by Neil McGarry
Minette nodded. “Nereus wanted to believe he belonged on the Grey. We believe what we wish to believe, and the lies that come after don’t matter.” She looked at Duchess meaningfully. “There are many kinds of lies, and the best ones require you to say nothing at all. You knew Nereus by the end of the tale, well enough to speculate about what lay in his heart. You filled in the gaps on your own.”
Duchess chewed on that a while, thinking that Minette never once mentioned that she’d sent Mikkos to her door on behalf of Ferroc. The mistress of the Vermillion was wily beyond measure, and Duchess had to assume that this story meant more than just a lesson in lying. And while Minette insisted the tale was false, could that itself have been a lie...
Trying to out-think Minette was like trying to bottle fog. The woman had given her valuable advice, and that would have to do. Still, Duchess did not want to leave without asserting herself in some way. “There’s another lesson there, I think,” she said. “Having experienced it myself, I see now that position on the Grey, or in the city, is more fluid than I ever thought. Siccarius was the most powerful blackarm in Rodaas, but in an instant he was packed off to the frontier, with Takkis and an Ahé elevated by his fall. Since the Fall of Ventaris, the guilds have been overturned, with the Atropi and even Gloria Tremaine being surpassed by others.” She watched Minette carefully.
Minette’s face gave away so little it might as well have been made of stone. If she had orchestrated Galeon’s and Ferroc’s promotions, she wasn’t about to give it away that easily. “Nothing in Rodaas is certain. Today’s panacea may be tomorrow’s poison. We use and are used. We trust and speak true today, lie and betray tomorrow, only to ally again the day after. To think otherwise is—you’ll forgive my saying—naive.” She finished her wine. “Now the evening rush will soon begin, and I must attend to it. I believe the back door is still available, although I suspect that, given our little chat, you shan’t be needing to use it much longer.”
Duchess knew when she was being dismissed. She slipped out of the Vermillion, reflecting that though plots were executed and revealed, fortunes made and lost, there was one thing in Rodaas that remained the same.
She still never knew where she stood with Minette.
Chapter Twenty-Five: The rule of three
“What you propose is a high crime,” Lady Iris Davari mused as they rounded a bend between flowerbeds that still bore blossoms despite the season. “You are aware of the penalty for such? By rights I should call the blackarms and have you arrested.”
Iris had been in the gardens precisely when Nell said she would be. Duchess had handed over a good deal of coin in the last few days to have Nell and her Outsiders keep a constant watch on the Gardens of Mayu. Everyone in the city knew that Lady Iris was a devotee of Mayu, so it was only a matter of time before she showed up to worship. Of course, Nell was most likely keeping Preceptor Amabilis well informed of what Duchess was paying her to do, but what of it? Anything Nell could tell him would be evidence that Duchess was keeping her given word. Besides, having Nell on the payroll might bring the girl around, and an ally was always more valuable than an enemy.
“Please,” Duchess replied lightly, although her heart skipped a beat. “The whole city knows that every time a Davari lord dies his children squabble over the inheritance. I’m not proposing anything that hasn’t happened a hundred times before.”
“The squabbles of my family are the stuff of legend, no doubt.” Iris’ reply was just as light. “Still, no outsider has ever touched the Ruling Mask and come away unscathed.” She looked at Duchess levelly. “Most of what one hears of magic and miracles is rumor, but believe me when I say the Mask is cursed. Only a Davari may safely touch it.” Her eyes strayed to the crushed stone of the path. “So while what you propose is...interesting...it is also impossible.”
“I respectfully disagree.” Duchess kept an eye out for the black-robed figures of the keepers, certain anything said within their earshot would eventually make its way back to Jadis. Few of the priests were in the Gardens that day, most likely busy with the ever-worsening conflict that was the Evangelism. “I know more about the Mask than you think, Lady Davari, and I tell you that I can safely handle it.” She hoped she sounded more certain than she felt. A clever theory was one thing, but putting it to the test when the stakes were so high...
Iris shook her head in disbelief. “You really believe that, don’t you? We are all welcome to our delusions, I suppose. Still, if that’s so, why come to me? If what you say is true, then you do not need the assistance of the twice-widowed heir of nothing in particular.”
If only that were true, Duchess reflected ruefully. Her mission must succeed, because there was no other way. Castor’s failure to enlist Lord Larric’s help had left him paralyzed; the passion and confidence that had spurred him to care for the son of his disgrace was gone. He was no longer a White, but a man trying desperately to protect his child. She hadn’t yet told him about Amabilis and his threats, deciding that news could wait until she had a plan. Far, ignorant of his imperial heritage, seemed demoralized as well. He refused to step outside the shop and spent the majority of his time in his room. Duchess’ heart ached to see the normally stolid boy so furtive and fearful, and she resolved that she would prevail against Amabilis, the Davari, and the empress herself, if that was what it took to keep him and her family safe.
“You may not be in line for your father’s mantle,” Duchess pointed out, “but by any standard you’ve done well enough for yourself.” Even Duchess had been able to frune that Iris’ first husband had made her his sole heir, and thus his death had transformed her into an independently wealthy woman. No wonder so many were convinced she had poisoned him. “But your assistance is something I do indeed require. How else to gain access to your estate?”
That seemed to get Iris’ attention. “Our defenses are formidable,” she allowed, which Duchess considered an understatement at the very least. Banncroft was surrounded by a twelve-foot wall, smooth as new skin, topped with four-foot iron spikes and shards of colored glass, pretty to look at but dangerous to climbers. Within the walls, the estate was patrolled during the day by house guards and at night by some of Gregor’s famed hunting hounds.
Thieves who managed to avoid those hazards would find the rest of Gregor’s hounds waiting inside the house. The beasts, trained to kill and kept constantly hungry, were given the run of the building, day and night, and were quick to savage anyone they did not recognize by scent. It was said that new servants could be distinguished by their fresh bite marks; the dogs took time to get used to new people and frequently mistook a recently hired scullery maid for a cat-burglar. And of course more guards roamed the halls as well, a double-threat to any interloper. In short, Banncroft was an impregnable fortress.
Which is why Duchess had decided to storm it from the inside.
“What would be my part in this plan of yours?” Iris went on. “Assuming, of course, you have a plan.”
Duchess nodded. “All the city knows of your skill with potions and elixirs.” And poisons, she might have added. She gestured to the Gardens. “Some say your knowledge rivals that of the keepers themselves. I could use someone like that to take care of Gregor’s dogs.”
Iris laughed lightly. “You do ascribe me many powers! While it’s true I know something of herblore, I have no access to my brother’s dogs other than to endure the beasts as they wander my house. If you think I have the opportunity to poison their food, you are sadly mistaken.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Duchess assured her. “You need only provide the elixir and I would handle the rest—assuming, of course, that we had an arrangement.”
Iris shook her head. “I’m not sure if you are joking or simply mad.”
Duchess smiled. “You aren’t the first to wonder that, but mad or not, my plans work. Ask Baron Eusbius what happened to his prize dagger last spring. Ask the Atropi why the dress they presented to the empress was not fit to be used
as a wash rag. Ask how I turned a lone Domae weaver into one of the most sought-after artisans in Rodaas.”
Iris stopped, seeming to take this in, and in her eyes Duchess saw doubt, yes, but also a desire to believe. “I have heard some of these tales,” Iris admitted after a long moment, “particularly that of the Atropi. It’s been said that Gloria Tremaine was behind that particular piece of work, but now I recall that you were Gloria’s attendant at my brother’s party. I’ll wager you accompanied her to the Fall as well.” She looked off into the distance. “I won’t deny that I would love to use the Mask for my own ends, not the least of which would be to ensure that no one forces me into a third marriage.” She smiled ruefully. “Not that I have many suitors these days.”
“Losing two husbands under suspicious circumstances will do that to a reputation,” Duchess said, meeting the lady’s gaze squarely.
“My first husband was a sweet man, but something of a dullard,” Iris said reflectively. “Still, I held no malice towards him, and no less than the imperial physician confirmed he died of a sickness of the blood, one that would have taken him regardless. It was mere coincidence it did so just after he changed his will.”
“A profitable coincidence,” Duchess pointed out. “And your second husband?”
Iris’ mouth tightened. “The inverse of the first. A pretty lad, vain and arrogant, and interested only in the money I’d inherited. But Father thought him chivalrous and his position useful, so on went the wedding garb for the second time in a year, will I or nil I.” She smiled coldly. “On the day of the wedding his mother prattled on endlessly about the boy’s virtues. She told me that I would no doubt love him so completely that I’d wonder how I could ever live without him.” Her gaze hardened. “I learned how.”
Duchess wasn’t sure how to take this near-confession, or why Iris had offered it, but she felt a stab of sympathy. Women in Rodaas were dependent on their fathers, husbands, or brothers, if those lived; if not, they were left to fend for themselves. Adori and her sisters in the Deeps had taken up faith, Nell a stone, and Iris poison. Anything to protect themselves and their freedom.
On impulse, she held up her hands, palms outward, her eyes locked on the Davari’s. “Lady Iris, you have no reason to trust me, I know, but believe me when I say that I alone, in all of Rodaas, can do this. I swear it on my scars: I can bring you the Mask and the freedom it promises.” Duchess paused. “Still, if you don’t trust me, perhaps I might find others with whom to do business. Isabelle was most interested when I made her the same offer.”
“That must have been a dull conversation.” Iris’s eyes went distant with speculation. “Isabelle was always strong-minded, and I am sure she has other plans for herself—plans that do not include marrying Attys. Interesting that you should know such things, but you seem full of surprises. Perhaps you also know that when Venn told her she would not be marrying Lord Korig’s youngest she growled and spat like one of Gregor’s wretched dogs.” She glanced at Duchess. “I might ask why you’re telling me about your dealings with my sister. Is this a threat?”
Duchess shook her head. “A business transaction. I plan to steal the Mask, my lady, never doubt, but whom I give it to...well, that’s a matter for negotiation. Personally, I’d rather deal with you, but if you refuse, Isabelle will do.”
Iris studied Duchess with her hazel eyes, the ones she shared with none of her siblings save Venn. Finally, she sighed. “You have a way about you, Duchess, that invites at least a modicum of trust. We’ll proceed along this path, at least until you fail in one of your promises or you die, at which time I’m afraid I won’t remember who you were.” She gestured and they resumed their walk. “I presume that this poison you mentioned is part of the price I must tender for your services?”
“And a promise that, should I deliver on my part of our arrangement, whoever assumes the mantle of rulership will keep House Davari clear of any political alliance with Attys.”
The woman gave her a sidelong glance. “I’ll admit that both Isabelle and I would profit from such an arrangement, but you ask much to have us deny the empress’ grandson.”
“Just how badly would you like to avoid a third trip to the altar, my lady?”
Iris laughed dryly. “My sister and I share few things, but one of them is a desire to have some small control over our lives. You are mad to propose such a scheme, and I am mad to agree to it.” She looked around as if she feared someone might be listening. “I must return to Banncroft before my lord brother becomes suspicious. Contact me when you are ready to proceed.” She nodded slightly in farewell, then pulled up her hood and headed out of the Garden, looking like nothing so much as Mistress Mayu, setting forth to guide the lost and abandoned towards their final home.
* * *
“You don’t look like a seamstress,” the man said, frowning at the letter Duchess had presented. He was more right than he knew.
“I am a seamstress’ assistant, sir,” she replied, trying to sound meek and common. She hefted the shoulder bag, which contained chalk, knotted measuring string, and other supplies she’d picked up in Market Square. She didn’t know how to use half of it, but if things went well, she wouldn’t need to. “Come for Lady Isabelle, as it says.”
“I can read!” the man barked, although judging by the way his lips had moved while he did so, not very well. Standing in the shadow of Banncroft’s gatehouse, he gave the letter another look. “Still, if her ladyship wants to trouble herself with the likes of you, it’s all one to me. First, though, you’ll hand over that bag for a look inside. No blades inside Banncroft.”
“She’s not carrying any weapons on her,” the other guard remarked with a lopsided grin. Duchess had worn a brown woolen dress, deliberately choosing a slimmer cut so that she might be spared the indignity of a search of person. It seemed she was to receive a leer instead, which she supposed was preferable.
The first man rooted through her bag, and when he was satisfied he turned to his comrade. “I’ll take her in.” He gestured brusquely to Duchess and they started towards the main house.
She had previously seen Banncroft by night, but it was just as impressive under the wan Rodaasi sun. In daylight, the main house’s red stone seemed to glow against a wide sweep of lawn that three months ago must have been lush and green. She took in the size of the servants’ quarters and the dower house as they passed, each of which was larger than many a noble’s home. She wondered what the hunting grounds looked like, but they were out of sight behind the house itself.
The guard ushered her into the main hall, with its deep rug and portraits of Davari past. This time there were no servants on hand to clean her shoes. Instead, they were confronted by a stern-looking woman whose hair was pulled up and back, giving her head an almost square shape. “And who’s this?” she said in a voice tight with impatience. The man handed over the letter, which the woman inspected closely. Duchess folded her hands before her and tried to seem subservient.
Finally, the square-headed woman sighed and looked up. “Very well, I’ll take her to Lady Isabelle. You may go.” The guard did not look happy at being ordered about, but he withdrew from the hall nonetheless, and the woman watched him go with pursed lips. Then she turned her gaze to Duchess. “This way, and be quick about it. Lord Venn will be through soon, and I won’t have him stumbling across the likes of you.” She led the way through a tall arch and up a wide wooden stair, her heels clacking importantly on every riser.
When Duchess caught sight of the large black-and-brown dog awaiting them at the top of the stairs, she didn’t have to feign dismay. The animal’s head was nearly as large as her own, and in its brown eyes she saw no welcome. The servant extended one hand, which the dog probed with its nose. “I wouldn’t recommend you try this,” she said to Duchess, “not unless you feel you can spare a hand.” She smiled smugly. “Stay close, now.” Duchess did as she was bid, and the dog approached, sniffing suspiciously. She did her best to act nonchalant, but at any mome
nt she expected the beast to tear into her leg. It was so close she could feel its breath, and she struggled not to recoil.
She felt more than heard the low growl that rose in the beast’s throat and it was all she could do to not flinch away and run down the stairs. With a sudden movement, the woman stepped between her and the dog, her hand up against its nose. The thing inhaled and then let out its breath in a huff, seemingly annoyed. Then it backed away and trotted down the steps.
Daring to look up, Duchess saw the woman’s smug smile had collapsed, although she was doing her best to reconstruct it. “Come along,” she muttered. They passed along a wide gallery that overlooked the main hall, turned left, then right, and stopped before a door of white wood. The woman knocked once, then moved to enter, gesturing for her to wait.
Duchess caught her arm. “What if the dog comes back? Or another comes along?”
The woman gazed at her, unsmiling. “Then I suppose you’ll have a problem.” She stepped inside and closed the door. Duchess heard the murmur of voices, too low for her to make out words, and she glanced nervously about. The hall was paneled in more maple, and the floor was covered with a deep green carpet, obviously expensive and well tended. No more dogs appeared, but she decided that if one did, she was going inside; better to offend a nameless servant than to be mauled by a watchdog.
Finally the woman reappeared. “Go on in.” She fixed Duchess with a stern look. “And don’t think to presume on her ladyship’s patience. If you offend her, I’ll take a switch to you myself.” Then she was gone in a rustle of starched cloth and disdain, but Duchess noticed how her eyes darted about, always wary for more dogs. Turning back, Duchess took a deep breath and stepped inside.
Isabelle Davari’s bedchambers were nearly as large as Duchess’ apartments, with white walls and tall windows draped in blue. They contained a comfortable-looking settee, a few chairs, a vanity, and a canopied bed with curtains sensibly shut. Isabelle herself, dressed in ivory and brown, was seated at the vanity, writing. She did not look up at Duchess’ approach.
