by Neil McGarry
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” she murmured and Duchess stole a chance to examine her. She was perhaps three years older, with the same Davari look, somehow softer and more appealing than those of her siblings. Her brown hair was longer than Duchess’ own and shone in the light from the windows. She was slender as a reed and pale as milk—no wonder Tomas Korig was so smitten.
A pity, then, that Isabelle had been promised to Attys against her will. They’d have to do something about that.
Isabelle finally set aside her quill and stood. “I’m pleased that Stephan remembered his promise,” she said, shaking stiffness from her right hand. “Though given that his champion won the duel, I’m surprised he felt obligated. Still,” she said brightly, looking at Duchess for the first time, “a dress is a dress, and two dresses are even better.”
Stephan had been equally surprised at Duchess’ request and it had taken Lysander some time to convince him it was in his best interest to make Isabelle the offer. Duchess had had to agree to fund the dresses herself. Isabelle, for her part, had replied quickly and her gracious letter of acceptance became Duchess’ door into Banncroft.
She almost hated to disappoint her. “Unfortunately, my lady, I did not come to make you dresses.” Duchess placed her bag on the settee, abandoning her servant’s pose. “Instead, I offer the chance at something more precious.” Isabelle frowned prettily, and Duchess smiled. “Love.”
* * *
“It’s like a tale out of a children’s book,” Isabelle mused when Duchess had finished. “A mysterious figure makes the young heroine an impossible offer, with the price and promise both as her fondest wish.” She looked over the dressmaking supplies she had made Duchess spread out, a cover in case a servant entered without knocking.
“Then you agree?” Duchess asked, hardly hoping it would be that easy.
Isabelle frowned. “It’s all rather too good to be true, isn’t it? I’ve lived under this roof long enough to know that such gifts usually come at too high a price.” She paced the length of the room. “I may not be the cleverest of my siblings, but I know that only a fool crosses Martin’s ambition.”
“Martin’s ambition? I thought your lord brother Venn arranged this marriage.”
“Ever since Father died those two are nearly one and the same. Venn puts far too much trust in Martin’s advice, though whether from fear or foolishness, I couldn’t say.” She stopped at her window, looking down onto the grounds. “Fiona suspects that there’s more to it, but she and Martin have despised each other since the day they were born.”
“And the others?”
She smiled slightly. “Gregor doesn’t involve himself in the higher politics of the house, unless he’s directed to. Stavros, poor dear, is too young to be either a player or a tool.” She turned back to Duchess. “And you say Iris has already agreed to this scheme?”
“Perhaps she does not wish to be married off a third time.”
“As if any man in his right mind would marry the Black Widow of Banncroft!” Isabelle laughed. “But I suppose killing husbands must get tiresome.” Her smile withered. “Still, if this plan were successful, she might make Martin the head of the house and stop me from marrying Tomas simply out of spite.”
“She can’t place anyone as head unless she gets the Mask.”
Isabelle made a show of straightening her dress, but in her eyes Duchess had seen the gleam of ambition. “True. There are one or two things around Banncroft I’d like to see changed, and Lord Gregor certainly sounds better to me than Lord Venn or Lord Martin.”
Duchess shrugged. “It’s all one to me which Davari wears the Mask, so long as you meet my price.”
“It’s the price I find so fascinating...and the reason why I haven’t simply called for the guards.” She glanced away. “I’m certain it’s Iris who told you about Lord Korig’s youngest and I. She never could keep her mouth shut. And it’s well enough known that I loathe Attys, pompous ass that he is. Did you know that my father married for love, at least the first time? He had four wives, but the first he married purely because he loved her. Why shouldn’t I be allowed to do the same?” Duchess said nothing in reply. “A marriage to Violana’s heir would be quite a coup for the House, and losing it a particularly high price to pay.” She inspected her finely manicured hands. “Still, I’m certain Gregor could be convinced to agree to end the alliance entirely. And if it came to it, he’d be in the position to find another claimant for the imperial throne...one more to his liking.”
Duchess didn’t know if Isabelle was hinting at violence and she decided she didn’t want to. “So, what say you, Lady Isabelle? Do we have a deal?”
Isabelle watched her for a long moment. “You do know about that inconvenient curse, yes?”
Duchess nodded casually. “Oh, I’ve heard the stories, but I’ve never believed them. They sound like a nice way to deter thieves, nothing more.”
Isabelle leaned in conspiratorially. “I don’t believe in curses, either; none of us younger ones do, not really. Venn, Iris, Martin, Fiona—they all claim that the Mask can maim and even kill non-Davari, but I’ve seen no evidence. Still,” she added, toying with a silver bracelet set with pink opals, “the risk is there, isn’t it? But if you’re willing to undertake it, I shan’t stop you. Of course you know if you fail or are caught, you and I have never met.”
This sounded familiar. “Naturally,” Duchess agreed.
“Then I rather do think we have a deal. I will help as I can, and in return, you shall give me the Mask. When I make Gregor Lord Davari, our alliance with Attys shall end. Is that satisfactory?”
“Most satisfactory, my lady.” Duchess smiled modestly and began packing up her supplies.
Isabelle was not done with her, however. “Before you go, know that I intend to tell Gregor all that has been said here. Should you play me false, my brother will be most put out, and he is not a man who accepts disappointment easily.”
Duchess did not look up from her work. “So I have heard.”
“Have you? Perhaps you have not heard all that might be said.” She turned back to the window. “Back during the War of the Quills, the guards caught a man poaching the family hunting grounds. Those times were terrible and Father had trouble enough keeping us safe. The Whites were busy battling those dreadful gangs from the Deeps, the blackarms were nowhere to be found, and such things had become commonplace. Father was tied up at council that day, I remember, and Venn and Martin were out of the city, so the guards brought the poacher to Gregor.” Duchess noticed that although Isabelle seemed calm, there was no insouciance in her voice.
“Gregor was sixteen then, but already taller than Father, wide as a bull and just as angry. He paced the hall all through the guard’s story. Iris and I had sneaked in to watch when we realized what was going on. We both knew that Gregor was in a black mood that day.
“The poacher was no older than Gregor himself, with the most startling green eyes, as I recall. He was really just a boy. He wept and begged for mercy, said he’d only been chasing a hare to feed his family, that he meant no harm. When he finished, Gregor just smiled and said that the boy would have his hare and he sent a guard to fetch one. The boy started smiling and groveling then—he actually thought he was going to be let go. The guards knew better, though, and so did Iris and I.
“When they brought the animal in, Iris held my hand so tightly I thought my fingers might break. Instead, it was the hare’s neck that broke. Gregor killed it with one hand. His fingers were so big they wrapped all the way around—I recall that distinctly—and the sound was like a twig snapping. Iris started to cry, but she knew better than to make a sound. The boy, however, still thought everything would be all right. He was still smiling right up until Gregor gestured for the guards to hold him.”
Isabelle glanced at Duchess, as if only now remembering she was in the room, and her eyes were distant with memory. “Two held the boy’s arms. Two more forced his mouth open. And then Gregor shoved the
hare—fur and face and all—down the boy’s throat.” Duchess tried to speak, but found no words. Isabelle nodded. “You wouldn’t think that was possible, but my brother is very strong and very determined. It must have taken the boy a very long time to die, for the sounds he made just went on and on. We didn’t see the whole thing, for Iris finally dragged me away. She was crying, but I never did.”
There was a long silence as Duchess digested this. “And the point of this story, my lady?”
Isabelle seemed to consider the question seriously. “To make certain you understand how dangerous this undertaking is and precisely what you are dealing with. One thwarts a Davari’s ambition at one’s peril, particularly if that Davari is Gregor. Of course, Martin is a monster of a different mien, but a monster nonetheless, and if I am to place myself within reach of his claws, you must know that you face a risk no less perilous. Should you play me false, be sure Gregor will seek you out. He will find you and he will hurt you. He will not care who you are, nor who stands between you and him. He cares not what the blackarms think, nor the priests, nor even my lord brother.”
Isabelle pulled a hanging cord that lay nearby. A concealed bell tinkled merrily. “Until this business is finished, all of us are but one step away from disaster.” She took a seat at the vanity. “Oh, and do make sure I get those dresses. After all, we want this visit to seem as legitimate as possible.” She turned back to Duchess and smiled brilliantly. “And I do so love to add to my wardrobe.”
* * *
Duchess left Garden by the southern gate, crossing into Temple District, where the passersby did not give her disdainful looks and the guards did not question her very presence. She rubbed her brow with tented fingers, massaging away the headache that threatened. Facing one Davari sister was fearful, but two in three days was almost too much.
Right now her feet were her main concern. She’d worn these shoes because no apprentice seamstress would dare enter Garden District in the boots Duchess normally preferred, but with every step she regretted that necessity. She was stuck with these feet-pinching torture devices until she got home, gods dammit it all.
She was struggling along a quiet lane towards the Godswalk when she heard a carriage approaching from behind, and she limped aside to let it pass. Instead, the carriage halted beside her, and two men leaped down from the driver’s seat. They bracketed her, one to each side, and only then did she realize her danger.
“Come along, miss,” said the one to her right.
“Into the carriage before we—” began the other before her bag of seamstress’ tools, swung in a tight arc, caught him in the face. He went down hard on his backside, but before she could think the other man seized her from behind, his arms around her waist, lifting her into the air. Reacting as Castor had taught her, she went completely limp, and the man struggled to keep her dead weight aloft. As she began to droop back onto the cobbles, she seized one of his fingers—the index—and yanked back with all her might. There was a sickening crunch, and the man dropped her, screaming and holding his injured hand. She landed hard and stumbled to her knees just as the first man closed in again, bloody-faced. He did not grab at her as his comrade had done; instead, he lashed out with a foot, connecting directly with her belly and driving the wind right out of her. She collapsed to the ground, gasping for air, and before she could think to do anything else, he and the other man hoisted her up into the dimness of the carriage, leaving her on the floor and slamming the door behind her.
Her eyes took some time to adjust, and as she struggled to catch her breath a thousand questions whisked through her head. Who had taken her from the street and where had she gone wrong and would they want her alive and what could she do about it before—
“You’ve caused quite enough trouble already, don’t you think?” The woman’s voice was one she recognized from somewhere, but all Duchess saw was a shape silhouetted against a window of the carriage. There was a tapping noise. “Let’s get moving in case someone noticed that little fracas.” She heard the sound of horses being roused and felt the carriage lurch into motion.
Duchess blinked her eyes, trying desperately to focus. “What—?” she gasped when she had regained some breath.
“My apologies for the roughness of my men,” came the unapologetic response, “but if you had come quietly there’d have been no need.” The woman sighed. “I must say I’m surprised to see you again...Duchess, was it? First Tremaine’s pet and now Martin’s. Have you no loyalty?”
Tremaine. Martin. Duchess tried desperately to concentrate. “My...lady. How nice to see you again.” She climbed shakily up on a cushioned bench; on the other side sat Fiona Davari, wrapped in a long, dark blue cloak.
“I’m afraid I cannot say the same; indeed, I almost didn’t recognize you without that lovely dress. Are you slumming, or have I managed to catch you in your natural environment?”
Slights on her appearance she could handle. “The latter, I’m afraid.” Duchess breathed deeply, trying to collect her wits. The pain in her stomach was slowly fading, but she was certain she’d sport a lovely bruise by tomorrow morning. “What makes you think I’m Martin’s pet?”
Fiona rolled her eyes. “Two days ago you conferred secretly with my sister Iris in the Gardens, and today you pose as a seamstress to meet with Isabelle. I know the marks of a conspiracy.”
“Yet you’ve not seen me with your brother.”
“Which proves only that he’s more clever than my sisters. What has he offered Iris that she couldn’t get from two dead husbands, I wonder? And why Isabelle? Is he making overtures to Gregor through her?”
Duchess sighed. “I could tell you that I’ve never once spoken to Martin. Not even at the party. But you wouldn’t believe me, I’m certain.”
“No. I would not. What could there possibly be to speak about with my sisters that would not involve Martin?”
Duchess thought a moment. She felt certain she could leap from the moving carriage without much injury; by the time Fiona’s men took after her she could be halfway back to the Shallows. But then Fiona didn’t need to catch her to ruin her plans, did she? There was no use denying the plot she was hatching, but maybe it wasn’t necessary...
So while the carriage rattled its way though Temple District, Duchess told her.
Fiona listened with dark-eyed intensity, relishing each word as if it were a dish in an endless feast. “Oh, that is interesting,” she said when Duchess had finished. “I might have known that Iris would agree to this plan of yours,” she said, tapping her folded-up fan against her knee. “She’s clever, that one, and has no desire to be married off again against her will. Isabelle, however—what is she thinking? Very little, I imagine.” She regarded Duchess for a long moment. “And you’ve told each of them you would give her the mask to do with as she pleased?”
There seemed no point in lying. “Yes.”
Fiona’s eyes narrowed. “And all you ask in return is our ending the alliance with the bastard?”
Duchess nodded.
“I’m in.”
Duchess blinked. She wasn’t expecting this. “Excuse me?”
Fiona smiled widely and glanced out the window. “It’s been ages since I had such a chance to thwart Martin.”
“Then you believe the alliance his, and not Venn’s?”
“These days one can scarcely tell them apart.” She glanced at Duchess. “Right now, Martin rules the House as if he himself had the Mask. I’d expect Iris to have some influence over Venn—they share the same mother, you know—but that is clearly not the case.” She shifted in her seat, annoyed. “Father’s passing was most convenient for Venn, and for Martin. I’d suspect Martin of blackmailing our lord brother, but there’s nothing that oaf could have discovered that I wouldn’t have found out first.” She said the last as if blackmail were as common as evening fog. “Isabelle of course would prefer Gregor as the new lord, and as distasteful as that might be, it would perhaps be better than the current arrangement. As for I
ris, she’d take the Mask for herself, if she could.”
“And you?”
“I don’t care who has the Mask, as long as it is not Martin. However, Venn as Martin’s pet is an intolerable situation. I admire his cunning, though. Martin wields the power, but Venn is the target for the rest of us.”
“I notice neither you nor your sisters have mentioned Stavros.”
Fiona chuckled. “With good reason. I’m afraid my father’s last wife had entirely too much influence over the boy. There’s no venom in him. If he didn’t have the look, I’d suspect he wasn’t one of us at all.”
Duchess thought on this a moment, then decided to speak plainly. “So long as Martin loses, you win.”
Fiona smiled. “Precisely.”
“And my price?”
“Small enough to pay for primacy.”
“And what do you offer me that your sisters did not?”
Fiona’s smile sharpened. “My silence.”
Duchess sighed. If she chose, Fiona could warn Lord Venn and scuttle this heist before it even started. That would mean not just the ruin of Duchess’ plans, but possibly death for Far. The instant Amabilis was convinced that she had failed he would reveal the boy to Attys. She could not let that happen.
Two Davari sisters was too many. Three was madness.
Duchess nodded in assent, and Fiona looked pleased. “You’ll continue as you were, then. Both Iris and Isabelle seem to trust you well enough.” She paused. “Which one of them had you been lying to? To whom did you plan to give the Mask?”
Duchess kept her face perfectly still and remembered the story. “I hadn’t decided yet,” she said blandly.
That, too, seemed to please Fiona. “A woman after my own heart. See that you limit your treachery to them.” She called to her men and the carriage came to a halt. A glance out a window revealed they were not far from Beggar’s Gate, so at least this little interlude had shortened her walk in those cursed shoes.
