The Catresou would use her against the Sisterhood, if they ever got the chance.
Stop hating my family and get down here, said Juliet, and Runajo clambered down the ladder. One of the revenants lunged forward, jaws snapping; Runajo ducked, and Juliet sliced its head off.
And then they ran. It felt like there was no strength left in her legs, but Runajo ran. And they were getting close to the stairs. They were nearly there, and they seemed to have outdistanced the revenants, which was strange but she wouldn’t complain—
Behind them came a long, low moan.
They both looked back.
Two reapers were running toward them with long, easy strides. Their limbs were harsh white against the shadows of the library; light glinted off their shiny gray beaks and claws.
They were just like the one that Juliet had killed up in the Cloister. And they were utterly different. The one in the Cloister had been nightmarishly out of place. The two reapers running toward them now were in their own kingdom. They moved like kings, and watching them, Runajo couldn’t move. She couldn’t quite be afraid, either. They were going to kill her because it was their nature. She was going to die, because that was hers.
They were close enough that she could see the tiny feathers sprouting from their necks. And then she realized that they had wings: great feathered wings that were made of shadow, or perhaps only indentations in the air. The wings pumped with a slow, enormous, inevitable motion, and Runajo could only stare in helpless fascination.
That was when Juliet picked her up bodily and threw her at the base of the stairs. With a horrifying dry crunch, she landed on one of the bodies.
It felt like her mind flashed white, unwilling to accept what had happened. A moment later she was on her feet, shaking off dry flakes of—
There wasn’t time to think about that.
“Juliet!” she called.
Juliet didn’t answer, because she was fighting two reapers. She was fighting them because she hadn’t run fast enough, because she was too busy saving Runajo. She wouldn’t survive, and Runajo was never going to forgive herself.
But then Juliet sliced off the leg of one and bolted toward the stairs. They were quick—even the one that was now missing a leg and had to run on its hands and foot—but they weren’t fast enough. Juliet vaulted onto the lowest step.
The reapers clawed at the air, their mouths stretched wide as they keened their love for death, and all around them the hissing of the hundreds of revenants rose up to the ceiling—
But the spells on the stairway held. The dry, withered corpses around her had not died in vain.
Juliet was bent over, gasping for breath, but after a moment she lifted her face and grinned at Runajo. It was the purest happiness she had ever seen on Juliet’s face.
“That was fun,” she said.
Runajo turned away. She was shaking. She felt obscurely angry at Juliet, and furious at herself.
“You nearly died,” she said as she started climbing the stairs.
“You shouldn’t have been so scared,” said Juliet.
Runajo rolled her eyes. Her heart was still pounding against her ribs. “I know, I know, you’re the fearsome Juliet. Forgive me for thinking even you might struggle against a horde of the dead.”
“Actually,” said Juliet, “I meant you shouldn’t have been scared, because I’m already dead. And going to die again, when you turn me in.”
“Of course,” Runajo said faintly, and tried not to think about that for the rest of the climb up.
22
“NOW,” SAID VAI. “WHAT DO you know about the Night Game?”
He had taken them into a small room off the side of the main hall. There were bright-blue designs painted on the wall, and a wooden desk at the center; Vai had perched on the edge of the desk and leaned back on his hands. The slant of his shoulders was relaxed, but his eyes never wavered from them.
Paris squared his shoulders. “First things first,” he said. “What are you doing with Tybalt?”
“Me?” said Vai. “I’m done with him. Two times over.”
“I mean his body,” said Paris. “He needs to be buried.” He was painfully aware of the scrapes he had gotten in the duel, of his humiliatingly bare face. Of the strength concealed in Vai’s lazy posture. But he couldn’t back down now.
“Doesn’t seem like burial agrees with him,” said Vai, grinning as if the desecration of the Catresou sepulcher was hilarious. To Vai, it probably was.
“Look,” said Paris, “I don’t know how much choice Tybalt had, getting mixed up in this. Maybe he did deserve to die twice. But he’s Catresou. He’s my kin. I have to see him properly buried. You have no idea what it means to us.”
Vai tilted his head, examining him. Paris stared right back.
“Please,” said Romeo, his voice soft and rough. “It really is important.”
“My men are already burning him,” said Vai, and now he wasn’t smiling. “If the necromancers could steal his body once, they could do it again. And raise him again. Trust me. There is no fate that’s worse.”
But there was. Tybalt’s name had been sealed to him by the Catresou magi, but if his body wasn’t properly buried, then he would never be able to find the Paths of Light. He would keep his mind, as the nameless, gibbering shades did not, but he would be forever lost in the darkness. That was the worst of all fates.
Vai would never believe him. And it was too late anyway.
“I’m sorry,” said Vai, and for once he didn’t sound mocking at all. “Truly. I know what it means to owe a duty to your kin.”
The worst thing was that Paris couldn’t hate him, because he truly seemed to mean it. He just wasn’t Catresou. So he couldn’t really understand.
Paris looked at Romeo. Please was the first word he’d spoken since Tybalt died. His shoulders were slightly hunched, his hands clenched into fists. His mind was completely walled off.
Romeo couldn’t have understood either. But he’d still pleaded.
“I would pay you blood money for him,” said Vai, “if I thought you were civilized enough to understand it. But I can help you track down the necromancers that made him one of the living dead.”
“Blood money?” Paris echoed, startled out of his horror.
“The custom of my people,” said Vai, “which no one else in Viyara understands. It’s very disappointing. Ever try telling the City Guard that you’ve paid off the family of the man you killed? They don’t care at all.”
Paris knew that a hundred peoples had ended up in the Lower City. He had never heard of this custom, but there was no reason to believe it didn’t exist. There was also every reason to believe that Vai was mocking him.
“Do you think killing people is a joke?” he asked.
“Not a bit,” said Vai, half smiling. “That’s why I’m going to hunt down and destroy the necromancers. How did you know Tybalt?”
Paris thought about demanding that Vai start making sense, and gave up on the idea. He did seem genuinely willing to help them, and that was more than Paris had hoped for.
“I didn’t know him,” said Paris. “He was out of the Academy before I entered. I only saw him a few times. But he was never . . . like that.”
Romeo sighed and straightened. “Even when he was killing Makari, he wasn’t like that. Something happened to him. Besides rising from the dead. The necromancers changed him.”
“Raising him was enough,” said Vai, and now his voice was grim. “No one ever told you? Necromancy can raise the souls of the dead back into their bodies. But it also makes them slaves to the ones who raised them. They cannot even think rebellion. I’ve seen them murder family without a second thought.”
It took Paris a moment to fully realize what Vai had said.
“How often does this happen?” he asked.
Vai’s mouth twisted. “Far too often. But not to anyone important enough for the City Guard to care.”
He spoke the words bitterly but easily, as if he w
ere talking about the number of beggars in the Lower City.
For a moment, Paris couldn’t speak. He wasn’t sure how many more of these revelations he could take. How large was this conspiracy? How much had Lord Catresou and Master Trelouno done?
How many living dead walked the streets of Viyara right now?
“Is that the Night Game?” said Romeo.
Vai spread his hands. “All right, tell me if you’ve heard this before. There are some people in the city who can grant your every wish, if your every wish is to have somebody brought back from the dead, and if you can bring somebody else as a sacrifice. They hold a grand party once a month, and at the end of the night, the guests turn over their sacrifices and draw lots. One lucky person gets a resurrection. The rest just get to know they helped support the Night Game for another month, and next time they may get better luck.”
“We’ve heard . . . part of that before,” said Romeo.
“But in any given month,” said Paris, “there can’t be that many people who are that desperate and that ruthless and have the means to obtain a sacrifice and know how to get into this party.”
“And there aren’t that many who want a resurrection each month,” Vai went on. “A lot of people attend just for the thrill. Dancing with necromancers is apparently quite exciting.”
“What was your offense against them?” asked Romeo.
“Apparently, even the donations aren’t enough,” said Vai. “Some previous Kings of Cats have helped pull people off the street for them. I said no. They were surprisingly slow to start the assassination attempts after that.”
Paris frowned. Now that the first daze of horror was fading, he was starting to have more questions. “I can see why they’d try to kill you. But all those other people that you say they’ve killed—why?”
“Offhand?” Vai raised his eyebrows. “Because they’re evil.”
“I mean, strategically, what’s the purpose?” said Paris. “However corrupt the Guard is, they don’t want necromancers infesting the city. You’re not the only one who’s met the living dead, right? And every time they’re seen, that’s a risk.”
As he spoke, Paris grew more confident. Because he knew about this: the nagging awareness that at any moment, with the least excuse, the City Guard might decide you were a problem. He had few memories of his mother before she died, but one of them was her telling him what to say if the Guard ever came to their door and accused them of being necromancers.
“You’re not all stupid,” said Vai. “They’ve been a lot bolder the past five years. I don’t know why, unless they’re experimenting. Preparing for some plan that can’t be too far from accomplished.” He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. “Which makes me very interested in what you two did to earn their undead fury. If they were willing to send a man publicly known to be dead after you, they must have been furious indeed. Please tell me you did something good.”
“No,” Romeo said bleakly. “I did something terrible.”
Wait, Paris said silently. You can’t tell him about that.
Don’t we have to? said Romeo.
We don’t know anything about him! How do we know he won’t sell us out to the City Guard?
He leads a gang, said Romeo. He’s probably not on speaking terms with the Guard. And do we have a choice?
“Does it have anything to do with the marks you have on your hands, which look strangely similar to the marks worn by the Juliet and her Guardian, and the way you stare at each other silently like you’re talking mind to mind?” Vai asked innocently.
They both flinched. “How could you—” Paris started, and then realized that speech had been a trap.
“I didn’t, but I’m good at guessing games,” said Vai, only a little smug. “And I’ve suspected that the Catresou were involved with the Night Game for a while. Of course I did some research.”
Paris decided it was time he faced the facts. They were far past the point where it was possible to avoid risks.
“It’s not all of us,” he said. “It’s Lord Catresou. He’s working with somebody called the Master Necromancer. And he was planning to use the Juliet for . . . something.”
He went on to tell Vai everything they knew. Vai listened and nodded and watched him, his dark eyes never flickering, and Paris felt uncomfortably like he was revealing more than he meant to. When Paris had finished, Vai was silent for a few moments, still watching with that terrifying directness.
“What worries me is Tybalt telling that girl they were going to be more powerful soon,” said Vai. “If the stories are true, the Night Game’s been running practically since the Ruining started. And all that time, they’ve had the power to raise the dead. What was going to change for them?”
“Juliet,” said Paris. “The adjurations and the training make it possible for her to survive magic that would kill anyone else. They must have been planning to use her for some sort of spell. That’s why Tybalt told that girl it would be soon. Because Juliet was nearly ready.”
“But a spell for what?” said Vai.
“Evil,” said Romeo.
“Obviously, yes, but there is a whole garden full of evil delights they could have chosen from. We need to know which one they picked.” Vai gave them a measuring look. “How do you feel about some burglary?”
23
PARIS HAD HOPED TO RETURN to the Catresou compound. With Juliet dead, there was nothing else for him to want. He hadn’t imagined it very clearly, but he had vaguely thought that once he exposed Lord Catresou and vindicated the rest of the clan, perhaps he would be able go home.
He had never imagined that he might creep in disguised as a servant, with the King of Cats at his side to help him burgle Lord Catresou, and Romeo’s silent voice in his mind.
“What’s your friend see?” Vai asked under his breath.
Anything? Paris called silently to Romeo. He was also lookout because Paris and Vai could pass for servants in the uniforms they’d obtained—Paris because he was Catresou, Vai because sometimes they did hire help from outside the clan. But nobody would ever believe a Mahyanai was a legitimate servant.
All quiet, said Romeo, and for a moment Paris could see through his eyes: the sloping roofs of the compound, the empty paths between the buildings.
“Nothing,” said Paris.
“Lovely,” said Vai. “Which way?”
Paris had not often been to Lord Catresou’s home, but most of the clan’s houses were laid out in a similar fashion. He knew that the corridor to the left probably led to the kitchen, and a memory burst upon him: sneaking into the kitchen as a little child, sitting in a corner among the warmth and clatter. The servants were willing to let him stay if he was good, and the cook would sometimes slip him treats. She’d been a kind woman; he still remembered her smile as she coached him in the proper way to make the sign against defilement before eating.
He’d been so proud, learning to make the sign right. He knew it was part of being Catresou, part of being good.
He would never quite be a proper Catresou again.
He squared his shoulders. “That way,” he said, pointing down the hall.
Above the door to Lord Catresou’s study was a carved wooden statue of Azu, the sixth god, who governed hearths and memories, food and children. He was portrayed as a chubby man, smiling happily at those beneath him; without thinking, Paris made the sign of reverence.
Vai cocked his head. “You worship the nine gods?”
Paris bristled. “Of course we do. We just don’t believe the lies you people tell about them.”
The Catresou alone knew the truth: that the gods were dead, yes, but not in any obscene ritual of sacrifice. At the beginning of time, they had walked the Paths of Light to show humanity the way. And they would never for an instant accept human sacrifice as worship.
“My people don’t tell lies about the nine,” said Vai. He knelt and slid a piece of wire into the lock on the door to the study. “Or truths, either. We don’t worship
them at all.”
“You can’t mean you’re like the Mahyanai,” said Paris. One clan denying the gods was surely enough.
Vai twisted the wire, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration, the tip of his tongue peeking out of his mouth. Then there was a click, and the door swung open. He stood and smiled at Paris in triumph.
“Oh, no,” he said. “My people, we save our reverence for our ancestors. I expect to have a shrine someday, with flowers and dancing girls.”
Paris rolled his eyes. “The City Guard would never allow that kind of blasphemy.”
“You’d be surprised how many things go on in this city that the City Guard don’t know about,” said Vai, and slipped into the study.
Paris followed him, and for a moment all he could see was memories. He’d met Juliet in this room. It had been just days ago, and it felt like forever, and now she was dead.
Tears prickled at his eyes, and then he realized that they were Romeo’s.
“I like the decorations,” said Vai, looking around at the tapestries and carved wooden paneling. “Maybe I’ll steal some for my shrine.” He reached toward the plaque on the wall, where zoura was written in burnished letters.
Paris grabbed his hand.
“Don’t,” he said. “That’s holy.”
Vai looked at him, and there was a sudden lack of mockery in his eyes. “All right,” he said quietly. “I won’t.”
Paris stared at him, waiting for the inevitable joke, wishing he had words to explain how much he could love his people while still trying to stop Lord Catresou.
But Vai didn’t say anything.
He did wiggle his fingers, and then Paris realized he was still holding Vai’s hand.
“Sorry,” he muttered, letting go.
Vai just grinned and turned to look around the room. “Right. If you were an evil Catresou, where would you hide your secrets?”
“I am Catresou, and we’re not all evil,” said Paris, going straight to the desk, which was the only logical place, except that it was also an extremely obvious and stupid place, and there was a reason that he had never managed to get his things back when Meros stole and hid them. “It’s just Lord Catresou.”
Bright Smoke, Cold Fire Page 20