“Philip!” Rathe lunged for him, the pump forgotten, sweeping his arms through the opaque water. The light was fading further, fog thickening. Something brushed his ankle, then his hip, a cold and bony caress. Not the dogfish, he told himself, still groping through the water, it couldn’t possibly be, and if it’s her, I’ll pretend it isn’t. His out-flung hand touched something, cloth or hair, but it washed away from him, his fingers closing on water.
His foot struck something solid, something that gave soggily, and he held his breath and reached beneath the surface to find sodden cloth. He heaved at it, realized he had Eslingen’s breeches, and worked his way up to find linen and skin. He hauled again, and Eslingen’s head broke the surface, lolling loose on his shoulders, his hair spreading like a drowned man’s.
“No,” Rathe said, hardly aware he spoke aloud, and wound both fists in the front of his shirt, pulling him further out of the water. He freed one hand to grab Eslingen’s hair, and Eslingen’s eyelids flickered. He coughed, heaved himself to his feet, and Rathe loosed his hair, though he kept tight hold of the shirt. The water was rising again, was almost to his armpits. “Philip, you have to stand, I have to pump now—”
Eslingen nodded, clutching painfully at Rathe’s jerkin, and Rathe reached for the pump again, hauling hard on the handle. It moved reluctantly, but it moved, and Rathe raised it again, fighting against the weight of water and Eslingen’s clumsy grip. It was darker than it had been, no longer foggy but the dark of evening in spite of the lanterns overhead, and he saw Eslingen’s eyes widen.
“She’s here,” he said again, but Rathe couldn’t spare the strength to look over his shoulder.
He could feel her, though, a weighty presence, a chill breath down his spine, a cold and considering hunger that could never be satisfied. Eslingen looked past him, sudden determination in his face, and Rathe said, “No! Stay with me, that’s our only hope. She can’t take us, not while we’re pumping—”
Eslingen’s breath caught, and he reached up, managed to hook one raw hand over the lever and pull down. He closed his teeth tight over pain, breath coming in short gasps, but he was, arguably doing the work. Something splashed behind them, a hiss and flick of air like an angry snake, and suddenly the Riverdeme was on the other side of the pump, rising naked from the water, skin as white and speckled as a fish’s belly gleaming in what was left of the light. Her breasts were as flat and angled as a fish’s plates, and a dogfish’s tusks rose from her lower jaw. She bared her teeth at them, clawed hands outstretched, the webs between the fingers showing translucent as oiled paper.
Mine.
Rathe felt Eslingen flinch, but they kept pumping, matching each other’s movements. The Riverdeme hissed again, and sank back into the water, dissolving into mist only to shoot out again barely an arm’s length from the pump. Her eyes were flat and perfectly round, reflecting the light so that they shone like sequins, like mirrors in the dark. Her teeth and claws were perfectly white, sharp as razors, ready to rend and tear the moment they faltered.
Mine.
“You can’t have him,” Rathe said. “You can’t have us, that was the bargain, that’s the rule of the cell, you can’t take us while we keep the water out. And we are doing that, and we will keep pumping until the cell is empty and you are gone.”
Promised….
It was barely a word, might have been only a hiss of anger, but Rathe seized the sense of it, jerked his head toward the top of the cell. “If you want the one who promised, she’s up there.”
The Riverdeme reared her head at that, and dissolved again into fog. Something, not even a shape, shot upward from the water’s surface. It passed between them and the lantern like a cloud, and then the light was back and above them Elecia screamed in shrill terror. Cambrai shouted something, and Elecia screamed again, the sound trailing off into a wet bubbling moan.
“I—she killed her,” Eslingen said, blankly.
“Yeah,” Rathe said. “Keep pumping.”
There was a flat crack of light overhead, a thunderclap without sound, blinding and stunning and overwhelming. Rathe clung to Eslingen as something rained past them like ash and swirled away in the water, looked up with streaming eyes to see someone leaning over the edge of the cell. He blinked hard against the green clouds that covered his vision, but it remained Rainart Fourie. The surintendant gave his thin smile.
“Well, Rathe, you seem to have cut things a bit close this time.”
“Not my intention, sir,” Rathe answered, and a rope ladder unrolled down the side of the cell.
“Can Captain vaan Esling manage on his own, or do we need a sling?”
“Better get a sling,” Rathe answered. “There’s a body down here, too.”
“Ah. Most unfortunate.” Fourie turned away, presumably to give orders, and Rathe looked at Eslingen.
“You’re all right?”
“Every muscle in my body feels like you put a hot poker to it, and my hands are flayed. But I’ll live.”
That was more honesty than Rathe had expected, and he put his arms around Eslingen as though that could help. The water was still chest high, but it wasn’t rising, he realized, and there was no sound of it rushing in. “The tide’s turned.”
“Not before time,” Eslingen said.
Another rope and sling appeared, and Eslingen was hauled wincing out of the cell. Rathe stayed long enough to help retrieve de Vian’s body, then climbed out himself, and sat for a moment on the damp stones, shaken to the bone. Someone draped a blanket over his shoulders, and he huddled into it, grateful for its warmth. The lower cellar was crowded now: he recognized people from Sighs, and from Dreams, and to his shock there were three women in magists’ robes and university badges. Raunkeleyn was with them, gesturing wildly, his own robe fastened askew as though he’d dressed in haste. There was a patch of something that was almost certainly blood by the door, and a fan of it across the wall as though someone had been killed flying, and he looked for Elecia’s body.
“The alchemists have already taken her,” Fourie said, and Rathe dragged himself to his feet. “It seems we came just in time.”
“Thank you,” Rathe said. He looked for Eslingen, and saw him leaning against the wall, another blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His eyes were closed, but he seemed to feel the look, for he straightened, eyes opening, and started toward them.
“The next time you discover that an ancient power has been loosed, Rathe, I expect you to inform me immediately,” Fourie said.
“I told you as soon as I was sure of it.”
Eslingen caught his elbow as he staggered.
“I profoundly hope there won’t be a next time, sir.” Eslingen gave Fourie his best smile, and to Rathe’s surprise Fourie managed a thin smile in return.
“I never make assumptions, Captain.”
“What happened to d’Entrebeschaire?” Rathe asked.
“She seems to have fled,” Fourie answered. “I have a report of a woman matching her description passing the Queen’s Gate an hour past midnight, claiming a deathly ill relative in the country. The Guard has been sent after her, though I expect it’s too late.”
Eslingen opened his mouth as though to protest, then closed it again. Rathe said, “The Staenkas. I don’t honestly know how deeply they were involved.”
Fourie held up his hand. “That can be decided later. For now, Adjunct Point, take yourself and your leman home—I’ll send a physician see to you both.”
“Yes, sir,” Rathe said.
Somehow he dragged himself and Eslingen up the stairs and out into the street, and stood for a moment breathing the night air. The winter-sun was past the zenith, only a hand’s breadth above the western rooftops, and there was a hint of gray in the eastern sky. It was cold, and the air smelled of drying leaves and tar and faintly of the spices traded two streets over; he pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, wondering where he could find a low-flyer at this time of night, and if they could walk as far as Dreams
if he couldn’t.
“Nico.” Eslingen touched his shoulder, and he looked up to hear the jingle of harness as the low-flyer’s driver urged his horse into motion.
Rathe looked up at the driver, who touched his forehead in response. “You’ve been waiting all this time?”
“The Surintendant of Points said he’d have my license if I didn’t,” the driver answered. “And I’m done in, gentlemen, so if you wouldn’t mind—”
Eslingen laughed, and Rathe couldn’t help a smile. “Take us home.”
EPILOGUE
Eslingen sprawled on the bed in the fading light of a winter evening, Sunflower at his side and a stack of broadsheets ready to hand. Most of the pain and stiffness had left his muscles, though his palms were still scabbed and healing, and he had found a pair of soft kid half-gloves to cover them until the doctor said he could remove the bandages. He had been back to the barracks in the morning, but Coindarel had watched him work, and sent him home for another day. It was just as well, Eslingen admitted silently. The Guard had failed to catch up with d’Entrebeschaire, losing her just south of Jandoc, and everyone was still on edge about that. He had kept de Vian’s secret, the least he could do for the pack of younger brothers left motherless, sisterless, and unprotected; as far as the Guard knew, she had killed one of their own. No one liked to see her get away with that, and it was no consolation at all that Raunkeleyn claimed she could never go near running water without risking the wrath of the Riverdeme’s kindred. That would only be satisfying if he was there to see it, and he doubted that was likely.
At least the stars had shifted. The worst of the rains had passed, and the last time he’d been caught in a downpour he’d been no more than reasonably wet: his planets had left their detriment. In the distance, a clock struck five, another chiming in a heartbeat later, and as they finished striking, he heard the main door open. He lifted his head, as did Sunflower, and Rathe stopped in the door, laughing.
“The pair of you.”
“He’s a good dog,” Eslingen said, conscious that they had relaxed in the same moment as well, and fondled his ears. “Did they set a date for the Staenkas to go before the judiciary?”
Rathe shook his head, and came to sit on the bed beside him, kicking off his shoes. “Meisenta made an offer to settle the offense, which Fourie recommended the regents accept. It’s a stinging fine, they’ll be paying it for years, but if the sur says it’s fair….”
“What’s she doing with Aucher?”
“Said she’d keep him if he made a clean breast of it,” Rathe answered. “And as a result he’s been talking like a broadsheet chanter. He says it was all his sister’s idea, hers and d’Entrebeschaire’s, and they did everything either themselves or through agents—agents conveniently not known to him.”
Eslingen dragged himself to a more upright position, adjusting the pillow behind him. “So he says they killed Trys.”
Rathe nodded. “They’d freed the Riverdeme by then, and she was hungry, so they thought they’d kill two gargoyles with a single bolt—they were worried that her taking random sailors would give her away too soon. They dropped him down the drowning cell, but he was strong enough to hold back the tide, and the Riverdeme couldn’t touch him. Elecia thought that meant she’d refused him, so she had him dragged out and knifed at the warehouse.”
“And Dammar?”
“Trys did that on his own, or so Aucher says.” Rathe shrugged. “Dammar was using the point on Mattaes to demand a bigger fee. Trys had his men beat him, and then d’Entrebeschaire decided that—with us sniffing around—she’d better silence him permanently. Aucher says he gave them the tea to bribe him with—and Meisenta doesn’t exactly apologize for lying about recognizing the blend, but says she was afraid of getting Mattaes into deeper trouble if she admitted she recognized it. Myself, I think she was just as worred about Elecia, but she’s not about to admit that now. In any case, Aucher says he has no idea where they got the hemlock.”
Eslingen snorted at that.
“Oh, I agree, it probably came from the Staenka workrooms, they have it there. D’Entrebeschaire seems to have been the one who talked her way into his rooms after he was beaten; she’s certainly the one who suggested to his sister that they bring him the treat from home.”
“And the tea captain, bes’Anthe—the one who started all this?”
Rathe smiled without humor. “Aucher says that was Elecia, or maybe d’Entrebeschaire and one of her men.”
“But why?”
“Because they thought bes’Anthe was going to tell Mattaes about the extortion ring— which he did—and that bes’Anthe knew that there was a connection between Trys and the Gebellins. Aucher says they thought bes’Anthe was going to ask Mattaes to use his influence to get Trys to take a lower fee. In any case, Mattaes is cleared, though what he plans to do with himself is anyone’s guess.”
Keep serving the family, Eslingen thought. Mattaes wasn’t the sort to give up that security. Not like de Vian…. He shook the thought away. “Do you believe that? I can’t see Elecia knifing him—and d’Entrebeschaire would have made a better job of it.”
“I believe that’s what they were afraid of.” Rathe sighed. “But the rest—I think Aucher stabbed him, but he swears not, and I can’t prove it. I think the bloody shirt was his, there was a mix-up over the household laundry a month or so before, four shirts sent to them that belonged to another house, and only three made it back to the laundry. I think he had some idea then that he and Elecia were wading into deep water, and after he’d killed the man, he left it in Mattaes’s room. But, as I said, I have no proof.” He stopped, his face bleak. “I told Meisenta, though. What she does with it is her business.”
Eslingen lifted an eyebrow. “She’s coming out of this well enough.”
“She loved Elecia,” Rathe said. “And I don’t believe she knew what was going on. Or at least not about anything that would be more than the usual way of business.”
“Astreianter merchants play for keeps,” Eslingen said, not quite lightly enough.
“And there’s damn all I can do about it.” Rathe shook himself. “You were back to the barracks this morning?”
Eslingen nodded, accepting the change of subject. “It still hurts my hands to ride, so the Prince-Marshal told me to stay away until they’re healed. Rijonneau and his company followed d’Entrebeschaire all the way to Jandoc, but she turned off the road there, and they weren’t able to pick up her trail.” He glanced sideways at Rathe as he spoke. This had been the Guard’s first real assignment, and it was singularly without result: he could hardly blame Rathe for pointing that out, but Rathe was staring at the far wall.
“Raunkeleyn says the Riverdeme will punish her—well, the Riverdeme and her kindred spirits.”
“Not very satisfying, though,” Eslingen said.
“It’s what we’ve got.” Rathe rested his head against the wall, his shoulder pressing against Eslingen’s.
Eslingen sighed. “There’s a piece I haven’t told you— haven’t told the Guard, either, and don’t intend to. After I turned him down, Balfort went to his sister and told her what we knew.”
“I wondered,” Rathe said, after a moment.
“Of course you did.”
“Not at the time, but afterward….” Rathe shrugged. “I did wonder, the way it all fit together.”
“It was stupid,” Eslingen said, “stupid and petty and I think he knew it as soon as he’d done it. And he did try to help me.”
“Without notable success.”
“He was a boy,” Eslingen said. “I shouldn’t have taken him on. He’d be alive today if I’d listened to you.”
“Maybe.” Rathe kissed Eslingen’s neck. “Or maybe he’d have done something just as foolish. But he made his own choices, and he stood by them at the end. You taught him that.”
“Will you stay at Sighs?”
“Not after Astarac is brought to bed,” Rathe answered. “Which, please all the gods, shou
ld be soon. I’m too junior to take Dammar’s place on a permanent basis. No, I’ll be back at Dreams, and happy to be there.” He shook his head. “I don’t like the way they do business.”
There was something in his voice, a note not of discontent, but of unhappiness, that made Eslingen look curiously at him. “What did you do?”
“Threatened everyone at Sighs—I don’t mind that so much, they shouldn’t take fees, and they ought to stay bought when they do, but it’s still not right. And then I told Meisenta that if anything had happened to you, I’d hound them to my grave.” Rathe tipped his head back again, staring at the faded canopy with its embroidery of stars and suns.
“Oh, I heard all about that.”
Rathe sighed. “I was bluffing, Philip. I couldn’t—not even for you.”
“I’d be dead then and I wouldn’t care,” Eslingen answered. He reached for Rathe’s hand, closed it in his own. “Seriously, Nico, I’d expect nothing less of you.”
There was a long silence, and then, very softly, he heard Rathe laugh. “Ah, Philip. I suppose we deserve each other.”
“I’m content,” Eslingen answered, and leaned companionably against him.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once again, thanks are due to editor extraordinaire Steve Berman—yes, you were right again—and to copy editor/designer Alex Jeffers, whose work on this book was helpful, thorough, and perfectly tuned to the book I wanted to write—and whose design makes it even more lovely. I’d also like to thank the patrons of my Astreiant Patreon, who not only offer material support, but remind me why it’s so much fun to write in this world.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Melissa Scott is from Little Rock, Arkansas, and studied history at Harvard College and Brandeis University, where she earned her PhD in the Comparative History program with a dissertation titled “Victory of the Ancients: Tactics, Technology, and the Use of Classical Precedent.” She is the author of more than thirty science fiction and fantasy novels, most with queer themes and characters, and has won four Lambda Literary Awards, most recently for Death By Silver, written with Amy Griswold, as well as multiple Spectrum Awards and the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer. She can be found on Twitter @blueterraplane.
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