The only light down here was what you brought with you. Heliora had a long lantern hanging from a hooked cane that she had hired for two shilleins from a lampboy in the Forum.
The Shambles wasn’t completely dark. Lamplight glowed from the upper storey of a shop that still had the name of its original proprietor—a grocer—painted in peeling letters above the door. Heliora set down her lantern cane at the door, and pushed it open. The old shop was full of shadows and little else. No one moved, but she knew she was not alone in here. ‘I’m a friend,’ she said aloud.
‘Are you?’ replied the voice of a boy. He was nearer to her than she had guessed. Heliora leaned into the darkness of the room.
‘They call you Zero,’ she said. ‘Not your real name though. Your real name is—’
‘Hey!’ The boy jumped forward, and she could just see the outline of his outraged face from the light of her own lantern streaming in through the open front door. ‘No need for that, demme! I didn’t do anything bad to you, now did I?’
‘I’m the seer,’ she said. ‘Has your Lord mentioned me at all?’
The boy’s face grew sulky. ‘You better go up.’
‘Thank you.’
Heliora made for the stairs she could see, heading up towards the crack of light that illuminated a closed door. As she pushed the door open, heat hit her full in the face.
An elderly cooking range was the main feature of the upstairs room, belting out hot air as it churned wood into flame. It must have been purloined from an abandoned baking shop and installed up here by the current occupant. No one sensible would design a house to hold a stove on an upper storey.
‘I like this,’ she said, moving towards it and holding her hands out to take the last cold edge from them.
‘Only way to get warm down here in the Arches,’ said her host. ‘Even in the height of summer everything is cold and damp.’
‘I remember that.’ Another reason to stay in the upper world. Having come to terms with the noxmare possibility that the sky might fall at any moment, Heliora preferred to
live in the sunshine while she could. ‘How are you, Poet?’
‘Not wounded, demoiselle, nor dead.’
He was relaxed here, wrapped in a dressing gown and surrounded by what could only be described as opulence. Strange to see so many antique paintings and rich furnishings crammed into a room that had once housed a humble grocer’s family.
The boy Zero came up the stairs and lifted a bubbling pot from the range, pouring some of its contents into a large clay tankard. ‘’S for Halberk,’ he muttered.
Poet nodded, and the boy scampered up another staircase to what must be an attic room, carefully balancing the mug.
‘Your other courteso is feeling under the weather?’ Heliora said politely.
‘Something like that,’ said Poet. ‘Our Ash bit his throat out this evening.’
‘Did he deserve it?’
‘Oh, yes. I’m lucky he didn’t start biting pieces out of me. What are you here for, Hel?’ Poet’s voice was hard, but only slightly suspicious.
Heliora sighed deeply. ‘I want a cup of tea.’
Caught off guard, he chuckled.
‘I’m serious. I know you have the stuff. You’re rolling in money from those theatricals you take such delight in. It’s as rare as a virgin in a brothel up in the daylight.’
Shrugging into a comfortable armchair, Poet waved towards a large wooden chest at the far end of the room. It was about the size of a packing crate, but far more ornately carved. ‘Help yourself.’
She opened the lid to discover that the chest was packed almost to the rim with finest Camoisean leaf. ‘Poet, this is a Duc’s ransom. This is three Ducs’ ransoms.’
‘What else am I going to spend my money on?’ he asked lazily. ‘If I bought jewels, Livilla would just sneak in and steal them all. The only threat to my tea supply is Priest, and at least he’s polite about it.’
Heliora found a worn copper kettle and a barrel of water to fill it from. While the kettle was heating on the range, she scooped a healthy helping of dried leaves into an elegant porcelain teapot. ‘You live well, for a rat in a hole.’
Poet smiled at her. ‘And you have refined tastes for a gipsy card-sharking whore.’
The niceties over, they sat in companionable silence and waited for the kettle to boil.
As the tea brewed in its pot, Heliora busied herself with cups, sugar and fresh cream that Zero had reluctantly fetched from the cellar at Poet’s yell. Only when the ritual was almost complete did Poet finally bring up the subject that was on both their minds.
‘So, my sweetness, what’s in the cards for the Creature Court? What does our future hold?’
Heliora poured the tea, slowly and precisely. ‘All manner of interesting things, half of them false.’
‘Do those interesting things include a demoiselle King?’
‘You know about that?’
‘Seven hells, Hel, every creature from Church Bridge to the Alexandrine has heard it by now. What’s Ashiol playing at?’
She finished pouring the second cup, and handed the first to him. ‘I don’t think even he knows what game it is.’
‘So you can’t tell me anything.’
Heliora clambered to her feet and found an armchair of her own. ‘What do I know? I didn’t even know you could have female kings.’
‘You can’t,’ said Poet, cradling the absurdly delicate china cup in his hands. ‘Tasha used to tell the story about a demoiselle Lord called Samara, mistress to the Power and Majesty who ruled before Ortheus. Samara killed the Power and quenched him whole, but the animor did terrible things to her. She was barely alive when they found her, a piece of wreckage with eyes and skin. There are other stories too, further back. No woman of the Creature Court has ever reached a rank above Lord—and those who have tried died instantly.’
‘I saw it in the futures,’ Heliora said. ‘In some of them, this woman doesn’t come into her power at all. In others, she does, but…as you say, with the story of Samara. She is melted by the chimaera form, or simply crumbles from holding too much animor within her skin.’
‘Did you tell Ashiol about that?’
‘I tried. He only wanted to know about the futures where it worked, where she stood as Power and Majesty and he was able to escape the Creature Court once and for all.’
Poet took a deep swallow of his tea. ‘The question is, would we be better off with Ashiol gone?’
‘I suppose that depends on whether this dressmaker survives the future Ashiol wants for her.’
‘It’s a shame,’ sighed Poet. ‘I really was getting to like her.’
Velody had eyes everywhere. She was scattered across the cobblestones, over the doorstep, up the walls. She could smell everything, from the sweat on the skins of the humans and Ashiol to the emotional pheromones that spilled out of them all. She wasn’t even sure that she was Velody any more.
That panicked thought made her pull herself together, literally. She formed a desperate image of her own body, her own skin, and poured herself into that shape. It wasn’t quite right. She was Velody, standing on two legs, but she was stronger, sharper, taller than ever before. She was powerful.
She still had the senses of the creeping creatures, could tell by the scents in the air that Macready, Crane and Kelpie were friends, they would not hurt her, they would protect her with their lives. At the same time she knew that Ashiol was not a friend. He was a rival. An equal. He could only be trusted up to a point. Everything about him felt threat as Velody faced him down, and he too was shaping into a harder, more dangerous version of himself even as he pulled off his boots, shirt and trews, appearing naked and glowing before her.
Naked. Yes, she was naked too. Her garments had fallen away when she shaped herself into the little crawling things. For some reason, in this hard and powerful version of herself, she did not mind that she was clad only in her skin.
She buzzed with thoughts and ideas, man
y of them belonging to Ashiol rather than herself. In his mind, she could see the next stage, the shape he would have to throw himself into if she attacked him. In her own mind, she saw that she had one of those shapes too. She changed a second before he did.
Now they were in the air, huge and black and bursting with a blazing inner light that Velody recognised as raw power. Was this what they meant when they talked about animor? Whatever it was, it tasted sweet. She was winged and clawed and mighty. With this, she could protect Rhian and Delphine from anything.
It occurred to her that she had become a monster and she didn’t entirely care.
Thoughts tumbled in and around her, making a strange kind of sense. Velody wanted to fly screaming over the city, to show them all what she could do and what she could be. The scent of ferax still hung in the air, and she realised with ravenous glee that she could hunt the miserable creature down and tear him into shreds of blood and bone.
It was getting hard to stay in the air. Her wings hurt from the strain, and she had to lower herself to the cobblestones again. Ashiol descended nearby, his fiery red eyes watching her with a predatory gaze. He had not attacked, but held ready in case she did. She liked that he was being so cautious around her. She was a threat to him.
Once her feet hit the ground, Velody sagged. The monstrous parts of her body peeled away into nothing, and she didn’t even have the energy to retain that stronger, glowing version of herself. She fell to the cobblestones in her ordinary body, breathing in long gasps as if this was the last time she would ever suck air into her lungs.
Something warm and scratchy covered her. She knew without looking that it was Crane’s brown cloak. When she recovered enough to wrap the thing around her and pick herself up off the ground, Ashiol was there with a steady hand to help her.
He, at least, had found time to dress himself again. How long had she been shivering and shuddering on those cold stones? Clutching the cloak more tightly around her body, she looked for the others. Crane, Macready and Kelpie were on their knees, heads lowered solemnly. To her.
‘What’s with all the bowing and scraping?’ she asked, leaning down to pick up her fallen dress, shoes and undergarments.
‘They’re on their knees because they’ve never seen anything quite like you,’ said Ashiol, pulling on his long leather coat. Where had he got that from—the musette? The boots weren’t his either. They smelled of Poet. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.
Velody was about to say that she wanted nothing but to be left alone to sleep, but it wasn’t true. The exhaustion was gone, leaving her with an alert mind and, yes—an empty stomach. ‘Starving,’ she admitted, still waiting for Macready and the others to meet her eyes or start acting normal again. This prostrate humility wasn’t like them at all.
‘Good,’ said Ashiol. ‘Go get dressed again. I’ll take you to dinner, and make some attempt at explaining what in the seven hells is going on.’
Velody went inside the house to dress, and the sentinels exchanged meaningful looks. Macready moved first. He resheathed his skysilver dagger ‘Jeunille’, feeling a little strange about taking her back so soon after he had given her away. He turned to Ashiol. ‘Are you sure you’ve done the lass any favours, man? Her life will never be her own again.’
Ashiol barely glanced at him. ‘You saw what happened. She came into her powers. I have a responsibility to show her how to use them.’
‘And you didn’t help those powers along at all?’
Ashiol didn’t seem interested in what Macready was implying. ‘It was her time.’
‘Awfully convenient for you, so it is.’
That was one comment too many. Ashiol turned dark eyes on all three of the sentinels, daring them to question him further. ‘And your point is?’
Macready smiled a sick little grin. ‘Oh, nothing at all, high and brightness. Were you wanting us to join yourself and the lass at dinner?’
Ashiol gave him a disdainful look. ‘The place I’m thinking of, you couldn’t afford.’
Velody couldn’t bring herself to put her theatre dress back on. When she looked at it, she remembered being trapped in that dressing room with hundreds of white rats. Still clutching Crane’s scratchy woollen cloak around her bare body, she hurried upstairs to splash water on her face and arms, and to find another dress. She chose one of her favourites—a comfort frock made of soft grey wool.
It seemed wrong to be dressing to go out without the usual argument with Delphine about which extravagant perfume she should dab behind her ears, or which shade of cosmetick she should paint on her eyelids and lips. Velody hated artificial scents and powders. After a moment’s thought, she rummaged in her wardrobe for a long, silky coat that she had put away this season because it didn’t match the new hemlines. If she went through any more strange transformations this nox, she didn’t want to rely on the chivalry of others to cover her nakedness in a hurry.
That was the first time she had let herself think about it all. She had to sit on the bed for a few minutes, controlling her breathing. What’s happening to me? What am I turning into?
Ashiol had the answers. He had promised her an explanation, and dinner. She wasn’t sure which of the two she was more desperate for. Her stomach felt scrapingly bare.
On her way downstairs, she saw that Rhian’s room with its broken bolts had been abandoned. Delphine’s door was slightly ajar and the two were inside, sitting on Dee’s bed and talking in low voices. Velody hesitated, then pushed the door a little further open. ‘I’m going out,’ she told them.
Both looked at her in surprise. She wanted to tell them what was happening to her, but how could she? She didn’t understand it herself. Those men who attacked us this nox, I’m just like them.
‘The Ducomte has promised to explain all this to me, or as much as he can. I need those answers.’ It seemed wrong to call him by name, Ashiol, as if he were just an ordinary person. The title seemed safer.
‘Be careful,’ said Rhian.
Delphine didn’t say anything, but her eyes were reproachful.
Velody nodded, and closed the door behind her. With Crane’s cloak tucked under her arm to return to him, she went downstairs to go to dinner with the Ducomte d’Aufleur.
25
There weren’t that many hot food places open for dinner this late. Ashiol took Velody to a quiet bistro near the crest of the Vittorine, which still had its lanterns lit. It looked like one of those cheap nox cafés that appeared near theatres and musettes, down to the grimy walls and the melodic strains of a piano player messing around. There were a few clues to the fact that this place was not cheap though: the smooth and expert politeness of the waiter, the pristine cleanliness of the white paper tablecloths, and the fact that there was no menu.
‘Beef,’ Ashiol ordered, his fingers measuring the size of the steak he wanted. He nodded to Velody. ‘Both.’
The waiter nodded and whisked away so fast that he made Velody dizzy. The brisk walk up the hill had sapped her of energy. ‘I don’t get to order for myself?’ The thought of red meat—such a rare and expensive luxury—made her stomach uncurl with anticipation.
Ashiol tilted his head towards her. ‘What would you like to drink, Velody?’
She was half-tempted to ask for an ansouisette, but it probably wasn’t a good idea to drink anything that could make her head feel any stranger than it already did. ‘Water,’ she said.
‘Red wine is more traditional with beef,’ said Ashiol, and she had a suspicion that he was making fun of her.
‘You asked what I wanted.’
‘So I did.’ He waved over another waiter to order jugs of water and red wine. ‘And now,’ he said, when they were both settled with a glass and there were no hovering waiters within earshot, ‘what do you want to ask me?’
Velody took a deep breath. ‘Everything.’
‘I can’t promise everything.’
‘Start with something simple. Who are you people?’
Ashiol savoured his win
e for a moment, then set the glass down. ‘We are the Creature Court.’
‘Which means?’
Ashiol sighed. ‘It’s complicated, but I’ll do my best.’ He thought about it for a long while, as if arranging it all in his head. Then he nodded and began. ‘Poet and Dhynar—that is, the Orphan Princel and the ferax—are both Creature Lords. There are five Lords in the city now, so I’m told. I’ve been away a few years and I’m a little out of touch. Each Lord is served by a number of courtesi. The Lords themselves are supposed to serve the Creature Kings.’
‘And that’s you,’ Velody said.
Ashiol nodded, though there was a hesitation as if this was not entirely the truth.
‘Poet and Dhynar are your creatures.’
‘No…no,’ he protested. ‘It’s not like that.’
‘What is it like, seigneur Ducomte? If they serve you, then they attacked us in your name.’
‘I don’t have any control over what they do!’ He almost knocked over his wine glass with his fist.
The waiters were sending alarmed looks in their direction. Velody could see why, even if there were no other customers to be disturbed. When Ashiol was angry, his whole body spoke of violence. She shrank back into her chair.
Ashiol brought himself under control. ‘You have to understand,’ he said. ‘The Lords answer to the Kings—if we give them an order and back it up with threats, or take a blood oath, they will usually obey us. But they are their own creatures and they follow their own rules. They are very dangerous, even to me.’
Velody shivered, remembering the Orphan Princel—Poet—as he advanced on her, and the look in Dhynar’s eyes as he held Rhian in his arms. ‘You’re just gangs then? No control over each other, no real hierarchy?’
‘The Kings are supposed to be the masters of the Lords, but the Lords grant little in the way of allegiance,’ said Ashiol. ‘That’s why the Kings have the sentinels to serve and protect them. That’s Macready, Kelpie and Crane. The sentinels are not of the Court, but they’re not quite daylight folk either. In between. One of the Kings is chosen to rule over us all, by right of challenge. He keeps the Lords in line. We call him the Power and Majesty.’
Power & Majesty Page 18
