The Conjurer's Riddle

by Andrea Cremer

  Elegant porches wrapped around the ground floor of each building, and each porch was topped with a balcony. The Poisson Noir had its own balcony, of course, but any similarity ended there. The wrought-iron fish that decorated that inn’s railing couldn’t compete with the gold, silver, and copper sculptures that ringed balconies in the Salon. Neither were these railings static. Here, Charlotte thought, was the first place in New Orleans that she found reminiscent of the Floating City. Flocks of silver birds with copper wings fluttered from end to end of one balcony; automatons in the likeness of musketeers fenced at the center of another. One building’s railing rose and fell in waves that crested and crashed down. For all its intricacy it actually made the Salon unpleasantly noisy, as if all the embellishments competed for attention.

  Linnet looked Charlotte. “What do you think of it?”

  Charlotte watched a dog chase a cat that chased a mouse around the corner of a balcony. “It’s not as pleasant as I would have imagined.”

  “It’s not without purpose,” Linnet said, though she sounded as if she resented that admission. “The constant show of this place keeps people from noticing many of the important things that go on.”

  They walked among the grand homes with their gardens—some living, others mechanical—and fountains. More activity, and not just that of the décor, was taking place here than there had been in the other two districts. Servants were tending the gardens, sweeping porches, running in and out of the rear entrances to complete whatever tasks needed doing before the lords and ladies of the houses left their velvet-draped beds.

  Linnet led them to a building washed in pale blue. Flowers of hammered metal sprouted along the porch and roses bloomed and closed on the balcony’s railing.

  “La Belle Fleur,” Linnet said.

  “Is Lord Ott deigning to let us pass through the doors of his fine hotel?” Charlotte muttered.

  She hadn’t been looking for an answer, but Linnet replied, “He didn’t want to go out in the rain.”

  “Lord Ott has never struck me as that delicate of a creature,” Meg said. “Have I misjudged him?”

  “No,” Linnet told her. “I’ve seen him wade into a swamp with muck that rose to his chest, laughing the whole time. But he’s in a foul mood this morning.”

  For the first time, Charlotte felt a pang of nerves in anticipation of meeting Lord Ott. He’d always been jovial and kind to her, but given his profession, he must have had more intimidating aspects to his person. Charlotte didn’t know that she wanted to see them.

  The lobby of the hotel offered a pleasant aural contrast to the tinny chorus outside. A harp stood amid overstuffed chairs and chaises, playing itself.

  A man dressed in a peach silk waistcoat and pantaloons, wearing a black cat mask, met Linnet in the center of the room. “You’re expected. He’s having breakfast in the parlor.”

  Linnet nodded and continued through the lobby. Double glass doors gave them entrance to the parlor. When they were inside, Linnet closed the doors and locked them; then she pulled heavy violet drapes that cut off the view to the lobby.

  Lord Ott sat at a small table carved of ivory. His breakfast covered most of its surface. The silver covers to his platters lay discarded on the floor, and steam rose from poached duck eggs, stewed tomatoes with herbs, fat sausages, and thick-cut bacon. Charlotte’s stomach rumbled so loudly she clapped her hand to her abdomen.

  “I’m not sharing.” Ott didn’t look up. He forked a tomato into his mouth. “Take off your masks so we can have an honest conversation.”

  They took off their masks, and Linnet brought chairs to the table. Ott grunted when they sat down.

  “I am vexed, Miss Marshall,” Ott said. He picked up a porcelain cup filled with coffee and looked at Charlotte. “Do you know how much I dislike being vexed?”

  “Don’t waste your time scolding her,” Linnet said. “Whatever consequences you’re dealing with now, you must know Charlotte didn’t intend to cause them.”

  Charlotte decided it best to be forthcoming rather than wait for Ott to demand information.

  “Linnet mentioned spiders,” Charlotte told Ott. “So you know about the Order of Arachne.”

  Ott brushed crumbs from his beard. “Know about the Order? Yes. But knowing about them and having to deal with them are very different matters. I do not want to deal with the Order of Arachne, Charlotte. Do you know how often they’re sent out on missions?”

  Charlotte wondered how many things Ott planned to ask her about which he knew that she understood little, if not nothing.

  “Never!” Ott traded his coffee for a slice of bacon. “Almost never. What have you been keeping from me? Because the Sisters don’t release their black widows without serious provocation.”

  Meg had been silent up to that point, but she answered, “Charlotte, you should tell him about Grave.”

  Ott lifted his bushy eyebrows at her. “Your mother told me you’d be mixed up in this. She’s holding me responsible for keeping you out of harm. If she knew that you’re running around the bayous with swords, she might be a bit more reasonable about the limitations of my work.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Meg said coolly.

  “You know Madam Jedda?” Charlotte blurted.

  “Don’t you know that I know everyone?” Ott stabbed a sausage.

  “You don’t know about Grave,” Meg told him. “And that’s what matters.”

  “Grave,” Ott spoke as he chewed, “the odd boy. The sick one.”

  “He isn’t sick,” Meg leaned forward, leveling a hard gaze at him. “He’s dead.”

  Ott dropped his fork.

  “Meg!” Charlotte snapped. “That’s not—you know that he—”

  “I was just getting Lord Ott’s attention,” Meg told her. “He needs to stop being cross and start listening.”

  “You have my attention.” Ott pushed his chair back from the table.

  “Charlotte?” Linnet was looking at her with a curious but puzzled expression. “What do you have to tell us?”

  Charlotte folded her hands in her lap, took a breath, and told them everything.

  • • •

  When she’d finished, Charlotte was so tired she thought she might drop off to sleep in her chair. Reciting all that had taken place since she’d first found Grave in the forest had resurrected all the emotions she’d experienced along the way.

  Lord Ott stood up. He went to an ebony cabinet and took out a crystal decanter. When he returned to the table he poured a healthy measure from the decanter into his coffee.

  “Well.” Ott slurped his drink, then set it down again. “That was not what I expected.”

  Charlotte glanced at Linnet, but her friend’s expression was unreadable.

  “I don’t think Grave’s existence is anything anyone expected,” Meg said. “Ever.”

  “But now he’s the most valuable commodity on the continent.” Ott scratched his beard. “Possibly in the world.”

  “He is not a commodity,” Charlotte said, but she couldn’t muster any outrage. She was simply too tired.

  Ott laughed. “My dear girl, everyone and everything is a commodity. That is the real world. My world.”

  Charlotte’s mouth turned down in a sullen expression, but she didn’t reply.

  “We need to get Grave out of the city,” Meg said. “He must be taken away. I’ll find somewhere to keep him hidden until we can learn more about him.”

  Charlotte cast a sharp glance at Meg. She still didn’t know what Meg thought Grave’s fate should be. At times Meg seemed like she wanted to protect him, but there were moments, like this one, when Meg spoke about Grave as a threat.

  “Hmmm.” Ott folded his hands atop his generous belly. “I’m afraid I disagree with you there, Meg. And not just because I don’t want to cross swords with your mother.”
/>   Meg’s eyes narrowed.

  “Caroline Marshall has the right of it,” Ott continued. “If Grave is in the world, then the best place for him to be is here, with the Resistance. Any attempt to take him elsewhere could, and likely will, fail. It’s too great a risk.”

  “The Resistance can’t protect him from the Temple,” Meg argued. “They have the ability to infiltrate any organization. They will get to Grave.”

  “I may not like the Order of Arachne,” Ott shot back, “but I’m not afraid of them. No one—not even the black widows—will infiltrate the Resistance without my knowledge. The Resistance might not be able to protect Grave. But I can.”

  “Your hubris is foolish.” Meg stood up, furious.

  “Just because you’ve dressed up like a warrior doesn’t mean you’re capable of single-handedly taking the boy to some imagined sanctuary,” Ott said.

  Charlotte didn’t think Ott would have maintained that opinion if he’d seen Meg in the bayou.

  Meg laughed harshly. “You have no idea, old man. Leave us be.”

  “There will be no leaving.” Ott’s tone grew imperious. “None of you are permitted to exit New Orleans. The officers of the Resistance have issued that order. When I first learned of it I didn’t understand why, but now that I do I tell you without reservation that I will help them to enforce it.”

  “You’ve made yourself clear, Lord Ott.” Meg retrieved her mask and put it on. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

  Ott didn’t object, but when Charlotte stood, he said, “My dear Charlotte, don’t be impetuous in this matter. Remember the danger you’ve already been put in. We still don’t know who targeted you, but I’m certain that it is connected to this matter with Grave.”

  All Charlotte could do was nod.

  She tied on her mask and went after Meg, finding her on the path outside the hotel.

  “That was unfortunate,” Meg told Charlotte. “I was hoping Lord Ott would be the way we gained passage from the city. It will take time to find another way. And I don’t know if we have that time.”

  Charlotte was beyond tired, and Meg’s words filled her with a sense of defeat.

  Meg put her arm around Charlotte’s shoulder. “No matter. We’ll find a way.”

  They were halfway to the bridge when Linnet caught up with them.

  “Does Ott have another warning for us?” Meg asked.

  “I’m not here on Ott’s behalf,” Linnet said. “I want to help you. He’s wrong about Grave.”

  Charlotte frowned behind her mask. “What do you mean?”

  “I can get you out of the city,” Linnet said. “As soon as you need, if you give me a day to make the arrangements.”

  “Your contacts are Ott’s contacts.” Meg’s skepticism was apparent. “And your friendship with Charlotte makes you the most obvious means for tracking our movements.”

  “If you knew me the way Charlotte does,” Linnet snapped, “you wouldn’t suggest such a thing.”

  Meg looked at Charlotte.

  “She’s right,” Charlotte said. “I trust Linnet. If she says she can help us, she can and she will.”

  “What about the Resistance?” Meg asked Linnet. “You have no qualms about working against them.”

  “I work for Ott, not the Resistance,” Linnet answered. “And most of the time I think the Resistance has worthy aims, but if they don’t, I won’t follow them blindly. And sometimes Ott gets it wrong. I choose my assignments, and I have contacts other than his.”

  “Very well,” Meg said. “How are you going to get us out of the city?”

  Linnet might have been wearing a mask, but Charlotte could tell she was smiling.

  HAVING ENDURED PROFUSE warnings from Lord Ott, Linnet, and Coe, Charlotte regarded her first true venture into the Quay with keen interest tempered by fear. She knew how to fight—she’d proven as much in the Iron Forest, when she and Coe were set upon by an unsavory lot of brigands. Charlotte had bested her attacker without any aid. But the confidence she drew from that victory had suffered due to the incident in the Garden of Mirrors and her poisoning on the Calypso. Charlotte knew that, had Linnet not played the savior that night—and both Linnet and Coe on the second occasion—her own life would likely have been forfeit.

  Cloaked and bearing no lanterns, the pair of girls left behind the pleasant glitter of the city’s faceted crystal street lamps. Darkness swallowed them more quickly than Charlotte expected. As they descended, the air thickened to the point that it seemed to cling to her skin and weigh heavy in her lungs. Fetid odors of sodden vegetation and brackish water welcomed them to the creaking planks of the Quay. Small fishing boats and flat-bottomed skiffs drifted alongside docks that jutted from the walkway. Fishermen on stools hunched over as they mended nets and sharpened hooks. Few bothered to spare a glance at Charlotte and Linnet as they passed the docks.

  Weary-looking shacks that reeked of fish guts stood opposite the docks, but farther into the Quay those rickety structures retreated, replaced by storefronts—all shuttered at this late hour—mostly fishmongers, with a few purveyors of “oddities” speckled throughout. The shops brought with them some reprieve from the darkness, though the lamps of the Quay offered only murky yellow-green light that suggested the lamps had been shaded with translucent skins from an unlucky snake or alligator.

  A short way ahead, Charlotte made out a different sort of light. Bright orange and jumping with the life of well-fed flames, whatever building featured this vivid beacon drew more attention than any other part of the Quay. The structure’s dimensions emerged from the mist, revealing that, unlike its peers, this building rose to the height of two stories. When they neared the flames, Charlotte saw sconced torches framing a sign, giving name to the place, or rather identity. A single word had been carved into the wood square that hung above a narrow, iron-girded door: Taverne.

  “Follow me,” Linnet told Charlotte in a low tone. “And don’t speak to anyone. Not even . . . no, especially if they call out to you.”

  Charlotte nodded. She tried to remain at ease though her heartbeat became uneven.

  Linnet opened the door, startling Charlotte with a flood of light and sound. The tavern was clad in polished oak. Its furniture seemed to be in much better repair than Charlotte would have expected. A cheery fire danced in a large hearth; the flames sparked and crackled as fat dripped from a pig roasting on a spit.

  Compared to the quiet of the night, the boisterous patrons who crowded around the tables filled the place with a clamor of shouts and laughter. To Charlotte’s immediate left, a staircase gave access to a balcony that encircled the tavern’s main room. Closed doors on the upper floor led Charlotte to conclude that rooms could be had in this place, as well as board.

  A bar stood at the back of the room, barrels stacked behind it. A woman as stout as the kegs over which she held dominion passed to and from the bar as loud calls from the tables signaled new rounds of ale would be bought. A wiry boy scuttled between tables, collecting used tankards and taking armfuls through a swinging door largely hidden by the hulking stacks of barrels.

  As discreetly as she could, Charlotte assessed the bustle of tavern-goers. Mostly men, they were more grizzled than the denizens of the city above. Their clothes reflected function, not fashion, with shirts sometimes threadbare and breeches often patched. Their masks kept faces hidden, but had little to no ornamentation. When they spoke, their words were laced with oaths of a fouler nature than Charlotte had ever heard. Her ears grew hot when several of those lewd shouts addressed the newly-arrived pair of ladies.

  Linnet pushed her hood back. The ebony wings of her raven’s mask wrapped from her cheeks to the nape of her neck. Charlotte wore a simple but sweet nightingale with soft brown feathers that reached from both sides of her nose to curve beneath her jaw. She could feel eyes following their progress from the front to the back of the tavern; eve
n so, the carousing mood of the room did not wane.

  The barmaid ignored Linnet and Charlotte when they passed her and continued through the swinging door. Their route brought them into a kitchen crowded into a too-tight room. A squinty-eyed, sweating cook wielded a large wooden spoon and shouted at the scrawny boy, who dropped tankards into a steaming vat. Neither paid the girls any mind. Rid of his burden, the boy bolted out of the kitchen, taking care to keep out of the swinging spoon’s reach.

  Linnet walked on, taking them down a set of stone steps and into a cellar. The cool subterranean air was a relief after the kitchen, and the cellar smelled of earth and root vegetables. When they reached a cupboard stocked with bottles of rum, Linnet ducked behind it with Charlotte at her heels. The cupboard hid a short passageway hewn from the stone, its path built of wooden planks. At the end of the passage there was a door.

  To Charlotte it looked a quite plain door, wooden and sturdy but not out of place in a cellar—despite its being hidden. Looking more closely, she noticed something amiss. The door had no lock, nor did it have a handle. Charlotte stepped closer and lifted her hands to give the door a little push.

  With a small cry, Linnet grabbed Charlotte around the waist and hauled her back with such force both girls toppled over.

  “What was that?” Charlotte got to her feet, irked at Linnet’s inexplicable attack.

  Still sitting on the wood path, Linnet laid a cool gaze on Charlotte. “When we’re in a place like this, you don’t do anything unless I tell you to.”

  “Ugh,” Charlotte replied. “I’m not—”

  She never finished her complaint, because Linnet pulled a dagger out of her boot and hurled it at the door. The blade buried itself in the door with a solid thunk and what had appeared to be sturdy planks in front of the door dropped open. Charlotte stared, throat going dry, as the trapdoor hung open for another minute. The clack and whine of turning gears accompanied the planks’ slow return to their original, deceptively benign, place.