightened out things with the newcomer, and for that I am grateful. I am sure you impressed upon her the need for discretion in this matter, and the importance of thinking more carefully before she acts. Since everything worked out, I assume you did. It's so nice to meet someone who understands the give-and-take of things in Rodaas and how easily complex things might be made simple.

  I hope you don't think me forward, but I did a little investigating and found you a small place in the Shallows, just a few streets from the Vermillion, that I am sure you'll like. A lovely apartment over a curio shop near the Wharves. Do say hello to Nigel as you go in.

  Please consider this just your uncle's way of saying thank you.

  The
note was unsigned, but since she had no known family she guessed well enough who'd sent it. The Uncle had delivered on his promise, and hadn't asked anything in return except for her silence. She hadn't fruned the news of her meeting with the chief of the Red – she wasn't eager for that kind of notoriety – and it seemed she'd made the right decision. Still, she did not doubt that the story had gotten around anyway, and she wondered if Hector had been right that the Grey would hold it against her. She rolled up the letter and pocketed it with the key, banishing those thoughts. She had enough to think about, most notably a visit to a certain curio shop near the Wharves.

  * * *

  Duchess stared out the window at the Shallows below. The sun was just setting behind the hill but its fading light still made its way through the slightly warped panes of glass. She stood only on the second floor, but it seemed as though the whole of the district were laid out before her. Looking up, she could even make out the temples that ringed the Godswalk and, if she squinted, the tiniest portion of Scholars District.

  Uncle Cornelius had been right; it was a lovely spot. The curio shop stood on the amorphous border between Shallows and Wharves, not far from the so-intriguing Foreign Quarter she'd glimpsed after her wild ride from the cold house. She'd get some of the breeze of the harbor, which didn't always smell appealing but would help cool the place in summer. She had indeed said hello to Nigel, the proprietor of the curio shop and, she imagined, also a member of the Grey. He'd greeted her amiably enough and had done the little dance of unspoken word and earnest implication that was fruning, making it clear that any interesting items she came across could most assuredly be taken off her hands at a fair price. She, in return, had thanked him and told him that if there were any odd jobs in the neighborhood that needed taking care of, she'd be more than glad to help. Evidently Duchess was not the Uncle's only Grey friend, but she had to admire his cleverness. By lodging her in an apartment owned by Nigel, he was showing his favor openly to the Grey and thus deflecting any claims that Duchess was a spy, without ever saying a word. She found herself growing ever more impressed by the Uncle's subtlety, which was a thing to emulate. She'd keep it in mind.

  The stairwell which led to the apartments above the shop bore a freshly painted red hand, which put Duchess' new home under the protection of the Red. She could leave her door unlocked and gold on her windowsills without fear of thievery. The key from the Uncle's letter fit perfectly, and she was reassured to note that the lock was fairly good; she'd practice on it later. Inside she found a mid-sized room with a crumbling hearth and a chipped but serviceable table flanked by two long benches. Two rooms opened off this area: one was a small bedroom, already complete with a straw-filled mattress, and the other was set up as a rude office with a battered desk. "I have a desk," said Duchess wonderingly. She'd hadn't had a room to herself since she was a child, much less three rooms and a desk. She could barely imagine what she would do with so much space. All of the rooms had windows which would admit lots of light and save her on lamp oil, she noted thriftily. The florin she'd gotten from Hector wouldn't last forever, after all.

  She walked through the apartment, naming each piece of furniture as if convincing herself it was really there. "I have a desk and a bed and a table. And there's a mattress." None of it was as impressive as what she'd seen in the Vermillion, but then again she was just starting out. The straw in that mattress was fresh, she noted as she plopped down and sighed with pure satisfaction. Yes, she would very quickly get used to having her own place, particularly since she hadn't been asked to pay for it. She wasn't sure how long that would last, but she hadn't gotten this far by thinking too deeply about the future. As she learned in the cold house, sometimes it was best to jump right in and trust that you could survive the current. It wasn't Hector's way, or Minette's way, or the Uncle's way, but perhaps it was her way.

  She got up and went to the window, looking out at the city, which stretched out before her like some giant game of tiles. So many things in Rodaas were like a game, with moves, countermoves, gains and losses, but of course on the board all one stood to lose was some coin. When the game was for real, you gambled with your life, but if you played the tiles right everything you won belonged to you and none other. And this time, by the gods, there would be no night of smoke and fire to take away the things that were hers. The gray cloak she'd left at the garret (although not for much longer) was the only visible sign that Duchess had won the first round and was better positioned for the second. She could do whatever she wanted. The thought was exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

  Though perhaps not so terrifying as what lay ahead. She'd been stripped of every illusion she'd held – of the enemies of House Kell searching for her, of her father finding her and taking her to safety – and in their place she had only the fragments of an even larger story. Her father had told her that hard truths were unwelcome visitors, and she now knew why. So much of her life had been ruled by fear and uncertainty, and with much of that gone, she had no clear path forward. The mystery of the fire had been solved, and even though it hurt to know her father had taken his own life, she knew at last that he had never willingly abandoned her. It had been P, and not Lord Kell, who had packed her off alone to the bakery, for reasons she did not yet understand.

  Perhaps Noam had been right; for now it was better that the world think that all of Marcus Kell's children had perished that night. Perhaps it was best to remain Duchess, at least for the moment. Until she'd unraveled more of the mystery that surrounded her, retaking her old name was just too risky. Besides, although Marina Kell was who she had been born, Duchess was who she was.

  Still, she vowed that one day she would know the reason she'd been hidden away, just as she would one day find out where Justin and Marguerite had gone. On that day, she thought grimly, P would have much to answer for.

  And P himself was only the first of so many things she still didn't understand. She still had no idea who he was, or why he'd taken an interest in her life on the night of the fire and then again eight years later. If the Uncle were to be believed, P either led the Grey or was the face of those who did.

  And between the Grey and P lay Minette, always manipulating, never telling the whole truth. She'd confided to Duchess a tale of a pattern of ever-repeating storms, but had conveniently left out the connection between the snake symbol and a possible leader of the Grey. What else had she neglected to mention?

  And if P were indeed the same force that Domae mythology named He Who Devours, and the gray figure that she had seen in her dreams...well, that was even more worrisome. For that meant that whoever or whatever P was, he had been part of Rodaas for a long time, impossibly long for any single person. He had either caused periods of great stress or simply moved during them, and to what end she could only guess. But given the utter fall of Domani, and the haste with which the Domae had abandoned their city, she doubted P meant to usher in a golden age. Every time P had shown his hand the city had suffered, and the coin in her pocket signaled that his time had come round once more. She thought of the fog in the sewer, and the presence she'd sensed even further below the city, and shivered.

  Whoever had snatched her from her father's house and ensconced her in the Shallows was a master player, but was he was not the only one in the game. P, who was connected to the Grey, had directed her to Hector, who had been manipulated by the facets, who had struck a blow against Eusbius, who was connected to the Uncle, and in the middle of it all was Duchess, seemingly the smallest of pieces.

  It was too much. The only thing she could be certain of was herself and the knowledge that she could face whatever threats might come.

  There was a knock at the outer door. That would be Lysander, responding to the cryptic message she'd left with Lorelei. She'd show him the new place, and then they'd buy some wine and drink it while they ran over the day's gossip. As she ran to greet him, she remembered the name the lightboy had used, and despite the danger, the many mysteries and uncertainties, an
d her low rank on the Grey, she felt at least for the moment very like the Duchess of the Shallows.

  About the Authors

  Neil McGarry and Daniel Ravipinto are, collectively, a computer programmer, afraid of heights, a former technical writer, a rabid Go-Go's fan, a board-game designer, a founding member of the Alan Turing Fan Club, an award-winning interactive-fiction author, a native Philadelphian, an ex-drummer, one heck of a party thrower, from New Jersey, the holder of three degrees, an avid role-player, an improvisational actor, an uncle, a stand-up comedian, not particularly fond of flying, a video gamer, a lover of Halloween, a pianist, a story-game/RPG developer, and an Ultimate Frisbee enthusiast.

  They are currently hard at work on the next installment of Duchess' story, The Fall of Ventaris.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: The color of her coin

  Chapter Two: In the market

  Chapter Three: Over a barrel

  Chapter Four: What the fire forged