The Ruling Mask

by Neil McGarry

  He laughed. “Oh, come on. You have to admit that was deftly done. She reminds me a little of you, actually.” That stopped her in her tracks. “I’m serious. She’s smart, clever, and she knows how to read people. Take it as a compliment.”

  “Thanks for that,” she replied sourly, “but I need ideas, not compliments.” They resumed their walk.

  “Maybe you should do nothing. Eventually she’ll cross the wrong person and she and Hadron will end up floating face-down in the harbor, which solves the problem.” A group of stout laundrywomen flooded past, each carrying a bulging sack the size of a small boulder.

  Duchess shook her head. “If I don’t do something, I have to give Nigel back his marks, an admission that Lepta beat me. No, I have to take care of this problem.” She made a fist. “And I’m going to enjoy it.”

  Lysander laughed. “Those kind of words are usually accompanied by blades.”

  She rolled her eyes. “My reputation is already in tatters. I can’t go back with daggers out when I’m already known as a murderess.”

  “You’ll come up with something,” Lysander said. “And when you do, the victory will be all the sweeter for taking down someone as smooth as Lepta.”

  His careless confidence warmed her, and she felt a smile forming. “OK, so she was pretty good. Never blinked once, did she?”

  He shrugged. “I think she’s met her match.” Market Gate was in view, where the blackarms were checking people through. “Anyway, even without Lepta you’ve got more on your plate than you can eat. Tremaine’s little party is coming up next week...”

  “...not to mention dinner tomorrow with the savant.” She gave him a playful look. “Care to help me pick an outfit?”

  “Now that’s something I’m good at!” Lysander crowed, wrapping an arm around her. “Well, that and singing, dancing, bedding, drinking...”

  She punched him in the arm and ran laughing towards the gate.

  * * *

  “Your father’s diaries,” Savant Terence repeated, as if confirming what he thought he’d heard.

  The last time Duchess had been in this house was to rob it, so being an invited guest was a step up. They were in the savant’s third-floor study, which was a bit stifling even this late in autumn, sipping tea from delicate cups brought by his serving woman. The large wooden table between them was covered with papers, mostly maps; as imperial cartographer, Terence had many, as she had noticed the last time she’d been here.

  “You told me once that whatever help I needed of you, I’d have,” Duchess reminded him more sharply than she’d intended. In truth, she was a bit intimidated by Terence, who had been close to her father and likely knew more of him than Duchess herself remembered. She folded her hands in her lap and reminded herself that this man had proved himself a friend.

  Terence set down his cup with a click and sighed. “Why do I suspect that my protégé Cecilia is behind this?” He held up a hand to forestall her protest. “Marina—my pardons, Duchess—I have worked with Cecilia for a long time, and when she came to me for your father’s diaries...well, I might have known my demurral would not stop her from trying.” He smiled faintly. “Her dedication to the pursuit of knowledge is admirable, but in this case, futile. How did she ever find you?”

  Duchess decided not to mention Darley’s involvement; after all, the savant had warned her to leave his daughter out of any future plots. Instead, she said, “As you say, Cecilia is a dedicated woman. So do you have the diaries?”

  A look of sincere sorrow crossed his face. “The one thing you ask of me I cannot give. I never had those diaries—would that I did! Your father’s work merits a place of honor in the Scriptorium, where other scholars could benefit from it.” He shook his head sadly. “I did all I could to preserve them.”

  Duchess perked up. “What do you mean?”

  Terence glanced at her uneasily. “I’m half afraid to tell you this.” He sighed. “As I’ve said, I was with your father on the last day of the War of the Quills, and took down his final instructions. He had made provision for everything: his money, his property and, of course, his children. I was to take you in and rear you to the Scriptorium, but...well, we both know what happened.”

  Duchess did not need to be reminded of that dreadful night of fire, when Nurse Gelda had spirited her from the house and handed her over to the baker Noam in the Shallows. How different her life would have been if Terence had gotten there first!

  “The only thing your father never mentioned were his diaries, which by law and custom must be turned over to the Scriptorium at death. When I asked him directly he would not answer. At the time I did not know what to make of that, but when the war was done and the ashes had cooled, I started making inquiries.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Nothing. The fire had of course taken everything in the city house, but I even personally checked every book in the library at the Freehold—that was the country estate, as you will recall—in the hopes that the diaries had been misfiled or deliberately hidden there. There was no sign of them.” He glanced away.

  Duchess waited for more, but Terence was silent. “Then why were you half afraid to tell me this tale?”

  Terence looked at her with doubtful eyes, then seemed to come to some decision. “In the weeks and months after the war ended I often wondered how your father managed to persuade Uncle Cornelius to unleash the Deeps gangs upon the city. I was his closest confidante and yet he took that secret to his grave. I’m no expert on low-hill politics, but it seemed to me that the chief of the Red does not grant such a favor without recompense of some sort.”

  Duchess nodded; from what she’d seen, the Uncle did nothing without a reason, nor without extracting a price.

  “I searched among the financial records your father had entrusted to me, but I could find no record of any transfer of gold, nor property, nor any indication that Marcus had paid the Uncle in coin. And so it was that your father’s death presented me with two mysteries, and I came to wonder if the answer to one lay in the other.”

  Such talk of her father’s death left her both sad and confused. “I’m lost, Savant.”

  “It had always bothered me that your father, not a man to evade a direct question, had never told me what was to be done with his diaries, just as he had never told me how he’d persuaded the Uncle. Was it possible the diaries themselves were the price the Uncle demanded?”

  Duchess could not even begin to imagine a man like Uncle Cornelius dealing with her father, much less making such a curious demand. The Uncle was no scholar. “That’s quite a leap. Do you have anything more than suspicion?”

  “Like you, I could not imagine why such a man would want your father’s notes, but the more I thought about it the more likely it seemed. So when the time was right, I sent discreet word to Uncle Cornelius, asking if he possessed Marcus Kell’s diaries and was willing to sell them. There was no reply.”

  “Are you certain the Uncle got your message? He’s not an easy man to reach.”

  Terence nodded. “Quite certain. The intermediary I used has...well, an unimpeachable reputation for determination and competence. The Uncle received my message, to be sure, but he chose to respond with silence. If he’d known nothing of those diaries I imagine he would have said so.” Terence looked upon her with pity in his eyes. “As a man of scholarship I hesitate to rely on intuition, but I feel certain the Uncle either has your father’s diaries or he knows where they are. I could not say what use he has made of them.” He sighed again. “I fear I have been entirely unhelpful. The Uncle’s reputation is known even this far up the hill, and it suggests that he is not amenable to any bargain he himself has not proposed. If your search takes you to his door, I imagine you will find it closed and barred.”

  The last time Duchess had dealt with the Uncle, she’d barely left with her head and that mostly due to the fact that she’d given him what he wanted.

  “Regardless,” Terence went on, “the diaries will not hel
p Cecilia.”

  She blinked. “What do you mean?”

  Terence rubbed the bridge of his nose, suddenly looking very tired. “I presume Cecilia has asked you for those diaries, with the notion that your father’s scholarship as well as my love for my old friend will somehow persuade me to change my mind about her thesis.”

  Duchess couldn’t help but smile. “Yes. That’s precisely her plan.”

  Terence shook his head. “Cecilia Payne is a brilliant scholar, but what she does not wish to know, she will not hear. I presume she told you the topic of her thesis?”

  Duchess nodded. “The influence of the Domae upon the imperial cults.”

  Terence looked pained. “Indeed. And does that particular topic strike you as perhaps...inopportune, given the current situation?”

  Duchess’ eyes widened. “The Evangelism.”

  “I have no doubt that Cecilia’s proposed thesis would make for fascinating reading. It would also almost certainly be considered heresy. All her paper would manage to do is to briefly unite the cults to have her arrested as an apostate. If my name appeared on such a work as her mentor, I would find myself in the next cell.” He took another sip of tea, letting the liquid linger on his palate before swallowing. “Not if your father’s shade returned to testify on her behalf would I allow her to court such disaster.”

  Duchess restrained herself from running her hands through her hair. It seemed that no matter what she came up with, Cecilia’s paper was doomed, and along with it any chance of gaining the young scholar’s help.

  Or was it? After all, the deal she and Cecilia had struck had not in any way involved Terence. Duchess had agreed to obtain her father’s diaries and in return Cecilia had promised to research Duchess’ theories about P, the genius loci, and the history of the city. As long as Duchess held up her end of the bargain, what should it matter what the girl’s mentor did or did not allow?

  Lysander would no doubt point out that she was splitting hairs, but it hardly mattered. She needed help and Cecilia was offering to provide it. To Terence she said, “You’re kind to shelter Cecilia from the storm, even if she won’t appreciate it.”

  “Most of the novices under my aegis would not call me kind,” he said with a gentle smile, “yet I thank you.” He poured them more tea. “I intend to steer Cecilia out of danger, and in this case I encourage you to do the same with yourself.” He leaned forward. “Make no mistake: those diaries are nothing but trouble. Your father was a good man and we are all the poorer for his loss, but there is nothing good in his work for Cecilia—or for you.”

  Chapter Seven: Skin in the game

  The Oyster was a singular place in many ways, most notably as the city’s sole gambling house. There were dice games here and there, in the back rooms of taverns or in secret cellars, but this was the only established hall permitted in any district. Apparently, the laws against large organized gambling dens were enacted just after Pete the Pearl had opened his, and some said those laws were enacted due to his influence—after he had grandfathered himself an exception, of course. The lesser games might nip at Pete's heels, but the supremacy of the Oyster was unchallenged.

  The Oyster was the only business in Market District, or indeed anywhere on the great hill, that was open to all comers, from baron to beggar. If you had the coin, there was a seat for you at a table. There weren’t many places in Rodaas where lightboys could rub elbows with Whites, but this was one. The place was a bright beacon of light and laughter, bedecked in cloth streamers of yellow and green and red, lively and filled with laughter and song at all hours.

  Standing before the great doors of the Oyster, Duchess reviewed what she knew of its owner. Born the son of a cloth merchant, Pete had joined the Grey at the age of seventeen, the same age as Duchess was now, and he’d immediately gravitated towards games of chance. Starting with a single dice game he swiftly moved on to take over nearly every other gambling interest in the lower districts. Everything from tiles to rat races to dog fighting in the Deeps came under his purview. His nose for opportunity was uncanny; he seemed to sense which of his rivals’ games were ripe for a buyout, and which were not worth the coin. By the time he was thirty, having lost his hair and gained his belly, folks were already calling him the Pearl, and he was wealthy and powerful enough to open the Oyster. Among the Grey it was common knowledge that he was one of the wealthiest men outside of Garden District.

  His connections on the Highway were just as impressive. He seemingly had a finger in every pie, gathering influence and marks as he played the grand game of rumor and innuendo better than any in recent memory. While on the surface, his hands were immaculate, her fruning had revealed that Pete had a part in any heist worth the mentioning. At this point in his career, florins birthed florins and all he had to do was keep his underlings in line and direct things comfortably from the heart of his palace.

  A palace Duchess had decided she must now brave.

  Even this early, the Oyster was in motion, the tables in the high and echoing hall still busy from the previous night, just as they would be through the next morning. Under a high vaulted ceiling covered with ornate scrollwork, men and women from up and down the hill leaned over dice and fingered tiles, whispering prayers to gods and demons of every description for the tiniest bit of luck. All the while, dealers flipped parchment cards and spun wooden wheels, tray-carrying servers fetched food and drink, and attractive boys and girls clapped for the winners and consoled the losers, each one shaking every last bit of sou they could from the customers.

  Bell after bell, day after day, year after year the Oyster ran, making Pete a fortune. With his wealth and his connections to the Grey, the Pearl was of the most personally powerful men in Rodaas. What did such a man want with a mark of hers? And what did he hope to gain by starting rumors about her?

  A large, bald Ulari, clad all in immaculate white that shone against his dark skin, approached as she made her way through the tables. “The Pearl’s expecting you,” he said in a voice as deep as a well.

  Her message had been received, and with a nod she followed the man through the Oyster to Pete’s inner sanctum.

  * * *

  Pete the Pearl was a man of circles. His hairless head was like a full moon, large and round, and under a deep red robe was a belly that was just as round but even larger. His thighs and upper arms were rounded, and the pudgy hands he raised in greeting were thick disks set with pale, soft fingers. His eyes, however, deep green and set above pouches of fat, were as sharp as knives. They regarded her with mild curiosity.

  “The Duchess of the Shallows,” he noted calmly, adjusting his bulk on gilded pillows. His chair was of carved wood, enormous, wide enough to accommodate her and Lysander with room for Jana and perhaps even Far. He waved hands covered with rings, gesturing her in. “Please, sit down. The few pleasures of my humble office are yours.”

  The room was anything but humble, lavishly outfitted with thick green rugs and screens of gold and black set against wood-paneled walls. Fan-shaped windows with blue and gold panes admitted morning light that glinted on the gold handles and trimmings of Pete’s desk.

  “I’m glad to know I was expected,” she said, seating herself across from him.

  He smiled. “No one in our line of work likes surprises.”

  A slight noise from the behind one of the screens caught her ear and she made a special effort to ignore it. Rumor had it that the Oyster was riddled with secret nooks and passages where Pete’s guards lurked, ready to emerge at a moment’s notice to defend their master. One of them might be listening even now. She did not mention this, of course; it wouldn’t do to shatter the comfortable illusion that they were alone. “The Oyster’s quite extraordinary,” she said instead.

  Pete smiled modestly, his pale hands waving away her praise. “I’ve been fortunate, nothing more.”

  “No need for modesty. I saw a thousand treasures on the way in.” The Pearl’s grin deepened into a dimpled smile and he placed both je
weled hands upon his considerable belly. If he were a cat, he’d be purring. “I’m here,” she said casually, “to ask after one treasure in particular. A trinket. A token of mine that I understand you’ve recently acquired.”

  Pete was good, very good, but Minette hadn’t trained her for years in verbal sparring for nothing. The flicker of uncertainty in those flesh-pocketed eyes was unmistakable. For a long moment he sat quietly, then he rose ponderously and crossed to a sideboard, where a bowl of pears sat next to a crystal jug and some cups. He filled a cup with purple liquid from the jug and sniffed, as if judging the vintage, but Duchess knew better. He was buying time to collect his thoughts—or to get his story straight. When Pete turned away from the sideboard there was something more in his eyes—fear? Steps away from the guard they both knew was in the walls, safe in the seat of his power, Pete the Pearl, one of the most powerful men in the city, was scared.

  What had she stumbled into?

  Pete returned to his desk, settling his bulk back on his chair with a creak. “I purchased your mark,” he said, slowly “for nothing more interesting than a job. A small job, perhaps, but one close to my heart.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “I’m flattered you’d think of me.”

  Pete sat back in his chair. “It seems that Lord Levering has sadly passed away, leaving behind a widow, two sons, and a mountain of debt. His wife has returned to her own family—she was a Dorrance once—but his sons are not so fortunate. They’ve inherited their father’s estate, but also his obligations, and the latter have consumed the former.”

  “How sad. And where did Lord Levering incur this debt?”

  “Right outside this door, among other places.” Pete smiled broadly. “The poor man was audacious at the tables but simply didn’t know when to stop. I would have offered his heirs reasonable repayment terms, of course, but it seems I was not the only one to whom Lord Levering died indebted.”