Blood of the City

by Robin D. Laws

  "We are here to steel ourselves first," said the gray-clad man.

  Bonto snatched a glass of sweet hillside wine from a servant's tray. "As am I, my friends."

  "Pfft," said Histia.

  The wine contradicted another piece of Noole's intelligence. If the typical afternoon soiree at Nirodin House was a dry affair, she had certainly suspended the rule for this occasion. The guests today were being cozened, to one end or another. Most wore the signs of overindulgence on reddened, bleary faces.

  "Pfft indeed," said Bonto. "Let us say that a roc carried off Grobaras tomorrow. You'd still be impotently scheming. Who would you use to take the lord-mayor's seat? Pallegin here?" He waved a grape bunch at the hound-faced man. "No offense, good fellow, but you've the personal magnetism of a squid laid out on the fishmonger's table."

  "None taken," mumbled Pallegin.

  "Nemlezen wouldn't be any better, with his temper. Dolocium's a decade past his prime. To make us true rulers, you'll need to find someone who can induce the rabble to love us. A formidable remit, you must agree."

  Luma spotted a familiar face. Urtilia Scarnetti, who had saved her from Grobaras and the Hells, hovered on the threshold between ballroom and antechamber, intent on Bonto's words.

  "But here is a creature who is surely love embodied," said Bonto, turning to Luma. "Who might you be?"

  Luma's hand went unbidden to the secret fold at the back of her corset, where a small dagger was sewn. "Laryss," she said. She clasped her hands in front of her. It would suit her imposture to appear flattered, if she could manage such a feat.

  "Laryss who?" said Bonto.

  "Laryss Isulede Zaillo."

  He encroached on her position. "You lack the patina of cynicism encrusting this place. Should I presume that your family hails from Grand Arch?"

  I smell to you of money, Luma thought. Feste House had fallen on rocky times, and was rumored to be selling off the furniture.

  Bonto took her hand in his, bowed, and kissed her fingers. Luma turned her revulsion into an empty-headed yip of surprise.

  "This chamber devotes itself to the contemplation of impossibilities," Bonto said. "Shall we seek sweeter environs, Laryss Isulede Zaillo?"

  Luma played at nervousness. "I don't know if ..."

  Urtilia Scarnetti came up behind Bonto. "You harbor a form of cleverness, Bonto Feste. You should consider putting it to use."

  Bonto performed a mocking, low bow. "Lady Scarnetti, your kind intervention is most ...appreciated. Laryss, would you like to meet—" His smile collapsed as he watched Luma already slipping from the room.

  The last snippet of political talk she heard on the way out was Scarnetti's: "Perhaps I can provide a synthesis of views—" There was more, but Luma had heard enough.

  She found Noole in the main salon, watching its small stage, where a woman in a sapphire gown issued instructions to the leader of a lute quartet.

  "How do you fare?" Noole asked.

  "Eavesdropping will only get me so far. I need to scout where the guests aren't."

  "I managed to have myself volunteered for a recitation. I'll hold them in rapt attention while you rummage the silverware drawers."

  "How long will that last?"

  "It's an epic of the founding, in which all their ancestors appear. My guaranteed salon piece. You'll have three quarters of an hour, if all goes well."

  The hostess banged a brass hand-gong. "By special request," she announced, "a recitation by the acclaimed laureate of Magnimar, Noole. He will perform for us his much-admired Indros against the Vydrarch Dragon."

  Battling her skirt, Luma bustled through a hallway. Hearing the sound of approaching maids, she ducked into an empty library until they had passed. Its windows faced the manor's back garden. Off to one side, partially obscured by a stand of rare, translucent flute trees, she noted a stone guest house. Reflected sunlight glinted briefly from its open doorway. As Luma adjusted her angle for a clearer view, the door swung shut.

  Exiting the library, she found the entrance to the back promenade. Painted statues stood at even intervals beside its marble railing. Mindful of the sightline between herself and the guest house, she darted from one statue to the other, then down a set of scalloped steps.

  Hunching low, she kept the marble garden wall between herself and her target. She scuttled as close as she could without exposing her position, then peered around a corner near the flute trees.

  Behind her, a maid and a butler had ventured onto the promenade. The woman wrapped the man in an embrace and tried to kiss him; he tried nervously to keep her at bay. Finally she pulled him back into the manor.

  A bent-over sprint took Luma to the side of the guest house and around its corner, where she wouldn't be seen from the promenade. She crouched below a shuttered, glassless window and listened. "Don't leave anything behind," she heard. The voice was a woman's—hard, low, and Korvosan-accented.

  "When does this fool party end?" another voice asked—this one male, its consonants also rolling together as they did in Korvosa.

  "Just be ready," said the first voice.

  "Something's the matter," hissed a third voice—Korvosan again.

  "What?" The first voice.

  "My glass eye's acting up."

  Luma heard the door bang open. If she made a dash for the garden, she'd be giving herself away. She stayed put.

  A hirsute man wearing quilted under-padding turned the corner. He carried a spiked mace and kept an array of knives strapped to his leg. The glass eye he'd referred to was an emerald orb occupying his left socket. He tapped the socket's outer edge, as if prompting its magic to kick in.

  Luma stuck a finger to her lips. "Sssh."

  "Who the hell are you?" the shaggy man said.

  Others appeared behind him, two women and three men, muscled and poised. She'd caught them in the midst of preparation; they had their weapons, but not their armor. From their accoutrements, Luma guessed their specialties: three bruisers, a devil-priestess, a backstabber, and a spell-tosser of some kind. They were proudly unkempt: the men, bearded or half-shaven; the women wreathed in matted hair. One, some, or all of them could have done with a bath.

  The woman she'd heard giving the orders inside carried twin swords in an X across her back. She bent down, hands on knees, and spoke through a small, crooked mouth. "Answer his question, you ripe little doxy."

  "Sshhh!" Luma insisted. "I'm drunk!"

  "It's an idiot from the party," said the other woman. A silver pentagram, symbol of devotion to the devil prince Asmodeus, swung from her neck.

  "I'm here with my aunt and I'm not supposed to drink," Luma said. "Can I sit here until I get better? I've never been drunk this bad before."

  "These nobles are too stupid to live," said the priestess.

  The one-eyed fighter reached under his padding to scratch an itch. "She might be important, though."

  The backstabber drew a four-inch blade. "We were told not to be seen."

  "And what did you do?" said the priestess. "You got yourself seen."

  A V-shaped vein pulsed across the backstabber's forehead. "I've had about enough out of you."

  Luma readied herself to grab the knife sewn next to her spine. When the backstabber reached out to slash her throat, she'd open his wrist instead. She'd kick off the shoes and dive for the garden wall. Were she lucky enough to make it over before they downed her, she would scramble off in the form of a giant centipede, wait them out, and escape later.

  "Do you work for my aunt?" she asked.

  The backstabber stopped short.

  "What's your aunt's name?" said the leader.

  "Cheiskaia. Cheiskaia Nirodin," said Luma. The lie was a gamble. It would sink her if they took her into the house. They were supposed to be hiding from the guests, and likely wouldn't risk that. Or so Luma hoped.

  The priestess swore; Luma recognized it as one of the numberless obscenities of the diabolic tongue, spoken in Hell and by its acolytes. In Korvosa, as in the o
ld Chelish empire, these had made their way into the speech of the common man. "She's the client's niece, you nitwit."

  The backstabber wheeled on her, knife outstretched. "I'll slice you next, devil whore."

  The leader caught his wrist and twisted the weapon out of it. She pulled the arm behind his back and slammed him into the wall. Then she bit his ear. "You've gone coop-mad, darling."

  He hung his head; she slapped him. She bent over Luma again. "What are we going to do with you?"

  Luma blinked. "If you don't tell her I got drunk, I won't tell her ...what is it I'm not supposed to tell her?"

  The leader hissed into her ear. "Don't tell her nothing. You didn't get drunk. You weren't out here, to get into more trouble." Her breath reeked of sardine. "You're not stupid, are you, girl? What's your name then?"

  "Laryss," Luma slurred.

  "I want to let you go. But you have to convince me it's the smart play, don't you?"

  "I don't see what you're ..." Luma let her sentence trail drunkenly off.

  "It surprises you, does it, that your aunt keeps the likes of us stashed in her guest house?"

  "No."

  "No?"

  Luma put her finger to her lips. "Auntie's in politics."

  "Is she now?"

  "That means all sorts of things you're not supposed to talk about. First thing you learn in Nirodin House. Laryss, you didn't see this. Laryss, you didn't see that. I only want somebody to like me."

  "So we made a mistake, and you made a mistake, and no one will be the wiser. Yes?"

  "Good," said Luma, teetering to her feet. The leader steadied her.

  "Now go on back to the house and sober up somewhere else." The swordswoman swatted at her rump, hitting only fabric.

  Luma walked an unsteady path back to the promenade, then eased inside.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Inside and Out

  As Luma pressed shut the door from the promenade into the manor's back corridor, a voice cut through her: Iskola was near. She placed an ear to the corridor wall; her sister had to be on the other side. The muffled words carried a current of controlled menace, one Luma immediately recognized. Iskola spoke like this when conducting interrogations.

  She tested the floorboard beneath her toe; it made no sound. In her left hand she still carried the foolish shoes. She set them down and edged to the library door. Finding it closed but unlocked, she judged the seal between door and frame. The sliver of light shining through it meant a loose seal. It might pull open without making a noise—unless the hinges squeaked.

  Deciding to chance it, Luma inched the latch down. She eased the door an inch ajar. As the citysong had promised, the door kept its equilibrium and swung no further.

  She heard Iskola: "If you want me to believe it's a coincidence, you'll have to do better than that."

  The second voice was Noole's. "You and I travel in similar circles. The surprise is that we have not met before."

  "Magnimar is smaller than it looks. But certain coincidences seem less random than others."

  "I have had several drams of claret and may be confused," said Noole. "What am I supposed to be explaining, again?"

  "Why you, whom our half-sister saw speaking with Khonderian before she murdered him, should happen to show up here?"

  "Then, yes, without doubt, you have confused me," Noole said. "What is the coincidence I'm being called to account for, precisely? What does Khonderian—or, come to think of it, you—have to do with this place?"

  "Have you seen her?"

  "Who? Cheiskaia Nirodin? This is far from my first time at her salon."

  "The ignorant jester pose ill becomes you, poet."

  "In the interest of amity, I'll take that as a compliment to my intelligence."

  "Luma. You're in league with her, aren't you?"

  "In cahoots with the woman who slit the throat of my good friend Khonderian?"

  "That is not an answer."

  "If I were, what would I stand to gain by coming here? Aside from the free food and drink."

  "At present, we are speaking together politely. Do not force me to expand my inquiries."

  Luma weighed options. Had she her sickle, she could burst in and, with luck, close the distance before her sister could loose her lightning strike. With only the reach afforded her by a small knife, the need for luck trebled. Everything depended on Iskola's position in the room. Luma risked peering into the gap between door and frame. It was no good: Iskola, at the library's far end, faced the doorway. Noole sat in a wooden chair, his back to Luma. Beside Iskola stood a broad-shouldered Derexhi sentinel Luma had never seen before—a recent hire, then. His presence foreclosed any attempt at a charge. He would step into Luma's path, protecting her sister as she intoned and gesticulated the lightning into being.

  "You're not proposing to harm me, are you?" Noole asked. "Me, a noted fixture of the arts? With Cheiskaia's salon in full swing? I think not."

  "We can transport you elsewhere, to quiz you at fuller leisure."

  "On what grounds? Unless I missed a political development, you aren't the city guards."

  She reached into the sleeve of her robe, withdrawing an embroidered scarf, and advanced on Noole.

  Luma burst through the door. "Uncle Noole!"

  Noole jumped up from the chair and headed toward her. "Laryss. I lost track of you."

  "I got so nervous with all these snobs looking me over that I had to find a place to hide. Who is this?" she said, regarding Iskola and the sentinel as if for the first time.

  "This is Iskola, of the Derexhi family. You've heard of them, yes? Iskola, meet my charge for the day. Laryss Isulede Zaillo. The Zaillos are in furs. I owe her father a favor, so I thought I'd bring her along and ease her way into society."

  Iskola frowned, but made no move to stop him.

  Luma tugged on Noole's doublet. "Can we go? I'm tired."

  "What did I tell you about comportment, dear?" Noole left the room with her. "Where are your shoes?"

  Luma pointed at them. "They hurt."

  Iskola came out into the corridor. "This isn't the end of our discussion, gnome."

  Noole bustled down the hallway to grab the shoes. "Laryss, I told your father you weren't ready for this. Put them on."

  Her fake face sulking, Luma slipped into the shoes.

  Noole turned to the wizard. "What else can I tell you? I met your half-sister but once. I found the experience unpleasant, and her arrogant and threatening. Now I see that both traits run in the family."

  Iskola arched her brows, as she did when momentarily stymied.

  Luma waved at her. "Pleasure meeting you."

  Noole took her by the arm and hauled her down the hallway toward the buzzing of the soiree guests.

  Iskola's boot-heels clicked after them.

  Noole reached the antechamber, where the sapphire-clad Cheiskaia Nirodin waited, arms crossed, narrow foot tapping. "A misunderstanding," Noole said. "Shall I commence the recitation now?"

  "You needn't," said Cheiskaia.

  "Are you certain? There seemed some enthusiasm for it." As he offered, he attempted to steer Laryss around her. Nirodin moved to block her.

  "I place a high premium on the reputation of those who address my salon. Had I known you were mixed up in Khonderian's murder—"

  "Fortunately for the both of us, I am not. That is the aforementioned misunderstanding."

  "You were not even a listed item on the program," said Cheiskaia.

  Iskola clamped her hand on Luma's shoulder. As Lady Nirodin scolded the gnome, she spoke in a voice inaudible to the crush of chatting partygoers. "You've done it, haven't you?"

  "Pardon me?"

  "Learned the secret of the thousand faces."

  Luma kept up the pretense. "I don't understand, ma'am."

  "There's a knife sewn into your corset. And despite those shoes, Luma, your gait remains distinctive. I hoped you'd spare us all a dilemma, and leave the city."

  "You hoped wro
ngly," said Luma, dropping the assumed voice.

  "You thought you could stop us, mouseling?"

  "From doing what?"

  "How droll of you to ask. Come along."

  Luma stayed where she was. Cheiskaia Nirodin had finished berating Noole, and now, shifting her weight from side to side, directed a concerned gaze at Iskola.

  "You won't try anything here."

  "I won't?"

  Luma broke from her half-sister, sashayed to the table, and took up a handful of grapes. Falling back into the role of Laryss, she spoke at the volume of ordinary conversation. "Some of the people here like you, but others you only want to like you." She shaped her mouth into an O and popped a grape into it.

  Iskola addressed Noole. "You choose your friends poorly."

  Noole went to Luma's side. "I've heard that about myself."

  Guests, detecting the growing tension, edged away from them.

  Lady Nirodin brought a false smile to her face. "Shall we all return to the main salon? The lutists are soon to start."

  Certain partygoers took this as their cue to withdraw, while others stood transfixed by the prospect of a scene, and the valuable gossip that would issue from it. Among them fidgeted Bonto Feste, a guttural giggle escaping his throat.

  "I was sorry to hear about your father," said Luma.

  "It has been trying for all of us," replied Iskola. "By the end, he grew terribly weak."

  "And your missing sister? She was weak also?"

  Iskola's upper lip curled, revealing her teeth. "One might say that."

  "I imagine you have much to talk about with the other guests."

  Composure returned to the wizard's features. "But it is so lovely to make new acquaintances."