by Neil McGarry
She was fumbling for a reply when she noticed a squad of blackarms approaching, each armed with a torch. They were clearing the way for a pair of sure-footed donkeys pulling a wagon. People moved aside to let the wagon pass, then followed eagerly behind. Among the blackarms she caught sight of a familiar figure: Galeon, the new sheriff of Temple District. Promoted with the help of Minette, if she’d heard correctly, although she was damned if she could understand what had happened to Takkis. The man had embarrassed the imperial court by jailing a White and was subsequently promoted. Could someone at court have wanted what had happened to come to light? She couldn’t imagine why, but then nothing in Rodaas was what it seemed; there was always a deeper game.
The wagon was heading her way, so she and Dorian stepped aside as the blackarms cleared an area just before the grassy center of the Walk. The donkeys came to a halt, and now she could read the brightly painted side-panel with two words written in a lovely script.
Doctor Domae.
An audience was gathering around her, and from the wagon came a creak and a groan as a side panel suddenly swung out and up, pulled on ropes, to form a makeshift stage. The onlookers oohed as the wagon continued to transform. A red curtain arose at the rear of the stage, and silken banners in white and gold descended to either side. A pole emerged from the top of the wagon, and at its pinnacle was a large, wooden head, painted dark brown in an obvious caricature of an old Domae man.
Dorian was as enraptured as the rest of the crowd, but Duchess felt only sick to her stomach. She was glad at least Jana wasn’t here to witness this absurd and insulting spectacle.
Dorian, oblivious to her discomfort, smiled. “I’ve heard about this Doctor; he’s all the rage, with his potions and what-not. The Burned Woman performs with him—she can supposedly see the future—and the nobles will have her in for readings now and again. The baron proposed inviting them but Mother wouldn’t hear of it. She’s no fan of Domae.”
Again his nonchalance struck her. Every time she thought she understood Dorian Eusbius—
“Welcome!” a booming voice sounded. The red curtains twitched aside and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out on to the stage. His outfit was absurd; it was as if someone had taken a formal doublet and then covered it with the most garish and ridiculous strips of silk. They were tied everywhere: across his chest, along his arms. They dangled from his hair she noted, almost covering his—
She blinked. The man was clearly Rodaasi, but he’d painted his face dark enough to try passing as a Domae.
“Welcome friends!” he cried again, in an accent that sounded only somewhat like Jana’s. “I bring you the greetings of your brethren of the plains!”
The crowd about her burst into applause, but Dorian’s smile vanished when he saw her distress. Doctor Domae spoke in thickly accented Rodaasi, a broad and mocking attempt to make himself sound something like Jana. But he wasn’t like Jana. He wasn’t a real Domae. He was turning Jana into a joke to be pointed at and giggled over like a trained monkey. She tried to keep her anger hidden, but she felt as if at any moment fire might boil from her eyes.
“—gifts! Gifts and wonders, ladies and gentlemen! Miracles and cures! Remedies for anything that might ail you! Safe and effective physics for palsy, numbness, gout, strange swellings and pains in the face and neck! Coughs and fevers shall trouble you no more!” The man was stalking the stage, his arms whipping back and forth. The silken banners rose to reveal shelves of phials and philters in a thousand different shapes and colors. “Straight from the plains to your door! Let the magics of the Domae cure what ails you!”
Because of what had happened at the Fall, the Domae were suddenly popular in the city. If Duchess had known it would end up like this...
“These were all concocted at great peril, using strange spells and ingredients lost to the ken of civilized folk, but known still to those who live in the wilds!”
“Ridiculous,” she muttered. “You’d think the Domae were hunting down wild boars with sharpened sticks, fearing fire.”
Dorian’s eyes widened in realization. “Your business partner is Domae.” He looked again at the stage. “I can see how this would—”
He was drowned out by a gasp from the crowd, and now a second figure appeared on stage. She, like Doctor Domae, was an absurd caricature, but her face and arms were obscured by linen wrappings. Any hair she might have had was concealed beneath the gauze, and of her face only her eyes could be seen, peering out from between the bandages. Whether or not she was actually burned was not clear, but she moved with the gait of one in constant pain.
“Behold the Burned Woman!” cried the Doctor, as she stumbled across the stage. “Once as beautiful as the sun, she sacrificed all that she was to see beyond the veil! Her loss was terrible, but great power cannot be attained without great price!”
Dorian smiled. “They need to adapt their game for Rodaas,” he said in a low voice, obviously attempting to make her smile as well. “The sun in Rodaas isn’t very beautiful most of the time.” Before Duchess could reply, the Burned Woman produced a deck of cards from up her bandaged sleeve.
Duchess looked between the two of them. A man and a woman, a recent appearance, two con artists not of or known by the Grey. Oh dear gods...
“Lepta,” she breathed.
“Pardon?” Dorian said, but her attention was fixed on the Burned Woman. Doctor Domae must be Hadron, of whom she had heard but had not yet laid eyes upon. Using the profits from the con they’d run on Nigel, Hadron and Lepta had started a new game, and had covered themselves by claiming that Duchess herself had sponsored them. Duchess pulled her hood up; better that Lepta never saw her here.
The Doctor, meanwhile, had fetched a vial of green liquid from the shelves and was brandishing it about, while the Burned Woman settled unsteadily on a stool.
“Good for coughs and dry skin! Settles the stomach and makes regular the bowels! Secures the family by enlivening the marriage bed!” This last was the cause of much blushing and even more raucous laughter, and many people pushed forward for a closer look.
She leaned towards Dorian to make herself heard over the roar of the crowd. “I think I’ve had quite enough fresh air for the evening.” He nodded and they made their way through the crowd and off the Godswalk. Others shoved forward to take their spots and without thinking she took Dorian’s hand to prevent them from being separated.
“I’m sorry about that,” Dorian said, when they emerged from the press. “I didn’t think it would upset you, but if I had a Domae friend—well, I suppose I’d be angry too.” He did not release her hand, and she felt perfectly fine with that. They began to move back down the hill, towards the Shallows. “I would hate to think I’d had a part in ruining your night.”
She laughed and shook her head. “There are many words I would use to describe tonight, Dorian, but none of them would be ruined.”
* * *
Castor was coming down the stairs, one hand near his sword, as she returned to the shop. His gray eyes registered relief, and she felt a stab; he spent as much time as he could with Far, but all of it was spent with one eye peeled for trouble. Not for the first time, she wondered at what could manage to frighten the likes of Castor. Still, it was good that he was here.
“I’ve got a job for you,” she said, slipping off her cloak and hanging it on a peg near the door, “if you’ve the time.” His face registered no expression but she read his curiosity nonetheless. “I need you to keep an eye on someone. A Doctor Domae. Have you heard of him?”
He nodded and Duchess found herself unsurprised. Castor was not Grey but he had connections of his own. “He performs in Temple. Do you want me to find where he lays down his head?”
She nodded in kind. “Yes, but not only that. I want you to also attend some of his shows over the next few days. And I want you to be seen doing so.”
He raised an eyebrow, but she too could put on a poker face when necessary. “Anything else?”
“B
ring Aaron along, if you will. I want you to really be seen.” If Castor was surprised at her request, he did not show it. Instead he nodded, pulled on his cloak and headed for the back door. Castor was not the kind of man who procrastinated.
Duchess started up the stairs, intent on checking on Far and Jana, chuckling softly to herself. She’d spent the evening walking hand-in-hand with one of the most lovely men she’d ever met and she had Lepta, of all people, to thank for it. It almost made her want to forgive the woman.
Almost.
* * *
They met at Market Gate just before tenth bell. Unsurprisingly, Castor was early and Aaron was late.
“Sorry,” he muttered as he hurried to meet them. Duchess waved away his apology—she knew that the dice game was busy these days—and gestured towards the gate. The blackarms on duty would never admit a group from the Shallows after dark, particularly given that they were all armed, but one glance from Castor solved that. Duchess shook her head; she still hadn’t the foggiest notion how the former White had earned such deference. Like Far, it was another of Castor’s secrets.
Neither Aaron’s lateness nor Castor’s mysteries could dampen her spirits that night. The plan she’d put in motion three days ago, after seeing her first Doctor Domae performance, was fully ripe, and now it was time to pick the fruit. Given that this might be the start of a way out of the firebreak P had so carefully built around her, she planned to take a big, juicy bite.
“You know the way?” Aaron asked Castor, who nodded. Aaron then glanced back at her. “You know I found them, right? Out near the north wall of Trades?”
She nodded, noting how intent Aaron seemed on impressing her—not necessarily a bad thing. “The sellsword’s house?”
“Taggart,” Castor replied. “He’s with one of the larger companies that work along the borders, rotating four months in Verge, four in the Territories, then four in the city.” He glanced at Duchess. “How much of a problem do you expect?”
“None,” Duchess replied, hiding a smile. Best not to be too smug; the gods hated arrogance, and if she’d learned one lesson over the past few months, it was that anything could go wrong. She could gloat over the trap once it had closed.
They moved through Market in silence and crossed into Trades, and once again the gate guards gave them no trouble. During the day, the place would be filled with the sounds of hammers on anvils or the lowing of cattle being driven to the slaughterhouses, but at this hour all was serene. The streets were empty and Iron Square deserted except for a man watering a donkey. Duchess wasn’t very familiar with Trades, but Castor and Aaron knew the way, and soon they found the little house right where Aaron had said it would be, lost in the shadow of the great northern wall, nestled between a cattle shed and a storehouse. The wagon was parked alongside, and even from down the street Duchess could make out the dark silhouette of the ridiculous wooden head on its pole.
Aaron was nearly hopping up and down in anticipation. “What do you want me to do?” he whispered, almost loudly enough to be heard back in the Shallows.
Duchess bit back a chuckle. “If I play this right, nothing.” Aaron looked at her, disappointment clear on his face. “I mean it. Just stand next to Castor, keep your hood up, and look menacing.”
Aaron pulled the hood of his cloak over his head. “Like this?”
“Perfect. I’m completely intimidated.” She started towards the house, and the men fell in behind. A man was sitting on the doorstep, a sheathed sword across his knees.
“That would be Taggart,” Castor murmured.
She nodded. “They’re scared enough to have set a guard. That will make things that much easier.” She raised a hand in greeting. “Hello!”
Taggart had clearly been watching them since they’d turned the corner and now lifted a lantern he had kept shuttered and out of view. By its light she saw a large Ulari man with a scar that ran from his upper left temple and across his nose, ending below his right eye. Unlike most Ulari, who shaved their heads, he sported a shock of wiry black hair. Finn was the only other male Ulari she’d ever seen with hair, although he kept his much shorter. Taggart seemed undisturbed by their approach, hanging the lantern on a hook by the door and rising slowly, the sword still sheathed but held in a way that would make drawing easy. He moved with the same smooth grace that she’d noticed in Castor—this man was no stranger to combat.
Duchess kept both her hands in sight as she approached. “Good evening. My name is Duchess. You’re Taggart, yes?” Taggart gazed speculatively at Aaron, then Castor, and then nodded. “I’m glad we found the right place. I’m not looking for you, but for the owners of that wagon, there. They go by all sorts of names, but I know them as Lepta and Hadron.”
Taggart again said nothing, but his hand shifted slightly towards the hilt of his sword. Behind her she sensed Castor doing the same. She dared not turn to see what Aaron was doing. “We’re not looking for trouble, if that’s your worry. If we had, we’d have approached you rather differently. We merely want a word with the people who are renting out your yard.” She smiled warmly. “We’ll wait.”
Taggart seemed to consider that for a moment, once again took up the lantern and, very deliberately, turned his back on them and moved to the wagon. He leaned close to the small door and she heard him say something, and then there was a reply from inside.
“If there’s trouble,” Aaron fretted, shifting from foot to foot, “then it’s too late to take them by surprise.”
For a man who had wanted to run from the Brutes on the Coast Road, Aaron seemed very much inclined to fight. “If it comes to that, I’ve already lost,” she replied curtly. Making P’s rumors true wasn’t going to help anything. Aaron made to reply, but then the wagon’s door opened and two people climbed out. One was presumably Hadron, looking more weak-chinned without his false Doctor Domae beard, but the other was indisputably Lepta, she of the black hair and even blacker eyes. Each had clear lines of worry on their faces, she noted with satisfaction, perhaps from lack of sleep.
“You must be Hadron,” Duchess said, keeping her hands in the open. “I barely recognized you without your costume. I’m Duchess, but then your companion already knows that. Lepta, so good to see you again.”
Hadron stepped forward. “I don’t know you,” he said to Duchess, “but I recognize your thugs from our shows. Did you come to make more threats?”
“Threats?” Duchess replied, all innocence. She glanced at the former White. “What have you been saying when I’m not there to hear?” Castor, aware of his role, did not reply. “I’m afraid my associate isn’t much for conversation, which makes me wonder how he might have threatened you.” Of course, if Hadron took Castor and Aaron showing up in the crowd at every one of the Doctor’s shows for the past three days as a threat, that was his prerogative.
Lepta glowered. “You don’t need words to make a threat.”
Duchess put a finger to her chin, doing her best Gloria Tremaine. “I suppose that’s true. But no fear, you’re safe. You have Taggart, after all, and Hadron.” She squinted in his direction. “Unless you’re going by another name these days?”
“Enough of this,” Hadron muttered, sliding a knife from his sleeve. Lepta produced her own blade, although Taggart did not unsheathe his sword. “Just come at us and be done with it. Three against three.”
“Now, now,” Duchess said casually, although she felt a tickle of fear in her belly. “Before we do something rash, I think Taggart here should know the whole story. After all, I’m sure he’s not eager to fight on a lie.” Taggart’s expression did not change, but his eyes fixed on her, while Hadron and Lepta exchanged a glance.
“As you undoubtedly know,” Duchess went on, “Hadron and Lepta here are performers of a sort. You’ve seen their wagon, and if you haven’t seen their show...well, don’t bother. It’s ignorant and insulting, but worst of all, it’s a scam. In this city, those things fall under the province of the Grey.” Taggart was stone-faced, but she detec
ted a flicker of unease in his eyes. Yes, he had heard of the Grey. “You might be wondering how they’re getting away with it, since neither Hadron nor Lepta wears the cloak. The fact is that Lepta here has been letting on that she does, and that I gave it to her. I wonder why she’d say that?”
Lepta scoffed. “What a pathetic lie. You’re just jealous and now you want a cut of the take.” She turned to Hadron. “This is a shake-down, pure and simple.” Hadron glanced at Lepta, and even in the dim light Duchess thought she detected doubt. That made things more interesting.
“Oh, you don’t have to just take my word. You can use your eyes.” She gestured to Castor and Aaron. “About the time I had my friends here start visiting your performances, I made certain that the Grey knew that I was never Lepta’s sponsor.” She left unsaid that this had taken some doing. Duchess herself had nowhere near the influence to frune that information in a way anyone might notice—but Nigel did. The man had leapt at the chance to avenge himself upon the pair who’d swindled him, particularly since it did not require him to advertise the fact that he’d ever been swindled. The story of a fool who lied about being Grey was much more interesting than a low-ranked member driving herself even lower, so it wasn’t long before the whole Highway was buzzing.
Lepta sighed theatrically. “More words. No proof.”
“Oh, I think you’ve already seen proof. You see, I happen to know that you hired Taggart here only after Ophion turned you down.”
Hadron’s eyes went wide, and he turned to Lepta. “So that was why he—you said we short-changed him on the bribe!”
Duchess clucked her tongue. “Now Lepta, you know better than that. Even someone as new to Rodaas as you was able to figure that Sheriff Ophion will hire out his Brutes for any service as long as the coin is right. What you didn’t know was that there isn’t enough gold in the empire to make him get involved with the business of the Grey.” She thought fleetingly of the story of Ophion’s predecessor refusing to help Lenard the puppeteer against the Red. In the lower city the Red and the Grey stood supreme, and only a fool would cross them. She turned to the sellsword. “So you see, Taggart, Lepta here has gotten you involved in much more than she let on. It’d be a shame for you to die on this particular hill, as it were.”