Bright Smoke, Cold Fire

by Rosamund Hodge

  Right before them stood a man wearing a comparatively modest gold mask. He held out his hand and said, “Invitation?”

  Paris handed over the paper.

  “Sacrifice?” said the man.

  Trying to keep his face calm, Paris shoved Romeo forward.

  “And your wish?” asked the man.

  They’d worked out a story ahead of time, but now Paris couldn’t remember it, couldn’t even open his mouth.

  “My little sister,” said Vai. “We want her back.” And now he even sounded like a woman. He didn’t try to change the pitch of his voice, but he spoke so sweetly and demurely that even the low notes sounded feminine.

  “Perhaps you will be granted her.” He bowed. “Welcome to the Night Game.” He snapped his fingers, and another servant approached to lead Romeo away.

  They’re drugging the sacrifices, Paris said silently as he vanished around a corner. Don’t drink anything they give you.

  Well, Romeo said a few moments later, they didn’t manage to force it all down my throat.

  “Aren’t you going to dance with me, darling?” asked Vai, batting his eyelashes.

  “Right,” said Paris, and took her—no, his hand. Vai was not a woman, and if he wanted to survive this evening without utterly embarrassing himself, he had to keep that in mind.

  He had a really strong sensation that Romeo was silently laughing at him.

  Paris had never been terribly good at dancing, but this was a simple one, which he could do even while worrying about the lurking necromancers. Vai, of course, glided through the steps with perfect grace.

  “How do you know all this?” Paris demanded.

  “My sister,” Vai said cheerfully. “We had ambitions of rising in the world. So we taught each other to dance, and that meant learning both parts.”

  “And both wearing a dress?”

  “You’d be surprised how often that kind of disguise comes in handy.”

  “It’s . . . convincing,” Paris admitted.

  “To me it feels like I’m still dressed as a man, but that’s because the hair’s all wrong. Among my people, the women shave their heads.”

  “Who are your people?” asked Paris. Even in the Lower City, he’d never seen any women like that.

  “I’m Ozani,” Vai said, as easily and fluidly as he’d said all his lies.

  “I’ve never heard of them,” said Paris, though he supposed that wasn’t surprising. He didn’t know that much about the peoples who didn’t belong to the three high houses.

  “That’s because I’m the very last.” Vai singsonged the words as if he were teasing.

  “Except for your sister,” said Paris, dubiously.

  “Except for my sister, who doesn’t count because she is dead. And a woman. My mother and grandmother are still alive, but they can’t carry on the family name. I can, so let me know if you have any pretty cousins you need to marry off. Ready to dance casually toward those doors in the back?”

  “Right,” said Paris.

  They had to get some kind of useful information out of this evening before Romeo was slaughtered.

  They also had to get the other sacrifices out, but Paris was starting to doubt if it would be possible. When they’d talked over their plans ahead of time, they’d hoped that creating a commotion would be enough, but Romeo had seen the listless, dead-eyed stare of the men and women in the cage. They probably weren’t capable of running.

  The steps of the dance spun them around again—and Paris felt like his heart jumped in his chest, because sitting with one lady on his lap while another kissed his forehead was Meros.

  “What?” asked Vai.

  “My brother,” said Paris. “How can he be here? We stole his invitation!”

  “Well, he is altogether handsome,” said Vai after a moment. “From the nose down, anyway. Forget cousins, do you have any sisters?”

  “He might recognize me, stop babbling, and realize this is a disaster,” Paris whispered.

  “Stop craning your neck to look at him, it makes you obvious,” said Vai. “You’re wearing a mask in a great crowd of masked people. We can get past him.”

  Paris didn’t tell Vai that he and Meros were both Catresou, and used to recognizing people from only the nose down. He didn’t have to tell him, because at that moment Meros looked right at them and stood, dumping the girl off his lap.

  “You go,” said Vai, pushing him toward the doors at the edge of the room. “I’ll distract him.”

  Paris went, slipping through the crowd of people. Silently, he called out, Romeo?

  Yes? Romeo said after a moment. He sounded . . . muffled.

  Meros is here. We may need to run soon.

  Run, Romeo slurred, and yes, he was definitely drugged. This was not going to end well.

  The nearest doorway was hung with thick velvet curtains. Paris slipped through; suddenly the noise of music and chatter was muffled. He was in a narrow little hallway, dark and cool; there was light coming under the door near the end.

  And then he heard Lord Catresou’s voice. It was too muffled for him to make out the exact words, but he’d know those cadences anywhere.

  Paris crept closer. And closer. Right up to the door, and then he could finally make out the words.

  “—to see you again,” said Lord Catresou. “I’m sure you’ve already heard about our difficulty?”

  “Is that what you call your prize servant killing herself?” said someone else. It was another man; something about the tones of his voice seemed familiar, but Paris couldn’t place it.

  “I assure you,” said Lord Catresou, “we will be able to make another much sooner—”

  “We don’t need her anymore,” said the man. “I’ve found a new key.”

  An icy rush of dread spread up Paris’s back. This must be the Master Necromancer. This was the man who had plotted with Lord Catresou to unlock the doors of death.

  “And this one’s just a bit of bone, not a girl,” said the man. “It won’t give us any trouble.”

  “I see,” said Lord Catresou. “Do you want to use it tonight, as we planned?”

  “I see no reason to wait. And you, do you have the Little Lady ready?”

  “Of course,” said Lord Catresou.

  This was bad. This was worse than bad. They were going to destroy everything, tonight, and Paris wasn’t sure how to even begin stopping them.

  “Paris! It is you. You have gotten bold, haven’t you?”

  Hands grabbed Paris and spun him around, and then he was looking up into Meros’s face.

  “Quiet!” Paris whispered, trying to push him back down the passage.

  “No, no,” Meros went on, his voice loud and cheerful, “I’m not going to report you to Father. Not that he could do anything, now that you belong to Lord Catresou. I just want to congratulate you on finally becoming a man. That girl you had hanging off you is—”

  The door behind them opened. Paris wrenched himself out of Meros’s grip and bolted.

  Unfortunately, that was right when two guards came into the hallway from the ballroom. They knew what to do with people fleeing the Night Game in a panic; they seized Paris by the arms and held him.

  And then Lord Catresou emerged from the room where he had been talking. He took in the whole scene in a moment, and he let out a little breath of satisfaction.

  “Finally,” he said, and looked at Meros. “Did you catch him?”

  Meros looked at Paris.

  It was nothing that Paris would ever have expected: their eyes met, and for a moment he thought that maybe, maybe Meros was actually doubting himself.

  For one moment, he looked like the brother that Paris remembered from when they were all very little, and nobody had told Meros that he was clever yet.

  But then he smiled and said to Lord Catresou, “I believe I did. Though I’m still not sure what was the offense. Besides, of course, the obvious.”

  “Trespass,” said Lord Catresou. “And disobedience. I’ll belie
ve you didn’t help him if you leave now.”

  “Fair enough,” said Meros, and turned away. “Sorry, little brother.” He slapped Paris’s shoulder as he stepped past him. “This is for the good of the family.”

  “He’s betraying us,” said Paris, but Meros only kept walking. “He is going to destroy us all!” Paris shouted after him.

  Of course he didn’t listen. Meros never listened; Paris had no idea why it hurt so much to see him walk away. It was no surprise and no change.

  Then another pair of guards entered the hallway, dragging with them Vai, and Paris knew that they were truly doomed.

  “I admit I’m impressed that you got this far,” said Lord Catresou.

  The guards had dragged Vai and Paris into a small room that looked like it might be the laboratory of a magi—or an alchemist. There were books and papers piled high on the desk, along with complicated bronze instruments that Paris didn’t recognize. Vai and Paris were tied into chairs; Lord Catresou stood over them, looking down his nose.

  Paris didn’t say anything. He was trying to call silently to Romeo, but he got no response, only a vague sense of his presence somewhere nearby.

  He was also trying not to vomit in terror. Because he and Vai were tied up with nobody to save them, and any moment Lord Catresou was going to get tired of glaring, and then they would die. They would die, and the whole world would die with them, and Paris couldn’t stop remembering the old man turned into a revenant.

  “I’m impressed that you’re able to carry on a festival of this size without the whole city finding out,” said Vai, who was either not afraid at all or hiding it really well. “Just how many of the City Guard have you paid off, or did you just skip straight to killing them and bringing them back as puppets? And are you the one managing the Night Game, or are you just the favored guests? We have such a lot of things to talk about!”

  “Why do you want to open the gates of death?” Paris blurted.

  Lord Catresou sighed. “It’s amusing that you want to keep trying, but very soon it won’t matter what you two know. This is the end. As you are a child of our house, perhaps I’ll let you watch.”

  And then he turned and left them, which would be a marvelous opportunity to escape—except that they were tied up. In a locked room. With a guard outside.

  “We’re going to die,” said Paris.

  “Eventually,” said Vai, “but not right now.”

  The joke wasn’t funny when eventually meant tomorrow morning. Actually, the joke wasn’t funny anyway.

  “Did you not notice that we got captured?” Paris demanded.

  “Don’t worry,” said Vai. “I have a plan.”

  “Does it start with not being tied into a chair?” asked Paris. “Because that’s not very helpful.”

  “No.” Vai tugged at the ropes without looking the least bit concerned. “It starts with admitting that we can’t solve this problem.”

  “That’s just giving up,” said Paris, his heart sinking a little. Of course they were doomed, but it didn’t feel right for Vai to admit it.

  “Step two,” said Vai, “is getting us a problem we can solve. Normally that might involve a lot of shouting or setting things on fire, but I’m betting that if nothing else, we’re too useful as necromancy fodder to be left alone for long.”

  Paris wasn’t sure there was any point to saying, What do you mean, you are insane, all over again.

  Vai lifted his head. “Listen. Here comes our savior now.”

  The door opened, and Master Trelouno strode in.

  It was bizarre. Paris knew that Master Trelouno was a necromancer who was probably about to kill him, but his first reaction was shame that he was slouching in his chair. Posture was the foundation of dueling. Master Trelouno had told him so.

  “If you surrender now,” said Vai, “I’ll let you off easy. Otherwise, when we cross swords, you’re getting thrashed.”

  Master Trelouno stopped, his mouth pressing into a thin line under his red mustache. He looked at Vai as if he were a bug, and he was considering whether to squash him or pull his wings off.

  “You can’t possibly want to do this,” Paris said rapidly. “It’s against zoura. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Master Trelouno strode toward him, and Paris’s voice speeded up as he said, “It’s a betrayal of the Juliet. Of all our people. How can you—”

  His hand slapped across Paris’s face, hard, and for the next few moments Paris was blinking back tears, his nose stinging.

  “Don’t talk of what you can’t understand, boy,” said Master Trelouno.

  “Can you understand a challenge to a duel?” asked Vai. “Because I am really starting to wonder.”

  Master Trelouno turned to him languidly. “I am here to bleed you dry.”

  “You are here to fear me and tremble in my presence,” said Vai. “Unless you’re prepared to fight me. Then I’ll consider that you might be brave.”

  Master Trelouno’s breath hissed out between his teeth.

  “You can’t—” Paris started.

  “Be a good boy and shut up,” said Vai. “I’m trying to provoke this man into killing me. Death in battle, it’s the most honorable way to go, for my people.”

  “If you are not Catresou,” said Master Trelouno, looming over him, “then you have no name. And if you have no name, then you can have no honor.”

  “And yet I’m Vai dalr-Ahodin, King of Cats and captain of the Rooks, who is renowned for keeping every one of his promises. There isn’t a more honorable man in the Lower City, except for, oh, five or six men. But that’s not important right now. My point is, what do your people remember you for? And are you brave enough to fight me or not?”

  Master Trelouno’s mouth curled in scorn. “You want to fight me? Very well.”

  He raised a hand and muttered under his breath. The ropes tying Vai to the chair loosened and then slid to the ground. Vai stood.

  “This is insane,” Paris whispered.

  “This is a duel,” Vai whispered back. “Pretend that I’ve already defeated the best of your clan in a fair fight. Oh, wait. I have.”

  “He’s a necromancer!”

  “That’s not the same thing as a champion with a sword, and anyway, we had no chance of escaping when we were tied up. Now we just have a very, very small chance, right?”

  Master Trelouno tossed a knife at him. “Think you can beat me with this, boy?”

  Vai grinned and saluted. “I know I can.”

  29

  “THAT WAS A TERRIBLE PLAN,” said Paris.

  Vai snorted. Paris could feel the puff of breath against his neck, because Vai had an arm thrown over his shoulders and was leaning rather heavily on him. Because Vai had gotten sliced in the side with a knife that Paris highly suspected was poisoned.

  “It worked, didn’t it?” he said.

  It had worked. And really, it was Paris’s fault that Vai was injured, because when Vai’s sword was at Master Trelouno’s throat, Paris had blurted, Don’t kill him.

  He wasn’t even sure why he’d said it. Master Trelouno was a traitor, murderer, and necromancer. Paris had been sure that he no longer thought of him as a teacher. And yet he’d been afraid when he thought he would die.

  Probably Master Trelouno would have pulled out the knife whatever happened, but if Paris hadn’t distracted Vai, maybe he would have dodged. Now Vai was injured. He had still managed to knock out Master Trelouno, and Paris had gotten them out of the house, but they hadn’t been able to save Romeo.

  “Not your fault,” Vai mumbled, and Paris tried to raise the walls around his mind before he remembered that this wasn’t Romeo. Vai hadn’t read his thoughts, he’d just guessed them.

  “Romeo’s still in there,” Paris said bitterly. “As soon as Lord Catresou gets a look at his face—”

  He hadn’t been able to sense him at all, since they escaped the house. Would he even feel it, if Romeo died?

  “Sorry,” Vai muttered, and it just made every
thing worse because he did sound sorry, and he had gotten them out of that house against all odds. And as the only person not drugged out of his mind or seriously injured, it had really been Paris’s decision not to go after Romeo.

  It was the logical decision. Paris couldn’t possibly have carried both Romeo and Vai out, even if Romeo hadn’t been caged right in the middle of the ballroom. It made much more sense to get out and get help.

  Paris had spent all his life afraid of failing, but none of that was remotely as horrible as the sick, endless waves of fear that were rolling over him now.

  If Romeo died tonight, it would be all his fault.

  If he and Vai didn’t do something, everyone would die. Everyone.

  When they finally reached Justiran’s house, Vai was barely conscious. Paris was terrified that Justiran would be asleep and impossible to wake, but there was a light inside. He only had to pound on the door once before Justiran pulled it open.

  “Help,” was all Paris could manage to say.

  Luckily, Justiran was more than equal to the occasion. He helped carry Vai inside and lay him on the table.

  “I think it was poisoned,” said Paris. “The knife.” Vai had collapsed so fast, even though there hadn’t been a lot of blood.

  “It’s going to be all right,” said Justiran. “Get me that box on the third shelf.” As Paris went to the shelf, he added, “I’m afraid I’ll have to cut her dress open.”

  Paris was confused for a moment before he realized that Justiran had only met Vai once before, and obviously didn’t recognize him through the disguise.

  “It’s all right,” he said, picking up the box and turning around. “Actually—”

  And then stopped. Because Justiran hadn’t wasted any time; he had sliced Vai’s bodice right down the front.

  And it was suddenly very obvious that Vai had been so good at looking like a girl because Vai was, in fact, a girl.

  After one moment of staring in surprise, Paris whirled away to look at the wall, his face burning. I suppose that explains a few things, he thought numbly.

  “You can look now,” said Justiran after a moment, sounding faintly amused. “I covered her up.”