The Conjurer's Riddle

by Andrea Cremer

  “Why didn’t you come to us right away?” Charlotte asked. “You knew we were in the city. You could have warned us.”

  “My warning would have meant nothing,” Meg told her. “Arachne’s assassins are the deadliest of warriors. I couldn’t lose the advantage of surprise. Even so, I didn’t know if I’d be a match for them. Thanks to you, I only had to fight the second. You have incredible courage, Lottie.”

  Charlotte rested her weight against the elbow of her good arm. “Who sent them?”

  “The conjurer decreed Grave harmless,” Meg said. “But not all agree with him. Some believe he is that which does not belong. That which must not be.”

  “How can you say that?” Charlotte snapped. “Who are you to know whether or not he belongs?”

  “I don’t claim that wisdom,” Meg said, then sighed. “But the Sisters in the Temple of Athene have condemned him, and sent the Order to remove him from this world.”

  “You mean kill him,” Charlotte said.

  “More than that.” She laid the back of her hand on Grave’s forehead. “He’s cold. He will never have the same warmth as you or I. The Sisters would say that is only one proof of many that the boy who was ‘Timothy’ is long dead. Grave is not the same. He is other. His soul does not belong. Yes, they will find a way to kill the body, but they will also banish the soul.”

  Charlotte felt the cool kiss of dread brush the back of her neck. Grave made the same argument about himself. He wasn’t Hackett Bromley’s son. He was something else. Someone who was learning his place in this world. Charlotte didn’t know if she could deny that Grave was other, but she couldn’t believe that meant he had to die. Grave might not be of this world, but he wasn’t evil—the conjurer had proclaimed as much without any sign of doubt.

  “When I learned of the Sisters’ decree, I abandoned the Temple,” Meg said quietly. “I knew I had to find you before the Order did. I almost failed.”

  “But you didn’t.” Charlotte pushed herself up and scooted close to Meg. “Where did you learn to fight like that? With the Sisters?”

  Meg laughed. “You think I could learn those skills in a month?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen you fight,” Charlotte suddenly felt much younger than she had in weeks.

  “You’ve never seen me fight. That doesn’t mean I haven’t been training for battle since I was very young, which I have. My mother was once a warrior. These clothes and weapons—they were hers. Your brother used to spar with me, and while I doubt he’d admit it, I usually won.” Meg wrapped her arms around Charlotte, hugging her tightly. “Oh, Lottie. You have no idea how much I’ve missed all of you.”

  Charlotte’s throat felt thick, as she held back tears. “We’ve missed you, Meg. Every day. So much happened and it’s been . . . it’s been hard. More than hard.”

  Meg nodded. “I know. I’ve learned some things. The Catacombs . . .” She closed her eyes. “I still find it difficult to believe they’re gone.”

  Tears forced their way out of Charlotte’s eyes and she let the wave of sorrow take her. While Meg rocked her, Charlotte cried in a way she’d needed to for so long. She cried for the Catacombs, for Jack’s deception, for Rufus, for her mother’s ruthlessness, for her father’s death, for a Resistance she was no longer sure she believed in. Meg stayed quiet until the last of Charlotte’s sniffles had subsided.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you.” Meg rested her cheek on the crown of Charlotte’s head. “You had to bear so much, so suddenly. But, Lottie, you’ve done so well. You’ve been brave and unyielding. Ashley must be proud.”

  Charlotte didn’t miss the catch in Meg’s voice when she said Ash’s name. “He’ll be so happy to see you.”

  Meg pulled back and Charlotte turned, surprised to see a conflicted expression on Meg’s face. “I don’t know if seeing Ashley would be wise.”

  “But of course you’ll see him,” Charlotte said. “He’s in the city. Do you mean to avoid him? Why would you do that?”

  “You misunderstand my meaning, Lottie.” Meg’s eyes became distant and full of regret. “I don’t have words to . . . when it comes to Ash . . .”

  She shook her head and her wistful tone faded. When Meg’s attention returned to Charlotte, her stare was hard as flint. “I won’t see Ashley because we can’t stay in New Orleans. We have to leave.”

  “Leave New Orleans?” Charlotte drew back and scrambled to her feet. “Why? And who do you mean by we?”

  “You, Grave, and I.”

  Charlotte wanted to object, to cling to disbelief at Meg’s pronouncement, but when Meg rose and stood face to face with Charlotte, Charlotte knew there was no question as to whether or not they would leave New Orleans. It was only a matter of when.

  TELL ME WHY we have to leave.” Charlotte could see the resolve in Meg’s steady gaze, but that didn’t mean Charlotte had to acquiesce to Meg’s plan without an explanation.

  Meg’s eyes shifted to the dead assassins sprawled on the ground. “They aren’t reason enough?”

  “Not when they’re dead,” Charlotte shot back.

  “They were only two,” Meg said. “There will be others.”

  “But not for a while.” Charlotte’s own feelings about New Orleans were mixed after overhearing her mother and the officers. Nonetheless, she didn’t know where a better refuge could be. “The Sisters won’t know these assassins failed. We have time to discuss the attack with the others. Then we can make a plan.”

  Meg reached into her pocket, then opened her hand to show Charlotte what she held. Though its body was crumpled, and its eight spindly legs twisted at strange angles, it was plainly a spider crafted of silver.

  “I was able to catch this one before it fled.” Meg examined the broken mechanical. “But the other is long gone.”

  “Is this what you stomped on?” Charlotte peered more closely at the spider. “What is it?”

  “It’s called a Web Minder.” Meg returned the spider to her pocket. “When a woman is initiated into the Order of Arachne, a Web Minder is attached to the base of her neck. Its machinery is powered by the circulation of the blood, its gears wound with every beat of the assassin’s heart. Should that heart stop beating, the Web Minder detaches from its host and returns to the Temple.”

  “Like a homing bird,” Charlotte said. “But a bird flies. How fast can a scuttling spider get back to New York?”

  Meg smiled, but her expression was one of tolerance, not happiness. “Web Minders don’t have wings, but they travel through the air. The spider that left the assassin you killed immediately climbed to the top of the nearest tree and deployed a silk sail from its abdomen. Its legs spin like propellers. And it won’t be going all the way to the Floating City. They’re named Web Minders in reference to the network of informants the Order of Arachne controls. Our little spider is likely on its way to New Orleans, given that it’s the nearest city.”

  That news quelled Charlotte’s doubts about a Web Minder’s efficacy. She stayed quiet, disturbed by how quickly the Sisters could learn about the failed attempt to capture Grave and how soon more assassins would come to finish the task.

  Leaving Charlotte to her thoughts, Meg crouched at Grave’s side. She spent several minutes studying him and the pallet where he lay, before she drew a dagger and made a small cut in her left palm. When her blood welled, Meg swept the tip of her right index finger through it and reached over to draw a circle in the hollow of Grave’s throat.

  Hopes, fears, and confusion rattled about Charlotte’s mind while Meg attended to Grave. Charlotte had worried that bringing Grave back from whatever or wherever the Otherside was could put him in danger, but Meg showed no hesitation as she worked. Peering down at them, Charlotte watched as Meg drew out a pouch hidden beneath Grave’s shirt. Meg then unhooked a compact gadget that hung from her belt. About the length of a spoon, the device rese
mbled an odd flower. The stem was made of two spiraling bronze pieces that partially obscured the tiny gears they wrapped around. The bloom featured concentric circles of curving metallic petals with tips that ended in sharp points.

  Meg held the base of the bloom between two fingers while she gave several cranks on the stem. When she paused, the inner rings of the bloom whirred as they began to spin. With great care, Meg lifted the pouch, holding only the very edge of its fabric, and set the bloom against the pouch’s base. The sharp petals ground into the small bag, shredding it and whatever it contained in a matter of seconds. Meg murmured steadily as the pouch was destroyed, though Charlotte could make no sense of the words she spoke.

  Rather than dropping to the ground and lying there, the detritus of the pouch began to smoke and curl as it fell. By the time the flower’s blades slowed and then stopped altogether, and only a tiny scrap of fabric remained between Meg’s fingers, the pouch and its contents had been transformed into a pile of ash.

  What had Meg learned in the Temple of Athene? Or was this yet another skill she had already had but kept secret? Charlotte marveled at, but also was unsettled by, these startling revelations about her friend. What else could Meg do?

  Grave stirred and Charlotte shifted her attention to him.

  “Are you all right?” she knelt at his side. “How do you feel?”

  Propping himself up on his elbows, Grave squinted at his surroundings. “Where are we?”

  “Deep in the Bayou,” Meg answered. “On the eastern side of Lake Pontchartrain.”

  “But how did we get here?” Grave sat up, rubbing his eyes. “We were in the Market.”

  Charlotte swept her gaze over him, searching for any sign of damage, but found none. “You were kidnapped. I followed.”

  “Kidnapped?” Grave looked at Meg again, his brow furrowing. “Meg? What are you doing here? I thought you stayed in the Floating City.”

  Meg offered him a tight smile. “I did. But circumstances changed rather quickly, and it became clear that rejoining you was more important than staying in the Temple.”

  Still frowning, Grave glanced at Charlotte, then asked Meg, “You knew I was kidnapped?”

  Rather than answer, Meg leaned down and grabbed Grave’s arm. “We need to get back to the city.” She pulled him to his feet.

  Charlotte groaned. Tramping back to New Orleans through the swamps at night would be perilous and exhausting, and she was already deeply weary from their ordeal.

  Gauging Charlotte’s expression, Meg said, “It won’t take too long. I have a boat tied at the lakeshore.”

  “Thank Athene.”

  With a slight grimace, Meg added softly, “Don’t thank her yet.”

  • • •

  The shallow skiff glided along the still surface of Lake Pontchartrain, propelled by angled fins along the sides of the boat that fluttered through the water. Meg stood in the boat’s stern, controlling the vessel’s rudder to steer them toward New Orleans. From the time they’d boarded the skiff and tied on the masks that Meg had waiting for them, conversation had ceased and the whole of their journey passed in silence. Charlotte didn’t know what Grave was thinking, and Meg’s appearance and actions still puzzled her. Tired as she was, Charlotte didn’t want to sleep. Remaining alert and observant felt imperative, though she wasn’t certain what kept her more on edge: the threat of more assassins, or her lingering questions about Meg and the Temple of Athene.

  Clouds rolled in to hide the moon, and it was very dark when they slipped through a small gate near the northeastern corner of the Iron Wall. A guard stood watch at the narrow portal, a tunnel that could only accommodate humble vessels like theirs. As they approached, Meg tossed the guard a bag that jingled of coins when he caught it. He let them pass without question. When they entered the tunnel, Charlotte turned back, wondering about the wordless exchange.

  “A smuggler’s gate,” Meg said quietly. “There are several in the Iron Wall.”

  “Do the authorities know?” Charlotte asked. Given that New Orleans prided itself on defense and security, these breaches, however small, struck her as anomalous.

  “Oh yes,” Meg said. “Without smuggling, the city would be bankrupt. Of course, every so often they’ll stage a raid or shut down most of the gates for a few weeks. But when they do, the most important smugglers receive notice well in advance so as not to disrupt the necessary flow of coin and commerce. Pull that lever to your right, Lottie.”

  When Charlotte did, the fins slowed their sweeps and the skiff emerged from the tunnel to meander along a city canal. Thunder rumbled above them, quiet but menacing. The air was thick, pressing into Charlotte’s skin until beads of sweat began to roll down her neck.

  “We’re staying at Le Poisson Noir.” Charlotte wiped her brow.

  Meg didn’t answer, prompting her to ask, “Or are you taking us somewhere else?”

  She couldn’t see Meg’s expression with a mask hiding her face, but she heard Meg sigh. “No. I’ll take you to the Black Fish.”

  Why Meg sounded so reluctant, Charlotte couldn’t fathom. Didn’t she want to see the others? Hadn’t she missed them? Even if Meg had to leave very soon, surely a reunion, however brief, could still be joyful for all of them.

  They didn’t speak again as Meg steered the skiff through the network of canals, following so many bends and turns that it left Charlotte completely disoriented. Meg kept their small craft in the center of the waterway, never coming close to shore. Beneath the city, sounds of life were present, but muffled. Occasionally Charlotte caught a furtive movement between the dusky silhouettes of buildings.

  The Quay was below New Orleans, Linnet had said, so the indistinct shapes on either side of the canal must make up that foreboding part of the city. Meg’s efforts to keep them away from the boat landings on either side of the canal indicated that Linnet and Lord Ott’s warnings had been earnest.

  At last Meg turned the skiff toward a dock.

  “Charlotte, take the rudder.”

  Charlotte stood up and switched places with her.

  “Keep us heading for the dock.” Meg climbed to the front of the boat, putting the end of a rope in Grave’s hands as she passed him. Just before the prow bumped against the wooden pilings, Meg jumped from the boat onto the dock.

  “Toss me that line, Grave!”

  Meg caught it and towed the skiff alongside the dock, tying the rope onto a squat bollard. “Come on, then.”

  Grave and Charlotte scrambled from the boat and hurried to catch Meg, who had already taken off down the dock. Meg moved swiftly and quietly, not even acknowledging the pair when they fell into place behind her. A drop of water hit Charlotte’s shoulder, then another. She looked up, but the crisscross of metalwork that held the city above blocked out the sky. Charlotte turned and saw tiny circles blooming on the surface of the canal after each raindrop crashed into the water. Soon the circles overlapped and the canal resembled a roiling cauldron. Thunder boomed in the distance.

  Meg took them to a ladder that blended so well with the brass, iron, and steel surrounding it that Charlotte didn’t notice it was there until Meg began to climb. Charlotte gestured Grave past to follow Meg, then she climbed after him. At the top of the ladder Meg searched among the pipes, bars, and bolts until she found a lever. When she turned it, a hatch popped open and the storm from which they’d had some shelter came down unchecked. The rungs became slick and Charlotte’s foot slipped several times, forcing her to catch herself and cling tightly to the ladder as she climbed the rest of the distance to the hatch. As soon as she was in his reach, Grave caught Charlotte beneath her shoulders and hauled her out.

  Between the rain and the dim light, Charlotte couldn’t discern their location. She was sitting atop a metal grating that ran a narrow length between two buildings. Grave helped Charlotte to her feet and Meg closed the hatch.

 
“Where are we?” Charlotte asked. The mask offered some protection from the rain, but not enough to stop rivulets of water from sneaking beneath the fabric to roll down her face.

  “The Domicile,” Meg said.

  Charlotte glanced around, bothered that she didn’t at all recognize her surroundings.

  “We’re in a corridor behind the Black Fish,” Meg offered. “We can use the servants’ entrance and stairs to get to your rooms. I’d like to avoid the foyer.”

  Meg’s explanation took the edge off Charlotte’s mood. The face that the Domicile offered the world had been crafted and embellished in ways that would please the senses. This hidden side was severely utilitarian; a place necessary and useful, but not meant to be seen. It was also a relief to know that since they’d emerged from the canals so close to the inn, they wouldn’t have to be out long in the rain.

  The servants’ door opened into the scullery. They passed through to the kitchen and, given the lack of bustle and noise, Charlotte surmised it was still late into the night rather than the early morning hours when this part of the inn would be abuzz with preparations for breakfast. To reach the upper floor they ascended a steep and narrow staircase, and exited the spare passage to be welcomed by the finely appointed hall into which the guest rooms opened.

  Charlotte unlocked the door to their suite as quietly as she could manage. The three of them stole inside and found the sitting room dark and empty. Charlotte sank onto a sofa and took off her mask, weary to her very bones. Grave sat beside her, but Meg leaned over to whisper in Charlotte’s ear.

  “I’m going back to the kitchen to make up a poultice for your wound. I won’t be long.”