Shield of Fire

by Boone Brux

  “I’m not talking about politics, Cousin.” I stepped back into a genuflection and then forward, looking up into his face. “I am talking about my sister. Your wife. She is having your child.”

  He looked puzzled, bless his craven heart. “I don’t—?”

  “Ola,” I whispered harshly. “For the love of Heaven!”

  “For pity’s sake, Anazakia!” He spun me about, and I whirled to face him once more. “I know who I’m married to.”

  “Do you?” We were about to switch partners and there was no time to belabor the point. “And whom are you meeting when you go out riding? Do you take my sister for a fool?”

  He released me, and I turned and curtsied to my new partner. I watched my cousin over my partner’s shoulder while we moved farther apart, and saw, at last, some humility in his eyes.

  When the dance ended, Kae made polite conversation before making his way to the alcove seat where I’d retired. He sat beside me.

  “Nenny.” He had not called me Nenny, the name Azel had invented after deeming my customary nickname too hard to pronounce, since I was a bare-legged tree climber. “You’re right. But you’re wrong.”

  I waited.

  “I haven’t been meeting anyone. But I have been going out to see… you wouldn’t… the most beautiful… ”

  “The steed,” I said, and Kae’s eyes snapped to mine. “I saw her.”

  “Yes?” His eyes shone.

  “But I heard her, also, Kae. I heard a woman’s voice, the owner of the steed.”

  He frowned as if considering something contradictory, but said nothing.

  “You are killing Ola,” I told him. “She could not love you more deeply if you had been a love match. You are not just a convenient arrangement to her.”

  Kae stood, giving me a look of rebuke, but at least it was a look I recognized. “Ola is not an arrangement to me. You cannot imagine how much I love her.”

  “I don’t doubt it, Kae. But I’m not the one you need to convince.”

  He turned on his heel. I had angered him, but I hoped I had knocked him from whatever fantasy he was pursuing with the owner of that white mare.

  With relief, I watched him find Ola settled upon a cushioned bench across the hall watching the orchestra play. Kae kissed her hand and held her gloved knuckles to his cheek for a long moment before kneeling on one knee to lay his head against her belly. Ola sifted his pale curls through her fingers. For the moment, all was well.

  Tatia and Maia were making the rounds with Mama, doing their social duty, while my father played host to the noble houses of the Heavens, asserting his autocracy. With Azel still bedridden, I ought to have checked in on him and read to him to cheer him up, but my shade could do it for me.

  Instead, full of restless energy, I had come to the place where I did not have to be charming, or gracious, or even interesting. I had only to put up my crystal and play my hand well. And in a single night at the wingcasting table, I lost everything.

  Vtoroe: Chance

  There was no order in Heaven, despite what the Host would have the Fallen believe; its holy hierarchy was merely a game of chance. Fortunately for Belphagor, he was a master at games of chance.

  The Firmament depended upon its illusion—its delusion—of order and perfection. Everything untidy, unclean, and unrefined was swept under the white, glistening veneer of Elysium’s alabaster streets into the gutters of Raqia.

  And Raqia was where the real action was.

  Belphagor rolled his cigar between his teeth and surveyed his cards. With the heel of one boot hooked against the bar beneath the table, he leaned back in his chair and balanced on the rear legs. From beneath his shuttered eyes, he focused on the player across from him. She was an easy mark, an angel slumming in the nadir of Raqia.

  He chuckled to himself against his cigar. It was a mark of her naïveté that she believed her disguise convincing. No demon had such undistinguished features. This one’s skin was like glass with liquid gold shimmering beneath the transparent surface. She had the distasteful blandness of celestial perfection. Only the ruby eyes peering from beneath her hood suggested the defiant individuality of one of the Fallen; everything else said she was one of the Host.

  Over the horizon of his cards, Belphagor watched the impostor cast the die. He was going to leave this den of iniquity with every facet she had.

  “Serpent,” he said with a yawn. The die struck the far corner of the table and landed on its side.

  The angel’s face fell at the appearance of the serpent on the skyward side of the die. She examined her hand with a frown and placed an Archangel of tricks on the table.

  Belphagor paused to take the lulava being passed to him. With his cards in one hand, the water pipe in the other, and the cigar rolled to the side of his mouth with a smooth flick, he took a draw on the end of the hose. The firedust swam in his lungs, and he closed his eyes and let the pleasant heat expand throughout his chest. When he opened his eyes, the angel was staring at him, her mouth locked tight with disdain.

  He rolled the cigar back to the center of his teeth and grinned. “Looks like you could use a bit o’ heat ’twixt your lips,” he said with a significant lift of his pierced eyebrow, and passed the lulava to her.

  She folded her arms with her cards tucked in the crook of her elbow. “I don’t despoil myself. The airs of the Firmament are intoxicant enough without resorting to a cheap rise.”

  He shrugged and passed the pipe to the next player, who took it without protest. The dust was still bursting behind Belphagor’s eyes with the pleasant crackling of a wood fire, and the scent of ambergris filled his head. He breathed in deeply to enhance the sensation.

  “If there’s anyone ever needed despoiling more’n you, I’ve not seen ’em,” he said around his cigar while shuffling through his cards once more. “An’ a rise with me i’n’ ever cheap.” He winked at her and she looked away, the translucence of her cheeks revealing the flush of blood.

  Belphagor picked up the die and cast it with a flick of his wrist.

  “Rook,” called his adversary. The die tumbled toward her across the marble surface and snapped against her corner. The eel appeared on its face. The disguised angel yanked her pouch from the table and spilled the remaining facets into her palm, counting them furiously.

  “I’ll be taking your full han’.” Belphagor shifted his cards once more and rocked back on the chair. “Best keep a bit of your crystal.”

  “Oh, you think so, do you? Well you’re mistaken.” She tossed the last of her facets into the pot and dropped her hand face-up on the table with a smile of triumph. “Virtues, full sphere.”

  Belphagor was in no hurry to put her out of her misery. He moved another card in his hand and observed it, pointing his cigar skyward like a smoking erection between them. After a moment, he lowered his hand to place it on the playing table, but reached for her wingcasting hand instead. He dropped the Virtues between his Dominions and Powers before he laid the cards in front of her.

  “Full choir.”

  Her eyes flashed with surprise and grudging admiration before settling into defeat.

  Belphagor scooped the pile of crystal facets toward him and filled his pouch. For a novice, the angel had actually played quite well. The real key to wingcasting, however, was paying attention to one’s opponent, and there she had been woefully unskilled, accepting the most obvious misdirection without question. If she didn’t learn it now, she’d learn the lesson the hard way with less scrupulous opponents. He grinned to himself. Fleecing her had been a service.

  The lulava came around again, and the players beside them started another round. He tightened the string on his pouch, removing his cigar to take a solid draw on the pipe. The firedust pounded through him and his lids drooped while his neurons fired with vigor.

  “I have a ring,” the angel said. “Give me a chance to win back my crystal. The ring is worth twice what you’ve got in the pouch.”

  Belphagor gazed at her thr
ough the slits of his half-open eyelids. “Don’ need it,” he murmured with the cigar clamped in his teeth.

  “Afraid you’ll lose, then?” She drew the ring from her hand and reached across the table to set it before him, a crescent of light from the open doorway lighting her face.

  A woman had entered The Brimstone from the street above, some servant of a noble house, more out of place in a den of iniquity than the angel. She hesitated on the top step, blinking in the dim interior, and then her gaze fell on his opponent. She hurried to the angel’s side and spoke to her in tones too low for Belphagor to hear.

  He picked up the ring and with one eye open, gave it a cursory, in-toxicated glance. The pale blue gem set in white gold was etched with the supernal seal. Belphagor sat up straight just as the angel leapt to her feet.

  “You must stay calm,” urged the woman at her side.

  The pristine marble of the girl’s face had gone ashen. “No. No, Helga, I have to go home!” She yanked her elbow from the woman’s grasp and stumbled backward over her chair. “They need me!”

  Helga gripped the young angel on either side of her face and forced her to meet her gaze. Blood stained the woman’s cuff. “There is nothing you can do for them.” The girl stopped struggling and her angelic mask twisted into naked pain. Her body went slack and she slipped through Helga’s fingers and onto her knees beside the wingcasting table.

  “Nenny!” the woman whispered, dropping down to the girl. “We have to get you out. They’ll be looking for you, and they will show you no mercy.” But Nenny was weeping copiously, hanging onto the edge of the table, unreachable.

  Patrons of the den were taking notice, heads bent together in whispers, no longer absorbed in their games. Belphagor glanced at the ring in his palm and dropped it into his pocket.

  “Friends of yours?” he murmured.

  The servant acknowledged him for the first time, following his gaze to the window at street level. The cold glow of the Ophanim Guard, Elysium’s gendarme, was visible through the leaded panes. Helga clutched the cloak at her throat, her eyes wide with alarm.

  There was always some kind of upset brewing among the Host, one duke or other stirring the political pot, but for the Supernal Guard to be involved, there must be serious trouble. If the angel was who he thought she was, this encounter could prove extremely lucrative.

  “Come.” He took the angel by one of her elbows and hauled her to her feet. “I rent a room in back, away from curious eyes.”

  When Belphagor shut out the noise of gaming and merriment, the angel collapsed onto his cot. The older woman, likely the young one’s governess, peeled the cloak from the girl’s shoulders while the girl continued to sob, curled into a ball on her side.

  Belphagor had seen plenty of the Fallen with ample cause shed fewer tears. He drew the tattered curtains from one wall to the other, shutting his guest off from the front of his room—the “grand reception hall.”

  He nodded at Helga. “Your girl’s in trouble. I have a knack for hiding things, and it seems she needs hiding. Won’t find any better in Raqia.” He held up his hand with the smoldering cigar to silence any contradiction. “No use denying it. I can be bought by those you want to hide her from as soon as hire on with you. Knowing fetches near as much as actual doing.”

  Helga drew back her hood, sizing him up. She was a handsome woman, but had the tired look of one who had spent her youth in service to others. She met his gaze in a manner some would feel inclined to look away from, but Belphagor backed down from no one.

  After a moment, she reached into the purse tied at her hip and rattled crystal. “How much does silence cost?”

  With a laugh, he set the cigar between his teeth once more and folded his arms. “What it costs you, it’ll cost them that want to break it double, an’ then how much more will I have to charge you? Where will it end?”

  “How much will it cost to ensure my charge’s safety?” Helga tightened the string on her purse. “Even your kind must have some price you put on conscience. What price to buy moral sensibility?”

  “You insult me, madam. I’ve offered my skills. I will hide her for the price you name.”

  The angel had gone silent. Helga pulled back the curtain to observe her charge, her face heavy with concern. “She’ll need more than hiding.” Helga turned back to Belphagor at the sudden, unnerving quiet from the gambling den. The Ophanim had arrived. “You have a back way out of this establishment?”

  Belphagor smiled. “Naturally.”

  She glanced around his humble room with distaste. “You say you’re the best in Raqia. I hope you’re better at smuggling than you seem to be at cards.”

  Belphagor laughed aloud. “Sometimes a thing of value isn’t obvious.”

  She continued to regard him as something slightly soiled and of dubious origin. He stubbed out his cigar on the top of his dressing table and opened the door, holding it wide. “I’m sure you can find a demon trafficker or two in the house who would be all too happy to find somewhere to put your girl. On her knees, most likely, servicing civil servants.”

  Helga yanked the door from his grasp and pushed it firmly shut. “It seems I have little choice.” With reluctance, she untied her purse. “You must take her immediately away from the princedom. Speak to no one. Keep her face hidden.”

  Belphagor raised an eyebrow. “Am I to know who I’m hiding and why?”

  “No.” Helga handed him the purse without opening it again. “This should be enough to cover her expenses for a month. After that, I’ll send word when I can.” Belphagor weighed the pouch of crystal in his hand. It was more wealth than he’d ever encountered in one place, and it was on the person of a servant. He wondered what sort of expenses the governess had imagined they ought to incur.

  He closed his fist around the purse. “We can leave posthaste. Just a bit of business I need to attend to first.” She was too astonished to stop him when he swung the door open and went out. Belphagor chuckled to himself. Let her wonder if he might just take the crystal and run.

  He peered through the smoky air of the den. The unsettling white, electric glow of the Ophanim lit the faces of players at the tables while the towering angels phased in their subtly shifting form through the gaming room in search of their quarry. With eyes that seemed to shift and move independently of their heads, there was nothing they missed. Hustling the girl out the back way was going to be difficult. At the very least, he would need an accomplice.

  A demon he’d done business with on a number of occasions occupied a corner booth where the gaming room opened onto the tavern. For the moment, he was alone.

  Belphagor tucked the crystal inside his shirt—best not to tempt Paimon with the whole of what could be gotten—and slipped into the booth while the demon had his head down over his blood pudding.

  When Paimon looked up, Belphagor smiled. “I have a proposition for you.”

  The demon untucked his napkin from his shirt and wiped his mouth. “Can’t wait. What’s this one going to cost me?”

  Belphagor laughed. “Nothing but your time and assistance, friend. And it pays well.” He nodded toward the pair of Ophanim. “I need someone to distract them.”

  Paimon followed his glance. “Hell, no, Belphagor. Not on your life. They’re looking for an excuse to arrest anyone who steps out of line. Word on the street is certain factions aren’t too happy with all this ‘liberation’ talk lately—seems the Liberationists had some action planned in front of the palace to force the principality’s hand and ensure he’d sign the Decree. Members of the Order of Powers have persuaded the principality it’s in his best interest to abdicate the throne.”

  “Ah, the ever-popular changing of the guard, certain to solve everything.” And certain to be the cause of his current good fortune. It must have been the principality’s “abdication” that had a supernal celestine-wearing angel blubbering like a spoiled child whose birthday party had been ruined. In all probability, the supernal family had been arreste
d. Which meant he had a rogue grand duchess on his hands—information certain parties might find extremely valuable. He was a demon of his word, and he would never take money under false pretenses or sell out a person he’d promised to hide, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make the most of the information he had.

  Paimon went back to his pudding. “Anyway, they’ve got a death warrant for whoever the poor sod is they’re looking for. Some ‘agitator.’ They’re all over the District right now.” He gave Belphagor a significant glance. “There’s a pair of Ophanim stalking the back alley as we speak.”

  So much for slipping out the back.

  There was, of course, one other possibility. If he let Paimon in on his ace in the hole, he might agree to help smuggle the angel out.

  Belphagor opened his mouth to take Paimon into his confidence when a flash of color across the room caught his eye. Belphagor started out of his seat and then fell back. The rest of The Brimstone might have burst into flame around him at that moment and he wouldn’t have noticed.

  At the far end of the bar, an unmistakable shock of deliberately matted, magma-red locks spilled over a set of broad shoulders—were they broader than they had been?—like a river of molten iron. The burly young demon they belonged to sat drinking from a smoldering clay cup, eyes focused on the wall behind the bar with the air of a man who wished he was anywhere but where he was. Below sideburns of a more natural red that braced most of his hard jaw, metal glinted for an instant in the smoking candlelight. A row of thin spikes pierced the flesh of his neck.

  Vasily had returned.

  Belphagor smoothed his hand over his waistcoat and felt the purse beneath it snug against his heart. It was more than enough to settle his outstanding accounts with the young demon. He ran his fingers through his hair, straightened his waistcoat, and thanked Paimon before he slid out of the booth.

  Approaching the bar, he drew up a stool with a nod to the bartender. “Absinthe.”