by Neil McGarry
Duchess felt as if her blood had turned to ice. Minette hadn’t told her that story merely as part of a lesson in lying; she had known, even then, that Aaron was plotting murder. One of her ubiquitous informants had told her what was in the wind, and in her usual roundabout way, she had told Duchess what would need to be done to remedy the situation.
Duchess got up, went to the window, and unlatched the shutters. The cold night air was a blessing on her flushed face even while her heart felt frozen. She was not a murderer, no matter what the rumors said. She had never killed anyone. Not on the Coast Road when fighting the Brutes, not in the Deeps, when she’d fought the Silent. She’d never killed anyone.
She stood at the window for a long time, breathing in the cold air, not hearing Castor and Aaron behind her but knowing they were still there, waiting. Finally, she turned away from the night and closed the shutters. She crossed the room and took Aaron’s hand.
“This is very bad,” she said to him in a low voice. “You understand that.”
He nodded, his eyes swimming with unshed tears. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was trying to be loyal. Julius sent the Brutes to kill you, and me, and you saved me from them.”
She patted his hand gently. “I did.” She swallowed hard. “There are ships that leave the harbor every day.” She closed her eyes and tried to think. “Can you stay out of sight for a while?” He nodded, pathetically eager, and she pulled the purse from her belt and placed it into his hands. “Take this and go with Castor. He’ll find you a place to hide until all the arrangements have been made. Then he’ll come for you.” Her eyes felt hot and her stomach was heavy as stone. “In the meantime, I’ll square things with Lysander.”
Clutching the purse, he rose, face shining with sweat and hands trembling. “Yes...yes, I’ll go with him and hide.” He scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve. “Thank you, Duchess. Thank you.” She patted him on the shoulder and then nodded to Castor.
“Find him some place to stay,” she said. Castor looked at her for a long time, without expression, then he nodded and led Aaron down the hall and out of the apartment. The sound of their footsteps slowly faded away until she was left with only her thoughts.
She had wine in the cupboard but no thirst, and she doubted that getting drunk would help her sleep tonight. Instead, she blew out the lamp and reopened the shutters. Then she stood looking out into the silent dark for a long time.
Chapter Twenty-Seven: The only way out
The donkeys brayed nervously as Mikkos brought the wagon to a halt before the gates of Banncroft.
Duchess gave the beasts a nervous glance; she hadn’t spent much time around horses since her days as Marina Kell, and the only donkeys she’d been near when she’d lived with Noam were the ones that pulled the wagonloads of supplies up to the shop each morning. She’d never been much of a rider, and even though the two beasts they’d inherited from Lepta seemed sweet-natured enough, they still made her uneasy. Mikkos, like Jana, had grown up around such creatures, and Duchess had gladly yielded him the reins this night. Besides, it was easier to disguise him as Doctor Domae than Lysander.
“I look ridiculous,” Mikkos said as he reined up before the gatehouse, an imposing structure of red stone that arched over thick bars, watched by two sentries in the livery of House Davari. He was dressed in the Doctor Domae outfit that had formerly been Hadron’s, all strips of folded and twisted fabric around his clothing and in his hair. It had been far too large of course, but Jana had seen to its resizing. Lysander had dressed him for the role, and had done his usual fantastic job.
“Have you looked at me?” Duchess retorted. The bandages that covered her from top to bottom had started itching the moment Jana and Lysander had applied them, and they’d itched all the way up the hill. Still, their ridiculous costumes, the wagon, and—most importantly—the letter they carried had gotten them into Garden without undue suspicion.
“I think you both look equally foolish—does that help?” Lysander quipped from his hiding place in the rear of the wagon, just behind the curtains. He peeked through at the dark hulking shape of Banncroft. “Quite a place they’ve got up here, don’t you think?” he said to Mikkos, sotto voce. Then his hand slid out to give Mikkos a pinch in a delicate place. Mikkos swatted playfully back, and Duchess rolled her eyes.
“Take in the sights all you like, but don’t get too distracted.” She saw Lysander’s hand snaking out once more from between the curtains, and she gave it a slap. “And that includes you keeping your hands out of sight.” She looked up at the estate and swallowed hard. By all accounts many thieves had died trying to steal from the Davari—was she the next? “Are you sure they won’t have heard what we did to the real Doctor Domae?” she asked, biting her lip. As if it weren’t already too late.
She could sense Lysander flapping a hand at her. “The nobles don’t pay much attention to what happens to their inferiors, which is why we know a lot more about them than they’ll ever know about us.” Bitterness shaded his tone. “As long as we’re cooking their meals, sweeping their floors, or warming their beds, we’re invisible to them.”
“I could use some invisibility tonight.” She tried to smile but came up empty. Lysander’s hand emerged from the curtains again and this time she took it in both of hers. “This is it.”
“The last time we were in this situation, I tried to talk you into forgetting the whole thing and getting drunk,” Lysander muttered ruefully. “I suppose that’s not an option this time.”
“Was it an option even then?” She saw one of the guards approaching, a tall fellow in Davari livery. “Here we go,” she whispered. Lysander’s hand vanished behind the curtains and Mikkos sat up straight—trying to look inconspicuous, she imagined. Rather than test his composure, she held out the letter Fiona had given her.
The guard squinted at the parchment in the dim light of the lamp hanging from the wagon. “Doctor Domae.” He looked over Duchess and Mikkos. “This is the gift for Lord Stavros?”
A fellow guard slouched over, a pike in his hand. “Seems it,” he said, his lip curled in distaste. “Only reason you’d see this filth in Garden.” They chuckled and Duchess kept her face a mask, which was easy given the bandages. Mikkos was silent as well, although she could sense him flushing with anger, shame, or both.
“Well, don’t even think you’re taking that inside,” the tall man said to Mikkos. “The letter says some burned woman goes in, so you can wait with the wagon.” Duchess nodded to Mikkos and clambered down from her seat, clumsy in her wrappings. Once on the street, she felt the shorter guard press against her from behind, his hands running over her legs, her sides, her hips. She suppressed a shudder that she knew he sensed anyway, but neither of them said a word. He found the small carved box she was carrying and opened it, frowning at what was within. Then he handed it back as if glad to be rid of it. “Show her in.”
She shuffled along as if in pain, as Lepta had done when she’d played the Burned Woman. She doubted such deception was necessary for mere guards, but it never hurt to be careful. She chanced a glance over her shoulder just in time to see Mikkos shake the reins, taking the wagon northward along the avenue and out of sight. She could have sworn she saw the curtains twitch—Lysander and one last encouragement. Then the wagon was gone and she was left to the great red bulk of Banncroft.
She was ushered once again into the main hall, which stood empty save for one house maid with a dustcloth, standing on a stool and busily polishing the gilded frame of a portrait of some long-dead Davari. She glanced curiously at Duchess, hopefully seeing only the Burned Woman and not a would-be thief. “You’re to wait in the library,” the guard muttered, gesturing to the right. She remembered the room where Lord Venn had held court on the night of the party, and she made to follow, but stopped dead in her tracks when a large brown dog trotted into the hall, tongue lolling out of its toothy mouth. The guard took her arm with one hand, and held out the other to be sniffed.
She was
suddenly glad that her face was covered lest her dismay be obvious. Isabelle had promised to drug Gregor’s dogs, but the one snuffling at the guard’s hand looked decidedly awake and alert. She could only assume the others were equally active. Had Iris’ potion failed? Had Isabelle been discovered? Or had Fiona been correct about Martin knowing everything?
Duchess tried to corral her whirling thoughts. If Martin had discovered her plan, he’d have had her arrested at the gate, letter or no. Although it was possible Iris’ potion had failed, the woman knew what she was doing well enough to kill at least one husband without arousing undue suspicion, so that seemed unlikely as well. Perhaps Isabelle, fearful of what Gregor might do if he found her poisoning his dogs, had simply decided to abandon the agreement she had reached with Duchess. Or perhaps she was playing some game of her own.
As the guard showed her into the library, she realized that the why didn’t matter, only the what: something had gone wrong, leaving Duchess to the tender mercies of Gregor’s beasts. The task that lay before her had just become that much more difficult. The dog followed in their wake, a reminder that she now had no way to safely move about the house.
The place was much as before, thick rugs and drape-hung windows, leather-bound books and settees and overstuffed chairs, with a bright fire in the hearth. A small round table had been set out, flanked by two chairs, no doubt intended for the use of the Burned Woman and her patron. Upon the table sat a lovely decanter of blown glass, filled with red wine and flanked by two silver goblets. “Wait here for his lordship,” the guard told her, “and don’t try to leave. The dogs are outside, and you won’t like them much.” With a gap-toothed grin he closed the door.
She began to pace the room, wishing she could run her hands through her hair. She settled for wringing her hands. The safest course of action was to give Stavros his reading and then depart, leaving the Mask to the Davari and their treacherous ways. Not even Naria of the Dark could avoid every single dog in the house. No one would blame her for having the good sense to abandon her plan against such odds.
Yet if she failed here, what other chance would she have? Amabilis’ patience would last only so long, and if she did not have an answer for him soon, the High Lambent, and thus Attys, would soon know where Far and Castor could be found, along with any who might carry the tale: Lysander, Jana, Mikkos, and of course Duchess herself. Her family.
Damn the Davari for failing her, damn Amabilis for his evil ways, and damn her for not having a backup plan.
Lysander would no doubt call her completely mad, but before she could reconsider, she drew from the waistband of her skirt a leather pouch, so small and flat that the guard had missed it in his search. He was looking for weapons and tools, after all, and not a small quantity of powder left over from what Iris had given her. She emptied the pouch into the wine, swirling the decanter until the liquid within had settled as clear and unclouded as it had begun.
The only way out was through.
She heard the doors behind her open and turned to see a young man dressed in a black velvet doublet and tight satin breeches threaded with gold, attended by a servant in house livery. Lysander had been right; Stavros was attractive, with lustrous dark brown hair in the inevitable Davari widow’s peak and large brown eyes. He smiled brilliantly at her. “You are the Burned Woman?” he asked. She nodded and he seated himself at the round table, indicating she should do the same. “I didn’t believe Fiona when she told me about this reading—I’d heard Doctor Domae had left the city—but I’m so glad to see I was wrong.” He gestured to the decanter. “Will you take wine?” He did not wait for her reply, but poured himself a brimming cup.
She shook her head. “Alcohol will cloud my sight,” she said, in her best Domae accent. Mikkos and Jana had coached her and she’d done her best, but to be honest her best wasn’t very good. She hoped Stavros had not spent enough time around real Domae to know the difference. She felt ashamed, as if this impersonation were somehow mocking her friends.
“Then it seems I’m drinking for two,” Stavros quipped, taking a healthy gulp. He glanced at the servant who hovered nearby. “Well, off with you! I don’t need you looming over me all night. And don’t lurk outside the door, either; go to bed. I’ll tell Venn you kept more than enough of an eye on me.” The man nearly tripped over himself in his haste to obey.
Duchess nodded at the young lord as if he had done something right. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out Jana’s carved wooden box. She did not need to feign reverence when she set it upon the table and opened it to reveal the stack of cards within. Jana had entrusted these to her, and since Duchess knew they were all she had left of her aunt, Duchess intended to be very careful with them, indeed.
“What happens now?” Stavros asked, as she began to lay out the gorgeously inscribed and painted cards with both hands. He set down his half-empty goblet and watched raptly as she placed card after card upon the table, moving slowly to buy as much time as possible. She took his hands in her own, hardly feeling them through the bandages, and placed his fingers upon the cards. “Feel them, my lord,” she murmured, trying to sound fey and mysterious. “Touch each in turn. For these are the symbols of the world.” She desperately tried to remember what Jana had said during her own reading. “With them we shall part the veil that clouds your future.”
He did as she bid, turning the cards one by one, all the while sipping from his goblet. Soon it was empty and without asking she refilled it from the decanter. He nodded absentminded thanks, his touch lingering on a card depicting a man on horseback, gazing over a dead and empty field. “What are these made of? Not vellum. They feel more like bone.”
This she knew. “No, my lord, no mere parchment.” She took up a card depicting a woman stepping into the sea and ran her finger along its surface. “Have you felt the change as you have touched them? Do they not warm and become as living things?”
Stavros nodded. “I do feel something. They feel almost...familiar.” His expression was grave, and in his eyes she saw something just shy of fear. She imagined she looked much the same when Jana showed her the cards.
She smiled. “They are carved from the horn of the ibex, the most sacred of creatures.” She held the card up in the lamplight, allowing it to shine, its unpainted portions becoming almost transparent. “Just as you learn of the cards, they shall learn of you.” He drank, considering this, and she made sure to top off his cup.
Stavros shook his head as if to clear it. “Yes, of course.” He grinned sloppily. “Well, then. Go on. Tell me my future.”
There was nothing for it, then. She gestured for him to shuffle the cards. He did so, both careful and clumsy, then handed her back the deck. She proceeded to deal out the top five cards face-down, just as Jana had done for her, one in the center of the table, surrounded by four more.
“This,” she whispered, gesturing to the center card, “is the face you wear.” She waited for him to turn it over. When the card came into view, her heart stopped.
She’d seen this before. She had been here before. The young Domae man strode along the path without a care in the world. The rose in his hair was blood-red, the sky behind him a pale and beautiful blue, and the cliff before him a sharp and precipitous drop to his death.
She had stood at the precipice and been called fool.
“Balatro deorum,” she whispered. That long-ago night, in the middle of their drunken mischief, this card had been the first to appear in Jana’s reading, what the weaver had called the fool of the gods. The most blessed and the most cursed.
Stavros looked up at her in wonder. “What is it? What does it mean?”
She tried to keep her voice from shaking. “It is the face you wear, and the one that others see. The Fool.” Duchess said the words, but all she heard was Jana’s voice, and for a moment she felt as though she were actually there.
Stavros frowned, seeming both angry and rueful. “That seems true enough.”
Duchess held up a hand.
“The card is both a truth and a mask, innocence and inexperience, but it is also instinct. It is one who is at the beginning of a journey, who has yet to come into her own and does not know the price she must pay.” She knew whereof she spoke.
“He must pay,” Stavros corrected, leaning so close to the cards he could have kissed them. “Go on.”
Somehow she knew what was coming. “These next three shall say where you stand, what surrounds you.” She allowed him to flip the leftmost card and was not surprised at what she saw. The blood that covered the card was very bright indeed, and it flowed from the necks of two women, cutting each other’s throats with sharp knives. Their faces were masks of rage and pain. “Vengeance,” she said, though Jana had called the card justice when Duchess herself had drawn it.
Stavros shuddered and refilled his goblet, taking a healthy gulp. “What does it mean?”
“Wild justice,” Duchess replied, remembering Cecilia’s words. “A madness inflicted by the gods, when we think to take what we deserve. When there are others to blame for our grief.” Those whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad.
“That surely sounds like my family.”
“This—” She placed a finger over the next “—is what holds you in place.” This time it was she who flipped the card, and again she was unsurprised. She gazed at the beautiful pattern of blue and white, the complex lines and curves drawn to the card’s very edge. In the center lay a man, pinned and bound, the lines passing through his arms, his throat, his crossed legs.
