“My name is Marcus d’Ivoire,” Marcus said. “This is Colonel Cytomandiclea.”
“That’s a mouthful,” Gravya said, looking critically at Cyte. “You’re a woman.”
“Yes, mistress,” Cyte said. “And you can call me Cyte, if you like.”
“We’d like to ask you some questions about Janus,” Marcus said. “What he was like when he was younger.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Gravya said. “He was a boy like any other boy. There were no comets at his birth or anything like that.”
“I realize that. He... is a friend of mine.” Marcus lowered his voice and fought off another pang of guilt. “I was hoping you could tell me about Mya.”
The old woman went very still for a moment, staring intently at Marcus. Her hand came up and patted her bun, as though reassuring herself her cap was still in place.
“Hyllia, you can go,” she said. “I’ll bring the officers back when we’ve finished.”
“Yes, mistress.” Hyllia bobbed again and hurried off, apparently glad to be away from these strange visitors.
“He never talks about Mya,” Gravya said. “Not to anyone he doesn’t trust completely.”
Another stab of conscience. Janus hadn’t known he’d been talking about Mya; he’d been delirious, dying of a supernatural poison. Marcus forced himself to nod solemnly.
“All right,” Gravya said, suddenly decisive. “Come along.”
She swept out of her room and led them off down the corridor again. It went deeper into the oldest part of the house. Eventually they climbed a narrow stairway, accompanied by a chorus of creaks and groans.
“I keep telling Medio someone ought to clean up here,” Gravya said. “But there’s always something else to do, and not enough hands to do it. That’s the thing about an old pile like this; some part of it’s always falling down. I’m not so different, I suppose.” She gave a bark of a laugh.
“You knew Janus well, then?”
“Of course. I practically raised him. His parents both died when he was a baby, you know. We all raised him, the servants here at Mieranhal, but I was his tutor.” She snorted. “To the extent he needed such a thing.”
“And who’s Mya?”
“Nearly there.”
They reached a door, which Gravya opened. It led to a dimly lit room at the top of the house, attic rafters fading into darkness overhead. A long, moth-eaten carpet spread out underfoot. Gravya took an oil lamp from a hook on the wall, lit it expertly with a match, and turned up the flame to reveal a gallery hung with paintings in heavy, ornate frames.
“The other thing about an old pile like Mieranhal,” she said, “is that nobody ever throws anything away. You stash it somewhere, just in case you need it. Or someone else needs it, three generations down the line. It’s not as though we’re short of space!” She raised the lantern and started to walk, then stopped in front of a painting. “Here. Look at this.”
Marcus looked. The painting was a big portrait, well captured and thick with detail. The background was a large kitchen, with dozens of figures preparing food. In the foreground were two children, standing side by side, looking up as though they’d been captured in the act of doing something naughty.
The boy on the right seemed about six years old, with a round face and a lick of dark hair. In the crook of one arm, a small gray kitten was nestled, looking up at him inquisitively. On the left, an older girl, perhaps twelve, held a saucer of milk. The resemblance between them was uncanny—her hair was long and brown, and her face sharper angled, but the eyes were the same. Huge gray eyes, with a strange depth the painter had expertly captured.
“That’s Janus,” Gravya said. “And Mya. The night of the winter feast, they snuck into the kitchen to find treats for the cat. Janus had been hiding it in his room, because old Woodsmark had said he couldn’t have one. I forget why. Cook caught them, but the poor cat looked so sad she kept it secret anyway.” Gravya smiled. “Mya asked for the picture to be painted, later. She had a mischievous streak a mile wide, that girl.”
“She’s his sister?”
“His older sister.” Gravya touched the painting with one gnarled hand. “This was painted not six months before she died.”
Part 2
Interlude
Janus
The hardest thing to fathom about the mind of the Beast was the way that space inside was, or more precisely was not, connected to the physical world. Janus had at first assumed that the silver lines far “below” were something like a map of the Beast’s bodies in physical reality. When he’d investigated, however, it had proven considerably more complex. The threads were a network, reflecting in their topology the timing and manner in which new bodies had been added. But they also changed over time, as the bodies moved. It was a fascinating puzzle.
It was not that Janus was immune to the confusion and introspection that might normally be expected from someone who had discovered he was now, at best, a disembodied mind. He was only human, after all, or at least had been. But he went through the introspection and despair with the quick efficiency he expected of himself in everything and got them over with so he could move on with making what he could out of the situation.
Step one had been convincing the Beast that he could be of some use as an independent personality, both for obvious reasons of self-preservation and because it might provide useful avenues in the future. Janus had done this almost automatically, once he’d fully appreciated the circumstances that had been thrust on him. It even made sense, from the Beast’s point of view. Its mind was vast, but still in an important sense singular—it could pay attention to only one thing at a time.
At the moment, its focus was in the north, dedicated to the pursuit of Winter Ihernglass. Her use of Infernivore to destroy one of its bodies had reminded the demon of its vulnerability, and if it had been human Janus would have described it as enraged. All across northern Murnsk, red-eyes were on the move, converging slowly on Winter and her small band of fugitives. It would take time to gather enough bodies for an assault, especially considering the capabilities of Winter’s companions.
This left the Beast caught between two fires. The range at which it could control its bodies was increasing, but it still had limits. Its core, the body that had once belonged to Jane Verity, had to shift farther and farther south to retain control of the red-eyes with Janus’ army, including Janus’ own body. A battalion of bodies guarded the core, bringing it a constant stream of fresh subjects to convert, but sooner or later the Beast was going to have to decide between the war in the south and its pursuit in the north.
If Winter was killed, or the Beast gave up the chase, it would be able to devote its full attention to the south. Once the core came close enough, the red-eyes would be unleashed on the densely populated Vordanai countryside, enslaving everyone they could reach. That was to be avoided, if possible. For the moment, Janus was satisfied with his progress—by convincing the Beast to use his own body as a figurehead, he had advanced its timetable for the southern war and brought about this split. I need to take advantage of it while it lasts.
He was looking for something—if looking was a word that applied to a disembodied mind wandering an entirely metaphorical space—the echo of a voice. He’d “heard” it before, briefly, but the Beast’s attention had been on him and he hadn’t been in a position to investigate. Now he crossed and recrossed the area in which he’d been hovering, hunting for the elusive sound. Just finding the “same” place had been an extremely nontrivial exercise, but now he was sure he had it right. Consider how fast the threads readjusted, expand the search radius, keep moving—
Got it. Down at the very edge of hearing, a woman’s voice. Different, somehow, from the non-sound by which the minds in here communicated—real sound, coming in from the outside. He moved in circles, following it when it got louder, homing in on the source.
“...don’t think that’s possible.” He recognized the spe
aker. “You know that...”
It faded into unintelligibility, still barely audible. Janus cast about for the source of the sound. He found another mind, visible in the mindscape of the Beast as a tiny whirl of cloud and movement, like a miniature storm. It was smaller than himself, and felt incomplete, as though it were only a part of a whole person. But—unlike every other mind he’d encountered here—it had some kind of connection, visible as a hair-thin thread of brilliant crimson, snaking away into the depths of non-space.
He’d made a good guess about what that connection might be. Now, examining the mind, he could see that guess had been right. But can I use it?
Manipulating other minds, here in the mindscape, was a matter of exerting pure will. This was a quality that Janus had never lacked, which probably explained his continued survival. He pushed his attention into the smaller mind and found it composed of a chaotic whirl of thoughts and impressions. At the center, that familiar voice. Janus grabbed hold of the connection, twisted it into reverse. He could feel something happen at the other end.
“If you’re there,” he said, pushing his words down the link like a memory of human speech, “please answer quickly. I don’t think I have long.”
“...who is speaking?” Very faint, but understandable.
“This is Janus bet Vhalnich, and there isn’t time to explain everything—”
*
Later, Janus approached the enormous, black-walled hurricane that was the primary personality of the Beast. It was still directing its bodies in their pursuit of Winter, though Janus could see at a glance that it would be some time before an assault was practicable. She’ll get through. He had every confidence in Winter.
“Vhalnich.” The mental voice was similar to the Beast’s, but not quite the same. More feminine, more singular, where the Beast was a choral roar of many blended into one. “Still fighting the inevitable.”
“Jane Verity,” Janus said. “I thought you had long ago been subsumed.”
“I think I have.” There was no visible structure to her mind separate from the Beast itself. Just one whirling cloud among a hurricane. “But I kept a little of myself apart. Just to enjoy this.”
“Hunting Winter?”
“No. Seeing you trapped at last.” Jane’s voice was bitter. “It won’t be long. Winter will join me, and we can finally be free. Free of the world. Free of you. How does it feel, monster?”
“One of us is a monster,” Janus said. “I invite you to consider which.”
Jane fell silent as the Beast’s primary attention shifted, noticing Janus’ presence. The hurricane bulged and spun, producing a pull on Janus’ mind-stuff he could feel like a strong wind.
“You venture close, for one who wants to remain whole,” the Beast said.
“I had a thought,” Janus said. “I have been observing the progress of the army accompanying my former body, and I can’t help but notice it is decidedly unsatisfactory. From your point of view, of course.”
“Winter is more important. I have time to deal with Vordan and the Names.”
“Of course. But Vordan will have dispatched an army to intercept, and Marcus d’Ivoire will be with it. He is a fine soldier, and without strong leadership he might well be successful. That would delay our project considerably.”
“Our project, is it?”
Janus would have shrugged, if he’d had shoulders. “My existence is contingent on your continued pleasure. All of your projects are by definition mine as well.”
“I cannot leave Winter to escape.”
“I know. Hence my suggestion—allow me to control my former body, and the others with the army. Those yet to be converted will be expecting ‘Janus’ to issue commands.”
“None of the other minds have attempted to control a body.” The Beast sounded fascinated. “You can do it?”
“I believe so. I have studied the mechanism. I would not proceed without your permission, of course.”
“That could be useful.” The Beast had every bit of knowledge and skill of all of its continuants, and it could see the advantages immediately. For all that it was in some ways limited, it was still terrifyingly capable. “But I cannot help but think you find some advantage for yourself.”
“What advantage could I gain, in here?”
“Misplaced loyalty to former friends, perhaps?” The Beast’s voice was a roar. “I should tear you apart and find out.”
“You can do so, of course. But then I will be unable to assist.”
There was a long pause.
“Go,” the Beast said. “If you can. But I will be watching.”
9
Marcus
“They were six years apart,” Gravya said. “Janus’ mother never recovered from his birth, and the old count followed her a year later. She was always his strength, I think. He was a kind man, but not a hardy one.”
The old woman stood at an iron stove in the dusty sitting room, expertly building the fire. Marcus, sitting in a tattered but comfortable chair, felt a bit awkward letting her wait on them, and Cyte apparently had the same thought, because she said, “Can I help at all, Mistress Gravya?”
“Oh, no, dear. It’s just something to do with my hands. Helps me think. Habit, you know?”
Cyte, frowning, settled down into the chair opposite Marcus. Marcus said, “So Janus never knew his parents?”
Gravya shook her head. “He had us—the house servants—and he had Mya. That was all. They were inseparable from the time he could walk. I called myself his tutor, but it was Mya who taught him to read and write. I just filled in what she couldn’t be bothered with. Not talking with your mouth full and the like.” She laughed and poked the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. “Most days it was just the two of them, going wherever they wanted, all over the estate.”
“What was Mya like?” Marcus said. “Was she as smart as Janus?”
“Hard to say,” Gravya said. “She was smarter than anyone in the house by the time she was ten, that’s for certain. And she was... good at understanding people, better than he was.” She transferred a cast-iron pot to the stove top and set to stirring. “You’re his friend, so you must have seen how he can be a bit... distant?”
“From time to time,” Marcus muttered, which made Gravya laugh again.
“He hasn’t changed, I take it. Once when he called for me in the middle of the night, I told him off for waking me, and he said he’d forgotten that I needed to sleep. Other people just don’t always register, you know? He’s lost in his own head.”
“Mya wasn’t like that?”
“Oh, no.” Gravya stopped stirring for a moment, lost in memory. “If anything, she understood too well. She couldn’t bear seeing anyone suffering, and she knew when they were hurting, even if they didn’t know it themselves. You couldn’t lie to her, not ever. She would always know.” The old woman sniffed, and started stirring again. “Once when she was nine, one of the stableboys played a prank on her, dirt down her dress or some such. She spent all afternoon devising a way to get back at him, a sort of hunter’s trap in the yard that dumped him into a pile of pig shit. But then, when everyone was laughing at him, she broke down and started to cry. She understood how it made him feel, she told me later, and she couldn’t stand it.”
“She sounds like a kind soul,” Cyte said.
“She was, I think,” Gravya said slowly. “Difficult, sometimes, and with strange ideas. But ultimately kind.”
“Strange ideas?” Marcus prompted.
Gravya was quiet for a moment, taking dried leaves from a small box and grinding them between her fingers to sprinkle in the pot. She sniffed again, and, apparently satisfied, resumed stirring.
“She read a lot,” the old woman said finally. “They both did, of course, but by the time she was twelve Mya had read every book in her father’s library and sent away for more. She loved history, but she was never satisfied with it. She always said that she could have done better.” Gravya
shook her head. “For a while she and Janus would play with toy soldiers, over and over. She would get angry and shout at him if he wasn’t good enough, even though he was only six. They would draw, not like ordinary children draw, but... diagrams, charts, that sort of thing. I asked what they were doing once, and Janus told me they were inventing a new kind of king. Then Mya shushed him. She was getting to that self-conscious age, poor thing. Poor girl.”
“Was it the Red Hand?” Cyte said. Marcus blinked, surprised, but when he added up the dates it worked out. The plague had swept through Vordan City, brought by ships from the east, and worked its way out into the country, the worst epidemic since the age of tyrants.
Gravya nodded. “It was worst on children, you know. That was always the cruelest part. They both caught it, and for a time we thought they would recover, but Mya took a sudden turn for the worse. Janus... didn’t react well. At first he kept demanding to see her, no matter how we tried to explain it to him. Later he burned all their papers, all the work they’d done together, and nearly set fire to the house. Sometimes he’d stop eating for days at a time. He went into the library and started reading. He knew Mya had read all the books, and I think it helped him feel closer to her. But he just... stayed there.
“We were worried sick about him. He’d never really recovered from the Red Hand, and he was so thin you could see his ribs. He’d get sores, sometimes, from not washing properly, and he’d ignore food until he fainted. I finally figured out that he’d run out of books—he’d read everything in the library ten times—so I would have peddlers bring in a cartload and refuse to hand them over until he’d taken care of himself. That got him washing and eating, at least, but he still wouldn’t go outside.”
“I remember going through a similar phase,” Cyte said. “Though it wasn’t quite that bad.” She chuckled, to show it was joke, but Gravya merely continued stirring. Awkwardly, she continued. “How long did this go on?”
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