The bloody handkerchief is his key. With an effort of will, he can mimic the spiritual identity of the person behind the blood. Like making a duplicate key, pressing it into the shapeless darkness of his soul. He wraps the handkerchief around the fingers of one hand and presses on the sigils while picking the lock with the other.
It’s almost anticlimactic, how easy it is.
The spy enters the apartment, closing the door silently behind him, unseen in the heart of Guerdon.
Lemuel insists Terevant keep silent until they’re well clear of the New City, as if he expects this Saint of Knives to hear their whispered conversation, as if he expects the demon girl the priest described to suddenly appear in front of them, materialising in a puff of smoke to murder them both with burning blades. He waits in silence as the train carries them north, stained fingers pressed against his wounded arm. It’s only when they’re past Venture Square that Lemuel proves willing to speak.
“You should write up a report. Make it an elegy if you want.” A warning about mad saints. He seems to think the matter is settled–Vanth was simply unlucky. No grand conspiracy.
In any other city, Terevant wouldn’t think twice. He saw plenty of mad saints in Paravos, mortals lifted out of the everyday world by the touch of the gods and put back down askew. Mad saints at Eskalind, too, laughing as they killed.
But Guerdon’s supposed to be different. And he’s supposed to be different. The old Terevant might have taken the easy answer that Lemuel offers, to agree that Vanth’s death was a cruel act of god and call it done, but he’s going to do better this time. He wants to show Lys he can do better.
So, when they reach the embassy, he returns to Vanth’s office. Sits down at the paper-strewn desk and starts to work again. He needs to make sure he’s not missing anything, some clue that might unlock a deeper mystery.
This time, he starts with older files. Vanth kept dossiers on various key figures in Guerdon. It’s confusing to Terevant’s eyes. Back in Haith, the names don’t change. The Crown is always the Crown, the Enshrined families are always the same, regardless of who currently bears the family phylactery. The masters of the Bureau are all long established on their Vigils. If one were to compile similar dossiers on the rulers of Haith, you could safely carve them in stone. The living are footnotes to the dead.
It’s not like that in Guerdon. Names appear and vanish, factions form and dissolve. There’s no order, only temporary arrangements. A few people are threaded through the folders–Effro Kelkin, for example, has had a hand in everything for decades. Prince Daerinth, too, has been a quiet player in Guerdon’s politics for decades, ever since he was exiled here after his royal mother’s passing. Other folders end abruptly–one day there are sheaves of newspaper cuttings, reams of notes in Vanth’s copperplate handwriting, and then there’s nothing but a clipped obituary or a brief note describing their fall. Rosha, the genius guildmistress of the alchemists, vanishes during the Crisis. The former Patros dies. Edwin Droupe hastily exits. The power structure of the city washed away overnight.
Tucked at the back of Rosha’s file, there’s a single handwritten list. Terevant takes it out and stares at it. A list of Haithi family names, old ones. It takes him a minute to work out what they have in common–it’s a list of noble families that have died out without heirs. Their phylacteries taken to some arsenal under the royal palace. He tries to think of what such a note has to do with Rosha, but it makes no sense. Misfiled, he guesses. It’s not the only error he’s found.
He reads through other files. One heavy folder describes secret arms deals with alchemists, conducted through intermediaries. Hints of new weapons, more potent than any that had come before–and from the timing, these must be the god bombs Lys talked about.
The price was the “accidental” destruction of a Keeper monastery on Beckanore. Even after reading the file, Terevant’s unsure why the alchemists wanted the monastery burned, but there’s a copy of Vanth’s letter of commendation sent by the Crown itself, so it must have been a success.
But Rosha’s gone, and the alchemists are in disarray. It appears that Vanth was still obtaining alchemical weapons after the Crisis, so who was his supplier?
An arms dealer? There are plenty of files on those, and going through all of them takes hours. By the end, Terevant knows far more than he ever wished about the arms trade in the city, and how lucrative it is–his head spins from reading endless columns of numbers.
Heavy footsteps from outside. He hastily closes the folders. Olthic strides into the room, not bothering to knock.
“Next week, you’re going to come with me to parliament. You need to see diplomacy at work.”
“What’s going on?”
“Simply put, I’m going to propose an alliance, between Haith and Guerdon. A mutually beneficial pact–we get all the alchemical weapons they can make, we protect them and their shipping.”
“This is going before their… emergency committee?”
Olthic shakes his head. “Their damn election makes everything more complex. We’ll be meeting with the emergency committee, but nothing will be signed until after the election–and it means we’ll need to convince all of the party heads, so we’re assured of victory no matter who wins.”
Terevant looks his brother in the eye and asks a question that’s been troubling him since he arrived. Maybe longer. Maybe since the retreat from Eskalind.
“Olthic,” he asks, “why are you here? You could have had your pick of assignments. I visited the family commanders before I left Haith–Rabendath and the rest are desperate for you to return and lead the House troops. Why take the posting as ambassador?”
His brother stands, paces. Doesn’t look at him as he answers. “The Crown wants Guerdon, Ter. When I get the sword, I’ll be able to stand toe to toe with a demigod. But we’re up against gods, and we’ll need all the weapons they make here.
“Once I get the sword,” continues Olthic, speaking to himself. “Then I’ll lead the defence of Haith. I’m not like the rest of the living, Ter. I never lose my nerve.” He turns to leave, then stops and turns back. “I’m told you found Vanth’s remains. That was quick work. Well done, brother.”
“Who told you?” asks Terevant, but he can guess.
“Lemuel. A mad saint, he said. I’m not surprised–the Godswar’s in the New City already, but the rest of Guerdon won’t admit it. If they’d seen what you and I saw at Eskalind, eh…” Olthic shakes his head. “They need Haith as much as we need them. We have to band together against the storm.”
“Practising your speech for parliament?”
“Something like that.” Olthic taps the doorframe with his hand, like he’s patting it on the back. “The Bureau keeps pestering me for news on Vanth. They’ve got a bee in their skulls about his case.”
The god bombs, thinks Terevant. He takes a moment of secret pleasure in knowing a secret that Olthic does not.
“Muttering about assassins and conspiracies. They fear Ishmeric spies infiltrating Guerdon and targeting the weapons foundries. You know the Bureau–full of paranoids. Endless wheels within wheels, endless reports and schemes, and still they turn to the Houses to get anything done.” Olthic rolls his eyes. “Write up a report on Vanth’s death, then go and fetch the sword. I’ll need it before parliament.”
Olthic walks out, vanishing silently down the corridor. He can move like a panther when he wants to.
To die at the hands of a saint is to be struck down by the wrath of a god, and the gods are mad. So everyone says. Vanth’s death, therefore, has no more meaning than a storm at sea sinking one ship and not another.
But if that’s true, there’s equally no reason why Terevant survived Eskalind and the other soldiers did not, and Terevant doesn’t like that thought. There has to be some meaning to it. Some unseen poetry that makes destiny rhyme.
Terevant waits until Olthic’s gone, then closes the files, locks the office door. In Haith, it is said, the dead speak honestly. And he’s
yet to hear from Vanth’s body.
Eladora isn’t sure how long she has to wait in that windowless, doorless and shamefully bookless room. She jumps at every noise in the building below her, imagining it’s assassins creeping up the tower to murder her. Or Miren, returning for Carillon, and finding her instead.
It’s dark outside when Cari returns for her, and her cousin stops to scrub blood from a knife before they depart. “I had to check something. The bastards who came after you are the same ones who dumped the body,” says Cari. The knife blade’s gleaming now, but she keeps scrubbing. “Spar couldn’t see where they went. Someone knows how to hide from me. Some relic or a spell or shit. Don’t like that.”
Eladora thinks back to the night of the reception at the Haithi embassy. The uproar over some incident. “Could you learn anything about the dead man from Haith?”
Cari ignores her, asks a question of her own. “Gethis Row’s down by Seamarket, isn’t it?”
Both locations are in the Wash. Eladora knows them from canvassing and her walks with Absalom Spyke. She nods.
Carillon bites her lip, picks up a different knife, circles around the apartment. “What is it?” asks Eladora.
“You’re pretty high up with Kelkin and his lot, right? You’d hear things, watch reports, that sort of stuff?”
“I-I’m one of Kelkin’s aides. Yes, I’m sometimes privy to sensitive information and secrets. Especially given our, ah, shared involvement in the Crisis.”
“Know some guy called Edoric Vanth?”
The name is vaguely familiar. “I think he’s Third Secretary at the embassy of Old Haith, or some similar title.”
“And Haith’s the place with all the dead guys who worship magic crowns, right?”
“I thought you travelled the world,” sniffs Eladora, recalling a long-ago conversation where Carillon was more than happy to show how parochial Eladora’s life was in comparison to her own former wanderlust.
“Never went north.”
“Ah. Well, Haith’s ruled by a Crown that’s said to hold the wisdom of all previous kings. The aristocratic families all have a phylactery of their own, like the Crown but of less stature. And there’s an elite class of intelligent undead, the Vigilants.”
“So, I was right.”
“I wouldn’t be so reductive.”
“What can kill one of those Vigilants?”
Eladora’s hardly an expert on such matters. “I don’t know. I understand they’re quite resilient–after all, they’re already dead, so mere wounds wouldn’t suffice. I suppose the most effective way would be some sort of counter-magic.”
“Saint stuff?”
Eladora remembers Saint Aleena in the tomb, parrying the spells of the Crawling Ones. Her sword of fire, its blaze incinerating Jermas Thay, the firelight driving away the darkness. “I suppose so.” She touches the hilt of Aleena’s sword for comfort.
“Huh,” says Carillon. She flexes her hand, looks at a faded scar on her palm.
Eladora weighs how much she should trust her cousin. By rights, she should report this meeting to the watch. She may no longer be the saint of the monstrous Black Iron Gods, but her supernatural connection to the New City is a worrying development.
“I don’t know. If I hear anything, I’ll… well, how can I find you if I do hear anything?”
“I’ll find you. Don’t come back here, El. Don’t look for me.”
Eladora nods.
“All right! All right!” snaps Cari in frustration. “I’ll give it to her.” She digs into a pocket, producing a handful of boiled sweets, a few coins and a list of names scrawled on a scrap of paper. She hands the list to Eladora. “There, happy?” she asks. “He’s really fucking excited about this. Now come on.”
The return journey is surreally quick. Descending the many floors of the tower is like a whistle-stop tour of the wider world. On every level, the residents have decorated the walls of the landing with symbols and tokens of their vanished homes. Those who fled Ul-Taen have drawn protective sigils, and left an eerily lifelike mannikin watching over the stairwell. Those who left Lyrix to seek safety in Guerdon are guarded by a painted dragon, with teeth made of cuttlefish bones.
Outside, Cari hustles Eladora through back alleyways and secret stairs that open into a subway station. At this hour of the night, the trains run only infrequently, but there’s one waiting there at the platform.
Cari shoves Eladora on board and closes the door without a word of farewell. A moment later, with a hiss of smoke from its alchemical engine, the train departs. The last Eladora sees of her cousin is Cari hurrying down the platform, muttering to the walls.
Carillon, she thinks privately to herself, has never looked more like Silva. It’s not just that they’re both sainted–it’s a family resemblance, something Thay-ish about them. The Thay family was once tightly bound to Guerdon’s fortunes, and now that the link to the city’s future has been severed, Cari and Silva are both adrift. Finding new ways to shape Guerdon’s fate.
It’s only a short ride before Eladora’s back on familiar territory, and the train pulls into the Venture Square stop only a short walk from her apartment.
There’s a pile of rags on her doorstep. As Eladora gets closer, the rags unfold and rush towards her. It’s Silkpurse.
“Oh, thank goodness, thank goodness. We looked all through the New City, Alic and I, but we got separated for a while and I couldn’t find you. He’s probably still up there looking, I’ll tell him you’re safe.” The ghoul’s clawed fingers pluck at Eladora’s wounded forehead, her torn clothes. “I can fix up that,” says Silkpurse, poking at one rip. “I’m good with thread.” The ghoul’s own dress is bloodstained, and she’s limping, but ghouls heal quickly.
“I just need to sleep,” insists Eladora. Silkpurse fusses about her, but she’s suddenly too tired to explain what happened, so she just stumbles upstairs, falling through the door into her flat. She shuts it behind her, feels the cool darkness on her skin.
Her heart races as a sudden fear washes over her; every time she comes home, she imagines she’ll find Miren waiting there for her, with a knife. But no assassin emerges from the shadows. No monstrous boy, stepping between the cracks of the world. She takes a breath and pushes the fear away.
She scoops up a pile of letters from the mat, stumbles down the hallway without lighting the lamp, seeing by touch and memory. In her study, she finds a smaller reading light and conjures a harsh glow from the aetheric tube. Cobwebs brush against her face; she hasn’t cleaned in weeks. At least, she reflects, it’s not quite as bad as Carillon’s place, and the cobwebs tell her that no one’s been here.
The note Carillon gave her falls to the floor. She picks it up and peers at her cousin’s atrocious handwriting. As promised, it’s a list of names and addresses in the New City, the people Cari glimpsed in her visions who would make good candidates. They’ll all need to be vetted, of course, but the few names Eladora recognises are promising indeed. She places Cari’s list on her writing desk, next to a pristine sheet of white paper. In the morning, she’ll transcribe the list into her own perfect handwriting. Almost as an afterthought, she adds one more name to the bottom of the list. Alic is at least worth consideration by the party.
She sinks into an armchair and tries to focus on the letters. Calling cards from various IndLibs in Kelvin’s orbit, drafts of speeches and policy papers, committee circulars. A memo talking about the upcoming Festival of Flowers and how the Keepers will use it for electioneering; lists of ideas on how the IndLibs can garland themselves in the trappings of the faith without making any commitments to the Keeper’s church.
Every time the building creaks, she flinches. The toes of her boots are splattered with blood. She removes them and hides them in a closet.
Next is a folder of sensitive documents, sealed away behind wards. Eladora’s letter opener has a retractable needle in the hilt so she can prick her finger and bleed on the wax, certifying her identity and disarming the magical
traps. If she’d cast the spell herself or had a key to it, she wouldn’t need this little blood sacrifice, and her finger wouldn’t have developed a semi-permanent scar over the last year.
Inside she finds notes on trade and diplomacy, news from abroad that might affect the election. There’s a draft of a speech on the navy that Kelkin wants to give. Kelkin’s draft is rambling, written in haste, talking about new defences for the city, more escorts to defend against pirates from Lyrix and raiding krakens. The first of a new class of fast interceptors, to be launched just before the election.
From the writing, she can tell Kelkin is rattled, and he always overreacts when he’s defensive, giving up his grand designs and leaps of progress to protect against much smaller slights. She imagines him as a dragon–slow, lumbering, ancient and scaly, vicious and cruel on the ground, but able to soar to the heavens when it takes flight. Sleeping on his hoard of voting ballots, the backroom of the Vulcan as his lair.
The thought makes her laugh and drop the pen, which rolls under the chair. Getting up to fetch it is intolerable, and the chair’s so comfortable. She sets the letter aside, slipping it back into the folder and resealing it. The wax heals itself, flowing and merging. Like the flesh of a Tallowman.
As sleep comes, she remembers something, but she can’t catch the thought. It’s like a little spider, scurrying through her mind, hiding under the furniture. She glimpses it, but it’s too fast, and it vanishes down into the deep places she doesn’t like to think about any more, the sealed files.
If it’s important, it’ll come back.
CHAPTER 18
Queen’s Point is the city’s clenched fist. It’s a fortress that commands the bay; a naval base with a dozen gunboats tied up at the docks, and the grey shark-shapes of larger steel-hulled warships out to sea; it’s a prison and a barracks and a headquarters for the city’s watch. All spikes and barricades and gun barrels and fluttering flags and military discipline. All reassuringly familiar at first, but, as Terevant moves through the fort, it becomes jarring.
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