Chapter Seven
The Rythan Gardens looked vastly different than they did by day. The paths seemed narrower, walled and overhung by dark hedges and black trees with limbs lit by ice. The snow on the ground helped him a little. The snow took what little light his eyes could perceive and made it glow blue against the black depths where shadows and branches and leaves seemed like solid masses of darkness. Even so the paths between the black weren’t as clear as he’d hoped. At least someone had lit the old-fashioned oil lamps. Bulbous and copper-turned-verdigris, they had leaded glass panes that cast short swaths of diamond light.
It helped that the paths were perfectly level. Mark walked near the center where a few travelers had left rounded, weathered footprints in the snow. He wished he’d brought something, even a dagger, so he could defend himself if he had to. Until the driver had mentioned it, it hadn’t occurred to him that someone other than Obsidian and his bully would be here. In daylight with Lord Argenwain, the gardens had seemed as tame as a clipped hedge.
His heart kicked hard against his ribs as he neared the swan bridge. He heard nothing, not even a whisper, and he couldn’t see beyond the lights focused on the stone swans.
The two massive swan statues connected by the top of their heads. The path began as a slope up the first swan’s tail, broadened on the back between the wings, and became stairs on the curved neck that led to a platform on top. Stairs led back down to the second swan’s back and onto an island.
Mark chose to cross the frozen pond alongside the bridge rather than expose himself on the bridge itself. He hoped that Obsidian was there, alone, but he didn’t dare call out his name. Maybe they’d both already left, or maybe he might interrupt at a critical moment, or get himself shot—
I’m going to get myself killed.
The idea of going back home, perhaps to face Gutter’s sympathy or explanation or whatever Gutter had planned, seemed worse. Mark had to know the truth.
What if they all died because of me?
The cold penetrated past the skin and made his bones ache, especially in his hands and feet. He kept walking, though he slowed, listening for the slightest hint of human life ahead.
The snow on the ice lay perfectly flat. A cat had walked across as well, long enough ago that its prints had rounded at the edges and snow had filled the pads.
The distinctive sharp sound of a rapier leaving its sheath raked through the air. A pistol going off slammed into Mark’s chest. He froze in place, certain he’d been shot, but the pain never came. Then he heard a moan. The moan turned into a rising cry that made every hair on his body stand on end.
Was it?
Obsidian.
Mark wanted to run to him, but he crouched down and crawled toward the island. Every muscle burned to hurry, but he forced himself to creep. His breath came in little gasps that stirred the snow near his face.
Two figures lay on the ground up a short slope. A lit fountain of swans taking flight amid curtains of water frozen by winter loomed beside them. The light softly touched on the black silk and wool Obsidian wore, and on crimson spreading in the snow, turning it garish colors of red and pink. Obsidian writhed and wept, clawing at the hideous mask on his face. The figure in blue lay terribly still, a rapier obscenely stuck in his chest. A pistol lay in the snow near the dead man’s hand. Just beyond the pistol a blue velvet cloak embroidered with silver and white sparkled in the golden light.
“Obsidian.” Mark’s voice cracked with cold horror. He crawled to Obsidian. Blood boiled from Obsidian’s thigh. Obsidian held his leg with one hand, but not over the wound. Didn’t he know he had to press the wound? Mark set his hands over the wound and pushed down, pinning the leg against the snow.
Obsidian screamed. “No!” He finally pulled the mask free from his face. He gasped in shock.
“I’m sorry.” It was stupid thing to say.
Obsidian had washed the makeup he usually wore under his mask from his face, leaving only a thin outline of black around his eyes.
He didn’t wear his usual mask here.
Obsidian’s cheeks were gaunt with pain.
“I have to get you a physician.” No, I can’t leave him this way. “Take off your belt. We’ll tie it over the wound.”
Obsidian’s breathing tightened and hitched. He pried at his belt buckle, bloody fingers slipping on the metal. Finally he worked it open. He couldn’t pull it free.
Mark risked helping him with one hand. Blood pulsed up between Mark’s fingers while he yanked on the belt. It took forever but he pulled the belt free and pushed the leather over the wound. It didn’t cover enough. “Shit.” Mark knelt on the wound. Obsidian hissed. Mark unwound his neckerchief and wadded it up. He rolled it onto the wound when he pulled his knee off. It seemed to help. Mark worked the belt around Obsidian’s leg twice and buckled it on. “I’m going to get a physician.”
“Don’t leave me.” His breath came in gulping heaves.
“I have to. I’ll be right back.”
Obsidian grabbed Mark’s coat. “No! No. Don’t go.”
Leave him. It’s too late. The foreign whisper slipped unwelcome into his mind.
“I hear them whispering,” Obsidian gasped.
The hair on Mark’s neck prickled. “Try to stay calm.” He couldn’t carry him and dragging him would make things worse. “I’ll get the driver to fetch a physician.”
“Don’t bring anyone. Get the ring from Lake. Take it and take the book to the islands. If Gutter finds out you were here and that you know about the book and the ring, I don’t know what he might do.”
“He won’t find out and you won’t die and I won’t know anything if you stop telling me. Just wait.” Mark tried to pry Obsidian’s fingers loose from his coat.
“Please don’t leave me alone. I’m a jester without a patron, and I killed a man. Please. Please help me. Chant, or sing. Something.”
“You wore a death mask. Your soul should be safe. You can talk, so you can breathe. You’re strong. You’re strong enough to live.”
“Please. I see them. I see them.”
Mark stripped off his cloak and coat. Obsidian’s own black and gold cloak lay nearby in the snow. Mark covered him with that as well to help keep him warm. “I’ll be back.” He ran down the slope, across the pond, down the path. He knew this would happen. They both knew this would happen but all Obsidian cared about was that stupid ring. All that blood and pain for intrigues—
—all that fire—
Gutter orbited both catastrophes. Mark couldn’t reconcile the man who’d saved him and cared for him with the Lord Jester that everyone dreaded.
Mark staggered onto the street beyond the gate. No driver. Fresh tracks skidded off westward up the snowy street.
He wasted a few precious seconds staring. He shouldn’t have been surprised that the shot had frightened the driver away. Part of him wasn’t surprised, though it felt like Obsidian had fallen into the sea and the ship had sailed away, leaving him to drown.
Mark ran back. He slipped several times, clumsy from exhaustion. He didn’t care if Obsidian could answer his questions or not. He just wanted him to live.
Obsidian moved strangely in the snow, his body flexing in a way that would have seemed sinuous and beautiful if it wasn’t so odd. Mark grabbed him up under the arms and started to drag him. Obsidian had no other hope.
Obsidian’s arms worked unevenly, making it hard for Mark to hold onto him. Mark’s back whined in protest and he couldn’t catch his breath, but he refused to give up.
His heel caught and Mark slid. Obsidian fell onto his legs. Mark grabbed him hard around the chest and tried to position himself to stand up again.
Obsidian’s head lolled against Mark’s face. That’s when Mark realized that Obsidian hadn’t uttered a single protest, or grunt, or anything. Mark laid him down gently. Obsidian’s eyes stared, unblinking, toward a distant lamp. The dull, reflected light revealed the ugly fact that his eyes had begun to dry and clou
d and freeze.
Mark sat heavily in the snow. Obsidian’s living expression flashed through Mark’s memory. Obsidian’s dead, ashen face snuffed that memory out. The living memory tried to return, but the reality of those black-rimmed eyes cut it down over and over again until the living memory faded to nothing and only death remained.
Obsidian had begged him not to leave. He died alone and afraid. “I’m so sorry.” But sorry wouldn’t make it right.
I failed him.
He wanted Gutter. Gutter would make it all better.
Gutter did this.
I don’t know that.
But taking this to Gutter would be another betrayal and a failure. Obsidian had his reasons for keeping Gutter out of this, whatever this was. To keep Mark safe? He’d said as much, but who should Mark believe, a young jester or the man who’d—
Who’d put me in the hands of a man like Lord Argenwain? Who may have burned up my future in order to impose his own?
“You tell me to leave a man to die, but when I need to know where my father is, who killed my mother, when I need to know the truth about Gutter, you’re silent.” The snow deadened his voice, and no answer whispered inside his mind. He touched Obsidian’s face. “If you’re allolai, I hope you take him into your care, and if you’re morbai ....” He couldn’t make threats or demands of whatever spoke to him. He didn’t even know if what he heard was real.
The bloody smears he left on Obsidian’s face were real.
Why had Gutter returned home so soon at the risk of his life, whether it was by sail past the Sefrenne Talon or travel overland on treacherous Vyenne’s bandit baron controlled roads?
He couldn’t make himself hate Gutter, but he no longer trusted him. Maybe he hadn’t trusted him in a long time, but before this he’d had little need to care whether he trusted him or not. Now he had to choose between Obsidian’s last request and Gutter’s plans for him.
For the first time in his life, Mark hated that he loved Gutter.
He was done with lessons and the future Gutter wanted for him. He refused to go back to that damned house where everything existed to keep Lord Argenwain happy and in the king’s favor. The cursed ring and book made as good an excuse to leave as any. Perida wasn’t his first choice, but it was the best destination for an escaped indentured servant.
Except.
Mark had to go back for one thing.
Could he sneak inside and get it without anyone noticing?
No. Argenwain had too many servants, and no secret ways in that Mark was privy to.
He could leave—
Am I seriously going to leave?
—without Obsidian’s book.
If he didn’t have both the ring and the book, he might wind up on the islands without enough to get him an audience with Rohn Evan, the man who hopefully had more answers than Mark had questions at this point.
Fuck them all. Why not just leave it all behind?
And go where and do what? Either way he’d have the Church after him for default on his indenture, and Gutter, and Lord Argenwain and who knew who else had dealings with Gutter or Obsidian in this matter. He wouldn’t find safety anywhere on the mainland. He had to go to the islands, and if he had to go to the islands anyway, he’d go to see Rohn Evan with everything he needed in hand. That would honor Obsidian’s trust in him, and Mark would be far enough from Gutter’s reach—
He’d be completely alone.
No. From there he could write Gutter, and this time he expected Gutter would write him back. Whether they’d exchange lies or truths, he would still have a connection to the world he’d always known. Maybe he’d find out what friendship with Gutter really meant.
It still felt like a leap off a high mast, but through his fear and grief he felt a rare moment of hope. And at least he’d be at sea, where he’d always wanted to belong.
But he couldn’t sail from Seven Churches by the Sea. Lord Argenwain, Gutter and the Church all had the power to stop shipping traffic while they hunted for him, and all three would want him back.
He needed a plan.
Mark stood on shaky legs and walked to where Obsidian’s bully lay curled in the snow.
The homely man with the friendly face and long, unbound brown hair wore one ring, an unusual ring. It had to be the ring that Obsidian mentioned, because jesters didn’t wear rings like this one.
It was a signet ring. Only lords used them. In theory, noble lords had little to hide in their correspondence and so a wax seal pressed with their signet ring was considered perfectly adequate security. A jester had to employ more crafty means to secure a letter against being read by the wrong person.
The ring easily slid free of the jester’s hand, already cold and shrunken by the snow. Mark couldn’t make out much of the design. Between the insufficient light and his shaking hands, all he could make out were a few intertwined lines.
He rolled the ring between his fingers, and then gripped it hard in his fist. He’d had enough. The thought of three more years of this with little hope of a ship awaiting him at the end sickened him. He should have left a long time ago. It was long past time to start a new life, and it would begin tonight.
A downstairs maid hurried to the door when Mark opened it. The entire downstairs remained lit up as if for a party, but darkness shrouded the upstairs above and behind her. “Mark! Everyone is looking for you.”
“Shhh.” Mark slipped inside and shut the door behind him. “Is Lord Argenwain asleep?”
“Is that blood?”
“It’s all right. It’s not mine.” He’d managed to keep his composure so far, but it started to crumble. He tightened his hands and took a slow breath in. “The fire—people died.”
“I’m so sorry.” She sucked in a gasp. “Your ship—”
He shook his head. He couldn’t talk about it, or even lie about it. “Is Lord Argenwain asleep?”
“Yes. He was so worried it gave him a headache. He had three brandies and went to bed.” She winced. “You’re going to catch it tomorrow.”
“I think they’ll understand. Besides, what are a few months more of indenture? Even if it’s a year more. I don’t care.” He realized that he sounded insane. He softened his voice. “Besides, this is my home. It always has been.”
“You aren’t afraid they’ll throw you out, sell your indenture—Mark, Lord Argenwain—I’ve never seen him so angry.”
That gave him a little chill, but he shook it off. He had so much more than Lord Argenwain to worry about now. “I’m going to wash up and go to bed.” He had to ask, though he feared the answer. “Is Gutter home?”
“No. Lord Jester Gutter told us not to wait up for him. He said he knew where you were and that he’d bring you home safe.”
That made Mark wonder, but he nodded without thinking it through and headed up the stairs. “I doubt I’ll get any sleep tonight, so if you like I’ll answer the bell for you.”
Her shoulders sagged and she let out a sigh. “Are you sure?”
He nodded. “Good night.”
“Do you want a lamp?”
“No thank you.”
“Good night again, then. And thank you.” She put out most of the lights before she left.
He didn’t dare spare the time to light his hearth fire or to run downstairs and heat some water for washing. He shuddered as much from lingering images of burning ships and dying men in his mind as he did from the chill in his room as he washed himself with a scant amount of cold water leftover in his drinking pitcher. He bandaged his hands in handkerchiefs, then dressed warmly before he emptied out his large art bag back from when he used to take lessons in plein air painting. He filled it with extra stockings and warm shirts, a spare vest and breeches, the money pouch, a stationary case with a small ink vial and quill tips, a shaving kit, and ...
He remembered that Gutter had left his satchel here. It was gone now. He looked toward his vanity. The mask sat there next to its silk wrapping. Two sealed and puzzle-tied leather
cases lay beside it.
He took the mask Gutter had given him and held it near his bedside lamp. The black pearl tear tracks looked wet.
Gutter believed that this mask wouldn’t take Mark over and make him forget himself, though Gutter suggested that he wasn’t sure about how the mask would react to Mark. That admission of uncertainty suggested a certain amount of honesty.
He wouldn’t use it, but he wouldn’t leave it behind, either. If he took it with him, then Gutter might hope that things would work out between them somehow. And maybe they would.
But Gutter better have a brilliant explanation for all that had happened.
Either way, it would help keep Gutter guessing, and confusion would be his ally tonight.
Mark tucked it away, and put the letter cases in his bag. He might need makeup too, so that he could dress himself up respectably. That made him wonder how exactly he was supposed to present himself, not just to the islanders, but to carriage drivers and ship captains and anyone else he might have to deal with.
Lord Argenwain had people looking for him, but they wouldn’t be looking for a jester.
He could also hire carriages and a ship more easily as a jester. The money he carried wouldn’t seem so odd, and most people wouldn’t ask a jester too many questions.
He wouldn’t wear the mask, though. He didn’t trust the mask, not without knowing what he would do from within it.
Or what it would do with me.
The more he thought about running away the more he wanted to leave and be on a ship, any ship bound for anywhere.
He grabbed a deck of cards, a ring, another pair of stockings, and several neckerchiefs. He barely noticed what he shoved into his bag anymore. When it bulged past full he tucked the signet ring and pouch securely inside his vest, covered the top of his bag with a plain white neckerchief, put on his best feathered hat and cracked his door open.
Only a few lights still burned downstairs, oil ones. Lord Argenwain didn’t care to have gas lights in his house, though he approved of them as streetlights. He claimed to dislike the expense, but Mark knew the old man was a little afraid of them.
Mark crept to the servant’s stairs at the back of the hall. Any moment Gutter might come home. It wouldn’t take him long to learn that Mark had been here and left. Mark didn’t want to be in the house or anywhere nearby on the streets when that happened.
He’d take one of the carriage horses. He wasn’t a very good rider, but he’d learned upon the eldest of the six horses Argenwain kept in town and she didn’t mind a saddle and bridle.
So now I’m a horse thief on top of everything else.
He’d forgotten a coat and cloak but he didn’t dare go back now. He went out the back door to the stable, following in the path formed by the stablemaster’s footsteps. They’d filled with snow since the last time he’d walked out here. He had a proper bed in the house and would be fast asleep. The stableboy, though, would be asleep in the little room in the back beside the tack room.
Mark set his bag beside the eldest mare’s outer door and snuck to the tack room, groping in the dark. One of the horses murmured. He didn’t dare try to soothe it—he’d be just as likely to cause a stir and wake the others as to calm it down, and it would waste more time. He opened the tack room door, lit a lamp, and carefully lifted first the mare’s saddle, dusty from disuse, and her bridle. He left the door open and the lamp lit. There’d be little use in covering his escape. His best friend would be speed.
He crept back and opened the mare’s door. She swung her head up from where she lay and heaved up to her feet, snuffling. He let her nose the bridle and saddle. “What a good girl, Neatbye,” he murmured. “Remember me?” She pressed her nose into his hand and he stroked her face. Her ears switched and she kept pushing her nose into the wrappings on his hands—perhaps she didn’t like the smell of blood.
He’d forgotten a blanket. He thought about saddling her without one, then realized if he hurt her he’d not only hate himself but she might not get far even with his light weight on her. Mark set her tack down and went back to the tack room. The horse from before grumbled more insistently.
The stableboy’s door opened and Mark leapt back, stifling a gasp. “Jessen? I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Jessen rubbed his eyes with his thick fists. “Mark?”
“Can you help me saddle Neatbye?”
Jessen combed his hands through his short bristly hair and went into the tack room. He lumbered as if he still slept while walking. Mark tried to stay calm. Jessen lit the lamp in Neatbye’s stall. Mark had no reasonable lie to offer in objection.
Jessen saddled and bridled her quickly, then led her out.
Mark held out his bag to Jessen to hold while he mounted up. His heart pounded and fear muffled his ears.
The ground felt like a long way away. Mark settled the shoulder strap so the bag would rest behind him. “Let’s hope morbai aren’t meddling tonight.”
“Where are you going?” Jessen asked. He yawned.
Mark didn’t dare hesitate too long. “Back to the docks. Mairi—my ship, was lost and ...” He didn’t have to pretend his pain. “I’m delivering a little comfort to those left behind.” It would throw Gutter off.
Assuming he got away before Gutter spotted him.
“Will you manage the side gate for me?” Mark asked.
Jessen led the way and the mare followed him more than Mark’s rusty instructions to her. He feared she wouldn’t go out, but she seemed to trust the streetlamps just fine for her footing and let him nudge her into the night.
He needed a heavy greatcoat or a cloak or something. He felt warm enough now, but he expected that it would take at least two days travel up or down the bay shore to the nearest port, assuming he could travel that fast in winter. He had no idea if people even ventured out on the land routes this time of year. Perhaps Gutter had just come through overland from the south, or he might have taken a ship from northern Vyenne. Hard to say.
It didn’t matter. Mark had to try.
His gut lurched when he remembered. He knew exactly where he could find cloaks fine enough to present himself as a jester if he had to. He had his own coat there too.
What if the guards had already come to the gardens? The driver might have called them in.
He had to take a chance at it or he might freeze to death. He’d heard of frozen soldiers found in the spring thaw and farm families discovered dead in their cottages after a brutal storm. That knowledge now breathed into his face with intimate and deadly promise.
Mark guided Neatbye to the Fall Gate. The only fresh tracks were his and the ones that came from the driver and carriage. Mark rode her into the gardens.
Obsidian still lay there, lips turning a delicate pale blue-gray. Mark forced in a breath through his nose, lips tight to keep them from trembling, and dismounted. He gathered up the bully’s cloak, Obsidian’s cloak, and his own filthy cloak. He almost left his bloody and sooty coat there, but he realized that it might get back to Gutter and then Gutter would know he’d been here and he might guess about the ring and everything.
Assuming he knew anything about the ring and book at all.
The idea that Gutter wouldn’t know about any of it seemed ridiculous.
Mark folded all the cloaks up into a roll and draped it over the mare’s hindquarters.
The pistol still lay in the snow.
He’d need weapons.
Gingerly, he removed Obsidian’s pistol from its holster and checked it. It was loaded and sealed so it could be carried in weather. He didn’t want to remove Obsidian’s rapier from Lake’s chest, but the scabbard already lay free on the snow from when they’d removed Obsidian’s belt and it would be easier to manage than wrestling with Lake’s body to get at his rapier and scabbard. Mark placed his hand on the hilt and pulled. It stuck at first, but then began to slide. The sensitive steel spoke to his skin as it dragged past bone and through meat and skin and cloth, each layer separate and dist
inct, until it came free in the cold air. Mark cleaned it with snow and Lake’s coat before he sheathed it. Perhaps the cold and dark protected him, or maybe everything else had numbed him. Either way he didn’t feel sick or horrified like he thought he ought to. He tried not to think about it while he took Obsidian’s loading kit, and almost as an afterthought, both men’s purses, powderhorns and Obsidian’s ammunition bag.
He didn’t want Obsidian’s mask. He didn’t even want to touch it. The hesitation came from the strange feeling that abandoning it here to whoever might come across it would be the same as leaving a wounded man in a ditch to fend for himself. He walked over to where it lay face down in the snow. It had writing on the inside—the masker’s signature, and its name. Too Mon. Mark didn’t recognize it. He turned it over with his boot.
The hideous thing was a full face mask of heavy black leather. The eyeholes were more ample than necessary for human eyes, and the nose dropped into a bulb like a crookneck squash. The mouth, in contrast, smiled pleasantly with lips that looked supple enough to kiss. Black hair—it might have been Obsidian’s own—formed a thin mane of dark ringlets.
It smiled at Mark, askew and dotted with snow.
Mark had never seen a death mask before. Strange shudders rippled through his chest and gut and he didn’t dare look away from it in case it—
What?
—came alive.
The more he stared the more friendly it seemed, but that didn’t reassure him. Mark bent down and touched it. It flinched—it couldn’t have; he didn’t see it do anything—but it did and he flinched too. With all the will he could muster, Mark picked it up.
An eerie image came to him of Obsidian drawing it out at the same time as he drew his rapier and holding it to his face, of Lake drawing his pistol and firing ....
Mark rode back the way he’d come, too afraid to leave by a different gate in case worse things lay deeper in the Rythan Gardens than two dead jesters.
Less than an hour later he rode southward out of the city. Daylight would come soon, and with it a widening search for the runaway indentured servant boy who might have been a jester, or a sailor on Mairi.
Or maybe both of those had always been false promises.
Maybe what he’d find ahead of him would be the first real future he could call his own since his mother’s death, the first future Gutter hadn’t planned and manipulated him into, a future that until now Mark hadn’t wanted or chosen for himself.
He hoped his flight would take him to a future worth fighting for.
Masks Page 8
