by Neil McGarry
Jadis had never forced an answer from her—she’d paid for the moonshadow another way—yet his question remained: who benefited from Castor’s downfall? The tales she’d heard last summer had concentrated on the lurid details: the affair, the lost mistress, the child. But someone at court would have a very different interest in spreading such a story.
Duchess realized how a thing appeared from far down the hill might be very different from the top.
She resumed walking, her mind ticking along. Attys was the get of one of Violana’s sons who had died in the War of the Quills, bastard but still imperial born. Was Violana trying to supplant Attys as heir? Was that even possible? Both Attys and Far were imperial bastards, but Attys was the elder. Minette would know more about the laws of succession, but Duchess dared not share Far’s secret with a woman that clever, or that dangerous.
We have slept too long, Violana had said at the Fall of Ventaris. Duchess had always understood the empress to be a fool and a figurehead, nodding off in her chair at council meetings. But Esmerelda was widely considered an idiot, and Castor had corrected them on that matter last night. And after her proclamation, the empress had refused to give her support for any one faith, which in turn had sparked the Evangelism.
She thought back to the Fall, and of Attys’ rush to speak to the High Lambent in the wake of the uproar that had followed the empress’ declaration. If Attys was aligned with the radiants, then the fact that Preceptor Amabilis wanted to see her not a day after the attack on Far was ominous at the very least. For Amabilis was not only a prominent priest, but a highly-ranked member of the Grey. Had Attys prevailed upon the preceptor to find Esmeralda’s bastard? After all, where had the Atropi turned when they had needed help from the city’s underworld?
She doubted that Amabilis had forgiven or forgotten her blackmail over his arming Deeps gangs with steel. If he were set on avenging himself by turning Far over to Attys, then she could not ignore him.
No wonder the Grey was abuzz. With the likes of Amabilis seeking her, a tragedy seemed inevitable.
Duchess crossed into Trades and set about finding the guildhall. The preceptor’s message had been imperative but his directions inadequate, so she had to ask around until she found the Halls of the Trusted Cartel of Bankers, Jewelers and Moneychangers. The building looked more like a fortress than a place of business: squat and square and gray, with towers on every corner and arrow slits in place of windows. The place looked like it could withstand a siege. There were no guards at the doors, so she let herself inside.
She found herself in a small anteroom, where a few men dressed in rich cloth conferred quietly with another in radiant’s robes. From doors just across from her she heard what sounded like a sermon in progress, although she could not make out the words. Before she could even wonder where to go, the radiant disengaged himself from his conversation and approached. “The gallery,” he said quietly, pointing to a narrow staircase to her right. “You are expected.” Then he went back to speaking to the men, who eyed her dubiously.
She ascended the stairs and found herself on a large gallery overlooking a wide hall. Great blackened beams supported a roof more than forty feet above the floor, which was packed with guildspeople. Every man and woman in Trades seemed to be present, standing shoulder to shoulder, all looking towards a man standing behind a high podium. Although he had to have been in his fifties, his hair was thick and healthy, shining gold under the lamps hung from beams and wall-hooks. His robes were equally sumptuous, white and yellow and orange, and gold flashed on his wrists and throat, and from the circlet nestled in his hair.
“Brothers and sisters, we are not bent, we are not broken!” he proclaimed, waving his hands in emphasis. “As the All-Father teaches, the darkness of winter does not defeat the unconquered sun, and the winter of this conflict shall not conquer our faith! With the light of the lord to guide us, we shall emerge from this shadow stronger than when we entered.”
Now that she looked, she noticed that this gathering was not limited to bankers alone. She saw a woman she recognized from the weaver’s guild, and there was a man who had a lopsidedly muscled right arm that marked him a blacksmith. Evidently the High Lambent was trying to rally the guilds to his side during the Evangelism, and the Cartel was accommodating him by throwing open its doors to all guildspeople, at least for today.
The Lambent lowered his arms and his voice, so the crowd had to strain to hear. “But on the day Ventaris fell, sin found its way into the shadows of our hearts. Only through the mercy of the All-Father may we find forgiveness.” Duchess noted a man near the front nodding fervently, and she recognized him as one of Deneys’ clients. He was master of a minor guild, but she couldn’t remember which. She did recall that the man had a wife, and that he faithfully paid Deneys’ rent in return for the ganymede’s services. The man certainly knew something about sin, she noted sourly. The event was obviously well attended, but Duchess could not tell the cynics from the true believers.
She sensed movement and turned to see Preceptor Amabilis sitting comfortably on a bench at the rear of the gallery, out of sight from the floor. He looked much the same since she’d last seen him; tall and cadaverously thin, with queer, colorless eyes deeply set in the hollows under his brow. The last time she’d encountered him, she’d had Antony to back her up. This time, she had only herself.
She did not like the odds.
Amabilis gestured, and she moved across the gallery and took a seat on a nearby bench. “Preceptor,” she said, by way of greeting. “I was surprised to receive your message so early in the day.”
Amabilis did not look at her, keeping his eyes upon what he could see of the hall below. “I imagine you were, given the evening you had.”
She kept her face a mask, but inside her stomach did a slow roll. “Your work, I presume?”
Amabilis frowned slightly. “If it had been, we would not be having this conversation,” he replied. “Those men were not mine, although I will admit to telling them where they could find what they sought.”
“Whose men were they, then?”
He smiled thinly. “You know who sent them. A better question is why I made certain they failed.”
That was how Nell had known where Castor was. Amabilis had helped set the snare, then sent the lightboy leader to make sure it caught nothing. “Perhaps they failed for the same reason the last men you sent after me did.” She hadn’t forgotten that Amabilis had put Malleus and Kakios on her last summer, in an aborted attempt to ruin her fledgling business.
From below the High Lambent’s voice rang out. “—and who has brought these dark times upon us?” From the crowd she heard a responding hiss: the keepers.
“The men you encountered last night were not Brutes.”
That was true enough. “Are you expecting thanks?”
“I expect nothing, except that you’ll be interested in hearing what I have to offer.” He folded his hands. “Or you may leave and always wonder if there was something you could do to save the boy’s life.”
She gave him a long, hard look. Preceptor Amabilis was indirectly responsible for the murder of any number of boys. She hardly believed he was concerned about one more. “What are you playing at?”
“A game you yourself know well. Attend, please.” She gritted her teeth at being treated like a servant but let him go on. “Attys may be of the blood imperial, but when it comes to plots he is entirely common. When he learned of a new heir and potential rival, he should have come to the High Lambent, his most ardent supporter. His Holiness would have made certain that any plot to put the boy out of the way was tactically sound and likely to succeed.” He sighed. “Fortunately for the boy, Attys’ impatience got the better of him and he made a ham-fisted attempt at assassination, assisted by the Oddfellows, with whom you are recently acquainted.” Amabilis made a moue of distaste. “Attacking Lord Larric’s estate gave the game away to the child’s father, and sent both of them not to unmarked graves but into hiding
within the city walls. When the High Lambent learned what had happened, he moved at once to dissuade Attys from taking any further initiative.” He glanced in her direction, his eyes fixed on her as if on a particularly interesting insect. “The Halls of Dawn are pledged to Attys, which means that I am as well. The Lambent knows my color, and so he directed me to use all the resources of the Highway to find one boy amongst a half-million souls.”
“Which you did,” Duchess replied flatly. She wondered who on the Grey had given her away. Minette? Nigel? Did it even matter? “But why sabotage the plan? After all, you've never balked at killing boys before.” The memories of Manly Pete and the other young men Amabilis had turned over to the cruelty of Adam Whitehall had not faded in the least.
Amabilis regarded her for a moment. “Whatever you may think of me, I am a man of faith. It is not meet for the Halls of Dawn to influence the imperial succession, and yet this is the course the High Lambent has set for me and my brothers.” He looked disdainfully towards the hall below. “Though His Holiness is acting unwisely, I had to seem to be obeying his orders, and so I told him where and when Far might be found. I then took steps to ensure that the boy would escape the trap.” He gestured subtly towards her, while the crowd below, led by the radiants, broke into a hymn of praise.
Duchess shook her head in disgust. “So where does that leave us? I don’t imagine Attys will give up so easily. The Lambent will simply pull you into his next attempt.”
“So it would seem.” Amabilis’ smile never touched his eyes. “Unless, of course, the primacy of my order were to suddenly change. Then Attys would find himself without the services of the radiants—and without the services of the Grey.”
“If you wish to take down the High Lambent, by all means go ahead. It’s not my fight.”
“If only that were so,” Amabilis said without a trace of sympathy. “You and I know the boy will never be safe while Attys has a viable claim. Nor shall you.” He leaned forward. “One of Attys' men told a tale of a brown-haired young woman who helped their target to safety. I explained to His Holiness there are approximately fifty or sixty thousand such women in the city, and that finding the right one would take some time. The High Lambent was satisfied with that for the moment, but sooner or later he will want more. When that day comes, I will tell him that the woman in question is called Duchess, that she owns a business with a Domae weaver and associates with a painted catamite. I imagine Attys will then put the question to the weaver, the catamite, and anyone else he suspects can lead him to you.” He met her gaze without remorse. “None of this will be quick, or easy. In the end, they will reveal all they know about you, and then Attys will kill them, then you, then the boy. Most unfortunate.”
A cold wind seemed to blow through the gallery, even though the windows were shut. Amabilis was a member of the Grey in long standing; if he chose to cooperate with Attys, there was nowhere she could hide, and no way she could protect Jana or Lysander. Her involvement with Far might put everyone she loved at risk. “You mentioned an offer?”
He inclined his head. “I propose to give His Holiness the sincere impression that I am searching diligently for this woman and the boy, all the while ensuring that Attys does not find either. In return, you will arrange to undermine Attys' claim and help ensure he never ascends to the imperial throne. When that happens, the High Lambent will suffer such disgrace that my brothers will have no choice but to choose another, more capable man to lead.” He met her gaze, unblinking.
“Atty’s strongest support comes from the Halls of Dawn,” she said slowly, trying to work it out in her head. “The best way to undermine him is to remove that support, which you can’t do because you won’t lead the radiants until I undermine Attys.” It was a snake devouring its own tail. She threw up her hands. “How am I supposed to make this miracle?”
Amabilis frowned. “Why do you believe Attys’ strongest support comes from the radiants?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid your misfortunes on the Highway have left you woefully uninformed. While young Attys has failed at every turn with regards to assassination, he is not unskilled in politics. Even while failing to find the rival heir, he has forged a marriage contract with House Davari, which boasts several eligible females.”
The Davari were the oldest and strongest of the noble Houses, as Duchess herself had witnessed the night she’d accompanied Tremaine to Banncroft. She wondered which of the Davari sisters—Iris, Fiona or Isabelle—had been promised to Attys. “You want me to...convince House Davari to break their contract? How would I do that?”
He shrugged. “In whatever way you feel is necessary. The details are your concern.”
She shook her head at the impossible choice: beard the most powerful nobles in the realm, or else see Far and everyone she loved turned over to his enemy. “And if I agree to this?”
Amabilis smiled thinly. "Why, then it would take me far longer than anticipated to locate the heir. Rodaas is quite large, after all, and there are so many places such a boy might hide. When you are finished with your work and I am High Lambent, I shall withdraw the official support of the faith from Attys. The matter of succession will be left in the realm of the secular and not the sacred, which is as it should be."
She felt sick to her stomach. “Do you really expect me to believe that you're acting from some sense of propriety?”
“I do not care what you believe,” Amabilis replied, unruffled. “You may either work with me or you may take your chances with Attys.”
She clutched the edge of her bench with hands that felt like blocks of ice even while she broke out in a sweat. Although his face was impassive, the preceptor was no doubt enjoying his revenge for the blackmail she had so brazenly used against him. How quickly the shoe had switched to the other foot. “I—I'll need some time to think about this," she said weakly.
“No,” replied Amabilis flatly. “I shall have your answer before you leave this hall, or else I shall go straight to the High Lambent with the news that I have found the woman Attys is looking for.”
She resisted the urge to wipe her brow, her mind searching desperately for a way out. What he was asking was impossible, yet if she refused, there would be blood. How could she protect her friends from the likes of Attys? The red hand painted on Jana's doorpost shielded her from common thieves and wharf thugs, but would the Uncle draw steel against an imperial bastard’s men? The unspoken rules of the Shallows weren’t made to deal with those from Garden, and by the time she knew which way the Red would jump it would be too late.
She took a deep breath. “I’ll deal with the Davari,” she said at last. What else could she do? “Damn you, but I'll deal with them.” She let go of the bench. “But I want something from you.” The preceptor raised an eyebrow but said nothing. “If I’m going to try to ruin the likes of an imperial heir, I can’t be distracted by worries about who else might be selling out Far or any of my people. I need more than your silence; I want your protection.”
He smiled thinly. “And what makes you think I’m capable of providing such?”
“Don’t play coy with me, preceptor,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “You’re one of the highest ranked members of both the Halls of Dawn and the Grey. You managed to cover up the murders of a dozen boys; you can shelter just one. I’ll want your mark on it.” This was crucial; if the preceptor sealed the deal by giving her his mark, it meant she could rely upon his word. If he refused, she would know he intended treachery.
Amabilis watched her with his strange eyes. “Very sensible,” he said at last. Out of his pocket came a small square of white marble, engraved with a half-sun, which he laid upon the bench beside her. “I believe you have work to do. I'll not keep you from it.”
She pocketed the mark and moved toward the stairs, glancing down at the hall where the High Lambent, eyes closed and hands held high, was leading the crowd in prayer. She turned back to Amabilis. “Why come to me, preceptor? I was a convenient tool for you last night, but what m
akes you think I can manage something like this?”
He met her gaze squarely. “Because there is a baron in Temple District who is still the butt of jokes regarding a certain stolen dagger. Because three old women in Garden are barely welcome in court since the Fall of Ventaris. Because the First Keeper thinks enough of you to request your help in a pathetic attempt to unify his faith.” His gaze turned down to the crowd below. “But most particularly, because I remember an errant mote, a particle of chaos moving against the turning of the wheel.” He looked back and for the first time, a spark of true emotion entered those strange eyes that held no hint of hue. “The gods watch you, Duchess of the Shallows, and I always count upon the gods.”
Chapter Twenty-Four: Practice to deceive
“There’s nothing like the sound of sou, is there?” Lysander grinned up at her while still stacking coins on her desk. He was newly returned from The Grieving Bier’s dice game, flush with coin.
“Sweeter than wine,” she agreed, wishing she were as pleased. She really should try to be more enthusiastic; Lysander had done a wonderful job, bringing in more coin than Julius ever had before he’d yielded the game to her. “You’ve worked some magic at the Bier, that’s for sure.”
Aaron nodded, scooping more coins from the bag he held and handing them over to be counted. “And nobody’s likely to miss Julius.” He was much more polite and cooperative than he’d ever been when they were young, although Lysander had been right; he wasn’t going to win any prizes for scholarly aptitude. Still, his job was to maintain security at her game, and at that, at least, he had excelled.
Lysander snorted a laugh. “Julius couldn’t be bothered to read his customers. He’d cheat anyone, anytime, whether or not they could afford the loss. That makes people angry, and angry people make trouble. The only folk we cheat are the ones with coin to spare. Oh, they’ll frown and grumble, but they never reach for their knives. Nobles slumming in the lower districts have been the best marks; they want to lose big—a near miss at a huge win so they have a good story to tell their friends the next day.” He included Aaron in his grin. “We’re happy to oblige.”
