Dropping her napkin onto her plate, Sibylla stood to address the queen. “Your royal majesty, might I be excused?”
“Run along, Sibet.” The queen waved her off without looking up from her ham. Clearly Sibylla’s meager status hadn’t changed among the royal family, and none of the Khalishkan dignitaries paid her any mind. Only Lady Esther, with her gloating smile, observed her exit.
A pang of uncertainty over Lady Esther’s words now lodged between head throbs. The emperor had not attended breakfast, and though Sibylla herself often skipped morning meals, she wondered whether his absence had to do with her behavior the previous day, or merely implied that the ministers had finally settled on the price of Highspits blue cheese.
Under the guise of being useful, Sibylla summoned the steward to prepare a wheeled cart of breakfast delicacies for Emperor Timur. She carefully selected her favorite biscuits – spiced orange and burnt caramel, and a lemon leek pancake drizzled with thyme syrup. She’d barely slept that night, recalling the emperor’s scent, redolent of a larch forest, and the speed at which he placed a sword to Roger’s throat. Neither could she forget Roger’s eyes as he reached for her hand, and the smell of gin on his breath when she squeezed past him on the stairs. If she could repeat yesterday, she’d have foregone the medical district and Roger’s grimy garret in favor of curiosities at Marlowe’s Menagerie. But such time-bending magic didn’t exist in this world, and now she had to face the consequences of her sizeable misjudgment.
Sibylla carried a silver teapot while the steward wheeled the breakfast cart up a ramp built to accommodate private meal deliveries. They continued to the wing where the higher Khalishkan dignitaries had been housed. The furniture here was more expensive, curated to impress visitors. Tapestries of seascapes covered the walls, illustrating The Prison of the Lobster Prince and other tales from Myrcnian lore.
As they neared the emperor’s chambers, Sibylla’s nerves betrayed her and a glow crept up her fingers, glinting off the silver teapot. She tightened her grip on the linen napkin she held over the teapot’s spout so the hot water wouldn’t slosh onto the carpet.
“I’ll handle the cart from here, thank you.” She set the teapot next to the biscuits and smoothed her skirts.
The steward looked half-ready to argue, but, glancing at her glowing skin, he reconsidered. “Ma’am.” He bowed and hurried away.
Sibylla hesitated before the bedroom door, inventing an explanation for why a Myrcnian princess might know the Greyanchor Strangler. She also needed to convey gratitude to the emperor for keeping silent over her associations, and then somehow convince him she was still a worthy marriage partner. A hysterical laugh escaped her lips. Her head was a mess. Resting her back against the door, she stared headlong at Old Claude.
The suit of armor stood watch from across the hall. Its helmet of polished steel neighbored a painting of a rosy-cheeked young woman in a red gown, her hair woven through with gold laurels. As Sibylla studied the woman’s eyes, she suddenly recognized her aunt – a shapely, smooth-faced Lady Esther from decades ago. An ermine stole draped over one gauzy sleeve, and behind her, a mirrored reflection of a bespectacled figure in heavy brown coat. So even this circus-like image of Lady Esther juggling globes of blue water like round rubber balls would be witness to her failures now.
At least it wasn’t the woman herself. Sibylla rapped on the door with trembling knuckles and held her breath. She wasn’t sure she wanted the emperor to answer. When the door did open, she started.
“Harrod?” Her brow scrunched in confusion.
Over his shoulder sat the emperor along with Mr Maokin and a figure obscured by Harrod’s chest. None looked up from their discussion, but the older minister tapped his middle two fingers against the table where a series of documents lay.
With a quarter half-turn, Harrod bowed to the emperor. “Your imperial majesty,” he uttered before pushing Sibylla back into the hallway. He shut the door behind him and sighed – the color drained from his face.
“Why were you meeting with the emperor? And what were they discussing? Are you here because of Roger?”
“Roger?” Harrod regained his bearings and waved her questions off. “Security arrangements for tomorrow’s Royal Heritage Ball.”
“Since when does a naval captain with the Ordnance Board discuss security?”
“Ceremonial concerns. Order of the Kraken and all that.” His jaw clenched. “Let’s discuss this elsewhere.” He offered his arm to lead her down the corridor.
“But what about the emperor’s breakfast?” Sibylla gestured toward the silver domes.
“Easily cared for.” Harrod flagged down a passing footman who dared glower his way, and left the breakfast in the confused man’s custody.
Out of habit, Sibylla tugged Harrod closer, despite her residual anger over his recent wrongdoings. “Did the emperor say anything?” she pressed. “You look ill.”
Harrod rubbed the side of his ear. “Your highness’ tongue-lashings pack a wallop worse than McCleary’s left hook.”
“If you’re expecting an apology…”
He shook his head. “I deserved worse.”
Sibylla hated the stab of sympathy he evoked from her. “I shouldn’t have done that to you. I blame Roger for getting me brined up. Here I’m saving him from dying a miserable death, yet when I see him, he offers only insults. After he abandoned me, I always assumed he’d make something of himself, but he’s gone terribly wrong – hasn’t he? My blood still boils when I think of that insolent smirk.”
“We’re of the same mind there,” said Harrod. “But I’m afraid time is running short. His probation period is up, and your highness must make a final decision about his future forthwith.”
They entered a high-ceilinged atrium where a cluster of ministers and foreign delegates discussed policy and culture beneath the domed glass and gray Caligo sky.
“Then you still believe he’s innocent,” said Sibylla, straightening the Kraken medal on Harrod’s chest. “You may not have lied as blatantly as your brother, but you did hide the truth. And now you’ve foisted Roger upon me. I never knew you to be so soft.”
Harrod clasped her hands in view of all. It wasn’t like him to ignore their surroundings. “I’m doing all I can. By the Merciful Mother, I’d have done more if it were in my power. Unfortunately, yours was the only such authority at my disposal.”
“Authority?” Sibylla scoffed. The last few days hadn’t made her feel rife with command. “If you need the dinner menu changed, I’m certainly capable. Beyond that, I’m about as effective as a paper boat in a hurricane.”
“Not in this case.” Harrod squeezed her fingers. “He’s alive because of that mark on his neck. And if he doesn’t complete the Binding, he’ll be returned to Old Grim and hanged by the archbishop, as per the terms of his probation. You know as well as I: without a patron, his contract is void.” Harrod straightened. “But perhaps it’s for the best.”
“Don’t pretend you think I’d let Roger hang. I only wish you’d have come clean to me before I signed that contract.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Maybe Edgar would have taken him. He loves acquiring my former belongings.”
Harrod grimaced. “The poor sap. He’s much better off with you. But your ink, as they say, has been spilt.”
Sibylla longed for the magic to conjure a lovely flame under the seat of Harrod’s breeches. A Straybound Binding was worse than the countless archaic rituals she’d been forced to attend, and required more participation than merely a long afternoon coughing on incense in a darkened church. Afterward, Roger would remain by her side until she breathed her last, and then he’d follow her unto death. The idea of his daily maintenance wrung her chest. But her feelings didn’t matter now, and neither did his. She would commit to the ritual and spare his life, whether they both regretted it or not.
“So you do consent to have him hanged?” Harrod sounded so chipper she nearly believed he meant it. Nearly.
“Why waste good
arrangements?”
“Then we’ll meet at your personal chapel at the cathedral of St Myrtle the Chased in…” He consulted his watch fob. “…in two hours.” He pressed her hand to his mouth. “Your highness.”
A disapproving murmur rose above the gurgling fountain. Sibylla exhaled through her teeth. Very well. Taking a Straybound came at a cost, and she would suffer it. Roger might not have her power or privilege, but he could still be useful to society, and to her. If she had to toe the line, then so did he.
28
The hired cab hit a bump, jostling Roger against his brother. His skin glowed pink from a chilly morning bath and a fresh shave, yet his mind remained clouded by nerves and a lack of sleep. He wore only a plain, freshly-pressed shirt and breeches, and he shivered in his state of undress, wishing Dawson hadn’t reclaimed his loaned waistcoat and hat. Harrod leaned on the window as if he could whip the horses faster with his glare. Every few seconds, a flurry of instructions fell from his lips, too fast for Roger to keep up.
“Speak only when spoken to. Cast your eyes downward, follow all instructions to the letter, kneel when you are told, and for the love of Queen Mildred keep your titles straight. Archbishop Tittlebury of Cropspin is ‘your grace’ and her highness is ‘your merciful highness’, emphasis on the merciful. Can you remember that, Roger? The cathedral of St Myrtle is just ahead. Are you even listening?”
In fact, Roger had been silently agonizing over how he might still escape his Binding. “It’s not too late, Harrod.” He deliberately dropped his brother’s title to stoke some flame of fraternal empathy. “I know more about the real Strangler now than I did before. We might still convince the archbishop I don’t deserve this. You’re better with that ritual legal tosh than me. You have clout. You’re a Kraken. They might listen to you, if you’ll just listen to me.”
“It’s the law that’s placed you here.” Harrod sighed. “Once Archbishop Tittlebury commuted your sentence, you’d never stand trial again. There is no higher authority than the Queen’s Exalted Bench, and divine interventions are never overturned. Even if this… strangler you’re so sure exists were to walk into the church and confess on his knees, you would still be guilty of his crimes. I can’t make it any simpler for you. Now, as I’ve done everything in my power to help you, you might agree that keeping your manhood intact, along with your neck, is a reasonable trade for the mere clipping of your wings.”
Roger sat fuming in silence. Harrod was determined to see this through, and if his own brother wouldn’t help him, the list of those who still could was a short one indeed.
Harrod then explained how Roger should exit the carriage with his palms facing upward. “A mere formality.” He’d repeated the phrase many times in the last quarter-hour. Each time, a feeling of dread twisted Roger’s entrails like the hand of an overeager medical student. “A mere formality” was also how he described the pair of robed men with truncheons and masks styled like blindfolds who looked on as Roger descended from the cab. Likewise, the braided silk noose placed over Roger’s head, which Harrod deemed “purely symbolic.”
“You are a murderer in the eyes of the law,” Harrod reminded him as he escorted Roger up the stairs of St Myrtle’s. The main entrance had been barred to the public, but a robed acolyte admitted them with a deferential bow. Inside the vestibule, the acolyte bound Roger’s eyes with a red silk sash.
“What are you lot? Bricklayers?” Roger protested.
Harrod thwacked him on the skull with his palm before handing him off to the acolyte, who guided him further into the cathedral. The air smelled of incense and snuffed candles. The acolyte must have worn soft slippers for his feet made no sound. Roger’s own footsteps clunked in a nave so massive it took several seconds for the echo to return. Unless Harrod had slipped off his boots and accompanied them barefoot, he had remained behind.
“Kneel, Straybound, before Her Precious Blood.”
“You have the wrong man,” Roger shouted. His voice echoed loudly in his ears. “If only you’d give me one more day–”
A blast of incense smoke into his mouth silenced him, and strong arms forced him to his knees. Soft lips brushed his forehead, and then a thumb traced the symbol of the Blood Line along his brow.
“The officer charged with your probation, one Captain Starkley, has deemed you of sufficient humility and compliance to face the Rite of Binding. What say you?”
He could see nothing through his blindfold, nor could he tell how many stood around him. This time Roger chose more diplomatic phrasing. “I am her merciful highness’ to command.” A shudder ran through him.
He remembered his brief time as a palace footman. Seventeen year-old Sibet had returned late from an evening romp in the royal gardens, soaking from an unexpected summer storm. He’d ruined his livery unbuttoning her mud-caked boots. As she stifled a fit of giggles, he hoisted the barefoot princess into his arms and carried her up the stairs to her chambers. Her maid had gone to bed, so he peeled the sodden wrap from her shoulders and unhooked her dress to prevent her catching cold. With an impish grin, he cast aside his mud-stained coat. How unfair that he had glimpsed her petticoats – she must pull off his shirt and then they’d be even. She had never seen a shirtless man before and made him turn in a circle. That image of her shivering in a pale, otherworldly glow had not faded with the years.
Now the archbishop clipped those memories short. “Accept Her Exalted Highness as your savior in all things, give Her your mind and body so that you may be cleansed. Confess now to your criminal deeds and wipe clean the slate of your ruined soul.”
Roger cared little for the faerie magic of souls. Hundreds of dissections had failed to produce even the tiniest gauzy remnant, nor had he glimpsed the fabled golden orb floating skyward from a deathbed – not even his mother’s. The tip of a blade pricked the back of his skull, held by a steady hand. Now seemed a bad time to protest his fitness for some secret religious order.
“You can tell her worshipfulness that I’m every bit the horror she imagines.” Bull-headed honesty was all Roger had left. He let the words fall bitterly off his tongue. “I traffic in corpses. I visit doxies. I pose as a man of science without legal license; I act and dress above my rightful station; I let folks take advantage of my labor; I spend faster than I earn. I’ve disgraced the only girl I ever loved and abandoned the only child to rely on me. I’m too quick to trust, and too easy to buy.” He paused, “And I kissed Dorinda by the ash, by my own choosing. Tell her that, as she’s waited years to hear me admit it. For all these things, I’m sorry.” Behind him, the knife-holder cleared their throat. Did that mean he was meant to confess to that Smith woman’s murder? “As I’m honest in my way, I resist feeling shamed by my way of life. But let her mercifulness know that I am not nor never will be a murderer. That I swear by my own neck.”
Light filtered through his blindfold, creating a red glow.
“Ah, but we are only as others perceive us to be,” replied the archbishop. “Even if your inner slate were clean – and it certainly is not – your surface is forever stained. Remember it well, Straybound, as you go forth into your mercifully lengthened life, should you be humble enough to receive Her blessing.”
The steady hand removed the dagger from his neck, and Roger bowed his head in silence. He didn’t feel bewitched. Was that all? A confession and he was free to go? It seemed an impractical method for dealing with pardoned murderers. Perhaps the archbishop believed in his innocence and chose to be lenient after all.
“The Straybound will now be born anew.” Archbishop Tittlebury’s voice reverberated off the cathedral’s high ceilings.
Strong hands lifted Roger to his feet as someone ripped the blindfold from his eyes. He stood in one of the side chapels of St Myrtle’s, cluttered with dripping red candles and their ornate fixtures. Set in an alcove, a statue of the princess in crown, veil, and halo gazed upward at the stained glass rose windows – or perhaps she was rolling her eyes in contempt. Then the real Princes
s Sibylla crossed in front of him to stand before the jeweled monstrance containing her blood. She brandished a golden dagger in one hand.
“Bugger me sideways,” he said. The archbishop gave a scornful hiss and Roger corrected himself. “I mean… your merciful highness.”
Coolly, she returned his gaze. “Ironically, there is a distinct lack of mercy in most Myrcnian tradition. I shall try to make this as painless as I can. We have both suffered enough, I think.” She nodded to the archbishop. “I am ready.”
Archbishop Tittlebury kissed his fingertips and waved them in the air. “To be reborn a Straybound, you must first die a man.”
One of the guards tied Roger’s hands behind his back while the other yanked the “symbolic” noose so tight he choked. They dragged him backward to a massive column and knotted it to a ring on the end of a longer rope that hung from a hook jutting from the stone, about ten feet high.
Roger tried to shout, but he couldn’t breathe. To his horror, the men began to haul on the rope, forcing him onto his tiptoes. The silk cut into his jaw. While Sibet struggled to push a gold-colored stepladder to the base of the column, his toes left the ground.
The archbishop began to chant in Old Myrcnian. Roger, swinging a foot above the ground, recognized it as a dirge sung by mourners during funeral possessions. Horror cloaked him like a hood and he thrashed, fighting for air that would not come. He was going to die.
“I, Sibylla Celia Ingrid Muir of Alabeth, daughter of Prince Henry Leopold Louis Muir of Alabeth…”
The Resurrectionist of Caligo Page 28
