The Fallen Queen

by Jane Kindred

  certain he had in him.

  Belphagor booked his train trip back to Irkutsk in platzcart,

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  where the berths were in open groups with dozens to a car. In case

  the Seraphim planned to change the terms of their arrangement and

  simply take the ring and dispose of him, he wanted plenty of humans

  around to make it logistically difficult.

  Except for the audience with the queen, things were progressing

  more or less as he’d expected. Chances had been slim that the

  Seraphim would agree to the deal he’d presented; even slimmer that

  they’d honor the deal and leave them all in peace. He’d planned for the contingent that he would have to go straight to the top. He only hoped he could convince this queen that his proposal was in the interest of

  the Firmament.

  §

  The demon Belphagor was a fool. He was in no position to make

  demands.

  Aeval didn’t care to be trifled with. That she was forced to humor

  his little performance was galling, and he would pay for it. But she was also patient, and content to let the game play out since the advantage was hers. He had no idea whom he was playing with.

  The Seraphim, on the other hand, could barely contain their

  outrage. It was almost amusing that they took the demon’s temporary

  victory so personally. Of course, it was no surprise they were upset.

  She’d threatened them with exile to their birthplace, the most hated

  fate a Seraph could imagine, if they failed to find the grand duchess.

  They had wasted her time, dawdling with the demon, and she had half

  a mind to return them to the Empyrean regardless. But now that the

  arrogant Belphagor was delivering himself straight to her, it was only a matter of time before they could clean up the principality’s mess and put an end to this unfortunate chapter in Heaven’s history.

  Being ordered to play along and leave the demon be until he

  presented himself to her had sat hard with the Seraphim’s pride. To

  mollify them, she gave them free reign to enforce her authority in the Raqia ghetto however they saw fit.

  Before turning them loose on the Demon District, however, Aeval

  summoned the Seraphim to assign them one final task in preparation

  for Belphagor’s arrival. “Our Fallen friend wishes to surrender himself on his own terms,” she said, “entering Heaven as he pleases. Let him

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  come. He will be yours to deal with soon enough. But he believes We

  are unaware of his little smuggler’s portal. Make it clear to him that We are not.”

  §

  Belphagor disembarked at Irkutsk and took the local line around

  Lake Baikal. The old train track led through a series of snow-capped

  brick tunnels that in the warmer months were green and laced with

  delicate wildflowers. Through one of these unused tunnels, where

  tourists were allowed to get out and explore on foot, the gate to

  Raqia’s ancient staircase could be found if one knew where to look.

  The inhabitants of the world of Man most often chose not to see that

  which disturbed their sense of how the world worked, and so a demon

  passing through a solid stone wall was blinked away as a mistake seen

  in the shadows of peripheral vision.

  Without Vasily’s inborn illumination, Belphagor had to rely on

  senses other than vision. He followed the stone staircase with one

  hand against the spiraling wall and counted steps to keep track of how far he’d come. If he wasn’t careful, the place’s disorienting magic could make him forget whether he was ascending or descending until he

  became lost in an infinite loop.

  By the time he reached the trap door of his Brimstone room,

  his bones and muscles were screaming with agony. He might have

  sustained greater injuries than he’d previously thought.

  Belphagor moved his fingers across the solid wood ceiling, tripping

  the magical locks, until a distinct shape appeared in the wood. Years

  ago, he’d won the room in a round of wingcasting from a desperate

  player who’d let slip that the room sat over a portal to the world of

  Man. Since then, Belphagor had made a pretty facet charging demons

  who wanted to travel below discreetly.

  He pushed the trap door upward, meeting resistance against what

  he assumed was the heavy carpet hiding it, and forced the door open.

  For a moment, he thought he’d come up the wrong passage. Where his

  meager belongings had been was a gaping, blackened hole beneath the

  sooty skies of Raqia. He hauled himself up and stood in the wreckage

  of The Brimstone.

  Cinders still smoldered in the piles of debris; this devastation

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  had happened within the last day. Belphagor was too shocked to feel

  outrage. It was the work of the Seraphim—a message to him that he

  might have won the round of the game in the world of Man, but he was

  in their territory now, and they didn’t like to lose.

  He picked through the rubble, unable to recognize anything but

  the bar. There was no sign of any dead, so perhaps they had evacuated

  the place before torching it. The buildings on either side, a tinsmith’s and a whorehouse, were untouched.

  Belphagor made his way to the street. No one was about. A light,

  celestial snow was falling, dusting the soot and char with a white

  luminescence in the settling twilight, but the weather wasn’t cold

  enough to account for the absence of commerce or traffic of any kind.

  He did not like the looks of this.

  At last, he saw a woman, head down and covered in a cloak,

  hurrying up the opposite side of the street. He crossed the street and stepped in front of her, and she jumped, looking up from her keen

  concentration on her own footsteps. He apologized for startling

  her before asking if she knew the whereabouts of the owner of The

  Brimstone.

  The woman shook her head. “Please let me pass. I’ll miss curfew. I

  had to get medicine for my son.”

  “Curfew?”

  She stared at him as if he were deficient. “Have you been drinking,

  sir?”

  Belphagor smiled ruefully. “Sadly, no, madam. I’ve been away in

  the southern lands.” It was a euphemism for falling to the world of

  Man.

  “Should have stayed there. The new queen is hell bent on cleaning

  up Raqia. We aren’t supposed to be out on the streets past dusk.” She

  glanced behind her and pulled her hood closer. “Not just her ‘Urban

  Renewal,’ of course, but all those assassinations. The Fallen aren’t

  trusted.”

  “Assassinations?” He feigned ignorance, grateful for an

  opportunity to get the official story.

  The woman looked shocked. “You have been away, haven’t you?

  First there was the Grand Duke Lebes last spring, and then the entire

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  supernal family a few months later. Some madman broke into the

  palace and slaughtered them all.”

  Belphagor frowned. “Some madman? No one saw who did it?”

  “Only poor Lebes’ son, Grand Duke Kae. He was so traumatized,

  he couldn’t tell a soul what happened. By then, of course, he’d had the crown thrust upon him. Poor fellow. It’s only thanks to the queen that we have any sort of order at all in the Firmament
.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “She came from Aravoth to investigate the murders. She’s one of

  those Virtues. Apparently, she nursed the grand duke back to health,

  and he fell in love with her. Seems he made an exception to the rule

  against mixing pure blood.” The woman looked over her shoulder. “I

  really must be on my way, sir. If you’re wise, you’ll do the same and get yourself home before you’re seen.”

  Belphagor tipped his head toward the smoldering pile of rubble

  across the street. “Unfortunately, madam, my home seems to have

  burned to the ground.”

  Her eyes widened and she backed up a step. “The Brimstone?”

  “Why? What do you know about it?”

  “The dens have been shut down for weeks,” she whispered. “At

  least officially. But The Brimstone… the Seraphim… they came back

  and burned them all.”

  He wanted to ask her more, but she stepped into the gutter to go

  around him and hurried on her way.

  Where the precipitation hit piles of smoldering cinder, it sizzled

  and turned to slush. Light snow now covered the ash of what had been

  the most thriving den of iniquity in Raqia. Here Belphagor had caught

  the hand of a young demon on his purse and found a companion out of

  a century of solitude. And here he’d spent the last dozen years nursing the wounds of his own stupidity until the angel had landed in his lap

  and brought Vasily once more into his sphere.

  Belphagor had known The Brimstone’s players and staff for many

  years and had shared the comforts and conflicts of the most ordinary

  of dysfunctional families. For the past decade, he’d operated his

  business from the small back room, providing discipline for the many

  lost souls of Raqia who couldn’t otherwise acquire the firm hand of

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  correction they desired. More than a few of the Host had purchased

  what he offered.

  Belphagor turned away. There was no time to indulge in rage or

  grief. He must stand before the queen of Heaven and make his case.

  No one else would pay for his audacity to challenge the powers of the

  Firmament.

  §

  An armed regiment of Ophanim stood before the gates of the

  palace. Like the Seraphim, they glowed with a fiery radiance, but theirs was a cooler fire, a whiteness that didn’t hurt to look upon. Instead, they were difficult to bring into focus, seeming to shift in and out of phase with the Heaven around them. The edges of their forms were

  always moving, always slightly blurred. They also had the proverbial

  “eyes in the back of the head” that demoness mothers who claimed

  such power metaphorically to keep their broods in line would have

  envied. Of course, the back of the head was as difficult to pin down

  as the rest of the Ophan’s form; more properly, they seemed to have

  an endlessly shifting array of eyes that saw three hundred and sixty

  degrees around them at all times. And when the Ophanim moved,

  smoothly and swiftly, their flux effect gave the impression they were

  on wheels.

  When Belphagor approached, they closed ranks, moving so

  rapidly he had to look down at the snow to avoid becoming ill.

  “Who approaches the palace of the principality?” an Ophan

  demanded.

  A charge ran through Belphagor like a bolt of lightning in his

  skull. He tried to find his tongue, lost for the moment in the vibration and heat. “Belphagor of Raqia,” he managed.

  The Ophanim swept aside, making a space for him to walk

  between. Behind them, the wings of the gilded gates swung inward.

  The Ophan beside him raised his sword across his chest, the brightness of the metal making it once more too difficult to look at him straight on.

  “Enter, Belphagor of Raqia.”

  Belphagor dug his nails into his palms to keep from pissing himself

  and hurried through the undulating line of Ophanim before any of

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  them spoke again. He passed through the courtyard and mounted the

  pearly steps, lined with another row of Ophanim. He kept his head

  down and went through the doors as they, too, swung open, and then

  waited in the grand entryway on the shining tiles of onyx and opal.

  A uniformed steward came out to him and looked him over. This

  one, like most in the Firmament, was merely an ordinary angel of the

  Fourth Choir, and cast no terrible radiance or debilitating voice.

  “Belphagor of Raqia.” The otherwise proper tone dripped with

  scorn. “You are to follow me. Touch nothing.”

  Belphagor ran his hand along the railing while he ascended the

  grand staircase, making sure to leave his filthy demon germs on it.

  The steward brought him to a small throne room on the second

  floor and stopped him outside the doorway. “You will bow on the

  threshold, a full genuflection, then approach the throne, taking only

  five paces, and bow again. Wait until the queen summons you. Then

  you will approach to within ten paces of Her Supernal Majesty and

  bow once more until she bids you to address her. You will not look

  at her unless she commands it. When she has dismissed you, you

  will thank her for her graciousness in receiving you—addressing her

  always as Her Supernal Majesty—and retreat in the same manner. Do

  not insult her by showing your back to her.”

  “I’ll try to resist the impulse.”

  The steward sniffed with disdain and stepped aside. Belphagor

  crossed the threshold and bowed as instructed—though judging by the

  sound the steward made in his throat, not entirely to his satisfaction.

  From his vantage point, he saw only the silver leaf and crystal

  facets decorating the flowing train of her gown and the delicate pair of silken slippers poking from beneath it. It was enough to drive him mad with curiosity. Of the orders of the Third Choir, he was acquainted

  with the earthly Grigori of the Order of Powers, and had known a

  Dominion or two, but he’d never seen one of their Virtuous choral

  cousins before. Silver and silk didn’t put him in mind of the Third

  Choir element of earth.

  He bowed again after five paces, uncertain whether he’d counted

  correctly. She made him wait, making his stiff limbs ache and quiver

  before she finally spoke.

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  “Approach, Belphagor of Raqia.” She pronounced his name with

  a peculiar, lyrical accent. It took immense effort not to look up after he came forward and bowed for the final time. “So you are the demon

  who has confounded Our poor Seraphim so.” She sounded almost

  amused.

  He lifted his eyes with a brief, uncontrollable flicker before

  lowering them again, uncertain whether she was giving him leave to

  address her.

  “You may stand before Us and speak,” she assured him.

  Belphagor straightened and was struck dumb for a moment by the

  way everything about her shimmered. In contrast to the unpleasant

  fluxing of the Ophanim, she seemed to pulse and flicker like a star in a black night. It wasn’t radiance exactly; her skin, though milk white with a near absence of pigment, didn’t glow.

  “We did not bid you look on Us.”

  He dropped his gaze. “I beg your pardon, Your Supernal Maje
sty.”

  “We did, however, bid you speak. Our time is precious. You have

  wasted much of it already. Do you have Our property as you claim?”

  “I do.” He removed the chain from around his neck. An attendant

  took it to the queen for her inspection. “It was given to me by a girl in payment for providing her passage to the world of Man. I had no idea

  why we were being pursued by the Seraphim until the girl displayed

  her radiance in returning them to the Firmament.” He timed his

  pause just so. “I now believe her to be the Grand Duchess Anazakia

  Helisonovna of the House of Arkhangel’sk.”

  The queen betrayed nothing. “That is quite a claim, as the grand

  duchess currently occupies the supernal mausoleum.”

  “Forgive me, Your Supernal Majesty, but the Seraphim would not

  have been sent to scour the world of Man for a mere trinket.” He

  sensed her frowning; the entire room seemed to have grown colder.

  He had to tread carefully now for his gamble to pay off. “I can only

  assume some other corpse was interred in her stead, and that when

  the principality discovered it, he sent the Seraphim to find her. And I think it’s obvious who must have committed the terrible acts against

  the supernal family.”

  A collective gasp circled the room.

  158 JANE KINDRED

  “Look on Us,” said the queen. Her eyes of quicksilver regarded

  him as prey. “You had best be careful, demon. You are accusing

  supernal blood of treason.”

  He had hooked her. “I don’t believe it was treason, Your Supernal

  Majesty. Her mind is not sound. She doesn’t know who she is. I believe the grand duchess slaughtered her own family in a fit of madness.”

  The queen leaned forward on her throne, her hand on her breast.

  Her eyes sparkled with moisture. Belphagor had to admire her; she

  was a master player.

  “The principality will be heartbroken to hear such news of Our

  cousin. But you must tell Us now where the grand duchess is so We

  may care for her.”

  Belphagor let his game face slide over his features, emptying them

  of expression. He’d hoped to be able to lay the deal out plain, bargaining for a reward for his assurance that Anazakia would never threaten the

  principality’s throne, but it was clear forthrightness wouldn’t do. The queen had crafted a more remarkable piece of fiction than his own.