by Neil McGarry
“Two florins,” Duchess said.
“Five.”
“Three, or else you can take it up with Castor.” Nell glowered but did not object further as Duchess slipped the coins into her hand.
Larric put a hand on Castor’s shoulder. “I am sorry that there is nothing more I can do for you. There can be no more assistance from me and mine, not until things have changed.” He glanced over at Duchess, respect clear in his eyes. “You seem to be better placed to protect Far than I. I am in your debt.”
She smiled crookedly. “I believe I already owed you,” she said, thinking of Larric’s timely interference at Banncroft. When his gaze turned inquisitive, she added, “You helped my friend, Dorian, when Gregor Davari’s blood got the better of him.”
Larric smiled slightly. “I was glad to do it. Neither your friend nor I are a fan of bullies, it seems.” He clasped Castor’s hand and touched Far’s shoulder. “Take care, all of you,” he whispered, vanishing back down the cellar steps with his guard close behind.
Duchess looked at Castor. “Let’s go.”
“It's too cold without his cloak,” Castor said. He pulled off his own, then shed his thick wool tunic and helped Far into it. The garment was ridiculously long, but warmer than what the boy was wearing. “Remember: do as Duchess says. No questions.” Far nodded, and Castor touched his cheek with a hand that did not tremble. Picking up his cloak from the floor, he turned to Nell. “Let's go.”
She was already at the door. “There’s another out there,” she warned. That brought the number to five, including the watcher. They had to move now.
Castor was clearly thinking the same thing. He moved to the door and put his arm around Nell. With a last look back, he moved them out into the night. Duchess and Far watched as they ran across the intersection. One of the lurkers lurched out of hiding, drawing a short blade, but before he could bring it to bear Castor was on him. He punched out with the hilt of his sword, driving the man backwards in a spray of blood and teeth. Then he kicked the man in the stomach and sent him to the cobbles. Nell kept her head turned away—to maintain her disguise, no doubt—but Duchess imagined she would have preferred to stab the man while he was down.
Four more men emerged from the shadows, blades in hand, and Castor and Nell ran, disappearing around a corner of the Y with their pursuers hard on their heels.
The man who'd been hit climbed to his feet and staggered off after them, spitting out another tooth as he went. Duchess found Far's hand in the darkness and clutched it. “I’ve been in worse situations with your father, and he's always gotten me out of them,” she whispered to him, hoping she sounded more convinced than she felt. “That's what he's doing now.” Far nodded, and although his face was impassive, there was the sheen of tears in his eyes.
When the sounds of running feet had faded, she looked out into the street, now empty and silent as if nothing had happened. She stepped out, Far close by with the lamp, and got her bearings. If she took the right side of the Y, they’d eventually reach an alley which would take them towards Wharves. She gave him a reassuring nod and off they went.
There were lights in a few of the houses they passed, and here and there she sensed eyes watching. She didn’t bother knocking; in this part of the Shallows, asking for help wouldn’t get you any. It was good, in a way; if strangers came asking after a woman and a boy fleeing, they would receive nothing more than blank stares and slammed doors.
Duchess and Far hurried along, turning here and there, stepping around puddles or patches of mud exposed by stolen cobbles, and Duchess was just starting to think they’d reach the Wharves without further incident when she heard the sound. Whoever had made it was taking care to be quiet, without doubt, but she knew the sound of a good, new boot on a quiet street. She stopped, listening, and Far looked up at her, seeming to understand she needed silence. A moment passed, then another, and then she heard a sly scrape, like that of cloth catching on brick. After that came another stealthy footfall, and then one more—but not from the same place. They were being followed, and not by just one man.
She didn’t dare look behind. “Run,” she said, and they did.
The stealthy sounds behind them exploded into the pounding of boots on cobbled streets, and the chase was on. Duchess was fit and healthy, and Far had all the energy of a ten-year-old boy, but his legs were just too short to win this race. She towed him along, her mind working over what she knew of this area of the Shallows, where they could go—
There. She sensed the alley before she saw it, a narrow throat between two dark houses, partially blocked by a wooden fence. The fence was missing a few planks, but it narrowed the opening to the alley even further, and she thrust Far into the gap and then climbed in herself. Something snagged her, and she saw a huge, hairy hand wrapped around the hem of her cloak. Without thinking she drew her knife and slashed across the knuckles; there was a curse and the hand withdrew.
She sensed more movement in the street, and then heard a man’s voice say, “Around the block! Trap ‘em inside!” Then the speaker began to force himself in after them.
“Go!” she said to Far, pushing him along the alley and coming right up behind. They stumbled over oily old sacks, a broken chair, and other refuse half-revealed by the lamp Far still held, but the gods were good and neither of them fell. The way was so narrow her shoulders banged against the walls, so she knew the man behind her must be squeezed even tighter. To make things harder, she scooped up a piece of chair—a leg, she thought—and hurled it wildly into the darkness behind her. She was rewarded with a meaty thud and another curse, and she prayed that was enough to slow the man further.
They stumbled out of the alley and back into the open on a three-way junction. Somehow they’d missed their intended path but she knew where they were anyway. One road sloped upwards and she urged Far that way, glancing behind. One man was still mewed up in the alley, but she knew his comrades would soon be back on the chase. They passed a beggar—a real one, she hoped—lying against the wall, but he did not stir as they passed. The lane turned sharply left as it rose, and as they rounded the corner she heard pounding feet behind them once more.
She guided Far along another alley, this one wider, keeping as many corners between her and their pursuers as possible. The men, strangers to the Shallows, would pause at each junction, and every pause bought Duchess a bit more time. Far was a little soldier, accepting her guidance without question, running as fast as little legs would carry him, but that still might not be enough to save them.
They turned out of a winding street into a ruler-straight lane, and Duchess’ pounding heart leaped, for she knew precisely where they were. She urged Far along and down another alley, at the end of which was light and movement. They emerged on the Wynd, and there, just to the left, was the blessed light and noise that was The Merry Widow. They hurried along, passing two women half-carrying a drunken man and a crowd of lightboys vying for the custom of a cluster of well-dressed dandies.
The Merry Widow was redolent with the scent of garlic and peppers, ale and sweat, but to Duchess it smelled like salvation. Even this late, the place was packed with Shallows folk of all description, and she scanned the crowd for familiar faces. She had hoped for Deneys or Poor Gabe, but there was not a ganymede to be found, and none of the lightboys were Zachary. However, Shari was behind the bar, and that was all Duchess needed.
She pushed over, lifted Far onto the mug-strewn surface, and boosted herself up after. Shari pounced like an alley cat. “Here, what’s this? Girl, if you think—”
Duchess made no reply, instead shoving into the woman’s plump hands a handkerchief embroidered with a D. Shari was not on the Grey, but like most in the Shallows, she recognized a mark when she saw one. She tucked the cloth away in one swift motion, then stood aside as Duchess leapt down from the bar, crouching out of sight, Far beside her. “One on the house!” Shari bawled, and Duchess heard the unmistakable sound of drunken men and women crowding to the bar.
Far was still holding the lamp in one trembling hand, and she quickly shuttered it. Then she pulled him close. “We’re among friends,” she whispered through heaving breaths. He nodded, but his little body trembled like a bird’s.
Over the normal ruckus of people shouting for free ale, Duchess heard a man’s voice cry, “Where are they?”
“Wait your turn!” Shari fired back. “I’ve got a hunnerd orders here already!”
There was general laughter, and Duchess only caught the last part of the reply. “—answer me or you’ve filled your last order.”
“Oh, do you think you’re noble, lovey? Maybe where you come from you’re King of the Hill, but in this house you’re Lord of Shite.” The reply was drowned out by more derisive laughter, then Duchess heard Shari say, “That tears it. First four men who put his lordship out my door and on his arse drink free tonight.” From the sound of it, forty men accepted the challenge and the other patrons cheered and hooted as Duchess and Far’s pursuer was ejected from The Merry Widow.
“Point a finger at me in my house? Not bloody likely,” Shari muttered as she poured the promised ale and Duchess smothered a grin. Over the years Shari had gotten fatter but no less fierce. For the moment, she and Far might as well have been protected by Empress Violana’s own bodyguards.
“I’ll make good for every drink you pour,” Duchess whispered from the floor, meaning it.
The place was as noisy as ever, but Shari heard every word. “Can’t be fairer than that,” she whispered back. “I’ll get one of them lightboys to fetch you Lysander, first free moment I get. Have to mop that floor later and I won’t do it around you two.”
* * *
“Who would send men to kill a little boy?” Jana shook her head as she poured Duchess more tea. “I do not understand it.”
Neither did Duchess, now that she had time to think. Shari had been as good as her word, and Lysander had shown up with both Aaron and a wheelbarrow. The wheelbarrow was for Far, who rode back to the shop hidden under blankets, and Aaron was to guard against any of those men who might still be around. They’d arrived without incident, to find Jana and Mikkos waiting with Castor, who was nearly climbing out of his skin with worry. Nell was nowhere to be seen.
“Is he safe here?” Mikkos asked, concern wrinkling his brow. He was sitting next to Lysander, who for once had nothing amusing to say. “Will these men try again?”
Duchess shook her head. “Not with that red hand on the door. I don’t know who paid them”—she shot Castor a look—“but there’s not a sellsword in this city who’d risk offending the Red. That little hand on your doorpost is better protection than any armor. We’re safe, for the moment.”
They spoke openly; Far was present but fast asleep, leaning against his father. When Lysander had offered to carry him up to bed, Castor had replied at once, “No.” Then, more gently, he’d added, “I don’t want to let him go.”
“I don’t know, Duchess.” Lysander was shaking his head. “What happened out there tonight feels...different somehow. These men had no problem chasing you publicly through the Shallows, swords in hand. They went without fear of the blackarms, who’s to say they don’t feel the same about the Red?”
Duchess rubbed her eyes. “You’re right; we can’t keep Far hidden here forever. People always talk, and sooner or later that talk will reach the wrong ears. Then those men will set a watch on the shop until...”
Castor stirred. “They won’t be watching this shop or anywhere else,” he said flatly, and Duchess glanced at the longsword that lay sheathed before him. Between him and Nell, Duchess didn’t doubt his words.
Lysander shook his head. “Doesn’t mean there won’t be more. There’s a head behind that hand. Perhaps if we knew who was behind all this we could do something about it.” Castor turned a steely eye in his direction, but Lysander was uncowed. “Glare at me all you like, dearheart, but you’re not making this any easier by keeping us in the dark.”
Duchess held up a hand. “Enough, please,” she said wearily, “let’s not argue about this now. There’s been enough fighting for one night.” She rubbed her arm where she’d scraped it on the wall of the narrow alley.
Lysander shrugged. “Fine, but there’s something else. How did Nell know about all of this?” Castor had reported that the Outsider had departed right after they’d dealt with their pursuers, refusing any attempt to persuade her to come back to the shop. “Maybe she’s a part of the whole thing and her job was to bring you there just in time for the ambush. I know you don’t want to hear this, Duchess, but that girl is bad news.”
Duchess rolled her eyes. “Lysander, if I hadn’t arrived when I did, the ambush might well have worked. If Nell was part of the trap, why would she do that? Still, I agree that there’s more than she’s telling us. She did us a good turn tonight, but I know she’s not to be trusted.” She gave Lysander a tired smile. “Give me that much credit at least.”
Lysander’s frown melted into a grin. “Well, I’m not saying you’re not an idiot,” he relented, sitting down next to her. “Let’s just say you’re no Esmerelda and leave it at that.” He chuckled at the old joke about the empress’ daughter.
“She’s not an idiot!” Castor snapped. The raw emotion in his voice drew all of their eyes, and Far stirred in his sleep. “That’s a tale spread by nobles who wouldn’t know decency if it died in their sitting rooms.” Castor slid an arm around the boy. “She’s honest and she’s sweet, which in that viper’s pit they call an imperial palace might make her seem stupid. I won’t hear one more word about her being an idiot. Not one. More. Word.”
Duchess’ breath caught in her throat. She looked at Far, still sleeping, then back at his father.
When she’d first heard the tale of Castor’s fall from grace, there’d been so many discrepancies; they’d gotten the boy’s age wrong, for one, and no one had been entirely sure how his mother had died. Sickness had been mentioned, but not what kind. It wasn’t surprising, really. Half the rumors that flooded the hill were inaccurate, if not outright wrong, but it’d never occurred to her that other parts of the story were untrue.
She and Castor had fallen out over the Fall of Ventaris, when Castor had refused to embarrass the imperial family. I lost his mother, he’d said. It was not a mistake. I take care of my own.
And then Takkis, who actually had embarrassed the family by arresting Castor, had been promoted to Garden District, almost as if his actions had somehow served someone at court.
And Lord Larric, the empress’ own brother-in-law had appeared in the Shallows to help a now-disgraced White hide his bastard son. There can be no more assistance from me and mine.
“Whoa, easy there,” Lysander was telling Castor, but the former White was looking at Duchess with eyes that were more fearful than she’d ever seen.
“Castor’s right,” she said to Lysander, feeling numb. “There’s no need to speak ill of the boy’s mother right in front of him.”
PART THREE
MOTHER
She was surprised how hard it was to turn over the last card, even knowing what it was. “What lies before you,” she whispered. The curve of the Ouroboros, the gray tatters of Philemon’s robe, then finally the Ruling Mask. She held up the card before Stavros’ eyes. Through its thickness the lamplight picked out the unpainted surface of the Mask and it was as if it were looking back at her. “Do you see it, my lord? Do you see?”
Chapter Twenty-Three: Playing politics
The only thing that moved faster along the Highway than gossip was impending tragedy and so it was no surprise that the next morning Duchess received word that Preceptor Amabilis wished to see her.
He’d summoned her to a guildhall in Trades at eleventh bell, leaving her with no choice but to take a very long walk up from the Shallows. Truth be told, she needed the time to think on all that had happened the night before. Castor had not denied that Far was his son by Esmerelda, which would make the boy the second imperial grandson
and thus a person of overwhelming significance.
It explained a good deal, most notably the story Gant had told her back on the Coast Road, of Attys hiring the Oddfellows to kill a little boy whom she was now certain was Far. Attys must have thought the boy a threat to his own inheritance and had acted to remove him—permanently. Castor had managed to save his son, whom he’d then brought straight to Duchess. A smart move, now that she considered it, to hide Far in plain sight. There were thousands upon thousands of little boys in Rodaas, and a man like Attys would not be able to find one among them.
Yet he’d somehow managed precisely that last night, she reminded herself as she made her way through Market Square. If Attys had found Far once he might do so again, and that she could not permit. But how could she stop the empress’ own grandson? A man selling brightly colored scarves dogged her steps, imploring her to try on just one, but she waved him off.
She thought once more of the tale of Takkis and his sudden promotion to Garden District. No man rose to such an office without imperial backing, and it had always seemed odd to her that the head of the Saints, a man who had embarrassed the crown with the scandal of a White’s affair, would receive it.
She stopped in her tracks, and a man carrying a bulging sack cursed, nearly crashing into her.
Was it possible that Violana had wished that secret revealed? Had it been the knowledge of another grandson that had spurred the empress’ suddenly renewed interest in politics? She could see the shape of it; sometime between Far’s birth and the Fall of Ventaris, the empress had learned of Esmerelda’s son and for reasons of her own had made use of Takkis to make it public.
When Duchess had approached Jadis for the first time, seeking a way to free Castor from prison, he’d asked a simple thing in return—the name of the hand that moved her. She’d thought herself clever in agreeing to his price; she moved herself, after all. Yet Jadis was no fool and his grasp of imperial politics was impressive. He’d believed there was someone of prominence behind Castor’s downfall and he’d thought her their catspaw.
