by Kat Ross
Fury clenched her gloved hands, but it was directed mostly at herself. Tessaria was right. Some part of Kasia had suspected, but she needed the money and more than that, she needed Tessaria’s protection. So she hadn’t asked any of the obvious questions, such as why a retired vestal was permitted to live in opulence outside the Arx.
Kasia couldn’t exactly claim the high road. It became a habit to indulge in juicy gossip whenever she went to No. 7 Lesnoy Prospect. A wicked game of kiss-and-tell. Except that she’d always believed Tessaria to be the soul of discretion.
Keeping secrets is easy. It’s the people you tell who can’t keep their fogging mouths shut.
“Don’t take it so hard,” Tessaria said with a note of sympathy. “They keep files on everyone. It’s just the way things are done. I don’t think the archbishop uses half the dirt he digs up.”
“He just holds it as leverage,” Kasia said flatly.
She fell silent as they passed a pair of knights in the blue and gold livery of the Pontifex’s guard, both young, stern-faced women with swords at their hips. Tessaria nodded politely. Nashka gave the knights an appraising glance, earning a grin from the taller one. She was an incorrigible flirt and remorseless rake, with a trail of broken hearts littered across Novostopol, male and female. Kasia couldn’t blame them for falling so hard. She loved Natalya madly herself, though only as a sister, thank the Saints.
The gardens spread over several acres. White-pebbled pathways meandered between clumps of arrow-wood, pepperbush and black chokeberry. When the knights turned a corner, Tessaria rounded on Kasia.
“Do you know how many refugees from Bal Kirith and Bal Agnar flooded the city during the war?” she demanded.
“I’ve no idea,” Kasia said sullenly.
“Thousands. Most were just desperate to escape the atrocities being committed in the Morho, but some were infiltrators for the mages. Not all had Nightmarks. Our enemies were smarter than that. It was impossible to weed out every nihilim sympathizer and the Pontifex refused to turn people back at the gates.”
“So?”
“They sabotaged the telephone and electric lines. Set off bombs in crowded areas. One of the hydro dams was nearly blown to bits. Thousands would have died in the flood. It was only thanks to information gathered by Archbishop Kireyev that the plot was discovered in time.” Tessaria’s tone softened. “I know you don’t remember any of it. You hadn’t been born yet. But I do. They were dark days, Kasia. If trading in secrets helps keep us all safe, it’s a small price to pay.”
“I understand that.” Up ahead, Nashka had her nose pressed to a bush heavy with white blooms. She disliked confrontation, preferring the jest and quick getaway. “But don’t you think the net is being cast rather wide? None of my clients has any history of treason. The opposite!”
“Perhaps, but they all wield power of a sort. Look at Ferran Massot. He wore a mask of respectability, and the man beneath it was a monster who nearly . . . .” Tessaria cut off.
“Nearly what?”
The older woman gave her a level look. “You have a way with people. Can you honestly claim that if you had given Massot readings before he Turned, you wouldn’t have suspected anything was amiss?”
“You still should have told me. Given me a choice.”
“And what would you have done? Refused to work? Or simply learned to guard your tongue?”
Kasia stared at her, silent and seething.
“Our race used to be beasts,” Tessaria said softly. “Far worse, actually. Women with black eyes. Children with broken bones. Suicide and murder. Poverty and famine. Now crime is nonexistent. No mouth goes hungry. No hand is raised in anger. Nature is revered and respected. The mages forced us to fight, but it will be the Last War.” Zealous passion lit her eyes. “None of us has a choice, Kiska. We serve the archbishop because he serves the Via Sancta. Our salvation. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you will be at peace.”
Her words were nearly identical to Cardinal Falke’s.
Kasia regarded her mentor. The woman she loved as a mother. The woman she would die for in a heartbeat. “You always told me I didn’t need Marks. That failing the tests didn’t matter because my heart was true. You taught me to listen to the voice of conscience. To use logic in determining right from wrong if the answer didn’t come instinctively.”
Tessaria’s gloved fingers curled around Kasia’s. Tears shone in her eyes. “And I meant every word, darling. You’re all I ever dreamt you could be and more.”
“What if my conscience won’t allow me to inform on people I’ve grown fond of, and who have done me no wrong?”
Tessaria had the grace not to look away. “If you refuse to cooperate, your true records will be made public. There’s nothing I can do about that.”
Kasia was eleven when Tessaria found her sleeping under the Montmoray Bridge. She’d been living on her own for weeks, hiding during the day and creeping out at night to steal scraps from the bins behind the cafes. At first she’d been wary of the Oprichniki patrols, but she eventually realized that her mother hadn’t even reported her missing.
“Will you give me time to think about it?”
“Of course, darling.”
The rain began again, a steady downpour. Tessaria unfurled her umbrella. “I must go meet with some of the vestals,” she said. “Old acquaintances.”
Nashka hurried back down the path, ducking beneath Kasia’s umbrella. She smelled like flowers. “Guess our sunny day is over,” she said glumly. “Though it’s not as if the sun actually came out. Will it ever again, do you think?”
Tessaria poked her with the tip of her own umbrella. “You’re slouching.”
Natalya sighed and stood up straight. Her hair brushed the top of the black fabric.
“I’ll look in on you both later. Do stay out of trouble until then.” Tessaria leaned in. “I’ve ordered fresh clothes from the flat. They’ll be delivered to your rooms. Please change into something less suitable for a nightclub.”
Natalya gave her a little salute. “Yes, general.”
“And you.” Tessaria’s black eyes speared Kasia. “Stay away from Bryce.”
Kasia feigned outrage. “What makes you think—”
“Just stay away.” Each word was punctuated with a stab of the umbrella. Tessaria strode for the Castel Saint Agathe, her step swift and lithe. As soon as Tessaria was gone, Nashka looked at her. “You okay?”
“I’m mad.”
“Can’t blame you.”
“Aren’t you mad?”
“Yes, but I always kind of wondered why she set us up with all those toffs. Didn’t you?”
“Tessaria wanted to make me complicit, to make me one of them, but I’m not and never will be.” She sighed. “Of course, if I don’t play along, we’re both finished.”
“A moral dilemma, eh?” Nashka said sardonically. “They should put it on their fogging test.”
“I wish I had some whiskey.”
Natalya glanced around. “Has to be a pub around here somewhere.”
Kasia blew out a breath. The rain thickened.
“Whatever you decide, I’ll support you,” Nashka said.
“Thanks.”
“I mean literally support you. I’ve been doing portraits on the side, you know? It’s starting to pick up. Word of mouth.” She brightened. “Hey, we could get married.”
“I’d rather be your mistress. If I’m your wife, you’ll get bored of me inside a month.”
“Give me more credit,” Nashka protested. “I’d last six weeks at least.”
Kasia slung an arm around her waist. “What if we run away together? Take a tour of the north.”
“I’ve always wanted to see Nantwich. The museums have all kinds of Dark Age stuff. Plus kilometers of catacombs you can explore. I hear the original Praefators are buried down there.”
“Sounds lovely.”
Natalya laughed. “You have no appreciation of history.”
“I’m sorry,
but the Meliora is one of the most tedious volumes ever written. If it isn’t, let lightning strike me down right now.” She gazed up at the heavy skies over the Arx. Nashka grinned and shuffled back a step or two. “See? I don’t give a fig for the Praefators. But I’d go to Nantwich for the chips and beer.”
The heavens burst open at that moment, sending both women dashing back to the Castel Saint Agathe, their peals of laughter attracting a stern glare of reproval from an elderly vestal that went entirely unheeded.
* * *
The Pontifex. The Knight. The Martyr. The Hierophant. And the Fool.
Kasia stared at the cards. Those were the key players—they’d come up again and again—but she needed more to understand how they fit together.
She closed her eyes and drew three more cards. One by one, she turned them over.
Winged Justice.
The Hanged Man.
The High Priestess, reversed.
She sat back, studying the spread.
The first signified truth as well as justice. The Hanged Man meant sacrifice. The High Priestess governed the sacred feminine, intuition and daring. Reversed, it meant secrets.
The message was clear. Fra Bryce needed her help, though whether she would give it to him remained to be seen.
As Tessaria promised, two chars had lugged a steamer trunk to her chamber, packed with clothes and toiletries from the flat. Kasia changed into a tightly fitted gray chalk-stripe suit with short, peaked lapels. She wound her hair into a chignon, tucked it under a fedora, and applied bright red lipstick. Then she departed the Castel Saint Agathe, heels cracking like gunshots on the stone.
No one tried to stop her. They would if she tried to pass the Dacian Gate—of that, Kasia had no doubt—but it seemed she had free rein to walk the grounds. Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. She stopped a tour guide with a class of noisy schoolchildren and asked for directions to the Offices of the Interfectorem.
The Tower of Saint Dima sat apart in a lightly wooded area. It had crenellations and high, pointed windows in the style of the First Dark Age. Green moss carpeted the lower two stories. A car was parked in front. Two burly priests leaned on the hood, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes.
“Good morning, Fathers,” Kasia said with a bright smile. “I’m looking for Fra Spassov. He’s my uncle.”
They eyed her curiously. “He’s off duty, but he should be in his room. Fourth floor.”
Kasia climbed the winding tower stairs. The oaken door at the third level had been sealed off with yellow tape and a notice warning that it was under the jurisdiction of the Office of the General Directorate. She tried the knob anyway. Locked. Kasia continued up another flight and knocked at the door. “Fra Spassov?”
Silence.
“It’s Kasia Novak.”
A thump and clatter. “Just a minute!”
It was more like five, but the door finally opened. Spassov looked scruffy and bleary-eyed though the hour was nearly eleven. Even so, he would have been precisely her type. Older and a bit battered yet still appealing, like a rescue dog that occasionally bit people but was quite sweet the rest of the time.
“Domina Novak, what are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry to intrude, but I need to talk to you.”
A hastily made bed sat against one wall. The rest of the chamber was more like an office, with a desk positioned next to the window. It held a typewriter, telephone and stacks of paperwork. An overflowing ashtray. He must have hidden the bottles, but she could smell wine on his breath.
“Have you seen Fra Bryce?” she asked.
“Last night.”
“How is he?”
The priest’s eyes were guarded. “Alive.”
Spassov did not invite her inside, so Kasia stood in the doorway, gloved hands folded in front of her. “Do you believe he’s innocent?”
“I know he is.”
“How?”
“Because Alexei is not capable of such an act, nor did he have any reason to want Ferran Massot dead.”
“Were you there?”
He frowned. “This is an open investigation. I’m not at liberty to discuss the details with you.”
“I want to help him if I can.” She paused. “I think I know who’s behind all this.”
Spassov regarded her with a glint of hope. “Do you have proof?”
“No.”
His face fell. “Then I don’t see how you can help him.”
“If I do nothing, he’s as good as dead,” she said evenly. “We both know it.”
Spassov rubbed the cleft in his chin, then folded his arms in an unfriendly manner. “Why are you here, Domina Novak?”
“I want to see him.”
“It’s impossible.”
“You’ve visited him,” she pointed out. “So it is possible.”
“What do you hope to accomplish?”
“I want him to tell me himself that he’s innocent. I want to see his face.”
Spassov’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Or maybe you just want to gloat. Alexei said he ruined your life and that you must hate him for it.”
“I don’t hate him,” she said. “And he hasn’t ruined my life. But before I do that myself, I want to see him.”
He produced a cigarette from his rumpled cassock. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
Spassov lit the cigarette and blew a stream of smoke in the direction of the window. “Let’s pretend I spent the night toasting Alexei and I’m a little slow this morning. Explain it as you would to a child, eh, Domina Novak?”
“I don’t have physical proof of his innocence, not yet, but I might be able to get it.” She smiled. “What do you have to lose?”
He smoked, saying nothing.
“Alexei was right, by the way. I did lie to you both.” She held his weary gaze. “I’m Unmarked, Fra Spassov. I passed with the help of a friend inside the Curia.”
A thick eyebrow rose slightly. “So you’re a con artist with antisocial personality disorder. Is that supposed to make me trust you?”
“No, but I have dirt on Cardinal Falke. Enough to merit an investigation, assuming his superiors aren’t in on it, too.”
“Dmitry Falke has only one superior.”
The Pontifex.
“That’s the gamble,” Kasia said. “And I’m willing to roll the dice, but only if he tells me himself that he didn’t do it. So what will it be, Fra Spassov? Will you arrest me for impersonating an upright citizen or will you take me to Alexei?”
Spassov ground the cigarette into an ashtray. “I could get in big trouble.”
“Bigger than the trouble he’s in now?”
“Okay.” He studied her. “You’re his little sister. I’ll vouch for you. But if you’re playing with me, I’ll tear your life apart.” His face hardened. “And I’m a thousand times worse than Alyosha.”
* * *
They left the Tower of Saint Dima beneath leaden skies. The rain had paused but looked ready to return in buckets at any moment. Above the dome of the Pontifex’s Palace, a flock of starlings wheeled in complex patterns. Priests and vestals strode along the pathways, going about the mundane business of the Curia, while tour groups in rain ponchos consulted waterproof maps of the Arx, debating their next stop.
If there was indeed some dark conspiracy afoot, Kasia saw no sign of it.
“Where are they holding him?” she asked. “I didn’t know the Arx had a prison.”
“Officially, we don’t,” Spassov replied. “Miscreants are taken to the city jail on Uralskaya Ulitsa. But the OGD keeps a few cells for political prisoners.”
She glanced at him. “Nihilim.”
Spassov nodded. “They haven’t been used in years.”
He lumbered up the walkway to the red-brick Curia Press building, Kasia hurrying to follow. They entered through double doors and Spassov strode into a maze of offices where priests and vestals labored away in the Eastern Curia’s publishing division. She was just starti
ng to wonder if his alcoholism had induced early dementia when he opened an unmarked door. Stairs led to a basement storage area with pulpy stacks of moldering pamphlets. At the far end, yet another unmarked door gave on a narrow downward-sloping tunnel. He lit a candle. A cold draft made the flame waver.
Kasia peered into the inky darkness. “Are you serious?”
“The Arx sits atop the old city. There are many forgotten ways to the cells.” Spassov gazed at her blandly. “Unless you’d prefer to walk into General Directorate and ask them for a hall pass?”
Kasia laughed. “Lead on, Father.”
They walked in silence for a while, his candle bobbing in the darkness.
“Where was Massot murdered?” she asked.
“At the Batavia Institute.”
“The same night you came to my house?”
“No, it was the next morning, after we took your statement. I got a call that Massot’s sedative had worn off. We returned to the Institute to question him about the Nightmark. We had reason to believe the mage was still in the city.”
“Malach,” she said softly. “I met him.”
Kasia heard the distant echo of dripping water, but no other sound besides their footsteps. She wondered how deep underground they had come. If the candle went out, would they ever find their way out again? She took her hat off and wiped sweat from her brow.
“How exactly did Massot die? Are you sure it wasn’t suicide?”
Spassov glanced over his shoulder. “Someone cut his throat while he was in restraints.”
“Ah.”
He shook his head. “Cold-blooded. That’s not Alyosha.”
“Cardinal Falke told me a witness saw him assault Massot minutes before. Is it true?”
Spassov sighed. “The doctor said disgusting things about you. Alyosha lost his head.”
She felt oddly touched. “Then what?”
“I pulled him off before he could do any real damage. He calmed down and apologized. I went outside for a smoke. The next thing I knew, Alexei came running around the corner. He said he’d seen the killers, caught them in the act. Two men. They climbed the wall and got away.”