The Queen of Lies

by Michael J. Bode

  Jessa nodded and smiled—but not too much—as she spoke with Assemblyman Cameron and a floating golden sphere that called itself Magus Aurius. The assemblyman was poorly dressed, and the sphere was, well…intricate. She’d read about artifact mages, but actually speaking to one was disconcerting. She didn’t know where to look when it—or rather he—spoke.

  His voice was metallic, and Jessa suddenly realized she was being addressed directly. “…and of course Scholar Torin’s death happening so close to the other deaths has been a devastating tragedy for the school. Three of our best and brightest gone in the span of a couple days.”

  “So much tragedy,” Cameron agreed, stroking his grizzly beard. “Torin’s betrothal would have offered real hope to the refugees. I’m holding a benefit gala for all three of them later this week. We would of course be honored if you could attend, Your Majesty. Your presence would make quite the statement of support.”

  Jessa quickly agreed. “Anything I can do to help the less fortunate. Where are the refugees from?”

  Cameron paused. “Why…Amhaven, Your Majesty. They flee the civil unrest.”

  Another detail Mother didn’t bother to mention. Jessa laughed nervously. “Of course. My apologies. This has been a trying day. How are my people?”

  Cameron sighed. “They’re getting by, Your Majesty, but just barely. We have temporary shelters in some unused warehouses, but they’re filling up quickly. Most people came here with very little when they lost their homes, and there’s sickness from the close quarters.”

  “I would like to visit them,” Jessa said, “and I’ll absolutely be in attendance for your gala in whatever capacity you need. You have our gratitude for the kindness you’ve shown our people in these troubled times.”

  “I’m sure that would bring them great happiness, Your Majesty,” Cameron said with a smile, “but you should be aware that the Backwash isn’t the…safest or most affluent district in Rivern. It’s nothing increased patrols and new construction couldn’t remedy, but my recommendations fall on deaf ears in the Assembly. You would be excused if you didn’t make the journey down the falls and instead focused your relief efforts up here.”

  “Nonsense,” Jessa said. “I’m the proxy for the queen regent, who’s holding my eventual title, and I won’t cower while my people suffer.”

  “Well said, Your Majesty. And if I might say…” Cameron flushed just a bit around the cheeks. “No, I’ve taken too much of your time. We’ll have more opportunity to discuss the gala preparations.”

  “Thank you for speaking with me. You have my leave,” Jessa said.

  The sphere mage Aurius inclined himself slightly in imitation of a bow and also silently withdrew into the crowd.

  Jessa sighed. The idea of her subjects stuffed into a warehouse haunted her. They were hardworking people who hadn’t asked for any of this. She knew Duke Rothburn was to blame, but still her feelings toward Satryn burned the most of her vitriol. How could she not inform me? I doubt she made any effort to aid them or even cared at all. No wonder the people hate her so much.

  “You look like you could use a drink.” Countess Muriel came upon her, frantic and agitated. The old woman shoved a flute of wine into Jessa’s hand and buzzed off to console another woman.

  Muriel’s eyes were so wide that Jessa feared they might pop out of her head. The Assembly had temporary legalized a foul-tasting elixir called dragonfire that kept one awake for all hours of the day and night as a way of eliding the rash of harrowings. As far as Jessa could tell, half the nobles in attendance were high.

  She smelled the glass, and while the fragrance was pleasing, she couldn’t stomach the thought of tasting it. Pictures of Torin gasping for breath in his fearful final moments rushed back to her. She delicately cast about for somewhere to put the glass down.

  “I can take that.” A meaty hand reached for it and pulled it from her fingers. She watched a Patrean in a black leather jerkin with tattooed arms slug the contents of the glass. He carried a broadsword across his back. He let out a belch.

  “Excuse me, but that’s very rude,” Jessa said, appraising the well-used condition of his leather jacket and scuffed boots. “And this is a private event, soldier.”

  “Oh, how dreadfully contumelious of me,” he said, mockingly placing his hand to his collarbone. “I’m the Sword of Saint Jeffrey, last templar of the Order of Penitent Martyrs, and I’m here conducting the holy business of the Hierophant herself. And who may I ask are you?”

  Jessa cocked her head. “I’m not sure I’ve ever had to introduce myself before.”

  “Aw, fuck!” His face lit up. “You’re that storm princess everyone’s talking about, aren’t you? Yeah, you’re the one who took out Kiria with a bolt of thunder to the face.” He tossed the glass aside and clapped his hands together.

  Miraculously the glass didn’t hit the ground but rather floated off. Jessa noticed a short bald man in white robes casting a peevish sideways glare.

  She laughed nervously. People were definitely staring now, if they weren’t already before. “Kiria? Is that the name of my assassin?” She whispered, “Tell me what you know right now, or I swear you’ll meet her fate and worse.”

  “I’m not here on any business of that sort, love.” He casually put his arm around her shoulder and flexed his bicep.

  Jessa was speechless. Never would a Patrean so much as address her without permission, much less touch her. And was he…hitting on her?

  He leaned in close to her ear. “Kiria was one of Cordovis’s people. A real nasty piece of work, that one. I once saw her dig out a man’s eye and turn it back on him so he could watch her cut up his face. Then she popped the fucker back in.”

  Jessa shrugged the Fodder’s arm off her shoulder. She shook her head with disbelief. “You have to give this information to the authorities.”

  He waved his hand. “Everyone knows that, love. I’m frankly a bit surprised they haven’t dismissed your mum’s charges during evidentiary proceedings. But law’s a funny business. While we’re chatting, you didn’t happen to see an old blind man about yay high in a moth-eaten robe, possibly carrying a shepherd’s crook, have you?”

  “Um…no, I haven’t. Who is Cordovis? Why would he kill Torin?”

  “I don’t know his business, but the short answer is money. Either someone paid him to do it, or there’s a payoff. Cordovis wouldn’t shit in a glove unless those fingers could grab a ducat, you get me?”

  “I get the gist of it, yes. Do you know anything else about him?”

  “Look,” he whispered, “I wouldn’t worry your pretty noble head about it. I used to be a Stormlord myself a while back, and he’s nothing you can’t handle.”

  “I didn’t think Fodders were capable of…being so imaginative. Please excuse me.” Jessa turned and walked to the first person she could find, a portly bald man wearing five gold medallions.

  “Lady Jessa,” he spoke with a soft, effeminate voice, “I’m so sorry for your loss. Torin was my favorite pupil. I’m Dean Archibald Turnbull, and yes, I’m required by Rivern law to tell you I bear the Veritas Seal. So you’ll accept my sincere apologies if, for the sake of your privacy, I don’t ask any questions about how you’re doing.” He offered a smile.

  “I’m not certain how I’m doing,” Jessa confided, “or how I’m expected to be doing under the circumstances. I knew Torin very briefly, but he was…I would have been happy with the match.”

  “I must admit I was concerned for his safety,” Turnbull said. “The war with the Dominance has raged off and on for centuries. There are closed-minded fanatics in Rivern who view your mere presence as an insult. People in this corner of the Protectorate tend to think with their fists.”

  “It may surprise you to hear that I harbor no great affection for the empire or my grandmother. And it’s refreshing to say that to someone and know he’ll believe me.” Jessa grinned.

  Turnbull raised his eyebrow. “Honesty is wonderful, isn’t it?”


  “You have no idea.” Jessa sighed with relief.

  “I think Torin would have considered himself fortunate.” Turnbull smiled. “If there’s ever anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask. People may not equate the dean of the College of Seals with a position of citywide authority, but I also oversee the licenses for the Burners Guild, and I can easily cut off the city’s hot water with the stroke of a pen.”

  Jessa took his hand in hers. “I’m grateful for your offer of friendship. I may call upon you.”

  Turnbull removed a square of silk from his pocket and dabbed his eye. “Come by and see me anytime, Lady.”

  Jessa grinned to herself as she left Turnbull’s company. He seemed genuinely gentle and good-hearted. In fact everyone in Rivern had been nothing but kind and helpful. Her mother had warned her to mistrust the charity of strangers, but these people exuded a sense of friendliness and sincerity that seemed almost alien.

  Jessa stopped short. A tearful woman under a black veil stood trembling in her path. Makeup ran from her eyes, and her mouth was twisted with grief. “I don’t care what they say…You murdered my son, you fucking imperial cunt!” Torin’s mother slapped Jessa across the face.

  Jessa turned and pressed her hand against her stinging cheek as attendees at the wake swarmed the women. She felt hands guiding her away as others restrained Torin’s mother. Shouting and panic ensued as Jessa’s cousins rushed her out of the chamber.

  FOURTEEN

  The House of the Seven Sighs

  MADDOX

  FOR STUDENTS SEEKING a value in arcane education, the Lyceum at Rivern has much to offer. While not as prestigious as Bamor College, it once was regarded nearly as highly. Its engineering program is still the most prominent in all Creation, and nearly all recent advances in automata can be credited in part to their faculty research. They also offer curricula in glyphology, blood magic, and alchemy.

  It is unfortunately the only school in the Protectorate not to offer classes in necromancy, owing to the infamous indiscretions of Dean Pytheria. The scandal of her administration led to the formal revocation of their charter in that discipline, and fifty years later, the reputation has remained somewhat tarnished.

  For nontraditional education the Twin Magisteriums of the Mirrored City offer a much more varied selection of arcane modalities. But for traditional mages uninterested in necromancy, the Rivern Lyceum offers comparable education to Bamor at a fraction of the cost.

  —NOLAN HARDING’S ANNUAL UNIVERSITY RATINGS, 565 A.N.

  THE INSCRIPTION PROBABLY was meant to say, THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN SIGNS, but the High Archean writing above the battered doorframe used some of the modern alphabet so SIGNS became SIGHS. It was about what you’d expect from a condemned house in the Backwash: a weathered structure suspended above the rushing water by barnacle-encrusted footing made from young, tall oak.

  A scarlet wax seal bound a piece of official parchment to the door, which had been kicked in then propped back in place. The inside was dark, with candles set on shelves to augment the illumination from the boarded-up windows. The floor was covered in ragged bedding and the detritus of squatters. A few shitty chairs were scattered around, along with a table in moderately good repair. A stack of books and a small makeshift alchemy station sat on one end of the table.

  Riley motioned Maddox inside. He had recovered somewhat on the walk over. Enough to be properly disgusted by his surroundings. It was messy and foul, with a haze of smoke that smelled like dragonfire and other noxious substances. His incredibly keen sense of smell gave him pungent bursts of information, none of it good.

  A girl with multicolored but naturally blond hair sat at the table, her hand splayed in front of her as she quickly and methodically jabbed an expensive-looking knife into the space between each finger. She looked up. Her vividly blue eyes were lined with deep black. “Who the fuck is this?”

  Riley beamed. “This is Maddox!”

  “Heard a lot about you,” she said casually. Her voice was unusually high and pretty. In fact she was actually quite attractive for a girl. She didn’t stop doing that thing with the knife, whatever you called it.

  “This is Esme,” Riley said, nudging him. “She’s my girl. So hands off.”

  “How old is she?” Maddox asked. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

  “Older than I look,” Esme sneered. “I’ve killed people.”

  Riley laughed. “She’s feisty. Come on! The others are upstairs…”

  Riley led Maddox up a set of rickety steps to the upper level. He glanced at Esme as he passed. Her eyes regarded him warily, with a glimmer of murderousness. He knew the routine and returned the glare. He’d been coming downriver since before she was born. She wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. If it ever came to that.

  Upstairs wasn’t any better. The others were sitting on the floor in a circle around a smoldering hookah. In no particular order was an old lady who looked like she had one foot in the grave, a stout man with tremendous arms, a trembling skinny guy, a Fodder, and a black wolf with yellow eyes.

  “This is Gran.” Riley indicated the old woman. “We call her that ’cuz sometimes she thinks I’m her grandson.”

  The old woman gave a yellow smile, but her eyes were vacant. “I used to teach at the school.” Wizards weren’t immune to the ravages of dementia; it took their minds as well as their powers.

  “That’s Otix.” Riley motioned to the large man. “He’s an Archean. Doesn’t speak much Thrycean.”

  “It’s an honor to meet you,” Maddox offered in Archean. It was a bit more formal than he’d intended, but wit and condescension were difficult to translate.

  “Yeah, right,” Otix replied.

  “You can talk to him!” Riley said excitedly. “This is brilliant. We needed you here weeks ago. We’ve only been able to piece together a little of his story.”

  Maddox looked at Otix again. His neck was thicker than his head. “What’s your story?” he asked in Archean.

  “Came on a sky ship to load pickled fish, got fucked up in a bar, passed out, and missed the return trip. I’ve been stuck here ever since. There’s no work for me, and I spent all my prisms on pleasure chemicals.” His speech was easier to understand than Petra’s dialect.

  “Show him your thing, Otix,” Riley said very slowly as he opened and closed his fist.

  Otix sighed and held out his hand. After a moment a blue flame appeared in his palm. “I know a few tricks. Just stuff everyone knows.” Maddox didn’t see a seal on Otix, which meant he was using freeform magic. They didn’t teach it at the Lyceum, because it was mostly useless.

  “That’s our alchemist, Falco.” Riley grinned as he pointed at the emaciated guy with curly hair. “His thing will blow your mind.”

  Falco lifted his shirt, and Maddox barfed a little in his throat. Falco’s nicely-toned-for-a-drug-addict abdomen featured a mouth-like orifice on the right side. Mutation was a common risk in working with alchemicals in an unsafe environment. Among some of Maddox’s dad’s friends, the disfigurations were sort of a badge of honor.

  “That mouth can eat through anything.” Riley explained before introducing the Fodder. “This is Crateus.”

  “Are you a magician as well?” Maddox asked. He’d never known a Patrean who wasn’t a soldier, enforcer, or manual laborer. This one looked like a younger version of the one he’d sucked off in the alley behind the Flask. As a race they didn’t possess magic but were more resilient to some forms of it.

  “I’m trying to learn,” Crateus said earnestly. “My mother was human, so I might have the gift.” Patrean-human hybrids were always exact copies of the Patrean parent. There were no half Fodders.

  “We accept everyone,” Riley said proudly. “Not like the fucking Lyceum.”

  The wolf barked.

  “Oh. That’s Themis. Him and his brother Theril stay with us too.”

  “So this is your study group?” Maddox asked. “Half of them don’t actually do any magic.”
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  Riley sighed patiently. “Everyone has potential for something. It’s not just seals or blood or necromancy or artifice. There’s a ton of shit out there they don’t teach or sanction. We may not be as good as the magi, but we want to be the best we can be.”

  “A little is more than nothing.” Maddox sighed. It never had been an issue for him. He had completed a degree in alchemy to qualify for the College of Seals and earn the title of Scholar. He was on another level entirely, but he couldn’t blame anyone for wanting knowledge. Still it was a sad collection of individuals.

  Riley pointed to Maddox. “This is me oldest friend from the Lyceum, Maddox. He’s a Master of the Seals and a Scholar of alchemy.”

  “Alchemy’s my thing!” Falco said angrily.

  “It’s all yours.” Maddox smiled. “I don’t practice anymore.”

  “Just so we’s clear.” Falco nodded and took a pipe from the hookah. He lifted his shirt again and put the tip of the hookah into the gaping mouth on his stomach. He grimaced slightly and blew a plume of smoke out of his own mouth as the orifice in his belly suckled the pipe.

  “I hope you all don’t share that,” Maddox said.

  “The best part is coming up,” Riley said. He sniffed, then rubbed his nose on his sleeve.

  “My dead husband was an alchemist,” Gran said to no one in particular.

  “Come. I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.” Riley grabbed Maddox’s wrist and let him to a door.

  Maddox had braced himself for anything but was rendered speechless when he entered the room. It was a great deal better in here. The walls and floor were decrepit but mostly hidden behind woven tapestries and lustrous carpeting. On one of the nightstands, a golden candelabra shaped like an eagle peered at him with glimmering ruby eyes. The bed, bedecked in red satin, was made of ornately carved, highly polished Maenmarth timber.

  A second black wolf raised its head and snarled from the center of the soft red covers.

  “Theril sleeps with us,” Riley explained before addressing the wolf. “This is me best friend, Maddox. You try to bite him, and I’ll take away your bedroom privileges.”