The Ruling Mask

by Neil McGarry

  Duchess slumped against the wagon and almost laughed. Iris was satisfied and Isabelle could now marry as she wished, betrayal or no. Fiona would be furious at being deceived, true, but if Martin were packed off to exile, her main goal would be accomplished. Whatever happened at Banncroft, she was done with that viper’s pit without a bite to show for it. She turned back to Mikkos. “As soon as Lysander gets back we can go. I’m not leaving him behind.”

  “No, you aren’t,” said Lysander, coming up with Dorian Eusbius. Standing together, blond and blue-eyed, they looked almost like brothers, except that Lysander was tall and slender while Dorian was shorter, thicker, and broader. Dorian looked radiant in a royal blue doublet trimmed in gold, with black-and-white hose that were as attractive on him as they were impractical for winter. “I’ll just give you two a moment together so that Mikkos and I can have a moment together.” He climbed into the wagon and Mikkos followed, disappearing behind the curtain with a grin.

  Dorian smiled at her. “All’s well, I hope? I didn’t want to approach until you were finished with Lady Iris. I trust your business went well?”

  She’d never been happier to see those lovely eyes of his. “Yes, thanks to you. I didn’t mean to involve you in all of this, but...well, I couldn’t think of anything else.”

  His smile broadened. “Every time we meet it seems like something strange is going on. The Halls of Dawn, the Fall of Ventaris, the Davari party, and now this. I’m dying to know what’s behind it.”

  “I promised, didn’t I? Anything you wanted.” She took a deep breath. “We don’t have time for everything, I suppose, but I’ll tell you what I can.”

  “No.”

  She blinked. “But...that’s what I promised.”

  Dorian shrugged. “And I appreciate that. I want to know more about you, but not as a part of some desperate bargain. What you want me to know you’ll tell me; until then, I’ll keep waiting.”

  She found herself unable to force words past the lump in her throat. All the stress and fear of the night slipped away in the face of Dorian’s patient, undemanding generosity. She felt for a moment she might cry. We use and are used in turn, in Rodaas. But not by Dorian, it seemed.

  Finally, she found her voice. “I don’t think you’ll be waiting long,” she said, so that only he would hear. She touched his hand with two fingers. “By the way, you look lovely tonight.” She meant it; after a night in those terrible bandages sneaking around Banncroft, she felt tattered and tawdry by comparison.

  He grinned like a boy. “And you’re amazing,” he said, shaking his head. “You look like you’ve had a long evening. May I call upon you soon?”

  She returned his grin. “You’d better, or else I’ll have to sneak into Temple after you.” He sketched a short bow and moved off to rejoin the party. She watched him go, then knocked on the wagon. “Whatever you two are up to had better be over soon. I’d like to get back down the hill before morning.”

  It was, and soon they were all crammed onto the bench behind the donkeys as Mikkos guided them back toward the Shallows. As they passed through Albastone’s gates, Duchess turned to Lysander. “You were right, you know. About Dorian.”

  “Oh?”

  “He does look amazing in that hose.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Loose threads

  Duchess stood among the shrines of a thousand gods, waiting for a priest who belonged to none of them.

  She’d arrived at the Godswalk before sunrise, beating both the beggars and the morning fog, although there wouldn’t be many of the former, not with the strife of the Evangelism still ongoing. She wasn’t fond of arising so early, but that morning she felt as if she simply could not stay in bed.

  Something had shifted on the Highway. Ever since Pete the Pearl had begun his whisper campaign against her, she’d felt as though everything she did was simply holding her ground, but no more. Since her victory over House Davari, she’d made great strides on the Highway and she judged her standing higher than ever. The Grey’s entire storehouse of gossip and secrets was once again open to her. Merchants who had become surly were now smiling and helpful once more; laundrywomen, chimney sweeps and lightboys now nodded respectfully as she passed; and the steady flow of petitioners, with marks in their hands and requests on their lips, had resumed. Why that very morning, Burrell in his usual spot at Beggar’s Gate had spared her his reliably flat humor and never once asked why she wished to enter Temple District before dawn. She suspected that the next time she stopped by the Vermillion, she’d be welcome to use the front door.

  She could not imagine Philemon was particularly happy with that outcome.

  She wondered if the last of the Grey Emperors had ever stood where she stood now, back when the Domae called this place home. Back before her people had built their statues and their faith and their society as a faded copy of the glory of Old Domani. He’d once been a living man, but he now was something different, and whatever he had become meant her harm.

  From her spot on the grassy center of the Godswalk, among the deserted shrines of the petty gods of the city, she looked around her. The Walk was almost deserted at this hour save for a few servants hurrying by on business. There stood the Halls of Dawn, the Sanctum of Anassa, the Gardens of Mayu, each with its chained statue. If the Evangelism continued as it had the gods would eventually slip their bonds, and then where would they be?

  Movement from the direction of the Halls of Dawn caught her eye and she saw a cloaked figure heading towards her, carrying a pale torch of curved birchwood. For an instant he seemed an avatar of Ventaris himself, but as he drew closer she saw it was only Amabilis, moving through the markers of the Thousand Named and Nameless Gods.

  “I confess, Duchess of the Shallows, you continue to impress,” the preceptor said by way of greeting. Under his heavy cloak he wore the robes of a radiant, easily seen by anyone paying attention.

  “Not worried about secrecy, Preceptor?” She indicated his raiment.

  “Not at all. It is well known that I visit this place each day before the dawn worship, to remind myself of the gods I forsook to follow the All-Father.” She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “This morning I chanced upon another pilgrim, nothing more.”

  “I presume you’ve heard that a certain betrothal was never announced?”

  Amabilis’ colorless eyes glittered in the torchlight. “So ends the alliance between Attys and the Davari.” His smile was cold and white. “I presume this sudden change of policy is your doing.”

  As if he hadn’t known. Amabilis was well placed on the Grey, and everyone who wore the cloak was talking about Duchess’ work in Banncroft. “I did as I promised. As you know, I was especially motivated.”

  Amabilis gazed at her without remorse. “I hope I was able to instill in you the light of the All-Father, around whom all things turn.”

  Duchess snorted bitter laughter. “You never stop, do you? From anyone else I’d take that to be mere pious bleating, but you actually believe the things you do are noble. Enable a half-mad killer? Threaten the life of a child? Backstab your own High Lambent? No matter how heinous the act, as far as you’re concerned it’s all for the good.” She shook her head. “I’ve seen a good many crimes committed in this city, Preceptor, but you’re the only person I’ve ever met who thought it righteous to commit them.”

  If her words touched him, she would never have known it. “And of course your conscience is clear.” He seemed to seek something in her eyes, and to find it. “You think the Grey a toy, or a hobby, something one can pick up when bored and put down once sufficiently amused. Live long enough and you will find that the color of your cloak soon becomes the color of your heart. Not white, not black, but gray. Always gray.” He looked into the flame of the torch. “You consort with whores and foreigners. You are fellows with the likes of Jadis. You are a thief and a liar and if what has been said upon the Highway is true your own hands drip with blood.” He turned and stared into the darkness. “As for me, I am my
lord’s servant, nothing more. And He finds uses for us all.”

  She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice.“Your lord’s plans for you seem bright. After all, you’ll soon be High Lambent.” She gestured to the statues that stood about them. “Perhaps he means for you to win the Evangelism and restore your faith to ascendancy.”

  Amabilis shook his head. “Unfortunately, even with my lord’s help, not all things are possible. I may soon preside over the Halls of Dawn, but my predecessor’s failures cast a long shadow. My brothers and I will not emerge from the Evangelism victorious.” He looked up at the statue of Ventaris, with its chains and its wheel. “Like Adam Whitehall, we shall face justice.”

  She looked at him skeptically. “You’re taking this well.”

  He glanced at her with faint admiration. “You are wise to be suspicious. Once my primacy is established, I intend to throw the support of the Halls of Dawn behind the cult of Anassa.”

  Her heart went cold as she remembered the day she and Jana stood in that same place, ringed by the masked faces of the facets. “By all the gods, why would you do that?”

  “Because they are not Jadis, who is a blight upon his order and this city both. I was forced to suffer him as First Keeper, but I will not see him stand next to the empress.” Amabilis regarded her with his strange, colorless eyes. “You may well think me a hypocrite, but I am a patriot. My love for my god and for my city places me in opposition to Jadis. Adam Whitehall once told me that the Key of Mayu would bring forth a poison that even the First Keeper would not know. I mean to make certain he tastes of that venom, for if left unchecked, he will bring this empire to ruin.”

  She despised this cold, amoral man, but in that moment he sounded almost sincere, and the realization left her unsettled. “Let’s stick to business, shall we?” From her pocket she produced a square of white marble—his mark. “Now that Attys is ruined and your rise is assured, you’re in a position to do something for me.”

  Amabilis looked at her as if she were a child who had said something amusing. “How very interesting, but unfortunately, all your efforts in this matter were simply the fulfillment of a bargain. We owe each other nothing, and nothing is precisely what I plan to give.” He made as if to leave, but she stepped into his path, fixing him with the darkest look she could muster.

  “Oh, you’ll give me this, Amabilis, if you ever plan to have a moment’s peace.” Ignoring his incredulous look, she went on. “You may have higher status on the Grey—for now—and a position of power with an imperial cult, but I have something far more dangerous. You once called me a particle of chaos. You were more right than you knew. You will continue to make sure Attys never finds Far because if you don’t, I’ll bring all the chaos I ever visited upon Baron Eusbius, or the Atropi, or House Davari right to your doorstep. I will work night and day to make certain you never become High Lambent and that will be only the beginning. I will expose every sin you’ve ever committed, drag to light every stinking scandal into which you’ve dipped your hands. I will ruin you, and neither your piety nor your marks nor the favor of Ventaris will protect you.” She let that sink in, then added, “Don’t underestimate me, Preceptor. Since I donned the gray cloak, I have proven myself twice over. Will you be number three?”

  He measured her with those colorless eyes. “What makes you think the boy needs my protection? After all, your own actions have ended Attys’ ambitions.”

  Duchess shook her head. “Even without the support of Banncroft, Attys won’t simply give up his claim. Until another heir is securely seated on the throne, Far will always be at risk. You will use all of your influence on the Highway to watch the boy and his father, and if anything threatens either of them, you’ll tell me first. Do that, and I’ll be satisfied.”

  “And for just how long am I to provide this protection?”

  Duchess met his gaze squarely. “Until I tell you it is no longer necessary.” She held out the mark. “Do we have an understanding?”

  Slowly, Amabilis reached out to take it. “If I have your assurance that you will do nothing to interfere with my plans, then I rather think we do.”

  “Preceptor,” she said with a rueful smile, “trust me when I say that it is my dearest wish that we never cross paths again.”

  “I find myself in accord.” The presumptive High Lambent looked out towards the Godswalk, his face in shadow, his left hand in light. “I have bartered too long with chaos—with Adam Whitehall, and with you. I fear if I continue playing with such fire, I will most assuredly burn.” And then he was gone, moving between shrines and statuary, leaving her once again alone in the cold of an early winter’s morning.

  * * *

  The door opened at the first knock, as if Cecilia had been lurking just on the other side. “Duchess,” she said, obviously surprised and not at all pleased. “How did you get—” She broke off when she saw the tall, gaunt form of Savant Terence looming behind her.

  Terence smiled. “May we enter? The hallway seems a poor place to talk.”

  “I—I suppose so.” Cecilia swung the door wide and they entered the same meeting room in which Cecilia had shown Duchess the wall-painting of Philemon. The place was less tidy than when Duchess had first seen it, littered with quills and papers, and the tapestry was still lying on the floor. The scholar scrambled to clean up. “I’m sorry, Savant, if I had but known you were coming—”

  Terence waved a hand. “It’s I who should apologize, dropping in without notice.” He took a seat in a chair she had recently cleared. “This meeting is as much a surprise to me, I assure you.”

  Cecilia took another chair as Duchess hopped up to sit on the table amongst the books and papers, her legs dangling. Cecilia looked up at her, concern clear on her features. “May I ask—”

  “I told Terence of your plans to nail copies of your paper to every door in the Scriptorium,” Duchess said without preamble, trying not to look at the image of Philemon on the wall, “and after that he insisted upon speaking to you himself.” She had caught Cecilia just in time; being back in good standing on the Grey had its advantages, and hearing about the foolish plans of scholars was one of them.

  Cecilia gaped, and her green eyes flicked warily to Terence. The savant sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Cecilia, I salute your dedication to scholarship, but this plan is as dangerous as it is useless. This would never have gotten past the copyists. Whomever you paid to duplicate such a document would have realized just what he was copying and alerted the savants. You would have wasted your coin, ended your career, and invited charges of heresy from the cults in a single stroke. When Duchess told me of this mad plan, I acted at once.”

  Cecilia turned a wounded look toward Duchess and it was all she could do to keep from rolling her eyes. “Cecilia, I know you think I’ve betrayed you, but stop and consider a moment. Savant Terence isn’t trying to steal your ideas. He’s not that kind of man. And before you ask how I can know that, I know that because my father knew.”

  When Cecilia spoke, her voice was thick with tears. “Then why stop me when I have the diaries to prove that my thesis is true? Don’t you believe in Marcus Kell’s work? I thought you would not let me publish because I am a woman. That no one would believe an idea if a man did not have it first. But a man did, and even that is not enough!”

  Duchess tried to rein in her temper. “Writing about the cults this way is heresy. What is the punishment, Savant?”

  Terence’s expression turned hard. “Exile at the very least. Death, most likely.”

  Duchess leaned forward. “I know you believe in your thesis, Cecilia, and so do I, but if you publish it they will kill you.” She held the scholar’s gaze. “You know how the Rodaasi react to reform; remember the fate of Vassilus. If they’d kill an emperor to stop him from speaking truth, do you think they’d blink at doing the same to a journeyman scholar? A female scholar at that?”

  Cecilia regarded her for a long time with those pale green eyes,
and Duchess realized that referencing the woman’s own work had been the right move. She seemed about to protest, and then her shoulders sagged and she nodded, eyes shining with tears. “It always comes back to that, doesn’t it?”

  “Perhaps it does,” Terence sighed. Duchess imagined he’d had similar conversations with his own daughter. “We cannot change what we are.”

  They sat in silence for awhile, and then Cecilia said, “So what happens now?”

  Terence’s voice was low, but firm. “You are a brilliant researcher who has already added significantly to the store of knowledge in the Scriptorium. I have every confidence your record in that regard will continue to be superb. We’ll simply find you another topic for your paper, one that is no less insightful but far less incendiary.”

  This was the moment Duchess had waited for. She’d given a good deal of thought to the situation in the imperial court, now that Attys no longer had the support of either House Davari or the radiants. She was more certain than ever of Violana’s hand behind Takkis’ promotion; she’d rewarded the man after using him to make Far’s parentage public. After all, Lord Larric, her brother-in-law, had been involved in trying to keep the boy safe.

  There can be no more assistance from me and mine, not until things have changed.

  Perhaps the facets had been right in their prophecy. Perhaps a change was come, one that Violana had sparked the Evangelism in the hopes of bringing about.

  Duchess hopped off the table. “If I may, Savant?” She turned to Cecilia, her eyes half on the portrait of Philemon. “I have a notion that might allow you to publish the essence of your paper without risking heresy.”

  Hope and suspicion in equal measure were reflected in Cecilia’s eyes. She brushed her hair back and wiped at her nose with her sleeve. “Go on.”

  “As I understand it, your thesis is that the imperial cults the Rodaasi worship today are adaptations from traditions held by the Domae when they lived upon the hill. Do I have that right, Savant?”