The Ruling Mask

by Neil McGarry

  The two men circled for a moment, then Gregor launched a barrage of arcing cuts, forcing Dorian to step back once, then again. The Davari was immensely strong, Duchess could tell, but to her eye, also overeager. Castor had told her about fighting such men, but not men quite so large. She prayed to Mayu she’d given Dorian good advice.

  To his credit, the boy did not attempt to stop the assault; instead, he slid away from the cuts, keeping Gregor moving in a rough circle. At the first pause Dorian sent his blade in like an arrow, a blow Gregor only narrowly avoided. The man’s eyes blazed and he charged back in, grunting anger and swinging steel. Back and forth across the garden they went, with Gregor using his superior strength to keep Dorian on his heels, and Dorian dodging around his opponent’s blade to make a few thrusts of his own. From somewhere behind her, Duchess heard Isabelle Davari say, “He’s getting angry. When Gregor gets angry, people get hurt. We need to stop this.”

  Fiona replied, “I’ve spoken to our lord brother, but he’s too busy doing Martin’s bidding to interfere. If you feel so strongly, however, do take up a blade of your own and step in.”

  Isabelle sniffed but did not reply.

  In the circle, both men were tiring. Dorian, smaller and lighter, was clearly faring better, but still, his forehead shone with perspiration, and his vest was plastered to his body. Gregor Davari was soaked with sweat, his face full of thunderclouds, and in those thunderous features Duchess thought she saw opportunity. “Now,” she muttered to herself.

  Dorian moved so quickly that he might have heard her. He sent his blade in a high, horizontal arc, slashing at Gregor’s face in a move that made the crowd gasp. Instead of jerking back, Gregor ducked under and lunged forward, blade aimed directly at the center of his opponent’s chest, with enough strength to skewer the boy.

  Dorian, however, reacted even more quickly. He turned his slash into a downward parry, knocking Gregor’s sword to the outside, and bringing his left leg across in a mighty kick just as Gregor committed to the lunge. He connected directly with the larger man’s knee. Gregor thrashed for balance, arms pinwheeling comically, then crashed to the dirt like an avalanche, sword flying from his grip. The crowd burst into laughter as Dorian stepped up and placed the point of his blade at Gregor’s neck. With a snap of his wrist he nicked the man under the chin, then brought his sword to rest against the hollow of his throat. A trickle of blood appeared, and it was obvious to all that, had Dorian chose to press harder, his foe would be gasping away the last moments of his life.

  “First blood, sir,” Dorian announced, panting. “Do you yield?”

  Duchess held her breath and Lysander’s grip on her hand tightened. Gregor’s eyes were wild with thwarted rage, but before he could respond, Lord Larric stepped forward and looked to Venn. “Lord Venn, the duel is normally to first blood, but shall this one be to the death? Either way, it appears that young Dorian has bested your brother.”

  All eyes turned to Lord Venn, who looked half strangled. He glanced at Martin, then at Fiona, then he nodded. “Gregor, whatever insult you believe was delivered has been answered and honor has been satisfied. Well fought, Master Eusbius.” Duchess’ heart began to beat again, and Dorian stepped away and relinquished his sword to Gregor’s valet.

  A sudden movement caught Duchess’ eye and Dorian followed her gaze. Gregor was climbing to his feet, while his right hand grasped for the hilt of his fallen sword. By the look in his eyes, Duchess was certain he meant to charge Dorian before the young man could rearm himself. She opened her mouth to cry out, but Lord Larric was much faster than she would have expected for a man of his years. He swept up the blade and said with stiff courtesy, “You’ve dropped your steel, my lord. I’ll return it to your valet.”

  Gregor looked up at Larric with hatred in his eyes, and for a moment he seemed ready to throttle the elderly lord with his bare hands. Breaths were held, and the nearest nobles took a prudent step back—all except for Dorian. He stepped forward and offered Gregor a hand. “May I assist you to your feet, my lord?” he asked, his voice ringing through the silence. Gregor regarded Dorian’s hand as if it were a venomous snake, then after a long moment he allowed the boy to help him rise. As he climbed to his feet, the tension fell away and applause fell like rain. Still, Duchess noticed Gregor’s hand was closed tight and Dorian’s smile was stiff with pain. Still, he uttered no word of complaint, and Gregor finally released him and stalked away, attended by Isabelle.

  Dorian was immediately flooded with congratulations and flattery, with Fiona Davari herself among the first to offer praise. “Good show, Dorian. You turned this dreadful party into something halfway enjoyable. Perhaps next you might duel one of my other brothers—” she gestured to Venn and Martin “—assuming they can be torn away from each other for half a moment.” Dorian inclined his head in polite thanks, and then Fiona moved aside to allow a wave of guests to engulf the young man, who became the recipient of many back-pats and offered wine glasses.

  Stephan moved in to congratulate his champion, and Lysander leaned close. “Your boy fights as good as he looks,” he whispered saucily.

  Duchess blinked. “Who said he was mine?”

  Lysander snorted. “Please. I know that look in a man’s eye, and if you don’t, then you’ve obviously learned nothing from me.” He nodded in Dorian’s direction. “Now go offer congratulations before I decide to steal him away. After all, Stephan wouldn’t mind two blond boys at once.”

  By then the Davari house servants had brought damp cloths so that the victor might refresh himself from his exertions, and the other guests, including Stephan and Lysander, were drifting back into the main hall. Duchess stepped to Dorian’s side, and he gracefully disengaged himself from the last few flatterers and escorted her to a low stone bench.

  “You were very fast,” she said, feeling suddenly foolish and awkward. She wasn’t used to feeling that way around men.

  He smiled like the sun. “And you were very wise,” he replied, running a cloth along the back of his neck. “How did you know about that...kick?”

  She shrugged. “You learn a lot living in the Shallows.”

  “Obviously I’ve missed a great deal by never visiting. You were right; defeating Gregor would have made him even more violent, but making a fool of him shamed him into retreat.” He looked uncomfortable for a moment. “You know, I’ve never taken advice about fighting from a woman before. There are those who would think me unmanly for having won in such a manner.”

  Duchess resisted the urge to bite her lip. “And what do you think?”

  He laughed. “I think I’d rather be victorious than manly. Gregor is, as you yourself put it, a monster. I doubt he would have been satisfied with cutting me a little.” He glanced in the direction Gregor had headed. “I owe you and Lord Larric both my thanks. This is your victory as much as mine, and I’m happy to share it.” Relief washed over her, and she felt a bit silly that this boy’s opinion seemed to matter so much. Tremaine had warned her against fraternizing with those above her station, but right now those words of warning seemed distant and unimportant.

  “Dorian, earlier tonight you talked about risking your reputation to come down to my shop.” He nodded, and she smiled. “I hope you risk it soon.”

  * * *

  “I thought I worked fast,” Lysander said, when she rejoined him by the wine. “You must have had his breeches off before I left the garden.”

  “Gods!” she protested, giggling. “It wasn’t like that. We just talked.”

  He rolled his eyes and feigned deep sorrow. “I have failed you, haven’t I? You had just enough time to have him out of those sweaty clothes and find out exactly how well he handles his sword.”

  “You’re terrible.” She looked around. “Where is Stephan? I thought he was going to faint when Gregor challenged him.”

  “Oh, he’s off accepting praise from half the room. Dorian’s victory is his, and he’s loving it. It’s the first battle he’s ever won, unless talking
me out of my breeches counts. Speaking of which, this whole duel business will have him in a mood. I’d better go find him. Besides, I see our Lady Tremaine approaching, and I think there have been enough insults for one night.” He gave Duchess’ hand a squeeze, favored Tremaine with a mocking smile, and slipped into the crowd. Tremaine glared after him, then turned to Duchess.

  “Another lively party,” she remarked, fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve. “This is becoming a pattern with you, and one I’d rather not repeat. My carriage is ready, if you’re coming.”

  Duchess frowned. “I saw you in the garden when poor Stephan was facing Gregor. You did nothing.”

  “And would again. The matter was not my affair, and in fact I believe it was your ganymede who started all of the trouble. Either Stephan would have been killed, or Dorian Eusbius, neither of whom mean anything to me. Why should I get involved?”

  Duchess gave her a long, cold look. She had never liked Gloria Tremaine, but at this moment she itched to slap the older woman. She settled for words. “I understand. The affairs of nobility have nothing to do with you. Two names or not, you’re as common as the rest of us.”

  Tremaine’s eyes were like diamonds, hard, sharp and glittering. “The carriage is ready,” she grated. “You may ride in it, or walk back to the Shallows. It is all one to me.”

  Duchess nodded. “You’ve made yourself crystal clear, guildmaster. Still, I remain very much a matter of your concern. I’ve not yet decided if I will sign your contract.”

  She climbed into their waiting carriage, refusing their driver’s assistance. Tremaine sat opposite, her face a mask as she looked out the window.

  “You would do well to remember the current state of our relationship,” Duchess went on, as Banncroft’s magnificence slowly faded into the misty gloom behind them. “You are not the only resource I have in the city, nor is yours the only offer I am considering.” She settled back into her seat for the long, uncomfortable ride ahead of them. “Understand that whether or not I work with you is still very much one to me.”

  Chapter Fifteen: Reflections and revelations

  Two days ago she’d been mingling with the highest of high society, a guest of House Davari. Tonight she was crouched in an alley alongside Uncle Cornelius’ headquarters, praying to any gods who might be listening that no one had seen her creep into hiding.

  If there was ever an occasion for Lysander to call her mad, it was this.

  She wished he were there, and not for the first time. But, as she’d told him herself, she would not risk him the way she had during the dagger job, last spring. She left her other reason unsaid; Lysander was nowhere near as stealthy as she, and she could afford no mistakes this night. She’d likely need every trick Tyford had ever taught her to get through this alive and undetected.

  Part of her wished for Tyford as well, but she’d well and truly burned that bridge. Her teacher hadn’t taken well to being blackmailed over his connection to Preceptor Amabilis and that mad scheme to arm the Deeps gangs to better protect Morel’s cult. Tyford had told her once that he never forgot a slight and she was certain he hadn’t forgotten hers.

  Tyford, Julius, Hector...she’d left a lot of burned bridges and angry men behind her, hadn’t she? She could not afford to add Uncle Cornelius to the list.

  The building that housed the Uncle’s office was a plain, two-story structure, one that had probably once been a shop. All the first-floor windows had been bricked up or boarded over, and those on the second floor were, as Finn had promised, securely barred. Those bars were bolted directly into the bricks, and could not be unlocked and swung open. With two redcaps on the front door, day and night, the place was a small fortress right in the center of Market District. Yet if Finn had told it true, this fortress had a weakness. She just needed to find it.

  She scanned the building carefully from her hiding spot. If the office had a secret exit, it must contain a ladder or stairway; no one—and certainly not the Uncle—would design an escape route that involved a long drop to the street. If there were hidden doors at ground level it was too dark to see them, and she had not dared to bring a light. Using a lantern would be the next thing to simply alerting the guards that a thief had come to rob their master. She thought of all the places she’d broken into, searching for inspiration, and remembered the bookshelf in Savant Terence’s study, the one that had also served as a ladder to a hidden safe. Something mundane might serve to hide something more interesting, and she looked again at the sealed first-floor windows. Most had been bricked up long ago, but one or two were closed by boards. If you truly wished to make the place impregnable, you’d think you would brick up all the windows...

  She glided across the alley on silent feet and moved along the wall to the window nearest to where she recalled the Uncle’s office to be. The piece of wood that barred the aperture was nailed tightly into the frame, with no give when she tried pulling on it. Running her fingers over the edge of the frame, she felt nothing unusual.

  She was just about to try the other window when her fingernail caught on something in the wall. Feeling again, her fingertips sensed what her eyes could not see—scratches in the gray stone, a pair of deep gashes. She checked the other side and found the same.

  She considered for a moment, then slid one of her daggers from its sheath and pressed the blade between wall and frame. Using the blade as a lever, she gently applied force. At first, it seemed nothing would happen, but then the entire frame began to slide outward with a loud creak. She stopped and held her breath. Nothing moved in the alley and there was no further sound.

  She tried again, more cautiously this time, and again the frame moved, but more quietly. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she gently twisted the dagger, pushing the frame farther and farther from the wall, keeping as quiet as she could while still moving as quickly as she dared. When she had created a gap wide enough for her fingers she pulled and the whole frame swung outward. The thing was like a long hatch, hinged at the top, and she swung it out and up. Inside was darkness. She groped a hand around blindly for steps or rungs; instead, she felt only sharply inclined wood, polished and smooth. A slide.

  She nearly laughed. Evidently, the secret exit Uncle Cornelius used involved sliding on his rump like a child down an icy hill. Her hands detected a raised lip around the inside of the window, no doubt intended to break the momentum for someone descending rapidly from above. It made a handy foothold for someone climbing from below. She pulled herself quietly up and into the narrow opening, crouching so as not to hit her head. She slowly lowered the hatch behind her until it lay flat against the wall once more. She let out a long-held breath. She was inside.

  Turning in the darkness of the shaft, she reached upwards and quickly found the low ceiling bare inches above her head. She could not stand, and even if she could the slide was far too slippery to climb.

  Tyford, bless his crooked heart, had prepared her for such a contingency.

  Reaching into her pack, she brought forth a metal rod, perhaps two feet long and capped with thick, rough leather on both ends. Still crouched with her back to the hatch, she turned the screw at its center, loosening its two halves. She pulled one end of the rod while holding tight to the other, until the thing was wide enough to brace across the width of the shaft. She lay at her full length along the slide and lodged it across the shaft above her head, as high as she could reach, the soft leather making no sound against the walls. She lodged the rod in place and then locked it at its new length.

  Tyford had laughingly called the thing a chimney creep, a useful tool for second-story work, giving its owner a secure place to tie a rope where none might normally be placed. Luckily, it served just as well as a handhold.

  She gave the creep a few tugs to ensure it would bear her weight, then pulled herself up until she could hook her arms over it. Her exercise with Castor had strengthened her and she easily hauled herself up until she could pull her legs around and brace them against the rod. Feeling open space
above her, she braced her hands against the sides of the shaft, which she realized now rose vertically above her. It was not a position to stay in for long; if the creep gave way she’d tumble down the slide and out into the alley, and the door guards would surely hear the crash of her landing.

  She reached up with her hands, and was rewarded when her fingers found the shape of a rung embedded in the wall above the slide. That made sense, given that no one would want to slide all the way down from the second floor. The handhold was too far up to be reached from the alley but was low enough to ensure that anyone using this egress would only slide six feet or so. A handy way out whenever the Uncle felt the need, and yet no way anyone would ever use to come in.

  Until now, anyway.

  Feeling crafty and clever, she pulled herself up and away from the creep and found the next rung, and the next, climbing upwards in utter blackness. The shaft ended eight or nine feet later, and without even a hint of light she was reduced to groping about the walls until she felt stone give way to rough wood. She felt around until she determined that a narrow wooden door lay before her. She listened for a moment, but there was no sound to be heard beyond it, nor even a glimmer of light around it.

  She’d detected no handle, which made sense given that such a door would open towards the shaft, nor any lock, which made sense given that the Uncle might need to access his secret exit quickly. She brought out her dagger and worked it back and forth in the space she felt between wood and stone until she sensed a gap. Then she pulled and the thin door swung silently inwards on well-oiled hinges. She paused; no alarm was raised. Then she stepped through the door into the office of the chief of the Red.