by Neil McGarry
The first book was one of her father’s diaries, she noted with a pang. The second contained a series of diagrams, each disturbingly familiar: the stylized P from her coin, the symbol of Ouroboros, the snake devouring itself.
At the top of the page of her father’s work were the words The Grey Emperors.
Her stomach dropped. “What are the Grey Emperors?”
“A branch of the imperial line that ruled Old Domani for the last three centuries it existed. Your father’s notes were invaluable in tracking them down—he has the entirety of the lineage here.” She gestured down the page, a long lists of names—this one begat that one begat... “It’s bizarre, really. Three hundred years of unbroken heredity from father to first son. Not a single crisis of succession as far as I can see.”
Duchess shook her head; that did sound strange, but there were stranger things yet. “The spelling’s interesting, isn’t it? Not the color gray, but grey.”
“You noticed that!” Cecilia clapped her hands with glee. “I’m not certain what it means. It might have been a name.”
Duchess thought back to her conversation with Pete the Pearl, of the Highway being a mercurial thing, made of whispered words, not written. Yet when she had seen the Highway referenced in writing, it had always been Grey.
Duchess took a deep breath. “Is there a connection to the Highway?”
Cecilia laughed. “The myth?” She thought a moment. “It’s an interesting coincidence, I suppose. Or an etymological quirk.”
Duchess shook her head. She supposed the Grey was a myth to someone like Cecilia. She looked back at the portrait. “There were no more Grey Emperors after Philemon?”
Cecilia nodded. “What I’ve found pretty much agrees that Philemon is where the lineage ended, along with Old Domani itself. He and his two sisters were the last of the line.”
Duchess looked back at the painting. “And the Mask?”
“A wonderful connection, no? It lends credence to the tale of Iceni, and to my own thesis. The Domae treated it as a symbol of rule, just as the Davari do today, and in precisely the same way. Only the Grey Emperors were to have worn it. Again and again we see the traditions of the Domae echoed in our own.”
“And how do you know the coin is his?”
“That’s just the thing,” Cecilia replied. “It’s not a coin.”
Duchess turned to her. “Not a—”
“Do you see how the bottom of the P is stylized?” The scholar pointed to the rubbing, then at the book. “It’s Philemon’s personal sigil. The Domae had currency, certainly, but that’s not what your coin is. It was minted only for the imperial House, and is...I guess you’d say a mark of imperial favor.”
Grey. Mark. Cecilia had the right of it—the words and actions of the Domae were echoed in the Rodaasi.
Cecilia went on heedlessly. “The emperor would give these coins to those who had pleased him, to be redeemed later for a boon, in any place the emperor’s power reached.” She pointed again to the rubbing she’d taken. “The snake, the ouroboros, is common to them all, a symbol of the constancy of the empire and the Grey Emperors. The P is specific to Philemon himself.”
Long ago, when she’d shown Uncle Cornelius the coin, he had spoken of a secret leader of the Grey, whose symbol was the snake devouring its own tail. Minette had noted the pattern of chaos and stagnation that seemed to accompany the appearance of the coins, and Pete the Pearl both feared and coveted them, knowing something old and possibly inhuman was their source. Duchess herself had been taken into the Grey because of one of those pieces of brass. Each one was a piece of a great puzzle she had yet to solve.
Duchess turned back to the portrait while her hand touched the cold, smooth metal of the mark in her pocket. “Thank you, Cecilia,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done.”
“It’s nothing,” said the scholar behind her, a blush in her voice.
“I wonder if I can ask something else of you. The thesis of your paper involves religion, so I presume you’re conversant in Domae mythology. Their beliefs regarding the...supernatural.”
“Of course.”
The Domae called the Rodaasi edunae. Soulless, taken by He Who Devours. Vassilus had written of a genius loci, a spirit of the place. “What can you tell me about...spirits? Souls that live on after the death of the body.”
She sensed Cecilia’s shrug. “The Domae had many superstitions, about demons, ghosts and gods of all sorts. I can do a bit more reading, but what comes immediately to mind are revenants, spirits of revenge and retribution.”
“Revenge.” Duchess’ mouth suddenly felt very dry.
Cecilia nodded. “The image of Mayu as both death and justice is central to my thesis. Some might say that revenge is a sort of wild justice.”
Duchess thought of the street plays she had attended as a child, with Noam and his family. The spirits of the dead often returned to this world to hound those who had wronged them, ghosts unseen by all except those they came to haunt. More often than not, the haunted killed himself to escape their inescapable harassment. “I’d appreciate knowing anything you can find.”
“Of course.” Cecilia began to gather up her papers, but Duchess walked back to the wall and ran a finger over the portrait. The stone felt as smooth and cold as the coin. All she had were pieces of the puzzle, yes, but the picture was becoming clearer.
She ran her finger along Philemon’s cheek. “One step closer,” she whispered. “For now I know your name.”
Chapter Twenty-Two: The passed pawn
“They’ve gone? Gone where?”
She’d just been taking a long walk through the Wharves, thinking about all that Cecilia had told her. A year ago she would have been afraid to walk alone through the Foreign Quarter, but that was before she’d actually gotten to know some foreigners. With everything on her mind, the bustle and excitement of the quarter had for once failed to touch her, and she’d reached the shop by tenth bell, far later than she’d intended. No sooner had she stepped inside than Jana and Mikkos met her with the news.
Jana was shaking her head. “I asked the same thing, but Castor would not speak of it. The poor boy wanted to say goodbye—”
Duchess held up her hand. “Wait...what did Castor say, exactly?”
Mikkos shrugged. “All he would say was that he’d found somewhere safe to take Far and that they had to leave right away.”
“We tried to stop him. Mikkos went to your apartment, but the man downstairs, I cannot remember his name—”
“Nigel,” Duchess said.
“Yes, Nigel said he had not seen you in hours.”
Duchess ran her hands through her hair, thinking she could not have picked a worse time to go for a walk. “Somewhere safe?” For the life of her she couldn’t imagine where that would be, but there were many things about Castor she did not understand. “Did he say if he was coming back?”
Mikkos nodded. “I spoke to him while Far was fetching his things, and he made it clear that you’d done right by him and that he’d be back, but that this was his one chance to make sure Far was safe.”
“Far was nearly in tears,” Jana said, distress clear in her eyes. “He made us promise to say goodbye to you and to Lysander.”
Duchess shook her head. “What changed?” she muttered half to herself. “Why tonight?” None of them had an answer. As shocked as she was by Castor’s actions, she was more surprised at her own reaction. Far had lived with them for so short a time, but the knowledge of his sudden departure was like a punch in the stomach. She hadn’t realized how much a part of their little family the boy had become until he was gone.
“What shall we do?” Jana asked.
Duchess sighed. “There’s nothing we can do, I suppose. Castor is Far’s father. We have to trust that he knows what he’s doing. But I’ll have a word or two for him when he gets back—” She was interrupted by a sharp rapping at the door and she felt a surge of rel
ief.
“That’s probably him now,” she said. She swung open the door to reveal a girl dressed in a stained quilted tunic and baggy cotton breeches, both far too large for her. She was a head shorter than Duchess, but met her gaze without fear.
“Nell?” Duchess hadn't seen the female lightboy since her encounter with the Brutes, when Nell had tried to smash Jana’s looms. “What are you—”
Without a word, Nell pushed inside along with the cold night air. “Your man Castor, the one with the big sword? Men are coming to kill him. Now.”
* * *
Duchess hurried along the darkened streets with Nell like a shadow at her heels. Where the Foreign Quarter had been full of life even at this late hour, here in the Shallows the streets were empty and every door and window tightly shut. The Shallows were never completely safe after dark, but tonight the district seemed more dangerous than ever before, for whatever happened on its streets would go unwitnessed.
“How on earth,” Duchess managed between breaths, “do you know where Castor is?” They had run all the way from the shop, up Dock Street, and then south through the Shallows, a long way to walk and even longer to run.
“Do you want to ask questions,” Nell gasped back, “or do you want to keep him from becoming a human pincushion?”
Duchess decided on the latter, but she wondered if this whole scene might be a ruse. Perhaps someone had paid Nell to lure Duchess into a trap. But how could Nell know what Castor was up to? She herself hadn’t heard it until moments before.
She glanced over at Nell as they jogged along darkened streets. As the leader of the lightboy band known as the Outsiders, Nell no doubt heard a good many rumors, but Duchess couldn’t imagine why she’d volunteer her help now. After all, the last time they’d met, Nell was trying to help the Brutes break Jana’s looms, and she and Duchess had drawn blades on one other. Still, if what Nell had claimed were true, there was no time for questions.
She recognized the place as soon as she saw it: the abandoned wine shop with the large cellar where she and Castor often practiced at swordplay. She didn’t know who Castor was meeting at this hour, but this was a bad place for it, by any measure. This area of the Shallows was not well traveled even during the day, and even less so at night, when thugs and ruffians of all sorts could move freely and unseen. She could have come up with a half-dozen better spots for a secret meeting—if Castor had trusted her enough to ask.
Still, the first level of the structure was intact, she remembered, with only a single door to the street, making the place to some extent defensible. She and Nell paused to catch their breath, scanning the streets and alleys for danger. The shop stood at a Y-shaped intersection, with the building itself at the sharp angle. She crept along, with Nell right behind, staying to the shadows and giving the area a close inspection. The streets were quiet and empty except for a beggar lying sprawled across the street from the shop, an empty wineskin near his hand.
Duchess halted and Nell nearly walked into her. “What are you doing?” the girl hissed.
“Stopping you from getting us killed,” Duchess whispered in reply, indicating the man on the ground. No beggar slept outside in this weather with an abandoned building just steps away. She looked more closely; instead of fraying pieces of leather, the man clearly wore low boots, far too fine for any beggar. As she watched, she saw the glitter of his eyes and felt a curl of fear in her belly; the man was watching the wine shop.
Nell grunted and pulled a small knife from her boot. “Oh well, only one.” Duchess could not pretend to be surprised; half the Shallows had heard that Nell had become the leader of the Outsiders when she smashed in her predecessor’s head with a rock. She still wasn’t sure she believed it, but she wasn’t sure she didn’t, either.
Her throat closed, as it had in the Deeps when the Silent had fallen upon them. The man hadn’t seen them. He was alone. And he was here to kill Castor. No doubt he wouldn’t hesitate to kill her and Nell if it came to that. As she gripped her dagger all she could think of was Toby and Lidda in their unmarked graves on the side of the Coast Road. She sighed and sheathed her weapon, jerking her head towards the alley just behind them. Nell rolled her eyes, but slid her knife away and followed.
Duchess wasn't overly familiar with this part of the city, but she found an alley and after a few twists and turns, she and Nell found themselves looking at the shop from another angle, with the building now between them and the false beggar. Using the door would get them seen, but there was a window not completely boarded up that should serve. Lacing her fingers together she boosted Nell up, and the girl wiggled easily through the gap into the darkness beyond. Duchess hoisted herself up, although she was a tighter fit; trim as she was, she was no girl anymore. She slid across the sill, scraping her arm on the edge of a plank, and set her feet on the floor.
She turned to find a sword pointed directly at Nell’s heart.
“Stop!” she hissed. Castor’s face suddenly appeared out of the dark. “Put that down. She’s with me.”
He frowned, the expression barely visible in the gloom. The sword didn’t move.
“I mean it, Castor. I wouldn’t have found you if not for her.”
The sword twitched, then in one smooth motion vanished into its scabbard. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
She gave him a look. “And you shouldn’t have left without letting us—” She broke off as she heard footsteps and saw faint light coming from the stairs to the cellar. Far came into view, bundled into a heavy cloak and carrying a small oil lamp, and when he saw Duchess he smiled and ran to greet her. She hugged him tightly, feeling a lump in her throat. Before she could say anything two more figures emerged from the stairwell, one a young man in leather and roughspun, carrying another lamp, and the other older, with white hair, somehow familiar...
“Lord Larric,” she whispered. In her surprise she almost called him Tiles. He was far more modestly dressed than when she’d seem him at the Davari’s party, but it was definitely the same man. What was the empress’ brother-in-law doing in the worst part of the Shallows?
Castor spoke before Larric could. “She’s with us,” he said to the older man, and the man in leather relaxed his grip on the short sword at his side. He rounded on her. “What are you doing here?”
“Saving your life.” She gestured to a gap in a boarded-over window and he crept over to have a look.
“Not a beggar,” he muttered in a low voice. His fingers twitched towards his sword.
“Not a beggar,” she agreed.
“Wait.” He kept looking. “There are three—no, four more.” He moved back to where the others waited.
“His men?” Larric asked, and Castor only nodded. “My man will stand with you. With his help, perhaps we can—”
“No,” Duchess said flatly. “We can’t. Even if we kill the four we see, there might be four more we don’t. And four more after those.” She saw identical looks of worry from Castor and Larric and realized that whoever was waiting outside was more trouble than Deeps gangs or alley thugs. “I don’t suppose you care to tell me who sent those men?”
Castor said nothing, and Larric only chuckled. “You would not believe me if I did.” She ran her hands through her hair. If the men outside would not leave without Castor and Far, then...
She knelt before Far and unfastened his cloak, pulling it from around him.
“What are you—” Castor whispered.
“Saving his life. Maybe all of ours.” She turned and, before Nell could react, swept the cloak about her shoulders.
Castor was not slow to comprehend. “The girl and I make a break for it, and you and Far—”
“—will wait here while you draw them off. Then Lord Larric and I will get Far to safety.”
Larric spoke up. “I’m afraid it is not that simple.” He paused. “If our...friend...knows of this meeting, then he knows of my involvement, and where I would take Far. I cannot keep the boy safe anymore.” Castor and the lord trade
d a look of despair so deep it hurt to see it, and Far moved to his father’s side, eyes bright with fear.
Nell was edging back towards the window, and Duchess knew that if she did not act, they’d scatter, to be picked off one by one. “Then we change the plan,” she told them, drawing herself up. “Far was safe enough in my care before. He’ll be safe enough now.” She only hoped that were true. “Nell and Castor will make a break for it, then Far and I will leave when the coast is clear. If those men are after Far and not Lord Larric, they won’t hang around once they think he’s gone.” She glanced over at Larric. “You and your man can hide in the cellar until they’ve left.”
Castor was shaking his head, and for the first time Duchess saw unalloyed fear in his eyes. Not fear for himself, she knew, but for his little boy. Duchess grasped his arm. “You’ve saved my life more times than I can count; now let me save yours and your son’s. I swear I’ll get Far back to the shop safely, no matter what.” She held his gaze with her own. “Let me do this.”
Castor’s eyes flickered between her and Lord Larric, but in the end he nodded. He knelt before his son. “Go with Duchess and do exactly as she says. Exactly.”
“Yes, Father,” Far quavered, and Castor pulled him close. Duchess swallowed hard, wondering if she were up to this. But there was no time for doubt.
Nell shook her head. “I didn't sign up for running into a band of hired killers. Count me out.” She reached up and started to undo the cloak, but stopped when Castor fixed her with a look that even in the dim light froze her where she stood.
“Take off that cloak and you won't have to step outside to get killed,” he promised in a voice like the winter wind. Far's eyes went wide and even Duchess took a step back. She would never have thought Castor capable of harming a child, but...
Nell seemed to think better of her position. “This is going to cost you,” she told Duchess with poor grace.
