“I know enough,” Philippe said. He was stronger now, even stronger than the firstborn among Fallen. And Morningstar was nothing more than a hallucination, a trembling vision that a breath of wind would dispel.
Morningstar said nothing. His hands were in front of him, resting on the pommel of a half-translucent sword, a huge blade engraved with a tracery of spirals near the guard, which extended into a single, clean line along its length.
The light flickered and went out, and with it, Isabelle and Morningstar, except for the sound of her voice, echoing across the bridge, and something else. . . .
Philippe put his hand on the iron railings that separated him from the tracks, and found them ice-cold, sucking the warmth from his skin. But there was nothing more: merely the faint, lambent darkness of Paris with its pall of magical pollution.
Nothing, until the snow.
It had been snowing when he’d walked onto the street. But what fell around him now was a storm, a flurry of wet flakes, with a cold, biting wind, rising until he couldn’t see anything but the cobblestones at his feet. And the cold from the railings seeped into the ground, until his teeth were chattering with it.
What—where? He flung the khi fire in his hands, and it lit up nothing beyond a small circle. The snowflakes had swallowed the space before and after the bridge. The khi elements around him were wild, swaying back like snakes in pain, cut off, abruptly, beyond that line of light.
He was alone. Isolated from anyone who could have offered help, though who would help him, among the Houseless?
The snow was falling inside the circle now. He looked at his feet, and found them white, colorless. Fading, as if something had painted over him. He wasn’t in the world anymore. And it was creeping upward as he watched, slow and gentle touches that leached the black from his trousers.
He almost reached out to touch the snow, stopped himself just in time. It looked like khi water, ice and cold melded together, nothing that should have had this effect.
The cold filled his entire body. Not even khi fire could dispel it. It smothered everything, even the fast sound of his own breathing. He struck a foot against the cobblestone, once, twice—nothing, no noise, and even his foot felt increasingly distant, as if it weren’t part of his own body anymore. Soon, he might not even be able to move it.
He shivered. Tried to stand up straight. He was moving through treacle, every movement costing him, bowing him farther toward the ground. It would be so easy to lie down, to give up and watch the cold and colorlessness creep up his legs. . . .
Beware darkness, Philippe.
He had tried dispelling the snowstorm, and that hadn’t worked. But there was still light, beyond the bridge. There was still something he could come back to.
He grabbed the flailing khi elements, gently, slowly untangling the threads that were knotting one another in rootless panic, and, as carefully as he might have straightened out a ball of yarn—Don’t think of weariness; don’t think of the way your entire body, hands and all, is fading, now utterly out of reach—smoothed out two threads, of metal and water, the khi element of the evening and of winter and of the quiescent city, and then tried casting them like a fisherman throwing out a net.
They shot into the snowstorm, and he felt them go slack in his hands. Dead, or deadened, which amounted to the same. The lower half of his body was soaked, and cold was climbing up his chest, the bite of ten thousand teeth, jagged edges cutting into his skin.
He needed an anchor. Something real and tangible and powerful; and, above all, close by. But there was nothing—nothing—and he was going to be crushed here, or torn apart or worse—
And then, out beyond the snowstorm, a whisper; a movement, something standing out, a spike in the smoothness of rippling cloth. No time to think: Philippe took another three threads of khi elements and threw them again.
They connected.
A single jolt, in his body, like a hook digging under his ribs and neatly spearing the heart. And then he was on his knees again, shaking, staring at the cobblestones under him. When he could breathe enough to rise, he saw that the snowstorm was gone, on either end of the bridge: nothing now but the pall of pollution over the city, and the faint light of stars shining beyond it. Below him were the tracks, with the corpses of engines and carriages. He looked at his body: colors had come back, and he could feel his limbs once more.
He rose, steadying himself on the railings: they stood firm, immutable, the forged iron ice-cool under his touch. But, on the ground, there was a charred circle, the stones blackened and split, as if a giant hand had pushed them down.
Philippe was more than a thousand years old, and not a fool. This . . . whatever it was, it was no illusion. And it was bloody dangerous.
The Houseless areas of the city were dangerous, all the time. Life was cheap and short and nasty, with so many ways you could die, from starvation to a House deciding you didn’t matter in their grand scheme of things. But this was different.
In fact, if he hadn’t been lucky, if he hadn’t found something to anchor himself . . .
Only then did he take a close look at his right hand. A thin line, water and metal intermingled like a leather braid, started from the base of his wrist, and went on, straight toward whatever he had anchored it to. It beat to the rhythm of his pulse, slippery and forceful at first, and then gradually steadying as the adrenaline wore off and the circulation of khi within his body slowed down.
What had he anchored himself to?
He started to walk back, following the thread to its destination. It led him to a building like so many others in the neighborhood: wedged on an acute-angled intersection between two streets, with more floors on one side than on the other. It was dotted with the sooty streaks of magical attacks, the windows patched in multiple places or boarded up altogether, and its missing entrance door filled with a large piece of wood.
It was fully dark by now, but the too-large door was open, and light filtered through it, dancing on the muddy pavement like fireflies, slight and grubby and so ordinary he could have wept. He pushed the door fully open, and found himself in a small, narrow courtyard, encased by four walls that gradually bent inward until nothing but a slit remained above, with no trace of moon or stars. Doors and windows opened in each wall, leading to a different part of the building where people would be living, crammed in whatever livable space they had managed to scavenge for themselves.
An Annamite woman was waiting at the entrance opposite him. She was wrapped in a thick fur coat and a woolen scarf that obscured everything but her eyes, which were white and lambent with a faint, familiar light.
Fallen magic.
How—? There were no magicians in la Goutte d’Or: they had long since been snapped up by the Houses, or sold to them.
She had black hair cut short, not quite boyish but close: cropped short at the back of her nape, and set in longer strands on either side of her sharp, foxlike face. His gaze went down. She was heavily pregnant, seven or eight months along at the least, and the same faint light played beneath her belly, outlining the curled shape of the baby within her.
“What a surprise,” she said. Her smile was wide and unsettling, her Viet tinged with the accent of Saigon. “I wasn’t sure what we’d caught, but you’re certainly . . . unusual.” And, before Philippe could ask or protest, she gestured to the stairs behind her. “Come in, Doctor.”
* * *
THE palace had changed. Madeleine had a confused, hazy memory of being dragged through building after building, running after Isabelle, through grand courtyards and rooms, an alien, frightening splendor that had been trying to creep into her thoughts, offering her falsely comforting serenity.
Now there was nothing of that.
She felt empty, hollowed out, struggling to find words or thoughts. The link to House Hawthorn burned in her mind: the distant, mocking presence of Asmodeus, offe
ring no comfort and no serenity. And the rooms they crossed were no longer alien or splendid, but as shabby as the inside of any House—their lacquered rafters chipped and worn through; rot spreading on the pillars, obscuring the faces of the monstrous animals—and the silk of the dignitaries they met was worn, the delicate embroideries tattered and frayed.
Had it always been like that? She remembered the rot, that feeling of something creeping into her thoughts, but nothing quite as pervasive or all-encompassing: nothing this small, this shabby. Did the protection of Hawthorn, of Asmodeus, make any difference to how she was seeing things?
Thanh Phan took them through courtyard after courtyard, until they reached a bridge over a moat, filled with pebbles and lotus flowers. Guards lined the bridge, their shapes flickering between man and dragon, man and crab, man and fish—patches of dull scales on their cheeks, their halberds tarnished. A wide, three-lobed arch then led to a courtyard, lined with more dignitaries; and, at the end, the largest pavilion Madeleine had yet seen in the underwater kingdom, its opening stretched the entire width of the courtyard. It was also packed with people; and in the center, waiting for them at the top of a flight of stairs, was Princess Ngoc Bich, crowned in black and gold, and sheltered by two dignitaries with a parasol.
She looked much the same. The palace might have changed, and the stones under Madeleine’s feet might be worn and cracked, the shining luster of mother-of-pearl gone, but Ngoc Bich held herself tall, as if nothing were wrong. Her white makeup was impeccable, though Madeleine vividly remembered the places where her skin had sloughed off, and the bones hidden under makeup. Illusion? The antlers on either side of her head were chipped, yellowed, and translucent, like fragile porcelain, and the pearl under her chin was likewise dull, its luster completely extinguished.
“Clothilde Desclozeaux. Elphon. Madeleine d’Aubin.” She didn’t smile. “Be welcome to the dragon kingdom.”
Clothilde made a sweeping bow, effortlessly inclining her entire body to almost touch the ground. Elphon also bowed, gracefully. Madeleine followed suit, awkwardly, feeling as though every seam of her clothes was going to burst.
“We are honored,” Clothilde said. She rose, keeping her eyes away from Ngoc Bich.
“You come to us at a critical juncture,” Ngoc Bich said.
Clothilde’s voice was wry. “We are aware.”
Madeleine’s gaze roamed down the rows of dignitaries. Everywhere that same faded splendor, those old, patched silks, the magic that wouldn’t quite hold, the skin that became shell, or scales, or dull fur. At the back was a group of people dressed in the French fashion, the swallowtail jacket and trousers looking almost incongruous on them.
“I sadly can’t allow you the freedom of the palace,” Ngoc Bich said, inclining her head. “There are many places where your presence would be inappropriate.”
Clothilde nodded. “That is understood, of course. We have no desire to impose.”
Ngoc Bich’s face didn’t move. “Indeed. Come,” she said, and gestured for them to follow her inside, under the rafters of the pavilion.
Something was off. Madeleine had never been the world’s foremost observer, but she knew about fear. Entirely too many people in that crowd seemed nervous. Afraid of a three-person delegation? That hardly made sense.
Inside, fish swam between lacquered pillars, skeletal and dull-scaled, their fins and tails encrusted with corrosion. Ngoc Bich walked past the ornate throne on its dais, to a room behind it, a smaller, quieter place decorated with faience, a continuous weaving of sinuous shapes and vivid colors that had chipped off in multiple places. The air smelled, faintly, of algae underlain by rot.
There was a table of faience: the surface showed two huge, entwining creatures that must have been dragons: serpentine shapes with four stubby, clawed legs, globular eyes, and large, fanged snouts. It, too, was chipped in multiple places: the pearls under their chins were all but gone, and the claws reduced to shreds. People awaited them, standing behind the high wooden chairs: dragon officials with those same curiously translucent antlers, and hair tied in topknots. One of them wore it long and unbound: it streamed in the water like the mane of a horse.
Ngoc Bich settled at the end. The attendants with parasols had vanished, replaced by two women carrying rectangular fans. A bevy of officials had also come with them; there was a moment of flux as everyone pulled a chair and sat down.
“You know Thanh Phan,” Ngoc Bich said. She nodded to the official who wore his hair unbound. “This is Minh. He is the minister of public works.” And then more names and titles, all said in French mingled with Annamite, which Madeleine couldn’t follow but which Clothilde appeared enraptured by.
Clothilde set down a piece of paper, and slid it down toward the center of the table. “My letters of appointment.” She smiled. “With Lord Asmodeus’s personal seal, and the arms of the House.”
This was passed down the table, with the closest thing to reverence that Madeleine had seen yet. Minh was the only one who appeared unimpressed. “Words,” he said, with a frown. “Seals. Symbols.” His irises were the muddy color of river silt, unfocused. Madeleine had seen that gaze before, in older people developing cataracts. But surely dragons couldn’t, shouldn’t, be sick?
“Words matter,” Ngoc Bich said. “They are what we are here for.”
“I have brought you the terms we offer,” Clothilde said. She gestured, to the papers she’d given Ngoc Bich. “Under the credentials.”
Ngoc Bich didn’t make any move to lift the paper.
“House Hawthorn is eager to conclude this alliance,” Clothilde said, in the face of a totally silent audience. They were all as impassive and inscrutable as the statues Madeleine had seen in the courtyards: faint smiles on their faces—it was impossible to read whatever they might be thinking, and they all looked young, too young. Philippe, ageless and Immortal, had looked in his late twenties; these officials seemed barely out of adolescence. And weren’t friendly. “It will strengthen both of us to work together. A union of both worlds.”
“Yes.” Ngoc Bich inclined her head. “Thanh Phan, Minh, and Véronique have full authority to discuss terms. I will review your negotiations when they deem them ready for my appraisal.”
“Of course,” Clothilde said. She hesitated, then said, “I need to know, Your Highness. Forgive me for my bluntness, but if you happen not to be interested in this alliance, then we will leave. As I said, we have no desire to impose. We are not thieves or invaders.”
Thanh Phan’s frown of disapproval could have frozen water. “Fallen are always the invaders.”
Ngoc Bich lifted a hand. “What gives you this impression?” she asked, to Clothilde.
“Ghislaine Le Guell.” Clothilde bent forward, her hands resting on the table. She wore a dress with long, tight-fitting sleeves, but Madeleine could still remember the scars on her arms, still remember that terrible, wounding smile she’d given her.
There was silence, in the wake of her words.
“What of her?”
Clothilde shook her head. “We are negotiating in good faith.” Not exactly likely, when Asmodeus was the one directing the negotiations. But still, she sounded like she believed it. How good a liar was she? Better than Madeleine, certainly. That wasn’t hard. “I don’t mind the small lies, the evasions. We all have our secrets. As you said”—she smiled—“there are places where our presence or prying would be inappropriate. The location of a previous ambassador, though, that is not negotiable, or inappropriate. I’d rather not share my predecessor’s fate, if it can be avoided.”
“Nothing happened to her,” Véronique said. She was dressed in the French style, and her hair was cut in a short bob, looking almost incongruous on her. Her hands were fine, with two ruby rings, and a signet ring engraved with Chinese characters on the last finger of the left side. That last finger was skeletally thin, with hardly any skin to it. No, not
skin. It was the thin, jointed blue-green shell of a crustacean appendage.
“Véronique.” Minh’s voice was a knife blade. He looked, unerringly, toward Ngoc Bich. “Empress?”
Ngoc Bich said nothing, for a while. She watched Minh, who said, “It is the time of sea and mulberry, Your Excellency. To have bamboo and plum trees grow together, you must be willing to plant them close to one another.”
At last, Ngoc Bich inclined her head, her lips pressed together in reluctant approval, and Minh spoke up. “Ambassador Ghislaine was seen leaving the palace some three days ago. She hasn’t returned, and we don’t know where she is.”
Silence, again. Clothilde brushed aside a small crab covered with lichen, which had started to climb over her hand. “I assume you’ve searched.”
There was a glance, shared between Véronique and Minh. “We have searched the palace. Insofar as we can tell, she is not here. You are, of course, quite welcome to examine her room.”
Madeleine bent toward Elphon, and whispered, “She had a tracker disk, didn’t she?” And then she realized why they all carried a stronger version of it.
“Yes,” Elphon said, in the same tone. “It’s not responding.”
But she wasn’t dead, or Asmodeus and everyone linked to the House would have felt it like a bell toll in their heads, and anyone close enough to offer a rescue would have heard the magical equivalent of a scream for help.
“We will examine her room,” Clothilde said. Her face had taken on the sharpness of a knife. “I would have thought an official envoy of Hawthorn would be safe in the heart of your kingdom.”
“You are outsiders,” Thanh Phan said, in much the same tone as she’d have said “barbarians.” “You can be excused for not knowing what we pledged. Your envoy’s credentials were recognized, and revered, but the person of an envoy isn’t sacred.”
The House of Binding Thorns Page 5
