Witherward
Page 19
Ilsa tried to smile back, but it felt false.
“Lazaro was an antiques dealer. He would buy furniture from all over London which he needed to transport back to his shop. He worked my mother and father to death as horses,” Oren continued mildly, but it was like dropping a stone in Ilsa’s stomach. She didn’t know how to react. “Might I ask, Ilsa, what is the longest you have continuously held an animal form?”
It sounded like a strange question at first. When Ilsa understood why he was asking, she was afraid to answer; afraid to hear the rest of the story.
“A few hours, p’raps,” she said. “No more than that.”
“But I daresay you’ve experienced a little of the feeling of your mind growing more animal. Changelings who have spent weeks as animals take time to recover. Those who have spent months, without respite, have been known to suffer permanent damage to their minds. Lazaro told my mother and father the work they were to do for him if they were to repay their debt, and when they transformed, he bound them in Changeling leather; bonds which, upon contact with Changeling skin, suppress our ability to transform. They cage us within whatever form we are in.”
Ilsa resisted the sudden urge to touch her wrists. She was familiar with Changeling leather, she realised. It was what Captain Fowler had used to foil her escape in the fish market.
“I wasn’t permitted to see them, of course. Lazaro guessed rightly that I would unbind them, and damn the consequences. But there was a very small window in the room where I slept that looked onto the stable in which he made them live. Every night, once he shut me in, I would open it, and my mother and father would come to the window, and I would talk to them. I would see in their eyes the man and woman they truly were.
“As the years went on, sometimes it would take longer to encourage them towards the window, and it was plain that they understood me less and less. But still I talked to them. I would tell them stories about our life back in Brema in the hopes it would keep something of their old selves alive.”
He paused, gaze on something in the middle distance; on his memories.
“One day, when I opened the window and called to them, they came immediately. I reached out to touch my mother’s face, as I always did, and she began lipping at my fingers. When they saw I had nothing for them, they lost interest. Lazaro had neglected to feed them again, you see, and they thought I was bringing their feed. Like horses. I could see it in their eyes. I should say, in fact, it was what I couldn’t see. It’s a small comfort, but… by the end, they no longer remembered they were human at all.”
Ilsa could only nod. She had no words of comfort for such an unimaginable fate, for Oren’s parents and for their son. To lose them slowly, over years, when they were right there.
“I was luckier, of course,” he went on. “I’d been apprenticed to a merchant back in Brema, and I had skills Lazaro could use me for in his shop. I knew better than to ask him for much, but I was foolish enough to hope my mother and father would receive a proper burial. But they did not. ‘They were animals,’ he told me. ‘They are worthy of no such thing, and neither will you be.’ I was unaware of the existence of the Fortunatae at that time. I knew only that Lazaro attended a salon once a week, hosted by someone who called themself the Sage.” He looked down at his hands. “He had been devoted to the ethos for decades, and he had not only bought our debt, but helped others bring Changelings into forced servitude as well. It was a practice banned by the Principles.” He looked up at Ilsa and smiled. “By your mother.”
“So after the Principles, Lazaro had to let you go?”
Oren shook his head. “Unfortunately, it was not quite that simple. Lyander could not get the other faction leaders to agree to write off debts some citizens felt they were owed, but she did convince them that all debtors be forced to sell the debt to her. She came to the shop herself one day. I knew nothing of the Principles; Lazaro kept current affairs from me as much as he could. I could see in her eyes what it cost her to give the man who had stolen everything from me a fair price for my life.” He looked around at the ballroom. Ilsa saw the reflection of the specks of rainbow in his eyeglasses. “She brought me here. She fed me at her table, with her husband and her son, and told me there was a position for me within the wolves should I want it, and money to start my life over should I not. I have been a free man ever since. The debt I will forever owe your mother is not servitude or money. That debt is my privilege to bear.”
He stood, and returned the chair to the exact spot from which he’d taken it.
“What the Fortunatae did to my family is personal for you too, ain’t it?” Ilsa called as he was leaving.
Oren smiled, but shook his head. “It is personal to every Changeling, Ilsa. Questions of one’s humanity always are.”
16
Ilsa wanted nothing more than to spend the following day in a quiet spot deciphering Lila’s riddle but, as Fyfe had warned her, the afternoon was to be taken up by a different activity: defence lessons.
The two Whisperers in the drawing room were more like Ilsa than an Oracle or even a Psi – in fact, they looked entirely like the Londoners of the Otherworld – but still Ilsa shivered in trepidation as she looked upon them.
The woman was fair-skinned with greying hair pulled into a severe bun. Her eyes were unusually large, unfocused, and golden-brown in colour, and had pronounced wrinkles fanning from the outer corners. They reminded Ilsa of an owl’s eyes, rimmed with feathers. She was tall, and even though she looked weakened by age, she stood straight, and had a commanding presence that told Ilsa she was the more senior of the pair.
Her companion was younger – in his thirties, perhaps – with chestnut hair grown long and severely slicked back. He wore a thick moustache above tight, bloodless lips, and his eyes were sullen. He stood like a military man, with stiff posture and his hands behind his back.
“Ilsa, this is Alitz Dicer, my astrology tutor,” said Fyfe, indicating the woman. “And her assistant, Pyval Crespo. Alitz is very respected among her faction and has negotiated with the Lord of Whitechapel – their leader – on our behalf for decades. She’s a valued friend.”
“How do you do,” said Alitz Dicer, coming forward to take Ilsa’s hand.
Her heart pounding, Ilsa reached to shake her hand, but her arm fell uselessly to her side as a knowing smirk spread across the Whisperer’s face. It had seemed like such a great idea to learn to protect her thoughts that she hadn’t considered the price: exposing them to this stranger. Now her bones were threatening to melt; into a starling, or a fox – something fast.
Eliot had called the Principles an exercise in finding the loophole, and Ilsa suddenly understood why. She couldn’t shift in plain sight without raising suspicion, and a Psi certainly couldn’t use psychokinesis secretly. But one of the Wraiths’ skills was their senses, and they were using them all the time. And what of Whisperers and Oracles? If a Sorcerer cast a glamour outside the Heart, would anyone even know?
She should have objected to this meeting when she had the chance. What did this woman already know about her?
Alitz, seeing Ilsa was not going to shake her hand, lowered hers. Her absent gaze seemed to look through Ilsa, not at her. “Don’t look so alarmed, Miss Ravenswood. I have been invited into your home, not your mind.”
Fyfe mumbled something about Ilsa being new to all this. But if Ilsa had insulted Alitz, she didn’t mind much. She could breathe again. Pyval stayed where he was, and only inclined his head by way of greeting.
“Another living Ravenswood,” said Alitz. “Is Camden hiding any more surprises in the Otherworld? A second treasury to pay for its Wraith hirelings? How many of this city’s poorest could the Zoo have fed for Cadell Fowler’s fee?”
Ilsa glanced hesitantly at Fyfe, who stuttered something about negotiating a good price.
“Do forgive me, Miss Ravenswood, for not exulting in your return. But our friends are there to keep us honest, are they not?” Her voice had a flat, unreadable quality,
but the arch of her brow made her look amused, if not warm.
“So Whitechapel’s got a lord, does it?” said Ilsa.
Alitz considered her. “His Honour is self-styled.”
“And you answer to this Lord…”
“Voss,” said Alitz bitingly. “Lord Jericho Voss.”
“That mean Lord Voss knows I’m here? And… all the rest?” She looked to Fyfe, unsure of what she could say in front of these outsiders.
“You refer to your brother’s most recent exploits. Missing, they tell me, though I hardly agree with that assessment. Children and cats go missing. Gedeon Ravenswood is up to something.” Alitz dipped her chin and levelled her gaze at Ilsa in a way that made her feel reprimanded. “And I answer to no one. But it seems Whitechapel and Camden have a common problem.”
“The Fortunatae.”
Alitz nodded. “We don’t believe its members are exclusively Whisperers, but we know they are based in Whitechapel, and that creates problems for the faction. We are enjoying a period of prosperity, and His Honour is tasked with upholding the Principles. He fears retaliation from both Camden and the Heart if he fails to suppress the Fortunatae, since we too suspect the secret society of having a hand in the Sorcerer rebellion. Their interests align so closely with those of the rebels that I doubt the Sage would have to lift a finger. So His Honour has been made aware of your existence, and the murder of your friend in the Otherworld by a member of the Fortunatae, whom Mr Tarenvale identified as a Whisperer.
“As for your brother. He has kidnapped an important Oracle and broken the Principles. Abandoned them entirely, for all we know.” Fyfe opened his mouth to object but Alitz silenced him with a hand. “If anyone came to suspect Gedeon Ravenswood was changing the rules, he could start a conflict the likes of which London has not seen in your lifetime. I have made an executive decision. The fewer who know that Gedeon Ravenswood is a loose cannon, the better.”
“We’re indebted to you, Alitz,” said Fyfe.
Alitz smiled. “And we’ve not even begun.” She turned to Ilsa. “We are not here to discuss relations, I trust you know.”
“Fyfe said I was to learn how to guard my mind,” replied Ilsa, though she wasn’t sure it was a question.
“Precisely. Pyval.” The younger man stepped forward and Ilsa found herself shrinking back.
“What’s gonna happen?”
“To start, I would like your permission for Pyval and myself to access your thoughts. It will better help me guide you and assess your progress.”
“You ain’t listening to my thoughts already? How d’you even stop yourself?”
Alitz’s smirk was condescending. “Any Whisperer who has trained can protect themselves from the onslaught of unwanted mental chatter. We have closed our minds to yours, and to Fyfe’s.”
Ilsa shot Pyval a glance and wondered if Alitz truly spoke for both of them. “And if I give permission…”
“Then we will explore. Certain aspects of your mind will be more apparent to each of us. Myself, I read emotions well. Pyval is skilled with memories. The further we venture into your psyche, the more we will learn. But since we’re strangers, we shan’t go too far.”
Alitz’s words were reassuring, but her cool indifference put Ilsa on edge, Pyval’s unreadable silence even more so. But what choice did she have? Expose herself to two trusted Whisperers now, in the safety of the Zoo, or risk coming face to face with a hostile thought-bender without a shred of defence.
“Very well,” she said. “Do what you got to.”
Alitz laced her fingers together. “Just relax. You won’t notice a thing,” she said. Her watery gaze sharpened, like a veil had been lifted, and she stared levelly at Ilsa. Pyval, by contrast, relaxed his posture, his gaze hovering somewhere near Ilsa’s feet, his head inclined as if he was listening.
For a few seconds, the only sound was the ticking of the standing clock, and Fyfe, creeping quietly to the nearest couch.
“Well,” Alitz said after a spell. “This ought to be straightforward. You’re rather guarded; that’s a good foundation for those seeking privacy from the likes of a Whisperer. Though, as Pyval points out, it is a hindrance in matters of love and friendship.”
Ilsa glanced to Pyval, certain he hadn’t said a word. But before she could open her mouth and make a fool of herself, it struck her: he did not need to speak aloud. Alitz and Pyval had permission to use their magic now, and they were conversing through their thoughts. She shivered.
“But you were able to read her?” said Fyfe.
“Of course,” said Alitz. She glanced Pyval’s way occasionally as she spoke, perhaps hearing his input. “It takes more than a careful heart to conceal oneself from our magic. We read enough. A frigid mistrust of ourselves, for a start.” When Ilsa opened her mouth to explain, Alitz raised a hand. “No need. We cannot take it personally, having seen who you are. Your thoughts and feelings are buried deep, Miss Ravenswood. Your memories even more so. But your nature is plain to see. You’re wary of others; their motives, their influence… their prejudices. It’s who you are.”
Fyfe cleared his throat, leapt from the couch, and started buttoning his jacket. “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable if I left,” he said to Ilsa.
“No, stay,” she replied, her eyes on Alitz. Fyfe had guessed correctly that if she was going to be dissected, having him there would be uncomfortable, but it was also another line of defence. She didn’t want to be outnumbered. “Go on.”
“Very well. You present a front,” continued Alitz, “because you find it advantageous to be appealing, and you’re not afraid of a little dishonesty, if it gets you what you need.”
Was it any defence that she had needed these qualities to be a magician’s assistant? Ilsa didn’t get the chance to find out before Alitz continued.
“You feel misunderstood, and you fear it is your own doing; perhaps a product of your propensity to conceal yourself, and to withhold trust. And yet you have the vulnerable heart of the young woman you are.” Alitz paused. Perhaps Ilsa couldn’t feel the Whisperer’s magic, but she knew Alitz was reaching deep into her psyche all the same. She wanted to slam the door and shut her out. “Whatever made you so thoroughly cynical has not destroyed you yet.”
Fyfe averted his eyes, but Alitz and Pyval extended no such courtesy. They had stripped her of her armour of charm and confidence, laid her bare, and were watching her like a specimen under glass. The heat of scrutiny burned Ilsa to the core, and she threw water on it the best way she knew how: she squared her shoulders, slipped on a mask, and forced herself not to feel.
“You ain’t told me nothing I don’t already know,” she lied.
“Good,” said Alitz happily. “To know one’s own mind is the first defence against telepathy. As for your more immediate thoughts” – she turned to Fyfe – “your little princess is remarkably hard to read. And her current state of mind is an utter mystery to me.”
“How d’you know I ain’t just dim?” said Ilsa. “Hypothetically speaking.”
“She’s not,” said Fyfe quickly, but he was ignored.
“The same way I know you have a rich imagination. I cannot see your thoughts very clearly but I know they are there. Imagine the mind as a spider’s web. Everything in it is connected and held together by the silk of the self; your identity, if you will. When I venture into your mind, I land in the centre of the web. If I reach further I can see towards the edges. Your mind is large, Miss Ravenswood, and the imagination has a distinctive pattern. These are things one cannot learn to obscure from a Whisperer; only what the web holds.”
“And as for… the rest?” said Fyfe, rubbing his unruly hair.
“I’m getting to that. Miss Ravenswood, I’m now going to try and place a thought in your mind. I’m telling you so that you might recognise how it differs from your own, organic thoughts.” Her lips twitched. “At least, you might be able to look back on it and tell, though I’m sure it will feel genuine at the time. Like a dream.”
“It’s not as easy as one may think,” said Alitz abruptly, “to notice when one’s thoughts have been tampered with.”
“But—”
“You were thinking of roast beef, yes?” She raised an eyebrow.
Ilsa scowled. She had liked it better when she was good at this. “My thoughts go to roast beef just fine on their own. Try another one.”
“Very well. Pyval.”
Pyval’s expression glazed over as before, but what he did next, Ilsa couldn’t say. She was suddenly absurdly distracted by a beautiful vase on the console behind him. She stepped past Pyval, intent on touching it, perhaps picking it up. Her fingers were about to brush the glossy china when something stopped her. It felt wrong, this distraction that had tugged on her from nowhere; ridiculous even. How did a vase hold any sway over her? Was it a trick? Would something happen when she touched it?
She looked over her shoulder at Pyval, who had given up and was watching her with a stony expression.
“Was that better?” Ilsa asked smugly.
Alitz was appraising her too. “Very good, Miss Ravenswood. Your caution serves you well yet again, I daresay…” She trailed off, head inclined.
Ilsa glanced at Pyval as he spoke to Alitz. The man had an uncanny stare, as if he were looking at her and through her at the same time. It was full of intent and indifference all at once.