Isangell gave him an odd smile, as if she was contemplating the idea.
Ashiol brought the knife down in a killing stroke, letting the blood spray forward over the altar. Then the cuts, deep and swift, though light enough not to pierce the vital entrails beneath.
Ashiol slid his hands inside the corpse of the lamb, feeling the heat of it infuse his skin. He drew out the entrails as he had been taught, letting them web and hang between his fingers. No obvious augurs of doom here — no maggots or blight.
He walked the bounds of the Circus Verdigris once, looping around the central altar and letting the blood drip from the entrails on to the grass, sanctifying it. When he returned, he handed the gory mess to the Duchessa, who had acquired a pale clay bowl in which to receive them. Ashiol painted a long stripe of blood on her face as the sacrificial ‘kiss’, and she returned the favour, dipping her finger into the squishy contents of the bowl once and daubing his forehead before taking the bowl to the fire to burn the entrails. There was that smile again. Perhaps the sunshine was affecting her too? He had never seen Isangell so relaxed around a blood ritual, like a cat waiting her turn to lick out the bowl.
The ashes were supposed to be baked into some kind of ceremonial cake, but Ashiol had little interest in that. He had done his part.
There were more hymns as he stood there, sun baking the blood dry on his skin. He could feel Velody in the crowd, her heartbeat strong and her scent drawing him in. Macready was at her side, and the blonde demme, Delphine. Her scent was stronger than ever before — was it true Macready was trying to turn the wench into a sentinel? Stranger things had happened.
Crane and Kelpie were further away, but Ashiol could sense them too.
Isangell came forward again, her fingers black with wet ashes, and drew a new smudge down between Ashiol’s eyes, lingering over the touch. Around them, the priests sang their interminable song.
Bring on the fucking gladiators, Ashiol thought. This is torture, and I should know …
When the next chorus of voices raised in song, he heard the first scream. It was not here, not anywhere near the Circus Verdigris, but he felt the sound tear up from under the city as if it were directly connected to his veins. Livilla. Livilla. Livilla. He knew her voice before he even recognised the sound.
He searched the crowd for that familiar pulse and found one figure standing very still, her pale face standing out beneath dark hair. Velody met his eyes and nodded slightly. She felt it too. He saw her turn and vanish into the crowd.
Ashiol touched Isangell’s arm. ‘I have to go.’
She stared at him, her disbelief evident. ‘Now?’
‘I’m sorry,’ and he almost was, but his mind was underground, racing after Velody, wanting to know what the hell those otherworldly screams meant. ‘Is the ritual done?’
‘Would you care if it was?’ Isangell said impatiently. ‘Oh, go.’
Ashiol took the bowl from her hand, marked her forehead with ashes in return, then bowed formally and withdrew from the altar. The crowd did not react until he reached the edge and they realised that he was actually leaving. Isangell threw up her hands and cried something to them. Something diplomatic, he expected.
Ashiol could feel Crane and Kelpie, moving in the same direction, but out of reach. It didn’t matter. He tore away from the crowded Circus Verdigris, heading for the nearest cluster of buildings. There, in the narrow alley between a temple and a pie shop, he shaped himself into a small army of cats and scrambled for the nearest drainage area that led down below, taking the shortcut through the Killing Ground and Angel Gardens.
He smelled the blood before he reached the Haymarket, strong and pungent with the scent of wolf on it. A moment later, a wave of animor tore through the tunnels and he quenched as much of it as he could, without thinking.
Not Livilla. She was still alive, still screaming. Her pain bubbled up around him, clear and hot and angry as the dizzying rush of animor was released into the sky. Ashiol quenched what he could, and it made him faster, stronger.
When he reached the cool concrete floor of the Haymarket, Ashiol shaped himself roughly into Lord form, tall and glowing, and surveyed the scene.
Velody was there, skin glowing brightly, her eyes dark. She made for the stairs a moment before he did, and the sentinels fell in behind them all as they hurried along the balcony.
Livilla sat on the floor of her bedchamber, drenched in blood and keening like a child. The raven lad, Janvier, lay outstretched on her bed, recently dead. Ashiol could still taste his animor deep in his own body, like the opposite of an ache.
Livilla glowed with newly quenched animor, despite her misery. His demme. There was nothing of the calculated Lord about her now, not a hint of artifice. Her face was smeared with blood and tears and cosmetick, and he could see for a moment the scared, raggedy creature she had been when she first found the Creature Court.
She had the bloodsoaked body of her second courteso, Seonard the wolf boy, in her lap. He was limp and barely breathing. Nothing of him left, only flesh and bone, but Livilla still clung on.
Ashiol stood over Livilla, looking down at her. ‘Let go of him,’ he said, in a gentler voice than he would have used on anyone else.
‘No,’ she said, barely breaking out the words between cracked lips, her voice hoarse from screaming. ‘I won’t.’
He felt Velody’s presence beside him, her hand brushing his, the smell of her body overwhelming even the blood and animor that filled the room. ‘What is she doing?’ she asked in a small voice.
Crane volunteered the answer. ‘She’s trying to keep him alive, using her animor. He’s — it’s too late for that.’
‘She’ll kill herself,’ Ashiol said roughly, and went to his knees. ‘Livilla. Sweetling, you have to release him, or you’ll follow.’ He reached out, wanting to touch her, to brush the pain away, but she jerked back out of reach.
‘No,’ Livilla hissed between her teeth, pale and broken as she was beneath all the blood. ‘Garnet’s gone, Mars doesn’t love me any more. My boys are all I have.’
Saints and devils, she had gone too far. She was clinging to the boy with everything she had, and Ashiol could feel her own power fading. Her heartbeat was as weak as a baby bird. Whatever she had done to him, however she had hurt and betrayed him, whatever she had become while he was gone, he was not going to let her die like this.
Mars had not stopped loving her, Ashiol knew that much. No one could. Damn her to the seven hells. She was the first demme he had ever cared about, and seeing her wrecked like this only made those days clearer in his mind.
They were curled up like cubs in a bed, Garnet and Livilla, Lysandor, even the boy Poet, holding on to each other, sick and miserable, knowing Tasha was gone, and the connection between all of them would be broken too, and this was the last time, the really last time they would be a family.
He wasn’t even sure if it was a real memory, but it came from a place he had not thought about in so many years. It felt real.
Ashiol reached out his hand to stop Seonard’s heart. He had to release the link between the courteso and his mistress, or she would die. Livilla’s nails lashed out, striking him back, scratching hard to keep the hand away from her boy.
‘No,’ she said fiercely, and Ashiol felt her heartbeat strengthen a little. ‘I’ll kill you if you try, Ashiol Xandelian. I’ll bite your eyeballs out.’
‘Livilla,’ he said, his voice low and pulsing into her. ‘You’re not alone. Let him go. Don’t fall with him. I need you here.’
‘Lies,’ she said, but there was a lilt in her voice. ‘I can’t,’ she said again, and then she exhaled, and Seonard’s body shuddered and escaped her hold. The animor struck like a whiplash, crashing into Ashiol’s body, and Livilla’s. Behind them, Velody shuddered with the impact of quenching him, and she let out a small sound of protest.
Tears began to run down Livilla’s face again and she let go of Seonard’s head, letting him roll from her lap. Ashiol
grabbed hold of her. Janvier’s animor, and Seonard’s, burned inside his blood. More than ever he needed to run, fly, eat, fuck. It felt like his skin was being flayed from his body.
Livilla pressed into him, shaking, needing him. ‘Who did this?’ she wailed.
Ashiol hadn’t considered that question. He wasn’t capable of rational thought right now. The animor was burning its way through him. ‘You don’t know?’
‘I found them torn open, barely breathing,’ she said into his shoulder. ‘I’ll kill them, Ash. Whoever it was. I will rip them apart. Those boys were mine.’
No one could understand the love between a Lord and their courtesi, the loyalty, the connection. No one who had not felt it. Velody would never know, but Ashiol remembered. Even when he hated Tasha, he would have died for her. When Mars was his courteso, he would have done the same, and even now the lingering sense of belonging to each other was there, never far away.
‘I will help you,’ he whispered into Livilla’s hair. ‘Whoever did this, I will help you kill them.’
Livilla shrugged him off, looking up instead to Velody, who stood awkwardly, watching them. ‘I don’t care what he says. He’s not in charge any more. You are, Power and Majesty. Will you avenge my boys?’
Velody blinked as Livilla stared her down so intensely. She had no idea what to say. What exactly did Livilla want in vengeance? Did she suspect one of the Court of doing this? It was hard to think rationally — to form any thoughts at all — with the scent of blood so thick and fresh in the room.
It made her hungry and revolted, all at the same time. She willed Ashiol to tell her what to say, but he gave her nothing, not even a look or a hint.
‘This will not go unpunished,’ she said, in as confident a tone as she could manage. ‘I am sorry for your loss, Livilla.’
Seonard, whose eyes had lit up with such enthusiasm as he talked about the sky and the battles and sausages. Janvier … whom she knew nothing about, nothing at all. Velody had known that she needed to pay more attention to the quieter creatures who crept along behind the Lords. They were all her subjects, not just the flashy and more dangerous ones. Now, for these two, it was too late.
Livilla’s pain was like jagged glass, stabbing Velody from across the room. She had always thought Livilla was the kind of demme who felt nothing — but apparently not.
‘I don’t want your sympathy, Power,’ she said now. ‘I want your claws and teeth.’
Ashiol held Livilla with a gentleness Velody would not have expected of him, and then the Lord of Wolves was sobbing again, turning her face into his chest, clinging to him as if she were drowning.
Velody felt Poet’s presence before she heard his step. Priest was there too, standing gravely near the doorway, eyes on Livilla.
Velody went to them both, speaking in a low voice. ‘Who can have done this?’ She felt safe to be ignorant in this matter, for once, as it didn’t seem like Livilla or Ashiol knew either.
‘Who do you think?’ Poet said tightly. He had lost a courteso recently as well, Velody remembered. Not both, though, and it had been in battle, not like this. ‘Which of us is not here, my Lady Majesty?’
Livilla lifted her head at that. ‘No,’ she muttered. ‘You can’t think Mars would do this to me.’
‘Aren’t you the one who said he doesn’t love you any more?’ Poet reminded her. ‘He’s been busy, our Warlord. Two of Dhynar’s courtesi have joined him already, and there are rumours …’
‘Rumours?’ said Velody. ‘There’s only a handful of us; the last thing we need is information being passed around in whispers. If you know something, say it.’
Poet glanced at Priest, who shrugged and spread his hands. ‘We all neglected Dhynar’s orphaned flock, my Lady Power. Warlord took advantage. Word among the courtesi is that all four of them have vowed themselves to him.’
‘But he already had three,’ said Velody, thinking rapidly. She hadn’t even wondered what had happened to Dhynar’s courtesi, let alone asked after them. Some Power and Majesty she had proved to be.
What Velody did know was that Dhynar’s four courtesi had been considered excessive. Poet had one courteso remaining. Priest had three. Livilla’s were all gone. Warlord already had three — the greymoon cat, brock and bat. If Poet was right and Warlord had taken on another four, he was more than a force to be reckoned with — he was a danger to them all. ‘I need to talk to Warlord.’
‘If you can find him,’ Poet crooned.
Delphine refused to go running off with the others. She was not a sentinel, and the last thing she wanted was to come face to face with the two Lords of the Creature Court who had reason to believe otherwise.
So she sat through the games, turgid set pieces of gladiator against tigris, or historical battle re-enactments, and a team of fire-swallowers.
It being the chief day of sacrifice, there was a new blood sacrifice between each act, and without Ashiol standing at her side, the Duchessa should have summoned another man to play the consort. She did not. To the horror and titillation of the crowd, she slaughtered her own beasts, one after the other, with brutal efficiency.
By noon, with the hot sun burning down on them from above, the Duchessa’s arms and legs were streaked with blood, though the flame dress still looked perfect and unmarked. Whatever fabrics Velody had used were worth their weight in gold.
It was the sixth sacrifice of the day. The Duchessa held a part-drugged dove in one hand, and a knife in the other. The priests around her were looking concerned. The crowd had stopped muttering in alarm and were cheering her on.
The Duchessa stopped, and said something to the crowd that Delphine could not quite hear. Then she let the dove go. It lurched drunkenly away from her, and flapped its wings uselessly a few times before taking to the sky and making its escape. The Duchessa tipped her head up, watching it go with the apparent delight of a child, and she began to laugh.
Delphine shivered. The Duchessa began to speak again, and this time Delphine heard every word.
‘The Sacred Games are cancelled. There will be no more festivals in Aufleur. You should all return to your homes.’
Once she had finished speaking, the Duchessa bowed her head politely and stepped down from her dais. She was suddenly surrounded by lictors, who removed her quickly from the arena.
The air crackled around Delphine as the crowd whispered and complained and asked each other what she could have meant by that. Delphine squeezed her hands into tight fists. Something was dreadfully wrong, and the Duchessa was a part of it.
8.
Velody went through the public baths on the way home. She had not touched Livilla or either of the dead courtesi, but the smell of the blood had infused her skin and her hair.
Normally blood was a thing of excitement to her, though she hated to admit it even to herself. But whatever had been done to those boys was indescribable. Their blood smelled wrong, even as her own thrilled at the extra hit of animor she had quenched.
Crane followed, silently keeping an eye on her. There was so much she wanted to ask him, about Warlord, about what she should do. But he was her sentinel. She had to stop turning to him for answers. The answers were supposed to come from her. The Creature Court were actually looking to her for answers this time.
So few of us left.
Velody was damp and clean when they returned to Via Silviana by the back alley. Mourning bells could be heard from the closed bakery next door, and Velody stilled for just a moment, remembering. Another dead child.
Her thoughts were full of blood and death, and she was really not prepared for a kitchen full of flouncing Delphine in mid tirade. Rhian looked exhausted, as if she had been dealing with it for some time. ‘What is going on?’ Velody demanded.
‘The Duchessa,’ Delphine said, turning on her. ‘If you’d stayed at the Circus Verdigris, you would know.’
‘Something important came up.’
‘More important than our livelihood? Than our life?’
‘Calm down, Dee, she doesn’t know,’ Rhian said.
‘Know what?’ Velody asked, worried that Macready might have sent word ahead, that there might be more news of danger coming down upon them. More deaths? More to fear?
‘The Duchessa,’ said Delphine, her voice dripping with import, ‘has CANCELLED THE SACRED GAMES.’
Velody just looked at her, and then turned and walked back out of the house. The mourning bells and the bright afternoon sun were infinitely preferable to Delphine’s selfish flapping. ‘Maybe I should live below,’ she said to Crane, who had waited for her. ‘Get away from this …’ Mundanity. Velody wanted to make dresses, she wanted to have a real life, she did. She craved those things. But there were days when they simply didn’t matter. The scent of Seonard and Janvier’s blood was still in her head — the glow of their animor sang in her blood. Festivals. Who cared about festivals?
‘You should listen to her,’ Crane said quietly. ‘I can’t remember a time when one of the city festivals were cancelled. It never happens — the priests kept each of them going, even when the Duchessa was hidden away for her year of mourning. Delphine won’t be the only one upset about it. Why would the Duchessa risk riots and protest? We should let Ashiol know.’
Velody stared at him. ‘Are you serious? Livilla lost both her courtesi, Warlord might be on a bloodthirsty rampage, and you want to send a message to Ashiol about the Sacred Games?’
‘It’s all part of the same thing, Velody,’ said Crane in that grave voice she liked and hated. ‘Daylight and nox. When one thing breaks, it affects the other. When the daylight Duc died, we had sky massacres for days. If there’s something bad going on with the Duchessa, it will come around to bite us, sooner or later.’
Velody nodded reluctantly. This was what it was, to be the Power and Majesty of the Creature Court. She could never assume that there was only one disaster at a time. ‘Fine, but don’t tell Delphine she might be right. I don’t think any of us could survive that.’
The Shattered City Page 11
