by Martha Wells
"So we’re not technically anarchists yet," Nicholas said, in mock innocence.
"Not technically," Reynard agreed, smiling sourly. "But we have hopes."
Crack allowed himself a mild grimace at the levity. Then Nicholas stepped back. A couple had emerged from the side entrance of the hotel on the corner and were strolling down the street in their direction. It was Madeline and Doctor Halle, and their appearance meant they had just seen the Fontainon coach turn onto the cross street that was visible from the windows of the hotel’s cafe. Nicholas said, "Get ready."
Reynard swung down from the box, pretending to be doing something with the harness, and Nicholas moved with apparent idleness to the front of Devis’s cab so he could give him the signal.
In another moment Nicholas heard the approach of a larger, heavier vehicle than a cabriolet, then he saw its shape approaching them out of the mist. The coach drew nearer and he could see the liveried driver and footman on the box. Nicholas turned away, leaning casually against the side of the cab, and fished in his pocket for the round firework packet that was standing in for an anarchist’s bomb. He struck a match and lit the fuse, then as the noise of the approaching coach grew louder, turned and tossed it into the center of the street.
It went off with a loud pop that echoed back from the buildings around them. Smoke poured out of it as the horses screamed and reared and the Fontainon coach jolted to a halt. "A bomb!" Nicholas yelled, running across the street.
Devis allowed his frantic team to rear and then turned them, letting them sling the cab half across the street in front of the coach and blocking its escape. Halted near the smoke, the frightened horses continued to rear and buck, looking as if they meant to tear the cab apart and further terrifying the coach’s team. Reynard had leapt down off the cabriolet and was now running around, yelling like a panic-stricken maniac. On the far promenade, Madeline shrieked and fainted convincingly into Doctor Halle’s arms. Crack stood up on the box, nearly tumbled off as his team tried to join the confused horses in the center of the street, then pointed down the alley next to the apartment block and shouted, "I saw him! He threw the bomb and went that way!"
When they had discussed the plan earlier today, Inspector Ronsarde had been especially fond of that touch.
Nicholas dodged through the growing wall of smoke and almost ran directly into the footman who had been riding on the back of the coach. The man’s forehead was bleeding, as if he had fallen when the vehicle had jolted to a halt. Nicholas grabbed him and yelled frantically, "It was a bomb, go get help!" and sent him staggering away.
Nicholas reached the coach just as the door swung open and Octave fell out. Nicholas grabbed him by the front of his coat and threw him back against the vehicle. "Surprised?" he asked.
"What do you want?" Octave stammered. A flare from the sputtering firework showed Nicholas the other man’s face: he was sickly pale in the white light, his staring eyes red-rimmed and his flesh sagging. Nicholas was bitterly glad the last few days had obviously not been kind to Doctor Octave, either.
"You know what I want—your sorcerer. Where is he?" They needed to get Octave into Devis’s cab and away, but Nicholas could hear Reynard arguing with someone on the other side of the coach, saying something about an entire crew of anarchists running off down the alley. He considered trying to drag Octave to the cab alone, but if the spiritualist resisted at all and was seen, their plan would fall apart.
"I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you if you’ll protect me— You don’t know what he is—"
Nicholas shook him. "Where is he? Tell me, Doctor, it’s your only chance."
"The palace . . . the palace on the river. He’s been there—" Octave’s voice rose to a sudden shriek. "There!"
Nicholas had only an instant to realize it wasn’t a trick. Something gripped his shoulder and he was flung to the ground. He rolled over on the muddy stone, the breath knocked out of him, and saw a figure standing over Doctor Octave.
In the poor light and the haze from the firework, he first thought it was a man. He could see the skirts of a greatcoat, a shape that might be a hat, but then he realized how it was towering over Octave, shaking him as if he was a child, and he knew that it wasn’t human.
Nicholas fumbled for the revolver in his coat pocket. He had brought it reluctantly, not liking the thought of one of the coach drivers or footmen accidentally shot, but not meaning this night’s work to fail, either. He drew the gun, aimed at the creature’s head and fired.
It turned toward him, still keeping a grip on the struggling Octave’s coat, and snarled. Nicholas scrambled backward, took aim and fired again, though he knew the first shot hadn’t missed. The Unseelie Court would be easier to fight, he thought in exasperation. At least the fay were highly susceptible to gunfire; the creatures of human sorcery and necromancy obviously were not.
It dropped Octave then and started toward Nicholas, moving slowly, its steps deliberate. Nicholas struggled to his feet and backed away. The concealing smoke was still swirling around them and the coach was blocking the yellow light of the street lamp; he wanted to see what this thing was. Octave lay like a lump on the street, moving only feebly, and Nicholas cursed under his breath. Sacrificing himself so that Doctor Octave could escape a probably righteous and well-deserved fate hadn’t been in his plans either, but he couldn’t let the man be killed until he knew where the sorcerer was hiding.
The tall figure stalked him, stepping out of the shadow of the coach. Its face was that of an old man, with craggy, uneven features, but as the light shifted it became a death’s head, the skin stretched over it to parchment thinness. Nicholas kept moving back, luring it further from Octave, who had managed to struggle to his knees and was trying to crawl away.
Octave must have made some noise, or perhaps it read something in Nicholas’s expression, because it turned suddenly and bounded back toward the injured spiritualist. "No, dammit, no," Nicholas shouted, starting forward.
It reached Octave in one leap and swung at him with an almost careless backhanded blow. Nicholas saw Octave fall back to the street, spasm once, then go limp. He stopped, cursing, then realized the thing was turning toward him again.
Nicholas moved away, raising the pistol, though it hadn’t done him much good before. He saw Reynard coming around the coach and waved him back. Reynard halted, surprised, then got a glimpse of the creature as it moved into the light again. He stepped back, reaching into his coat for his own revolver.
There was a shout and a loud clatter from up the street. Nicholas couldn’t risk a quick glance behind him but whatever was coming the creature saw it and stopped where it was with a thwarted growl. Then it stepped back into the shadows.
Nicholas blinked, resisting the impulse to rub his eyes. The shape of the creature was growing darker, harder to see, fading into the pool of shadow on the street until it was gone.
Nicholas stared at the darkness where it had been, then looked for what had alarmed the thing.
A horse troop was coming toward them from down the street, at least twenty men. Nicholas swore under his breath. A mounted troop meant only one thing: Royal Guards. He whistled a signal that meant "cut and run" and the frantic activity around the coach grew more frantic as the cabriolet suddenly drove off. Nicholas stayed where he was. He was in the middle of the street, in the full light of the gas lamp. If he ran, the horsemen would chase him. The others were almost invisible in the shadows and the troop wouldn’t be able to clear the wreckage of the coach quickly enough to chase Crack’s vehicle.
Nicholas clicked on the revolver’s safety, then dropped it into the street. As he turned back toward the coach, he casually kicked it into the gutter.
The smoke eddied in the still damp air as the firework sparked one last time and went out. Devis had vanished from the rented cab, leaving it and the confused horses to block the street. Madeline and Doctor Halle were nowhere to be seen, having had orders to retreat back to the hotel on the corner as soon as the confusion
was well underway. He couldn’t see Reynard either and hoped he had had time to swing aboard the cabriolet before it left. One of the Fontainon footmen was sitting on the curb, still stunned from falling from the box. The coachman had managed to calm his horses finally and now staggered around the side, stopping when he saw Octave.
He bent over the spiritualist anxiously, gripping his shoulder. Nicholas stopped beside him and saw the man needn’t have bothered; Octave’s head was twisted at an unnatural angle, the neck cleanly broken. He resisted an urge to kick the unresponsive body. "He’s dead," the coachman said, suddenly realizing it. He looked up at Nicholas, confused. He had a shallow cut in his forehead that was bleeding into tangled gray hair. "Did you see what happened?"
Nicholas shook his head in bewilderment and in his best Riverside accent replied, "They said there was a bomb, but all I saw was that sparkler. Are you sure he’s dead?" He sat on his heels beside Octave’s body, flipping his coat open as if looking for a wound and unobtrusively searching the pockets. He was beginning to understand Octave’s behavior. He had been afraid of being cornered by Nicholas, afraid of being caught by the Prefecture, but he had become even more terrified of his sorcerous ally.
"He looks dead," the coachman muttered, looking away and clutching his head. "I would’ve sworn it was a bomb."
Octave didn’t have the sphere on him. Damned fool, Nicholas thought. How was he going to perform a circle without it? Unless this was the last circle and Octave had stayed for it only because he needed the money to flee. Lady Bianci wasn’t a member of the demi monde, she was true aristocracy, and would have paid the spiritualist for trying even if he hadn’t been able to produce any messages from the dead.
Then the horsetroop was surrounding them. Nicholas stood and stepped back against the coach to avoid being run down. From their badges and braid they were Royal Guard, probably dispatched from the nearby Prince’s Gate to help defend Fontainon House. The lieutenant reined in just in time to keep from trampling the injured coachman and demanded, "What happened here?"
"We were attacked and this gentleman killed! What does it look like?" the coachman shouted, standing up suddenly. Before the lieutenant could reply, the older man swayed, clutching his head, and started to collapse. Nicholas stepped forward hastily to catch him and ease him to the ground, thinking he couldn’t have arranged a better distraction himself.
There was more shouting and confusion, the two footmen were located, and the major-domo of Fontainon House and the corporal in charge of that Guard detachment appeared to add to the conflict. The coachman was revived enough to give his version of events, which disagreed with the footmen’s version, to which Nicholas helpfully added conflicting detail, glad that the blustering Guard lieutenant hadn’t the sense to split them up and question them separately. This resulted in the conclusion that there had been six anarchists, who had thrown a firework instead of a real bomb, and had probably meant to cause a Public Incident of some sort. Nicholas wasn’t sure how they were defining Public Incident but reluctantly decided it was better not to call attention to himself by asking.
"But how was this man killed?" the lieutenant demanded, staring worriedly down at Octave. They had sent one of the Guards to bring Lady Bianci’s personal physician from Fontainon House, but everyone knew it for an empty gesture. "His neck looks broken. Did he fall from the coach?"
Nicholas shifted uneasily and scratched his head in bewilderment along with everyone else. Then the Fontainon major-domo suggested, "The coach door is open. Perhaps he tried to step out and when the horses reared he was thrown down?"
"Yes, that could very well be what happened," the lieutenant said, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. There were nods of agreement among the Fontainon servants. Octave’s death might conceivably have been blamed on them and this was a convenient out. "Yes, that must be it," the lieutenant concluded and there were relieved sighs all around. He looked up then, frowning. "But who was shooting?"
Nicholas rubbed the bridge of his nose, annoyed. That should have been your first question, you idiot. "Must have been the anarchists, to scare the horses," he muttered, low under his breath.
One of the footmen heard him and took up the theme. "They was shooting, sir, to scare the horses!"
"Yes, that was it," the coachman seconded, and there were more nods of agreement and surreptitious relieved sighs. Nicholas smiled to himself. With all this obfuscation, by morning no one would remember what he had seen or who had claimed to see what, and that was just as well.
There was a clatter behind the wrecked coach as another party arrived from Fontainon House, led by a man in evening dress carrying a doctor’s bag, who must be the lady’s personal physician. He fought his way past the horses of the milling Guard troop and demanded, "Whose vehicle is this blocking the street? It will have to be moved so we can bring in a stretcher for the injured."
While the corporal and the major-domo were explaining that haste was no longer necessary on the injured man’s behalf, Nicholas touched his cap to the lieutenant and said, "All right to move my cab, sir?"
The lieutenant nodded and waved him away distractedly. Nicholas went immediately to the cab, freeing the reins from where someone had tied them to the lamp post, murmuring some soothing words to the still restive horses. It hadn’t been necessary to claim the cab as his; everyone had simply assumed that the person who looked like a cab man belonged to the only empty vehicle.
Nicholas had grabbed the rail and was stepping up to swing into the box, when someone just behind him said, "Stop."
Nicholas hesitated for a heartbeat, then made a conscious decision to obey. He was close to escape and didn’t intend to ruin it by panicking for no reason. He looked back and saw a tall gray-haired man in formal evening dress. Someone from Fontainon House, Nicholas thought first, then he recognized him. It was Rahene Fallier, the Court Sorcerer. Nicholas’s mouth went dry. He said, "Sir?"
Fallier took a step closer. He said, "There was sorcery here tonight. Did you witness it?"
Interfering bastard, Nicholas thought. It was too late to change his story; the Guard lieutenant wasn’t that much of a fool. "No, sir, I didn’t see nothing of the kind."
The corporal from Fontainon House was coming over. He was an older man than the lieutenant, with more intelligent eyes. He said, "Sir, did you want to question this man?" To Nicholas he called, "You there, step down."
They were drawing the attention of the mounted Guards still half searching the area for nonexistent anarchists. Nicholas protested, "They told me to move the cab," but he stepped back down to the scuffed paving stones. Fallier might not be as suspicious as he seemed.
Fallier took another step toward him, standing only a bare pace away, so that Nicholas had to look up at him. He was frowning, concentrating. Working a spell? Nicholas wondered, keeping his face blank. He remembered powerful sorcerers could sense the past presence of magic. The Sending Octave’s sorcerer had unleashed on him might leave some residue. Or Fallier might detect traces of Arisilde’s powerful spells from the sphere Nicholas had held earlier today.
Then Fallier said, "The resemblance is striking. And you are younger than you look, of course."
Nicholas let himself appear puzzled. He knows who I am, the thought burned as cold as ice thrust through the heart. He had never met Fallier in his own persona, never seen him at closer range than across the crowded pit at the opera. "The resemblance is striking." Fallier knew what he was, as well.
Fallier half-turned to the Guard corporal. "We must detain this man—"
Nicholas moved, not toward the waiting circle of horsemen but back toward the cab, turning and diving under its wheels in the oldest street trick there was. He rolled under the vehicle, narrowly avoiding a crushed skull as one of the horses started and the wheels rocked back, ducked out from under it and bolted away.
There were shouts behind him, the clatter of hooves, as he ran for the corner. Two turns away these broad well-lit streets gave way to the crowded
byways and overhung tenements of the old city, where there were alleys so narrow the horses couldn’t follow him. But first he had to get there.
He heard someone riding up on him from the right and dodged sideways so the mounted trooper plunged past him before he could stop. The man wrenched his horse around sharply and the animal reared. Nicholas ducked away from the flailing hooves and ran for the corner again.
Suddenly there was a solid wall not ten feet away, rising out of the lingering mist. Nicholas slid to a stop, baffled, then cursed his own stupidity as he realized what it must be. He flung himself forward but a riding crop cracked across his shoulders, sending him sprawling headlong over the raised curve of the promenade.
Before he could scramble up hands grabbed the back of his coat and dragged him to his feet. He was flung up against a wall—a real one, this time, not Fallier’s illusory creation that was already fading gently away into the damp night air— and his arms were pinned behind him, as someone roughly searched his pockets.
He heard the Guard lieutenant saying, "Where do you want him taken? The nearest Prefecture is—"
Yes, the Prefecture, Nicholas thought, a sudden spark of hope blossoming. Being imprisoned as an anarchist was a better fate than some things that could happen and Fallier might not want to drag up ancient scandals. And he knew there wasn’t a prison in Ile-Rien that could hold him for long. Fallier might not know as much as he thinks he does. . . .
"Not the Prefecture, the palace," the Court Sorcerer’s voice said.
Well, that’s that. Nicholas laughed, and the two Guards pinning him twitched as if startled. He said, "But really, the palace? Isn’t that rather melodramatic?"
Someone must have gestured because he was jerked away from the cold stone and turned to face Fallier and the lieutenant. The Court Sorcerer didn’t even have the grace to look triumphant. His expression was merely cool. The lieutenant looked a little wary, probably at Nicholas’s sudden change of accent and voice. Then Fallier said, "It hasn’t been a very well-fated destination for members of your family. I can only hope history repeats itself."
