The Bone Palace

by Downum, Amanda

  Ashlin sat heavily on the foot of the bed, slouching elbows to knees. “What can we do?”

  “Pretend it never happened?”

  That drew the princess’s head up with a jerk. “Is that what you want?”

  She ought to lie; it would be easier. “I don’t know. I have the choice of hurting you or hurting Nikos.”

  “You love him. I understand.”

  “I love you too. But I never expected this.”

  It was Ashlin’s turn to laugh. “Neither did I. I only wanted a friend. I’ve never had many. Which is my own fault, for being a prickly sharp-tongued bitch. Then I met you, and you should have hated me but you didn’t, and you were clever and funny and beautiful and I was so bleeding grateful—” She shook her head. “I never imagined it would turn into something more, but now it has and I don’t know what to do. I’ve seen things like this before. I know how ugly they can turn. If—If you want me to go—”

  Savedra wanted to scream, to laugh until she wept; her mother and Thea Jsutien between them couldn’t have concocted so clever a scheme. All it would take was a bit of jealousy and heartache to undermine the already strained marriage and send Ashlin home to Celanor, leaving Nikos embarrassed and obliged to remarry. And he still couldn’t marry her. What would the Jsutiens offer, she wondered madly, if she sent Nikos to Ginevra after all?

  It felt like she moved through water as she crossed the room and cupped Ashlin’s cheek in one hand, like trying to run in a dream. “I don’t want you to leave. But I don’t want you to be miserable if you stay, either.” The softness of the princess’s skin sent a shiver up the length of her arm. Even dyed, her hair was finer than Nikos’s, the freshly trimmed tips prickly.

  Ashlin turned her head and pressed a chaste kiss on Savedra’s palm, and then a lingering one on the hollow of her wrist. “I’m not drunk enough for this.”

  Savedra laughed breathlessly, though it wasn’t funny. Wine, she’d learned, was usually how the princess nerved herself for marital obligations. She thought of her parents together, their easy affection and quiet, obvious devotion, and felt a pang of grief that something so simple should elude so many.

  She might have argued that it was that grief that made her tilt Ashlin’s head back and kiss her. Grief and lingering horror, the need to feel warm and safe again. She might have said that, but it would have been a lie.

  This time was slower, tentative and exploratory and still awkward. The fit of their bodies was strange and unnerving, but an improvement over Savedra’s clumsy and adolescent encounter with a girl from Arachne twelve years ago. That had been the last time she’d lain with a woman, until Evharis.

  “I don’t usually worry about pregnancy,” Savedra said after a long silence, “but we have to.” Pragmatism dulled the pleasant tingle in her limbs, but she couldn’t ignore it.

  “There is the possibility that I’m barren,” Ashlin said, not quite meeting her eyes. “And wouldn’t that be irony fit for an opera. I could have joined a mercenary company after all, and spared everyone grief.” She squeezed Savedra’s hand as she said it.

  “It could also be Nikos.” It felt like a betrayal to say the words aloud, but he had acknowledged the chance himself after the second miscarriage. In the dark, in fact, in a scene much like this. She swallowed a bitter laugh. “It’s not as though I’ve borne him any bastards to say otherwise.”

  They lay quietly for a while, with the weight of secrets and costs like a blade between them.

  “You should go,” Savedra said at last, because someone had to.

  “I should.” The shadows hid the princess’s face, but the hurt in her voice was clear. Savedra held herself still and silent while Ashlin dressed, though she ached to reach for her, to call her back.

  “I’m sorry,” she said at last, as Ashlin turned to the door.

  “So am I,” the princess whispered. Then she was gone.

  Savedra wanted to press her face against the pillow and cry herself to sleep. But she was too much her mother’s daughter for that. Instead she rose and opened the windows to the damp and frigid night, then turned to the bottle of brandy on her dressing table. The first glass went down her throat in a single searing gulp. The second she carefully dashed across the soiled sheets. She changed the linens herself, awkwardly hauling a fresh set across the wide bed. When that was done she ran herself a bath and scrubbed away the scent of Ashlin’s skin. Next, wet and shivering in the drafty room, she opened the doors of her shrine and lit a stick of incense to Saint Sarai.

  By then dawn was a pale blue wash against her windows, and she ached to the bone with fatigue. She sealed the room again and crawled into her cold bed. The scent of smoke and sandalwood and brandy chased her into the dark, and haunted her through alien dreams.

  CHAPTER 13

  The dawn chimes found Isyllt in Inkstone, climbing the broad steps of the Justiciary. The hour of tenderness, the first terce was called, but the only tenderness she felt was her bruised and sleepless eyes. White marble soared above her, painted rose and gold with sunrise—fluted columns holding aloft the pediment and its statues. Meant to be historical figures, but everyone looked the same carved in stone; she preferred the gargoyles crouching on the Sepulcher across the square.

  At the top of the stairs Isyllt met a young constable fumbling with her keys. Smaller police stations around the city stayed open all night to collect rowdy drunks and careless criminals, but the central office closed with the evensong bells like any respectable bureaucracy. The girl did a hasty double take when she saw Isyllt.

  The front room was tall and broad, lit by high narrow windows and many lamps, which the young Vigil moved to light. The space was meant to intimidate more than welcome; past it desks lined the walls, and doors and halls led to the offices of senior Vigils. Other Vigils began to trickle in, muttering and joking and lighting braziers for tea. Isyllt couldn’t imagine having to face so much garish orange at the start of every day.

  She must have looked worse than she realized—the young constable brought her the first cup of tea, and was so solicitous that Isyllt wanted to bite her. She smiled instead, though it made her face ache, and took the tea and offered chair and settled to wait for Khelséa. She was staring, she knew—at the ceiling, the Vigils, the leaves swirling at the bottom of her cup. All her thoughts were dark, ugly things with cutting edges. Better to think on nothing and let the noise of the Justiciary wash over her.

  The noise was little better: accusations, reports of theft, reports of people missing, tearful demands for aid. No one came to the police with pleasant tidings, after all. Many of those who came asking for help were Rosian; many of them left unsatisfied. Isyllt had an abundance of sympathy at the moment, so much so that she very nearly flung her teacup down and screamed.

  Khelséa’s arrival saved her an embarrassing scene. Isyllt hadn’t seen the inspector since she left St. Alia’s, though they’d exchanged notes and Khelséa had assured her she was well. Watching her now, Isyllt knew it for a lie. Pain carved lines around her eyes and mouth and a notch between her brows, aging her years in only days. She walked slowly, deliberately, glancing from side to side as though she feared attack, and every so often she touched a chair or table as she passed, surreptitiously steadying herself.

  “You said you were fine,” Isyllt said in greeting, lifting her eyebrows.

  “I am. I will be,” she amended. “The physicians said it will be at least another decad until my ear heals. The pain I can handle, and even the poor hearing, but I keep losing my balance.” She tilted her head as she spoke, turning her good ear to Isyllt and keeping her eyes on her deaf side.

  “What did you tell the other Vigils?”

  “A fast infection. I’ve had to endure everyone’s advice and grandmothers’ hedge-magic remedies ever since.”

  “But only out of one ear,” Isyllt said helpfully. It earned her a laugh and a slap on the arm.

  “What about you? You’re not looking so well-rested yourself.”
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  “I’m—” She shook her head with a snort. “I’m not fine. But I’m working, and I’ve learned something. We need to talk.”

  “All right.” Khelséa redid her top two coat buttons. “You can buy me breakfast, then.”

  They ate griddle cakes and mulled cider at the Black Holly tea shop across the plaza, and Isyllt explained about Forsythia’s murder and the haematurge.

  “She’s done this before. She may have done it again since. There will be other bodies for us to find. More young women, probably.”

  Khelséa snorted, mopping up cream and preserves with a bite of cake. “Do you know how many young women end up in the river with their throats slit? And hardly any of them are fit to autopsy by the time we haul them out. How will you tell the difference?”

  “Thaumaturgical residue. I know the taste of her magic now. Look for victims like Forsythia—throats slit left-handed, no other wounds. She may be mad and murderous, but it doesn’t sound like she tortures them. She has a vampire working with her, but he didn’t feed on Forsythia first.”

  She lowered her voice as a pair of women wandered past, though they were too engrossed in an account of someone else’s romantic pursuits to pay any attention. Perfume trailed after them, peach and citrus and honey-sweetness.

  Citrus. Isyllt set her mug of cider down without drinking. She’d smelled that bitter orange note before—first on Savedra, and only a few hours ago on Kiril. And if that was the same perfume Forsythia had smelled—

  “Where does the fashionable perfume come from this season?” she asked Khelséa.

  The woman blinked. “Kebechet at the Black Phoenix. I bought Gemma a vial of her oils last month. Her shop is in Panchrest Court. Why?” she asked as Isyllt reached for her purse.

  “I’ve smelled her perfume. If I can trace it…” She counted out coins. “Search the morgues—I’ll meet you when I’m finished.”

  Khelséa’s eyebrows arched. “I get wet corpses and you get perfume?”

  “I bought you breakfast, didn’t I?”

  “You’ll buy me a month of breakfasts for this.”

  “I’ll start a new expense account.” Which, of course, she couldn’t, not since Kiril had ruled the investigation closed. She kept her good hand from clenching, brushed it quickly against Khelséa’s dark fingers instead. “Thank you.” She turned before the inspector could respond, bolting for the nearest carriage.

  * * *

  The Black Phoenix was a fashionable shop in an equally fashionable block of the alchemists’ street. The Arcanost frequently bemoaned the baseness of commercial alchemy, but it clearly paid better than academia. Vials of ivory and colored glass gleamed in the rising light, and the rugs and hangings were Iskari, and costly. Even so early in the day shoppers drifted through the shop, young and well dressed, likely scions of the Eight, twittering like mourning doves as they browsed.

  The air was surprisingly clear, considering the hundreds of bottles and vials and jars of ingredients Isyllt counted, but as she or the other shoppers moved she caught whiffs of scent: herbs and spices, flowers and resins and a dozen other notes she couldn’t identify. Delicate scents and harsh ones, cloying and tangy, some that made her mouth water and some that made her fight a sneeze.

  A clerk followed the mourning doves, opening vials and dabbing scent on proffered wrists. He cast a solicitous glance at Isyllt but she shook her head; he wasn’t the one who could help her. After several moments, a curtain stirred in the back and the proprietress emerged.

  Kebechet—the name of an Assari saint, and unlikely her true one—was a tall woman with a fierce hooked nose. Her hair was a black storm down her back, shot through with the glitter of jeweled pins and combs. Despite the chill, her shawl slipped off her shoulders, baring an ample corseted bosom. Rumor held that she was a bastard Severoi who had taken the family device for her own. Isyllt had never heard a member of the house confirm or deny it.

  She exchanged pleasantries with the doves, and commended or corrected their choice of scents. When they departed, her black eyes trained immediately on Isyllt.

  “Good morning, necromancer. Looking for a scent? Or perhaps a healing oil—something to help you sleep?”

  “Is it that obvious? No,” she amended, “don’t answer that. I’m following a scent and it’s led me here.”

  “Then I hope it was a pleasant one, and not some of that trash they peddle down the street.”

  “Quite pleasant. Neroli and almond and cinnamon, I think.”

  “Ah.” Kohl-lined eyes gleamed. “Yes, neroli is a popular note this year.”

  “Do you remember this particular scent?”

  “It isn’t one of my standards. I make a lot of personal blends.” She shrugged one bronze shoulder and her shawl slipped another inch.

  “And I’m sure you remember all of them,” Isyllt said with a smile, “or have notes. I need to know who you made it for.”

  Kebechet stilled, flawless and poised as a statue. “That would be a breach of trust. Not all of my customers come to me publicly.”

  “I respect that, but this is a murder investigation.”

  “Ah.” She turned to the clerk, who was polishing a counter with great concentration. “Kadri, would you be a dear and fetch us some tea, and maybe some cardamom cakes? There’s no hurry.”

  The boy left, a flush darkening his copper-brown cheeks, and Kebechet latched the door behind him. “You think one of my customers is a murderer?”

  “Someone wearing one of your blends slit a woman’s throat for blood magic. Most likely more than one woman’s.”

  The perfumist swallowed. “All right.” She flipped the sign in the window. “I’ll help you if I can. We can sit down in the back.” She led Isyllt through the curtain, past a cluttered workroom and into a cramped but pleasant sitting room beside an equally cramped kitchen.

  “Do you remember who you made that perfume for?” Isyllt asked as she sat. Her shoulders wanted to slump with fatigue, but Kebechet’s perfect corseted posture kept her back straight.

  “Neroli and almond and cinnamon? Varis Severos. But,” she added quickly, “I’m hard pressed to imagine Varis killing anyone, especially for magic. He won’t even bind spirits.”

  “He may have had nothing to do with it,” Isyllt lied calmly, “but the perfume passed from him to the person who did. Did he say if it was for someone?”

  “It must have been—he could never have worn something like that. He often gives perfume to his… friends, nearly always personal blends. He has a wonderful nose for combining scents. I remember that one because he brought me a sample, an old bottle with only a few drops left, and asked me to recreate it. Not my work originally, but still quite nice. The cinnamon was much stronger than is popular now—it burns the skin, you know, and no one wants welts on their cleavage.”

  “Did he say who it was for?”

  The perfumist shook her head. “No. Not even an oblique sort of hint—I hear a lot of those.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your assistance.” She started to rise, and froze with her hands braced on the arms of the chair. “Do you still have the old perfume bottle?”

  Kebechet blinked. “I may.” She led Isyllt into the work room, and sorted through the clutter scattered across tables and piled into cabinets. “Here.” She pulled a cut glass bottle from the back of a shelf and held it out. A thin skin of oil rolled across the bottom. “Will this help you?”

  “It might.” Isyllt wrapped the bottle carefully in a silk handkerchief before stowing it in her coat pocket. In any proper investigation, she would have enough evidence to go to Varis and demand answers, with the weight of Kiril’s and the Crown’s authority behind her. She clenched her teeth in frustration with Kiril and his secrets. “Thank you.”

  Kebechet shrugged gracefully. “Anything to help the Crown. Can I interest you in a perfume, while you’re here?”

  Isyllt was hardly in the mood to shop, but she knew the value of a healthy bribe. “I do have a ball
to attend….”

  Isyllt did know how many dead bodies turned up in the river each decad, at least on average. Part of her job was keeping track of the number and natures of deaths in Erisín, so she would recognize oddities.

  That knowledge couldn’t prepare her for the line of corpses waiting for them in the Sepulcher.

  The smell rose from the stairwell: putrescence, rich and layered, more than any incense could drown. Neither sweet nor sour and both at once, choking and viscid. It rolled over Isyllt’s skin, coiled in her nostrils and pressed against her tightened lips. And beneath the stages of rot, a fainter metallic bitterness that she associated with the Dis. Her right hand clenched against the burning chill of her ring.

  Dahlia, whom Isyllt had collected from the Briar Patch, pressed a hand over her mouth and turned grey.

  “Can you stand it?” Isyllt asked, breathing shallowly. Opening her mouth was a mistake. She had probably smelled worse at some point, but she couldn’t remember when.

  The girl shot her a glance of pure vitriol. “This is why no one likes necromancers.”

  “One of many reasons. Come on.”

  Fifteen bodies lay on slabs in the vaulted chamber, swollen, mottled flesh illuminated with the brutal efficiency of witchlight. The oldest was at the limit of its preservation spells, no more than a day from deliquescence. The freshest was still damp. The river cared for no one’s vanity, but from the ribbons tangled in the corpse’s long ash-brown hair, Isyllt imagined the bloated, peeling shape on the table had once been a pretty girl. The body of a small bronze-black crab clung to the hair above one ear like a ghastly fascinator. The tiny necrophages clustered on the bars of the corpse-gates, where food was plentiful. More than one of the corpses here had likely been eaten hollow before the Vigils pulled it out.

  Several of the bodies Isyllt was able to dismiss quickly. Two had traces of white foam in their mouths and nostrils, evidence that they’d been alive when they went into the water. The third had been stabbed multiple times in the chest and stomach—angry, vicious wounds, but not meant to exsanguinate. Swelling stretched the gashes, baring layers of skin and flesh and white-marbled fat. The macerated skin had begun to slough from the corpse’s hands. The oldest was so far gone that even Isyllt wasn’t willing to inspect it closely.