The Ruling Mask

by Neil McGarry

  Duchess tried not to look at him and instead concentrated on the unfamiliar square bottle. “This one doesn't even look like wine,” she said, peering through the clear glass. "It’s green. What sort of wine is green?"

  “The kind that’s actually liqueur,” Minette chuckled, making another mark on the slate.

  “What's the difference between liquor and liqueur?” The word felt strange in her mouth, and she was certain she wasn’t saying it with the smooth roll of the tongue that Minette had managed.

  Minette laughed full-throatedly. “Oh my dear, there are countrymen of mine who would call you a heathen and a barbarian for not knowing the difference. The names may sound similar, but I assure you they are not the same.” Duchess blinked again. Minette was not often one to speak of her past, or who she’d been before she’d become mistress of the Vermillion. Minette said nothing more on the subject, instead plucking the bottle from Duchess’ hands and popping its cut-glass stopper. “They both contain alcohol, but the terms are most certainly not interchangeable. Wine is made from grapes, as ale is made from honey. This,” she began to carefully pour the green liquid into a very tiny glass, “is made from a variety of herbs and flowers and is known as chartreuse, from which the color also takes its name.”

  Duchess watched as Minette finished pouring, the green of the liquid turning slightly yellow in the lamplight. Minette carefully stoppered the bottle, then offered the glass. Duchess sniffed; heady stuff, far stronger than the ales or wines she was used to. She sipped carefully, first tasting sweetness, then heat, then a strange spiciness.

  “That’s more than enough for me, I think,” Duchess said. She wanted to keep a clear head. She gave the glass back to Minette, who took it gracefully, not commenting on the grubbiness of Duchess’ hands. Minette gave the glass a half twist on her palm, then took a tiny sip and closed her eyes, obviously savoring the flavor. The warmth lingered still on Duchess’ tongue, slowly making its way down her throat to her stomach. It was odd stuff, sweeter than Jana’s sugar-syrup and hotter than the licorice bite of bataya.

  Minette finally opened her eyes and smiled. “It has quite a history, our liqueur. There are those who claim it an elixir for an extraordinarily long and healthy life. Others insist that it is a slow poison, pickling the brain by degrees, though I suppose the same could be said for most drink. Many lust for chartreuse, and as many would not dare to touch it. So many tales for so small a thing. Still, one cannot control one’s reputation.” She said the last with a look at Duchess.

  So the idle talk was over. “Panacea or poison,” Duchess said at last, knowing they were no longer speaking of liqueur. “Which reputation do you believe?”

  “It hardly matters what I think, my dear.” She gestured again and Mikkos appeared to remove the chartreuse. “In the end, we all accumulate a collection of stories.”

  Duchess selected her words carefully. “No one gets drunk from a sip of wine. One tale can’t poison the whole collection.”

  Minette finished the chartreuse in a single draught and set the glass back on the table. “You of all people should know the power of a single story. Just ask Preceptor Amabilis. Or Sheriff Sicarius.”

  A single tale of weapons sent secretly down the hill to arm Deeps gangs had been enough to defeat Preceptor Amabilis. There was little love lost between the radiant and the leader of the keepers of Mayu, Jadis. When the preceptor had learned of a splinter cell dedicated to the goddess of death, in the worst part of the Deeps known as the Narrows, Amabilis had seen an opportunity. He’d armed the gangs to act as guards to the cult, and had even sent them the very dagger, known as the Key of Mayu, that Duchess had stolen from House Eusbius.

  If Uncle Cornelius and the Red, who suppressed the gangs, had learned of such an arrangement, the preceptor’s life would have been shorter than a Rodaasi rainstorm. Duchess had traded her silence for the knowledge that the Atropi had used Amabilis to hire the Brutes to destroy Jana’s looms. The prestige of his office, the cunning of his years, the value of his mark—none of it had been stronger than that one story.

  So Amabilis she knew, but the other name Minette mentioned caught Duchess’ ear but did not jog her memory. “Sicarius?”

  Minette smiled. “The Sheriff of Garden District. Given that the policing there is mostly handled by the Whites, the post is largely ceremonial, but prestigious.”

  Amabilis and Sicarius. Where was Minette going with this line of thought? “What happened?”

  Minette’s smile widened slightly. “Some might say he’s been promoted. Straight out of Garden and out to Verge.” Verge lay far to the south, at the very border of the empire, along the Southern Duchies. Such a move was no promotion at all, it seemed to her. “A certain tale made its way to the wrong ear, in this case that of Empress Violana. She’s taken a rather more...active hand in court happenings since what occurred at the Fall,” She glanced at Duchess, then back to the slate. “Sicarius has been very busy doing favors of a personal nature for some of the highest families in the city, and apparently our Violana thought so much of his work that she decided to reward him.”

  Two powerful men discomfited by nothing more than a whispered rumor in the right ear. Minette had more than made her point.

  “It almost reminds one of marks, don’t you think?” Minette went on, seeming unaware of Duchess’ discomfort and taking another bottle from Mikkos. “Each is a story. Each has a tale behind it. Sometimes we know them, and sometimes we only wish we did.” She glanced at the label, made a mark on her slate and handed the bottle back. “Your mark, for example. The one in my desk upstairs.”

  They both knew, of course, that Duchess had given Minette two marks: one given after the business with Baron Eusbius and his dagger, and the other in exchange for an introduction to First Keeper Jadis. Minette was playing the board carefully, as she always had, and had chosen to keep only one of Duchess’ marks, selling off the other while it was still worth something. It was as clear a sign as any that Duchess’ stock was in decline.

  “I hope the other was sold dearly,” she replied casually, feeling anything but. Mikkos offered another bottle, but Minette waved him off with a gloved hand. He withdrew, and Duchess heard him climbing up the creaking steps.

  “Dear enough,” Minette replied, when he was gone. She sighed and pushed away the slate. “It was simply good business.” She produced a handkerchief from her not-inconsiderable cleavage and set about cleaning her glass. “And I must admit that it didn’t help that Peter made it so convenient.” Duchess snapped to attention, recognizing that Minette wasn’t simply musing. “Everyone’s heard of the unfortunate events attributed to you, but Peter’s descriptions were so...specific. So immediate, so lacking the usual whisper-down-the-lane vagueness that usually accompanies so many retellings.” She held the glass up to the lamplight, searching for fingerprints. “And then he made such a lovely offer for nothing more than a scrap of cloth. Who was I to say no?”

  Duchess tried to concentrate, but the bottom had dropped out of her stomach, the warmth from the chartreuse vanishing. What was Minette up to?

  The Vermillion’s mistress placed the glass on the table once more and flicked it with a perfectly sculpted fingernail. The glass rang gently. “Still,” she continued, “I must admit that I can never really tell what Peter is up to. A seamless man, when he wishes to be.” She looked up then, and her eyes were dark pools, darker even than Mikkos’. “No wonder they call him the Pearl.” She returned her attention to her slate.

  Duchess desperately tried not to show her surprise. Pete the Pearl owned the largest casino in Rodaas and had a hand in a dozen other dice games throughout Trades and Shallows. He was also, if rumor were to be believed, a highly ranked member of the Grey. The hierarchy of that secret society was fluid at best, but by all accounts Pete was more powerful and influential than nearly anyone else who wore the cloak. His marks were certainly worth more, anyway.

  Why would such a man be interested in her?

&nbs
p; “I suppose I should be flattered," Duchess said after a moment. She wasn't sure why Minette had volunteered this information, but she was certain it was not by accident. Minette never did anything without a reason, and usually not the one you suspected. Duchess’ mind whirled with possibilities.

  Lacking all the usual whisper-down-the-lane vagueness. Minette was trying to tell her that Pete the Pearl had started the rumors about her. Her stomach churned as she considered this. The man was certainly powerful enough to spawn such gossip and then cover his tracks, at least from a novice like her. Minette, however, had access to sources of information of which Duchess could only dream; in fact, Duchess sometimes wondered if the wily madam were the legendary secret leader of the Grey.

  Duchess sighed. Although there were more answers to discover, she doubted she’d find them here. One did not pry secrets from Minette so easily. “Well, I’ve taken enough of your time.”

  “Always a pleasure, my dear,” Minette replied, not looking up. “But it is possible to overdo the sublime. It seems you’re dealing with a few stories of your own, and that sort of thing tends to rub off.” She looked up from the slate with an expression that might, in the right light, have been sadness. “Perhaps it’s best if you stay away from the Vermillion for the time being. Nothing personal, you understand.”

  Duchess smiled, but inside she felt stricken. The Vermillion had always been a place she could go for refuge and gossip and aid, but it seemed that was not to be, at least for awhile. “Of course,” she replied, feeling as if her smile might crack at any moment. “As you said, it’s just good business. You have my word I won’t darken your door until my prospects improve.” She stood carefully, feeling as if she might fall over, though it had nothing to do with what she’d drunk.

  She made her careful way up the stairs without seeing Lorelei or any of the other Vermillion’s staff. The back door closed behind her with a disturbing finality as she turned her back on the brothel. Heading towards the Foreign Quarter, she told herself that, stories or no, she’d show Minette, Pete the Pearl and all of the Grey precisely what she was made of.

  Chapter Four: The measure of a man

  Duchess told herself that it wasn’t personal, that the exercise had her blood up. But as she turned and failed once more to strike Castor, she didn’t believe it.

  They were in the basement of the burnt-out wine shop in which they’d once trained, and although their last session had been only a month before, already her arms felt leaden and the sweat was running into her eyes. She shifted her grip on the blunted daggers and stayed on the balls of her feet. He shifted left, but she was already doing as he’d taught her months ago. Watch his hips. A man’s eyes can lie, but he’s going nowhere without his hips. Sure enough, his move was a feint, and she darted right and struck out with her right blade, scraping the dull weapon across his side. Then he was whirling smoothly around and it was all she could do to stumble back before his own blades nearly took her in the stomach. She stepped back with her left foot, steadied herself, then shoved forward with her right, hoping to catch him the same way—

  —and then she was flat on her back with his dagger at her throat.

  She shoved his arm away and stood. “Again,” she muttered.

  Two minutes later, she was in exactly the same position.

  She shoved him away again, teeth gritted. “What am I missing?”

  “You’re protecting your front leg and not the back,” Castor replied, maddeningly calm. The man wasn’t even winded. “As you come in, I step to your side, and then—” He demonstrated at half-normal speed. “—I sweep out with my left foot and catch your back leg.”

  “And my back foot goes out from under me,” she said, finally getting it.

  “A risky move, but effective. The timing has to be precise.” They ran through the steps again and this time he allowed her to sweep her leg against his. “Move too early and your opponent will recover—you’d be surprised how quickly a swordsman can recover from a lunge—and if you are too late he’s already begun to shift back into a neutral stance.”

  She tried again, this time kicking harder and he slipped when her foot made contact. Then the weapon was at his throat.

  “Better,” he said, rising. She handed him the practice weapons and he put them away, but she knew they weren’t done yet. Good. She wanted to hit something and she just wasn’t good enough to use Castor as a target. Yet.

  He set up one of the straw man targets along the far wall and handed her two throwing daggers, their edges keen from honing. She balanced them in her hands and took a deep breath. This was a difficult skill to master, Castor had told her, but she wanted to try anyway. Swords were too heavy and she couldn’t carry them concealed. But a few daggers, on the other hand, would do nicely.

  Or they would if she could actually manage to hit anything. After ten tries she was still striking the wall more than the target.

  “Concentrate,” muttered Castor.

  “I am,” she replied, frowning. “Maybe it’s just easier to stab someone in the chest.”

  “Assuming you get that close,” Castor replied. “If your opponent has a longer weapon you’ll have to get inside his reach before you can do damage, which is a good way to die. If you strike from ten or fifteen feet away, it doesn’t matter what weapon they’re holding.” She shook sweat from her eyes and started over.

  Again and again she threw, and after an hour she was reliably hitting the dummy in the chest, if not always the heart. “Where would that one have gotten him?” she said after one throw.

  “Lung,” Castor replied, plucking the blade from the straw man. “Not immediately fatal, but a good place to hit. A man who can’t breathe can’t fight.”

  She grinned. “I’ll take it. By the way, Far was adamant about coming with me once he heard what we were up to.” In the days since he’d come into her care, Far had proven himself to be a quiet but helpful presence, always doing as he was asked and never complaining. Like most, he had taken to Lysander almost immediately and the two were already fast friends. “I told him Jana needed him around the shop, and luckily Lysander was there to set an example.”

  Castor brought the blades back. “He’s no role model for a boy,” he said brusquely, holding out the weapons.

  Her hands froze on the hilts. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He seemed surprised at the question. “I’d think it was obvious. A man who makes his living in the bedchamber is unfit company for any real boy.”

  “And I make my living stealing things from people I don’t think should have them.” She felt angry and strangely humiliated, as if the former White were criticizing her. “Am I unfit company as well?”

  “Not the same thing,” Castor replied. “You control your own fate, whereas Lysander is just a plaything for more powerful men. I don’t intend for Far to be that weak.”

  “Weak?” She set down the daggers and faced him squarely. “Lysander grew up in the Deeps, where little boys die every single day. I’ll bet he’s fought more battles than you have, against lightboys and Deeps gangs and the gods only know what else, and he never had a shiny suit of armor to protect him, either. He lived on nothing but his wits, eating rats and mice and whatever else he could steal. Lysander is a survivor, and if he’s here today for you to call weak it’s because he’s braved dangers that most people never even imagine.” She pointed a finger at him. “That plaything has saved my neck more times than I can count—he even helped me save yours! You’d be lucky to have Far take after Lysander.” She moved to the stairs and sat down. “Dammit.”

  Castor stood holding the daggers, his mouth open. “I—I did not mean to offend you,” he said quietly. “I never knew that Lysander lived differently than he does now.”

  “Well, you were wrong.” Duchess took a deep breath and stood. “And you didn’t offend me, Castor. I just want you to understand who Lysander is, and what he means to me. And to your son.” She pushed her hair back from her face. “T
ime we were done, anyway. It’s nearly third bell and I have an appointment to keep."

  * * *

  Duchess jerked back as a tankard smashed against the wall an inch from her face.

  She had expected an alehouse full of scholars to be a genteel, distinguished place, filled with the discreet murmur of learned conversation and shared scholarly secrets. Nestled in the southernmost corner of Scholars District, The Foolscap smelled of ale and cinnamon instead of piss and vomit, but otherwise it seemed as raucous as its low-district counterparts. A serving boy rushed to clean up the mess as, somewhere in the crowded room, a voice cried out “Pure sophistry!” Laughter followed.

  She stepped further into the room. She’d never heard of the place, but Darley had assured her that this was where she’d find what she needed. “All the journeymen scholars meet there to unwind, debate, and get away from the savants,” Darley had assured her when they’d spoken that morning. Then she’d smirked. “You’ll fit right in.” Duchess now understood that smirk; since every blue robe in the place was worn by a young man, she stood out like a noble in the Narrows. That should make finding her quarry easier, though.

  The boy swept up the shards of the shattered tankard as the thrower turned back to the scholar who had clearly been his intended target. “You purblind idiot!” he screamed. “The Seven Evidences of Higher Reason in Man is the only authority necessary!”

  The target, a pale man with straggly brown hair, did not seem discomfited by this outburst, although she noticed he held tight to his own mug. “Hardly,” he replied smugly, sipping. “Like everything else Savant Phillip produced in his later years, Seven Evidences is vapid bloviation, a pale imitation of true scholarship.”

  The thrower roared outrage, goaded by several onlookers, who had evidently left off their own scholarly discussions to watch the show. Had this been the world through which her father had once moved? Had he once been like one of these loud, brash young men, full of anger and utter certainty? Even so, Duchess was glad for the distraction and stole a moment to survey the room. There, seated in a window alcove, was the woman she sought, clad in blue like the others, her orange hair like flame in the pale sunlight.