Authors: Sarah Monette
That tiny bedroom was as a cage, and I was as the captive cougar. I could not leave the room without someone to guide me, and there was no one who would do so. Murtagh was gone much of the time; I gathered from the bits and fragments I overheard that the po liti cal situation was not nearly so straightforward as he had tried to convince me to believe. The servants were polite and efficient and unhelpful. Tinder told me that His Grace thought it best if I stayed out of sight. And I even understood. For if I was in truth a “hero of the Insurgence,” surely it was to everyone’s benefit to keep me out of the public eye, away from the witless bees who would swarm to any rising, whether queen or drone or vicious cannibal wasp. But I was caged, and I did hate it.
Tinder must have spoken to Murtagh, for that eve ning there was a tap on the door and Murtagh’s voice saying, “I hear that you are near- mad with boredom.”
“Even an I would, I cannot deny it,” I said. I had explored every inch of that tiny, barren bedroom— and certainly I had profited thereby, for I had found a path which I could pace and at least channel some of the energy for which I had no use. But it was not enough.
“Then perhaps you will condescend to talk to me,” Murtagh said. I heard him come in and shut the door behind him.
“
Condescend?
Your Grace, I—”
“For the love of the Lady, don’t
start
,” Murtagh said and startled me so much I nearly bit my tongue. “You are the most arrogant, intolerant, self- righteous son of a bitch I have ever met, but I like that better than when you try to crawl. Humility does not suit you, my lord of Rothmarlin.”
“But I am
not
lord of Rothmarlin. Not any longer.”
“Does that mean you’re no longer yourself?” Murtagh asked; he sounded intrigued. He walked through my pacing as neatly as a girl skipping rope, and I knew by the creak that he’d sat down on the bed.
“Means I must learn to be someone else. Is not fitting for a dependent of the Duke of Murtagh to put on the same airs as the Margrave of Rothmarlin.”
“What about the Warden of Grimglass?”
“What?”
“The Warden of Grimglass,” he repeated, enunciating distinctly.
“You wish me to marry his widow. I remember. But is no heir?”
“There is a boy of seven. And while he is certainly the previous warden’s heir, the question of his guardianship has been ugly and protracted and wellnigh insoluble.”
“The previous warden left no will?”
“The previous warden, if you will permit my saying so, was an idiot. His ‘will’ consists of a letter written to his wife a few days before he died— on campaign in Blandamere, if you were wondering—”
“I wasn’t.”
“A letter to his wife saying that he trusted she and his three brothers would ‘work something out.’ ”
I considered that from one wall to the opposite. “ ‘Idiot’ is perhaps too kind a word?”
“Well, I never met the man, so I try to be generous. But he certainly displayed a complete lack of understanding of either his wife or any of his brothers. One of them is a naval man and has no time for administering the estate, even if he could be reached for consultation more than once or twice an indiction. The other two, however, are ambitious and apparently have been at each other’s throats since the cradle, and the widow . . .”
“The one you want me to marry.”
“Yes, he has only the one widow,” Murtagh said a trifle waspishly. “The widow is a spoilt bitch, but very clever. And of a grasping disposition.”
“Your concern for my future happiness unmans me,” said I.
“She’s a po liti cal creature. I don’t think she’ll give you any trouble, especially if you consent to let her live at least part of the indiction in Esmer. She is much too cosmopolitan for the far west.”
“You sound as if you know her?”
“Distant cousin,” Murtagh said. “She was Vanessa Carey before her marriage.”
“Have not actually answered my question,” I observed.
“And now I remember why my chief emotion in the weeks leading up to my wedding was the desire to strangle you,” Murtagh said amiably. “Yes, I know Vanessa. My aunt Evelina sponsored her.”
“Your aunt Evelina who was at daggers- drawn with Isobel from the moment they laid eyes on each other?”
“That very one.”
I paced my circuit twice before I said, “You came up with this plan very quickly. Have you spent many of your leisure moments in the past three indictions contemplating my marriage?”
Silence for another two circuits. Murtagh said, “The night after the news reached Esmer, I got no sleep. Your sister was as near hysterical as I have ever seen her. Every newspaper in the northern duchies was baying for your blood, and we actually gave thanks to the Lady that Thomas Albern is an ambitious, petty- minded, vengeful fool, for it meant that he would not have you hanged out of hand. I knew I could convince the Convocation that with Hume’s death, you were no longer a threat, but only if I could tell them what I would do with you— we hear about the Primrose Men in Esmer, you know. I thought very very fast.”
“I am rebuked,” I said.
“You are a stiff- necked idiot,” Murtagh said, and I wondered if I could trust that that was fondness I heard in his voice. “But I actually wanted to ask you about something else.”
“I am at Your Grace’s disposal.”
“Clara Hume.”
“Lady give me strength. What about her?”
“Is she as witless as she seems?”
“Very nearly. What has she done?”
“She’s cozying up to Glimmering in the most inexplicable way imaginable. The rumor is she’s going to make him the prince’s guardian. If she’s not going to raise his banner and fight on.”
“She can’t.”
“Which?”
“Either. But she can’t make anyone Charles’s guardian. She has not the power.”
“You know this for a fact?”
“Yes. Gerrard’s will, which I witnessed, gives Charles’s guardianship to Quithenrick.”
“Clever. Did Quithenrick agree?”
“Gerrard was fostered in Quithenrick for a couple of indictions. He and the current margrave were very close as boys— Quithenrick’s refusal to become
po liti cally
entangled had nothing to do with his personal feelings. And Gerrard knew that if he . . . if something went wrong, Charles was going to need safety more than po liti cal vantage.”
“And the princess?”
“Knows this perfectly well. Gerrard made no secret of his arrangements, and she agreed to them.”
Murtagh made a noise eloquent of frustration, and I couldn’t help grinning. “Yes,” I said. “Clara is like that.”
“Witless little
rabbit
,” said he. “Have you any guess where Charles is now?”
“She didn’t bring him?”
“Apparently, even Clara Hume isn’t
that
stupid. She’s being very coy about it, and it’s making everyone ner vous.”
I understood. If Clara had entrusted Charles to someone who intended to use him as a figurehead— which she was certainly pudding- witted enough to do— then the Insurgence might break out again at any time. Would make anyone uneasy. “Is the Margravess of Hornhast in her train still?”
“Hornhast . . . Hornhast . . . No, I don’t think so.”
“Then I am fair certain that Charles is on his way to Quithenrick, if not already there. Hornhast and his lady were both very much in Gerrard’s counsels.”
“It would be a tremendous relief if that were true,” said Murtagh. “None of us wants to figure in the press as an infanticide, and with the way the princess has been talking, it was beginning to look as if we would have no choice.”
I sighed and rubbed my face. “She doesn’t understand. Is all a story to her— colored clouds like those witless novels she devours by the hundredweight. She saw herself as Gerrard’s true love, and then as the Queen of Caloxa, and now am sure she sees herself as the brave and beautiful widow, tragic but undefeated.”
“Oh dear,” said Murtagh. “Precisely,” said I.
When I came up out of my trance, the wash- leather bag was lying on my chest; I had one hand over it as if it were precious. I sat up and shook the rubies out into my palm, just to be sure. All ten of them were there, dark and greasy and loathsome.
A hard shudder ran through me, almost a cramp. I had carried these stones in my pocket for months, worrying— obsessing—about what their influence might do to the Mirador and to the people around me, but I hadn’t ever stopped to wonder about what they were doing to
me
.
Now I was wondering. I felt the mikkary clouding around them, and I thought about the terrible, stupid, self- destructive things I’d done over the past two years. I’d worried about Malkar’s ghost haunting me, but I hadn’t understood that in a way he already was. I’d carried the rubies, and I’d become more and more like the creature Malkar had tried to make me— more and more like Malkar himself.
Cold and sick, I dumped the rubies back in their bag. I had no more idea now than I had ever had of how to get rid of them safely, and I could not bear to look at them any longer. I hid them in the wardrobe, in the toe of one of Mildmay’s boots. I would have to come up with somewhere better, but it was foolish to pretend he was going to need those boots anytime soon.
Mildmay was increasingly restless all afternoon, and I was reluctant to leave him to go to Crysolomon’s. But I still couldn’t see any other choice, much less a better one. I woke him up and told him I was going out, and he seemed to understand me. I hoped.
When I came back, a full banshee richer, he was awake. “Where you been?”
“Out,” I said. I didn’t want to have this conversation now— or ever, for preference.
He squinted at me. “You ain’t been down in the Arcane again, have you? ’Cause you’re gonna get yourself killed down there.”
It felt like my heart was trying to beat sideways out of my chest. “No,” I said, although my voice was thin and much too high. “I haven’t been in the Arcane.”
“Okay. Good.” And while I was still dithering about whether I should try to make him understand we weren’t in Mélusine, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
I slept badly myself; I wanted to go back to the Khloïdanikos, but I couldn’t ask Thamuris to bring me in again, and I was afraid of calling up my construct- Mélusine and finding it was still choked with briars. Or burning. Or both. Finally, toward dawn, I fell into a heavier, sodden sleep, from which I awoke with an almost physical jerk to find Mildmay standing at the window.
“What are you doing out of bed?”
He glanced over his shoulder at me and said, “Something’s burning.”
“Something nearby?”
“Dunno.” He looked out the window again. “Could be.”
“Are you saying you think we’re in danger?” I joined him at the window, but there was nothing to see except the late morning clouds over Cattamery Road.
“Nah. I don’t think . . .” He looked up at me, frowning, then looked around the room. “Where’s Mavortian?”
Mavortian von Heber was dead and had been for years. I called witchlight to get a better look at Mildmay’s face, which made him snarl, an ugly animal expression. But I could see the fever burning in his eyes.
“Mildmay,” I said as gently, as firmly as I could, “you’d better go back to bed.” I reached for his shoulder, meaning to guide him, but he ducked my hand and, faster than I would have thought someone so sick could move, lunged for the door.
I hadn’t locked it, being more afraid of fire than theft. He clawed it open and was out and away, slamming it behind him before I’d even fully realized he was intending to run.
And I had no idea what had spooked him. He wasn’t touch- phobic at all, and when he’d been sick before, he’d even seemed grateful when Gideon or I had touched him. I remembered Gideon had rubbed Mildmay’s back when he’d started to get muscle cramps from coughing, and Mildmay had relaxed into his touch like a cat.
Well, maybe it was just me. He’d never had to be afraid that Gideon would rape him, after all. I dragged my trousers on, shoved my feet into my boots, grabbed Mildmay’s coat, and went in pursuit.
I nearly barreled into Corbie on the landing; she looked badly startled. “Was that . . . ?”
“Yes,” I said grimly. “Up or down?”
“Up.”
“Thank you. You can go in and wait. It shouldn’t take me long to find him.”
“Are you kidding? Let me help.” She turned to accompany me up the stairs. “Where’s he going?”
“I wish I knew. He’s delirious. He thinks he’s back in Mélusine. What
is
that burning, by the way?”
“Some sort of demonstration in St. Melior. For Rothmarlin. They’re burning the Convocation in effigy.”
We came out on the roof, where it was drizzling and cold. There was no immediate sign of Mildmay among the chimneys and steep stair steps of the surrounding roofs. I could feel panic rising up like a fist in my chest, and this time I didn’t hesitate to use the obligation d’âme. “This way.”
“How d’you know?” Corbie said, trotting after me.
“I know how Mildmay thinks,” I said, lying through my teeth. I could feel his fever and fear and confusion.
We climbed from one roof to the next. I mentally practiced for encounters with irate roof own ers: a lost kitten would make a good story if Corbie played along. Corbie herself continued to talk about Rothmarlin and the Insurgence. I was surprised to find she was both well informed about and distinctly sympathetic to the Caloxan cause. “I don’t suppose they ever really had a chance,” she said sadly. “It was only because Rothmarlin and Benallery and Hornhast knew what they were doing that they lasted as long as they did. Well, that and Prince Gerrard being able to charm the dead out of their graves. But then Hornhast was killed at Subry two months ago, and Prince Gerrard and Benallery and all the rest of them went off to Howrack, and they all died there. Except Rothmarlin, poor man, and I swear I believe death would have been kinder.”
“They all
died
? Just like that? You mean a suicide pact?”
“No, nothing like that.” She seemed a little offended on the dead prince’s behalf. “The papers didn’t have any details. But they tried to work some kind of spell to save Caloxa, and it went wrong somehow.”
“Were any of them wizards?”
“No. But for the old magic, you didn’t always have to be, my gran said.”
“How—” Disturbing, I would have said, but just then I saw him. “Oh, thank goodness. There he is.” Mildmay had climbed an old and crumbling collection of chimney stacks and tucked himself in among them very like the lost kitten I had contemplated pretending he was.
“Lumme,” Corbie said. “He’s shivering something awful. And how’d he get up there?”
“He was trained as a cat burglar when he was your age,” I said absently. “Stay here. I’m going to go get a blanket. See if you can get him to talk to you.”
“But what do I— Felix!”
I moved as quickly as I could, but I was nevertheless relieved to come back and find Corbie still there, however uncomfortable she looked. “I did like you said and tried to talk to him, but I don’t think he even heard me. I didn’t get anything out of him.”
“You wouldn’t anyway,” I said. “Did he look at you?”
“Yeah. Watched me the whole time, actually, which was really kind of spooky— meaning no disrespect to your brother, but—”
“Corbie,” I said.
“I know, I know. Shut up.”
“You kept him here,” I said. “That’s all I wanted.”
Mildmay watched me with an unwavering stare as I approached.
“Mildmay,” I said, when I’d come as close as I thought he’d tolerate.
“I ain’t going back,” he said.
“Going back to what?” I said.
“Oh fuck you. You know what I mean. She’ll skin me alive.”
I didn’t know what he meant, but that
she
gave me a pretty good guess. “You don’t have to go back to her,” I said.
That made him laugh, but it was a terrible noise, even before it degenerated into a cough. “And what the fuck else am I gonna do?” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. “Can’t fucking go straight no more. Not after—”
“Mildmay,” I said sharply, aware of Corbie behind me, listening.
He frowned at me, clearly struggling to make sense of what he was seeing. “Felix?”
“Yes,” I said. “You don’t have to go back to her. I’ll take care of you.”
If he’d been himself, he would probably have hurt himself laughing; I knew as well as he did that the pattern of our relationship was markedly the reverse. But he blinked at me, still frowning, and I saw something he usually tried to keep hidden. “Promise?”
“Yes,” I said, and I hated Kolkhis of Britomart in that moment almost as much as I hated myself. “I promise.”
He thought about it; I could see pain shading into exhaustion as he squeezed his eyes closed. Then he said, “Okay,” and climbed down, which he did as if it were as simple and unthinking a matter as going down a flight of stairs. I held my breath, waiting for his lame leg to give way, but it didn’t, not until he reached the roof and started toward me. Then he staggered, and for once in my life I moved fast enough. I caught him. He was clammy, hot with fever, and shivering. I tucked the blanket around him as best I could.
“Corbie, will you go for Practitioner Druce, please? Have her meet us back at the Fiddler’s Fox?”
“Felix, you can’t—” But she saw the look on my face and interrupted herself: “I’m going.” She flicked across the roofs as quickly as an alley cat herself. Mildmay and I went much more slowly.
It was three- quarters of an hour before Corbie showed up again. “She’s coming,” Corbie said as she closed the door behind her, “but she has somebody else she has to see first. I said I thought that was all right.”
“Yes,” I said. I’d gotten Mildmay back into bed in a dry nightshirt and a towel on the pillow for his hair, and he seemed to be resting more or less comfortably. “That’s fine, thank you.”
She waved off my thanks and walked over to the window. I stayed where I was by Mildmay; if he was going to try anything like this again, I wanted to know
before
he got out of bed.
“Felix?” said Corbie.
“Yes?”
“I, um. Don’t take this the wrong way or nothing, and I’ll understand if you say no, I mean, there’s a reason I didn’t bring it up in the first place, but with having Practitioner Druce in again and everything, I’m thinking maybe you—”
“Corbie.”
“Right, right.” She nodded sharply, but didn’t turn around. “If you want— and like I said, if you don’t, it’s fine— I can get you more, um,
involved
clients.”
The first thing that registered was that she’d said “clients” instead of “fish” as she usually did. “ ‘Involved’ meaning what, exactly?”
“Well, remember how I said flames and shadows is the Black and White’s business?”
“Vividly. I know it’s hard, Corbie, but could you get to the point?”
“I am!” she said indignantly. “Because, see, that’s only partly true.”
“Which part was a lie, then?”
She turned far enough to glare at me. “If you could stop being an asshole for a second, I’ll tell you.”
I waved a hand at her. “Pray continue.”
She glared at me a moment longer, then went on: “The thing is, it’s only true for fish who go to the brothels. If you hire a jezebel to come to a hotel room or a private house or something— not just picking them up in a bar, I mean, but you make an
appointment
— Chastity wants their cut, but that’s all, and you can charge more if you do that— like a lot more. But you gotta
do
more.”
I quashed a brief, reprehensible desire to cata logue for her just how extensive my repertoire of “more” was. “When you say I can charge more, how
much
more?”
“Minimum for a shadow is a banshee a go. And they say flames tip like mad bastards if you do a good job.”
The math was absurdly simple. “I’ll do it.”
“Felix, are you sure? I mean—”
“Quite sure.”
“It’s not an every night kind of thing,” she said warningly. “No, I realize that. It’s a specialization.” In Mélusine, it was also a culture; establishments like the Two- Headed Beast were successful precisely because they offered more than just a safely anonymous place to have sex. Bernatha did not seem to have a similar culture, and I could not decide whether I thought that was fortunate or unfortunate.
“Yeah, all right then.” She pinned an escaping curl back into place. “Look, you ain’t gonna have time for magic lessons today.” She made a face. “Lumme, listen to me. ‘Magic lessons.’ But what I mean is, why don’t I clear out? I can start putting the word out about the shadow thing, and we can just pick up again tomorrow. All right?”
“Corbie,” I said, “does Practitioner Druce make you ner vous?”
“Nah,” she said instantly. I raised an eyebrow at her. “Yeah, fine, you caught me. She scares the ever- living shit out of me, are you satisfied?”
“Go on,” I said. “I’ll see you to night.” And she went like a firework.
Practitioner Druce was concerned but not, it seemed to me, truly alarmed, which was reassuring. “Pleuriny is a dreadfully tenacious illness,” she told me, “and your brother’s lungs . . . well, once vi has stagnated in a par tic u lar part of the body, it’s likely to do so again and more per sis tent ly. A kind of metaphysical scarring, if you will.” She redirected his vi again and left a series of neat packets of herbs to help with the material congestion. She charged me another half saint, and I gave her the one banshee I had to show good faith.
I hoped Corbie found me a more “involved” client soon.
And I was more than a little surprised when she did.
The next day, she showed up at noon practically crowing with delight. “I got you one,” she said, almost before she was in the room. “I got you one, and you can charge the fucking
moon
if you want to.”
“Oh?” I said.
“The Duke of Murtagh.” She dropped down beside me on the cot.
The Duke of Murtagh featured prominently in the papers these days, having eclipsed the Duke of Glimmering almost immediately upon his arrival. Since his first act had been to remove Kay Brightmore, the former Margrave of Rothmarlin, from the Hall of the Seven Virtues, I was disposed to like him, but Bernathan opinion was decidedly mixed. “He’s a flame?”
“Apparently. He’s looking for a male shadow, anyway, and he won’t go to the Black and White. Too much attention, and he does have a wife. So you’re it.”
“I won’t be, um, stepping on anybody’s toes?”
“Nobody’s toes to step on. The Black and White recruits pretty hard.” “Okay,” I said. I could do this. “When?”
“To night, at the Althammara. At the start of the cereus watches: twentytwo o’clock. You’ll be staying all night.”
“All night?” I looked over at the other bed, where Mildmay was sleeping. “Corbie, I’m not sure I can—”
“I can sit with him. If you want.”
“All right.” I took a deep breath, released it slowly. “In the meantime, let’s talk about color and why I’ve been making you learn the wheel.”
She was a very good student that afternoon, although I had the lowering suspicion that she was being attentive more for my sake than her own. I tried to hide my ner vous ness, knowing it was both futile and ridiculous. But I hadn’t worked formally as a martyr since Malkar bought me— Malkar was a tarquin beyond any possible doubt, but he had no use for the rituals and rules by which Mélusinien tarquins and martyrs played their games. And I hadn’t submitted to anyone— not voluntarily anyway— since Shannon. Except for Isaac Garamond, and that had been something else entirely, and uglier.
Corbie’s shift at her brothel, the Brocade Mouse, was from six till midnight; I gave her our second room key when she left, then bathed carefully, tying my hair back while it was still wet, and chose the most reputable of my very limited wardrobe.
Corbie had drawn me a map showing the way from the Fiddler’s Fox to the Althammara with a little fox to mark the Fiddler’s Fox and an elaborate seven- pointed star to mark the Althammara. There was a clock face to show the Clock Palace and enough other landmarks that I thought I’d even be able to find my way back home in the morning.
I left the Fiddler’s Fox early, just in case, and I took a dose of hecate before I left. I reached the Althammara at quarter of ten, fifteen minutes before the start of what the Corambins called the cereus watches. I gathered my courage and went up to the desk. “I have an appointment with the Duke of Murtagh.”