The Fallen Queen

“I’m sorry.” He coughed. “This doesn’t sound like the underground

  connections I’m used to. Bel usually handles this sort of thing by word of mouth.”

  “Yeah, well, mouths are great,” said Love. “But they’re scarce at

  the moment around here. The Internet, on the other hand, is just a

  bunch of big mouths talking over each other as loud as they can. You

  just have to know what to sort out and where to look. When it starts to

  THE FALLEN QUEEN 209

  get quiet, we’ll have your buzz.” She tapped a long chain of ash from

  her cigarette onto the table and Knud pushed a saucer toward her.

  “FSB, CIA, they call it chatter… wait.”

  She peered closer at the text scrolling up the screen. “You’re

  looking for news on some ‘heavenly’ grand duchess, right? I think

  she’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Vasily felt the blood drain from his face. He swung the

  computer to face him and squinted through his spectacles. “Where?”

  Love pointed. “‘Grand duchess’ body missing from Heaven’s

  mausoleum.’”

  Vasily breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh. No, that much we already

  knew.”

  “I didn’t think it was common knowledge, though,” said Knud.

  “What else does it say?”

  Love took the computer back. “There’s nothing else. Just that, in

  the middle of a bunch of juvenile nonsense. That’s why it stuck out at me. It’s like a news headline buried in porn.” She scanned the screen.

  “There’s a profile link on the poster’s username. I’ll see what else I can find.” She tapped away again, scanning pages too quickly for Vasily

  to follow over her shoulder. “Yeah, he’s Romani,” she said after a

  moment. “I’ve pinged him.”

  “You’ve what?”

  “Sent a message to his computer in Romani code. Let’s see if he

  comes back to me or ignores it.” She stubbed out her cigarette on the

  makeshift ashtray, stuck her gum on the edge of the plate, and sat back.

  “So what have you got to eat around here?”

  There was cabbage soup in the freezer from the last time Knud

  had cooked, and he reheated it on the stove while Vasily sliced up

  some of the heavy black bread Anazakia was so fond of.

  Knud had barely ladled the soup when Love’s computer chirped

  at them. She pulled it over next to her bowl. “Wants to know who I

  am,” she said. “Who am I?”

  “Vasily of Raqia.” When she hesitated over the word ‘Raqia,’

  Vasily spelled it out for her. She went back to her soup after sending the message, and was interrupted a few minutes later by another chirp.

  “He’s opened up a chat.” She bit off a hunk of bread and glanced

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  over. “Talk to him, Vasily. I can’t chat and eat.” She pushed the

  computer toward him, and Vasily stared at the screen. Love laughed.

  “It’s not going to bite you.”

  “I don’t type,” he said defensively.

  Knud pulled the laptop to his side of the table. “I’ll do it.” He

  typed in a greeting. “I’ve told him I’m your liaison and I’m here with you. He wants proof.” He began to type rapidly.

  “What are you telling him?”

  “I’m asking him who the hell he is to ask me for proof. He’s going

  to have to prove his credentials first.” Knud waited a minute after

  sending his message and then gave Vasily a conspiratorial smile. “He

  says he only travels at night.” He read aloud while he typed his reply:

  “I travel between the shadows and the light.”

  Love rolled her eyes without looking up from her soup.

  Knud read for a moment. “It is a headline. It’s from a political

  pamphlet, he says. From the Social Liberation Party.”

  Vasily groaned.

  Knud paused and glanced up. “What?”

  “I’ve had dealings with them. A bunch of malcontents who want

  to overthrow the autocracy but don’t have the slightest idea what to

  replace it with. Chaos for the sake of chaos. Kind of like your Malakim, only less organized.”

  “I don’t know,” said Knud. “They sound pretty organized to me.

  Seems they’ve been issuing pamphlets to enlist support for a march on

  the palace. They plan to protest the queen’s labor policies.”

  “What does that have to do with Nazkia?”

  “Apparently the murders were blamed on the Party. Reports that

  her body isn’t in the supernal crypt have led to speculation that it’s because she’s the one who killed the rest.”

  Vasily growled in disgust at the idiocy of such a claim. “No reports

  of anyone seeing her in the Firmament?”

  Knud shook his head and typed again in the message window.

  “I’ve asked our friend to keep us posted if he hears anything more

  about her. Or about Belphagor.”

  Love pushed her empty bowl aside and gave the two of them a

  dubious look. “What is all this about queens and palaces? Is that more

  THE FALLEN QUEEN 211

  code?”

  Vasily and Knud exchanged glances.

  “Oh, blyad. Never mind. You boys and your Temnitsy i Drakony.”

  Later, when Love was asleep in front of the fire, Vasily asked Knud

  if they could trust her. Knud assured him anything Love learned from

  or for them was absolutely secure.

  “But she doesn’t even believe in Heaven.” Vasily kept his voice

  low, sharing a cigarette with Knud at the table. “How can she be a

  reliable conduit?”

  “Love believes in information. If she can’t find it on the Internet,

  or someone on the Internet who knows it, it doesn’t exist. It makes

  her ideal, actually. No question about her loyalties, and she can spot bullshit a mile away.”

  “Loyalties? Since when are there loyalties?”

  “Since the queen’s been sending Messengers into the Romani

  camps to intimidate them.” Knud took the cigarette from him. “The

  queen seems very interested in what goes on below. I think she wants

  to expand the sphere of Heaven’s influence.”

  “Messengers,” said Vasily. “The Malakim?” He spat on the floor

  and the spot sizzled briefly. The Malakim were the archangelic order

  that had started the entire mess of the cult of Heaven, angels for

  whom the very city they were hiding in was named. He’d laughed

  with Belphagor when they’d seen the Arkhangel’sk coat of arms

  with its pompous, hovering Mikhail defeating the “fallen devil.” The

  winged devil also had a tail, and Belphagor had found the puns in this endlessly amusing.

  Heaven had been no more a friend to the Travelers than to the

  Fallen themselves. Going back to the time of Mikhail himself, the

  Malakim had been manipulating the downtrodden in the world of

  Man. Those who had little were more susceptible to the dream of a

  better life beyond the one they had. The Malakim held out the hope

  of a celestial reward to keep the downtrodden yearning for it, while

  simultaneously preventing them from ever attaining it. If the Malakim

  were pressuring the Night Travelers to declare allegiance to Heaven,

  the entire Fallen community was in danger. The gypsy underground

  was the only reliable way of connecting the disparate Fallen groups,

  212 JANE KINDRED

  and the
only warning most Fallen fugitives ever got before the

  Seraphim descended upon them.

  Knud passed the cigarette back. “So what’s the plan?”

  Vasily snorted. “Belphagor told me to trust him and wait. That’s

  the plan.” It was pretty much always the plan where Belphagor was

  concerned. “Of course, that was before I had a temper tantrum and

  threw Nazkia to the wolves.”

  “Won’t argue with you there.”

  Vasily blew smoke at him. “Spasibo.” He sighed and snuffed the

  cigarette out on a saucer. “If I had any way of getting into Heaven

  without him, I’d be there now, orders or not. But he’s the only one who knows the combination to the portal. Unless you can find me another

  one, and a key to get into it… ” Vasily shrugged.

  Knud nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  THE FALLEN QUEEN 213

  Dvadtsat Pervoe: In the Queen’s House

  from the memoirs of the Grand Duchess Anazakia

  Helisonovna of the House of Arkhangel’sk

  My requests to see the principality went unheeded. True to their

  word, the Ophanim had deposited me in the House of Correction,

  newly erected across the Neba from the palace, east of the Palace

  Square. On the way to the prison, we’d passed another new building

  under construction spanning the south end of the square in a great

  arc, evoking the General Staff Building that graced the same spot

  on Dvortsevaya Ploshchad in the world of Man. This new queen was creating more echoes.

  I shared a large holding cell with perhaps three-dozen Fallen

  women. I couldn’t imagine what offenses so many women might have

  committed all at once that they had to be kept here for processing

  before moving on to their confinement. My cellmates regarded my

  unusual clothes with a mixture of curiosity and hostility, and I thought it wisest not to identify myself until my petition was heard.

  A single, large bucket provided for the entire cell sat full of waste

  behind a tattered screen not intended to give actual privacy. Urine

  spilled around it in a wide puddle on the floor. I wore Vasily’s scarf—

  borrowed to seek the syla on an afternoon that seemed farther away

  than Arkhangel’sk itself—wrapped around my nose and mouth to

  keep from being ill, but this tactic had failed too often for my cellmates’

  comfort.

  I tried to be inconspicuous, keeping to a corner with my head

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  down, but it was obvious to the other women I was Host and not

  Fallen. By turns they taunted me and speculated about who I might

  be and what I might have done. My lack of interest in what passed for

  food here helped. The others were less apt to accost me when I gave

  them my portions.

  “I’ve seen you before,” one of them insisted after I’d given her

  my supper. Bruises bloomed across one side of her face and she was

  missing a tooth. Like most of my cellmates, she wore rags that hadn’t

  been cleaned in some time, and I found it difficult to be near her. The circle of red fabric with its black, five-pointed star inside it decorated her collar—the pentacle badge I conspicuously lacked. I shook my

  head when she leaned closer, poking a finger at my chest. “You were

  at The Brimstone.”

  I turned away from her, but she pulled the scarf from my face. The

  demoness to my other side grabbed the cap from my head. A group of

  women argued over the scarf while I protested, reaching for it, but the first two had boxed me into the corner.

  “She’s one of them,” whispered the demoness. She stared at

  me almost hungrily. “See the eyes? The hair? It’s one of the grand

  duchesses!”

  “Impossible,” said the woman with the missing tooth. “They’re all

  dead. I tell you I saw her at the wingcasting tables.” The speculation caught the attention of the others around us, and they crowded closer.

  “I heard a rumor there were only three grand duchesses in the

  supernal vault,” said another woman. “The fourth stone is empty!”

  “I heard that too!” They reached for my hair, some touching it in

  awe and others yanking at it.

  I put my hands over my head. “Let me alone! I’m only Nastya.”

  “Nazkia!” The one who’d taken my cap gave a cry of triumph.

  “That’s her nickname! It is her! It’s Grand Duchess Anazakia!”

  “No! Let me alone!” I was growing dizzy from the tight space

  and the bodies pressed around me, and the stench of filth and waste.

  Someone jostled me, and I stumbled, pushed roughly by the woman I

  fell against. The commotion at last got the attention of the Ophanim

  outside the cell.

  “Silence!”

  THE FALLEN QUEEN 215

  The women cringed and fell back. One of them had grabbed my

  arm, and she shoved me away. I fell to my knees on the grimy floor.

  “It’s the lost grand duchess,” one of my cellmates said boldly.

  I felt the Ophan’s inquisitive, shifting stare upon me. He opened

  the cell and the other women pressed against the sides and into each

  other to avoid him, cursing and trampling one another’s feet. The

  Ophan ordered me to stand. I rose, swaying from dizziness.

  “Let me speak to the principality,” I said quietly.

  The Ophan’s shaking head set the room spinning around me. “The

  Seraphim will verify.” The Ophan pushed me toward the open gate.

  I managed to reach the corridor beyond before I collapsed.

  §

  I came to in a darkened room—small, empty, and mercifully

  cleaner than the holding cell. The only furnishing was the high marble table on which I lay. The door opened, and I covered my eyes against

  the Seraphim’s brightness. They entered and surrounded me.

  “Disrobe.”

  My head rang as though struck with an iron rod. I didn’t dare

  disobey lest the Seraph speak again. Unbuttoning my coat, I slipped

  down from the table to peel out of my jeans and T-shirt, and kicked off my ruined slippers.

  “All,” the Seraph insisted.

  I winced, but took off my underthings and dropped them with the

  rest.

  The Seraphim all began to talk at once, and yet not talking

  in words, but communicating with one another in a rush of hissing,

  crackling sounds while they moved around me. Their heat scorched

  with the heat of the sun on a summer afternoon at Lake Superna, but

  they didn’t touch.

  “On the table,” said the Seraph.

  I crawled onto the cold surface, a strange contrast from the

  radiation of their bodies. Shivering and sweating at once, I lay flat with my arms beside me.

  The door opened, admitting one of the Ophanim, and they

  conversed once more. The Ophan approached me and moved his

  hands across my flesh, evoking small convulsions of shock. I squeezed

  216 JANE KINDRED

  my eyes shut. He pressed and prodded, drawing his warm, electric

  hands over every part of my body, perhaps committing it to memory,

  or comparing it to a memory already stored. The Ophan even pressed

  his fingers into my mouth and examined my teeth, then pulled up

  my eyelids one at a time, causing me to cry out at the glare of the

  Seraphim. In a final, humiliating probe, he pressed his
fingers between my legs and felt deep inside me.

  I protested and tried to pull away, but a Seraph thrust his hand

  down on one of my thighs. The searing pain made me forget the other

  small discomfort, and I screamed.

  The Ophan pulled his hand out of me. “I will send for Her Supernal

  Majesty.” They left me lying on the table in the dark and locked the

  door, taking my garments with them. I clenched my fists at my sides

  against the pain in my thigh and became aware of a terrible need to

  urinate. I’d avoided the bucket in the holding cell. I rolled over onto my unburned leg, curled into a ball, and tried to ignore the urge.

  By the time the door opened again, I was gasping with pain. Light

  from a gas lamp blazed overhead, and I sat up, crossing my hands over

  my breasts.

  “Please,” I begged, not caring who it was. “I need a toilet.”

  “You will address the queen as Her Supernal Majesty,” ordered

  an angelic attendant. “You will neither look on Her Supernal Majesty

  nor address her without being bidden.”

  “Please,” I gasped again, but I could no longer hold it. A yellow

  pool spread across the marble beneath me and spattered on the floor

  while rustling fabric announced the queen’s entry. A dreadful silence

  fell, broken only the drip of my humiliation.

  “I see what you mean, dear Belphagor. She’s quite mad.”

  THE FALLEN QUEEN 217

  Dvadtsat Vtoroe: All In

  “Nenny.”

  The angel stared at Belphagor with eyes rimmed red with shame

  and narrowed with mistrust. His chest felt leaden.

  “Nenny.” The queen’s silver eyes danced. “How sweet.” Putting

  a gloved hand on his sleeve, she leaned in toward him and spoke in a

  loud whisper. “You didn’t tell Us the girl was incontinent.”

  “My queen,” he murmured. “Can we not give her some dignity

  and allow her to bathe and dress before you have audience with her?”

  Aeval gave him a warning look, and he knew any further advocating

  on the girl’s behalf would only make matters worse for her.

  The queen stepped closer to the table, carefully lifting her skirts

  to keep from soiling them. “We understand you are Our cousin

  Anazakia,” she said in a slow, deliberate tone. She glanced back at

  Belphagor. “Does she understand Us? Can you speak?” she asked the

  angel.

  “Yes, Your Supernal Majesty,” Anazakia replied.