“What about you?”
There were running feet coming towards the Bridge of Headless Women.
“Go! Now!” Genevieve said.
Elianor ran. Smoke poured down the steps from the pub cellar. A Queen’s Guard came coughing out into the sewer, a colleague, clearly dead from a blow to the head, slumped over her shoulder. No way back into the pub now. But Elianor was long past them, deeper into the sewer network. She ducked right before the guard could look up. Another tunnel. She took the first ladder upwards.
Elianor emerged onto the street of Lost Time. She knew exactly where she was.
Chapter 10
They stood frozen in the audience chamber of Shadowgate Manor. The Warden raised its mailed fist and pointed straight at Elianor. A deep moan rose from inside the armour. Elianor reached for her sword, but it was far too late.
“Hush now, silly old thing,” Lena said. “What are you doing sitting back here?”
The old woman fussed over the death machine, easing it back into its chair as its heavy armour heaved and strained. Lena pulled the sheet over its knees as if it were an elderly relative sitting too far from the fire. At last, it lowered its pointed finger, and with both hands dragged the sheet back over its head, a corpse waiting for its own funeral.
Elianor had to swallow sufficient spit to speak.
“What is wrong with your Warden?”
“He’s always been like that,” Persephone said. “It’s sad, really. A functioning Warden might help us with the Black Dog.”
“A Warden in Durançon is more than enough,” Anton said.
The door at the side of the dais burst open. Out strode an elderly man dressed in military uniform, a yellow tabard over chainmail. These were the colours of House Carada, the colours of Elianor’s master, the colours worn by the soldiers who had beaten back the last Kindred incursion. It was both an implicit declaration of loyalty and an affectation become immodest with time. Remember, the colours belched, I am the man that slew a Kindred Prince in single combat: Arbalest Vile.
Vile wore his white hair long and straight, a style at least years out of fashion, and he walked as if he were late to the parade ground. At his side was his second son: young and handsome, taller than his father and bursting with vitality. He wore leather trousers and a light shirt, a cord drawing it only partially closed across his chest. A longsword was buckled comfortably at his side. Arbalest Vile’s hand rested on the young man’s shoulder. It was hard to tell if he pushed him forward or held him back. They had brought an argument in with them from outside.
“Will you at least let Persephone take a patrol to the watchtower?”
“Persephone can speak for herself,” Senator Vile snapped. “She certainly strives to be man enough.”
“Lord Arbalest Vile,” announced Lena, as if she were speaking to a crowd of people. She left the Warden to his doze and went to whisper in Vile’s ear. The younger brother jumped from the stage and crossed the room in a dozen swift strides.
“Nathaniel Vile, at your service,” he said, bowing to Elianor then taking her proffered hand. He turned the handshake upwards and kissed her fingers. “Father, may I take the liberty of introducing the honourable Elianor Paine, last scion of the House of Paine and Magistrate of the Peace.”
As Nathaniel spoke Elianor saw Persephone stiffen. Had she objected to the title, or was Elianor not the only one to take umbrage at Nathaniel’s liberties? Senator Vile settled into his throne, grimacing as he sought a comfortable way to sit.
“Welcome to Shadowgate,” the Senator said. “I understand you have a message for me?”
Arbalest Vile, on his throne, the demon-slaying sword arranged above him. This would be awkward. Almost nothing she was about to say was entirely true.
“Senator Vile,” Elianor began, “my master, Théophile Carada, requests your presence in the capital. I was sent to impress upon you the importance that you, or your representative, come directly. He asks this in the name of the friendship his late brother bore for you, and the loyalty you owe the Queen. Finally, he bade me deliver this letter to you and make myself available to answer any questions, either now or on the return journey to Lutense.”
She took the envelope from her satchel and held it out with all the guilty fear of a forger. Vile shifted in his seat, his left eyebrow raised higher than the right, then briskly straightened his sleeves.
“Furthermore,” Elianor said, letting the word hang in the air. “For as long as I am here, I will lend what assistance I can to further ongoing investigations. I understand women have been going missing from the town.”
“We will come to that,” he said, waving away the letter without inviting her forward. “What is so important that Lord Carada would ask me to abandon my post as guardian against the West?”
“A vote in the Senate. Two weeks from now.”
She heard Anton stifle a laugh. Elianor allowed no emotion to show on her face. Her master had made it very clear he would judge her fidelity based on her ability to bring Senator Vile back to the capital. But nobody could doubt her loyalty if she failed the mission by pushing too hard for its success. And then, how could she be said to have failed if she brought back another Vile, even a Vile more sympathetic to her own agenda?
“Théophile has never asked that I come to the Senate to vote before.”
Elianor nodded and replaced the letter in her satchel. Her fingers brushed the book of law.
“Senate Republicans have forwarded a motion that any future Royal marriage be approved by vote. Furthermore, that the Senate, and not the rule of primogeniture, should determine succession.”
“I see,” Arbalest said, but leaned back to allow Lena to whisper in his ear.
Tannyr Brek shuffled behind his chair. “Primogeniture?”
Elianor did not bother to disguise her sneer. “The right of the firstborn son to inherent their parent’s estate: in this case, the throne of Trist. The motion calls for the heir to be chosen democratically.”
“Such a vote could never pass.” Persephone made a fist as she spoke.
“My master considered it likely enough that he sent me here,” Elianor said to Senator Vile, as if it were he that had spoken.
“And for this you risked the Black Dog?” Anton said, turning from the embers to face the room. “A vote on a pointless law?”
This was the problem with provincials, Elianor thought. They complained that politics was distant and unimportant, and then they starved after they elected idiots who collapsed the economy or dragged them into war. This vote would permanently change the country, one way or another. Anton; fat, sweaty Anton, was probably still thinking about where he could find something more to eat.
“Such a law would utterly undermine the throne,” Nathaniel said. “Revolution is the only possible outcome.”
“If there is a vote of no confidence and a new election,” Elianor said, watching Nathaniel for his reaction, “a Republican majority would seek to eject the Wardens.”
“And the North will overrun us in a weekend,” Anton said.
Now I understand, Elianor thought. Anton is a beaten dog. He lost the war, then came running back to Shadowgate with his tail between his legs. That is why he stood by the fire. To stay as far as possible from the Warden. He doesn’t believe the North can be beaten. To him, a new revolution is akin to suicide.
“Enough!” Vile had looked up when his youngest son Nathaniel interjected, and still looked at Nathaniel as he spoke. “Too many fought and died to return the Queen to the throne. The Royal line must be preserved.”
There was a lie somewhere in that, but, despite her Magistrate’s training, Elianor could not tell where.
The Truthsense was not something well understood by the public at large. This was because most people struggle to distinguish between objective and subjective truth. An objective truth is a fact, and facts are immutable. Something is either objectively true or it is not: there is no in-between, there is no room for opinion. Subjective truth, how
ever, is personal, a truth constructed from within, based upon one’s own thoughts, feelings and observations. Some people felt that this made all subjective truths inherently valid. Elianor thought this proved most people were simply too stupid for truth.
A mere moment’s empirical observation, and perhaps a little reflection, would make it obvious that the Truthsense did not detect objective truth. If the Magistrates could determine fact merely by asking, they could stand in front of the mirror and say, “lavender drops cure cholera” or “the earth is flat”, detect if it were objectively true, and keep on going until all of reality was revealed. The Magistry could build technologies to rival the North, build mechanical ships and flying machines, by asking any old idiot for designs until they stumbled upon the truth. A window onto objective truth is a window onto God. Only science could do that, and science took time.
Truthsense did not detect objective truth, it tested internal consistency: if the person who spoke believed they spoke the truth. Try to explain that to a normal, and they would get lost in the philosophy faster than you can say “but there’s no such thing as an alternative fact.” Worse yet, more intelligent observers started to question, given the inherent impossibility of projecting one person’s subjective truth to another, whether Truthsense had any value at all. These sorts of questions were discouraged: what would happen to the Magistry’s authority if people came to doubt the Truthsense? A Magistrate had to navigate a maze of subjectivity, all the while projecting an air of absolute confidence. Elianor could see the ambivalence beneath the mask of Vile’s certainty. What did that mean?
“My lord,” Persephone said. “The Black Dog attacked Lady Elianor. Mabyn’s patrol is still missing. Shadowgate needs its master and every one of its fighters here, until we can deal with this threat.”
Senator Vile shook his head as if a fly had landed on his face.
“Didn’t we send someone to escort her to the Manor?”
“Derec Garn, my lord,” Tannyr Brek said. Elianor had almost forgotten he was there. “It was the Garn boy.”
“Was he not at Durançon to meet you?”
“He was, Senator.”
“So? What? Was he killed by the Dog?” Vile’s lips twisted upwards with every ejaculation.
“No. Citizen Garn met me at Durançon. As we approached Shadowgate, he claimed it was too dangerous to proceed. When I insisted, he spurred his horse to throw me from the cart.” She raised her chin and dared them to notice the slight flush of embarrassment on her cheeks. “He absconded with my possessions, including my rifle, which is an important symbol of my office. It is essential I recover them.”
Anton laughed, a forced, angry sound. “He was right! It was too dangerous! You put yourself and your mission at risk, for a message about a vote that won’t happen for another couple of weeks. If it happens at all.”
“My master instructed me to get this message to Senator Vile with utmost haste. Are you familiar with the concept of duty, Citizen Vile?”
“Did you see the Black Dog?” Lena said. “Did you see it clearly?”
“Not clearly.” Elianor shook her head. “I shot it with my pistol and struck it with my sword. If the Back Dog is still alive, I doubt it will survive the night.”
“My guards have not got so close,” Vile said, as if he had just noticed her injuries. “Not without being killed.”
“The reputation of the Combat Magistry is well deserved,” Nathaniel said.
Pride is not a proper sentiment for a Magistrate, Elianor reminded herself.
“Injured or not it is still a threat,” Persephone said. “Hodri’s daughter is missing, and the Dog may take others. Until we are sure it is dead, we should warn the townspeople and send word to the monastery.”
Vile rubbed the rough forefinger of his right hand against his chin.
“I am well aware of your desire to send guards to the monastery,” he said, with a scowl at Anton, “just as you should both be aware that the Abbot does not wish to be disturbed. Mayor Brek will pass the word around the farms and to the town.” Tannyr bowed his head, and Vile continued, now directly at Persephone. “The Magistrate has done us great service by injuring the beast. Why aren’t you and your guards out chasing it to the ground?”
Persephone flinched. “I thought it best to escort the Magistrate. I will leave at once.”
“Persephone,” Anton called. She stopped at the door, and Anton addressed the throne. “My lord, the beast can see in the dark, we cannot.”
“If you doubt your sister’s competence, then you should help her in the search.”
“I’ll go,” Nathaniel said.
“No. I will have another task for you in the morning.”
Anton shuddered like a puppet whose strings were pulled by an angry dog.
“I should be the one to speak to the Garn family, not Nathaniel.”
“You are already too close with the Garns. I will send someone I can trust.”
And the strings were cut.
“Will you come to the capital?” Elianor asked, knowing if she pushed now, at the peak of all this nauseating family drama, the Senator was more likely to refuse.
Senator Vile shook his head. “It is too dangerous to leave Demon’s Pass unguarded.”
“Then one of your sons?” Elianor controlled a triumphant smile.
“Who would you have me send?” He shuffled in his throne and scratched the arm rest.
There was a short silence when everyone seemed to look at Nathaniel and Nathaniel made sure to look at no-one.
“My lord, I could go,” Persephone eventually said.
Elianor cursed to herself, but she couldn’t lie, not now.
“Senator, any of your children could speak for you, if so authorised.”
Vile laughed. “You should be careful what you wish for. Anton might vote Republican.”
“Anton is needed here to deal with the Black Dog, and the Kindred threat,” Persephone said.
“We have no reason to believe—” Nathaniel started, but Vile cut him off.
“If the Kindred come now, even all of us together would not be enough. Nathaniel, in the morning you will escort the Lady Elianor into town to recover her possessions and bring Derec Garn back to face justice.”
Nathaniel smiled at Elianor as if they had just been promised a trip to the fair.
“Anton, Persephone, you have a Dog to hunt. Magistrate, with me. The rest of you are dismissed.”
Chapter 11
Elianor followed Vile from the dais into a small antechamber. Nathaniel disappeared down a stairwell into the bowels of Shadowgate. Senator Vile strode ahead, knocking open the next door with his fist. Frosty air struck Elianor’s sweat-soaked face. Her legs trembled with fatigue and a sharp pain ran up her side. The force of the cold stopped her before she could step outside. She pushed her fingernails into the palm of her hand.
She was at the entrance to a tiny garden, the outer edge walled by interconnecting buildings that soared several stories to where the night sky looked like a small boxed window. Floor after floor of unoccupied chambers stared down at them through dark glass in the grey stone walls. Lumps in the ground that might have been mounds of earth or discarded debris disturbed a thin layer of snow.
Vile had walked to the opposite side of the garden; fresh footprints trailed behind him. He tapped his fingers arrhythmically against his leather-clad thigh and he stared at vines that climbed the far wall. They stretched out, dead crone’s fingers clawing for purchase enough to drag the corpse from the grave and clamber towards the sky, its digits too feeble, the strength of the limbs gone. Only the trunks lived, spread at regular distances around ancient lattice, the first spurts of growth thickened with age and holding the whole shivering structure above them. Vile stared, and it seemed like the dead might bend to his will, the walls might shift where he wanted, the whole might rise again by the strength of his will.
“We’ve met before, you and I.”
Elianor felt someth
ing slide down the inside of her left leg. She moved her boot to hide three small spots of blood fallen in the snow.
“You were no higher than this.” Vile raised his hand to chest height. “Your father brought you to the capital for the coronation. After we lost the war with the North. He was so terribly proud.”
Elianor remembered it. Of course she did. Garlands in the street. Everyone treating the Northern conquerors as if they were liberators, bringing back the exiled niece of a monarch so many had died to remove. And there was Arbalest Vile, the hero of the last great war, his eldest son rumoured to be dying from injuries suffered in this one. Arbalest Vile knelt before an imposed head of state. Her father held her hand too tightly. After an eternity of manoeuvring between shoulders, he pushed her forward to introduce her.
“So, this is the one,” Vile said. “Take care of her. She may do great things.”
In her mind the memory shifted, her father leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Lord Vile said ‘after we lost the war’ not ‘after the return of the Queen.’”
“How is Sebastian?” Vile said.
“I’m sorry?” Was that blood making the inside of her boots wet, or simply melting snow?
“Your father.”
“Sebaraton is well, last I heard. Senator.”
Vile’s eyebrows convulsed, and the corners of his lips turned upwards. Then he waved his hand and turned back to the vine.
“Read me the letter.”
An odd request. She unbuckled her satchel and took the letter out from between her father’s dossier and her book of law. The paper folded to form both letter and envelope, a design intended to make it difficult to tamper with the contents. Difficult, but not impossible. The seal could be cut, and the paper partially opened. Her mouth went dry. Quickly, as if it would hide her hesitation, she broke the seal and read out loud.
“My Dear Lord Vile,
Senate Republicans threaten the right of primogeniture. If we lose this vote, we will lose the monarchy. The North will abandon us and there will be nothing left to stand against the Kindred.”
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