The Bone Palace

by Downum, Amanda

  Of the remainders, four bore slit throats, and three of those carried telltale traces of cinnamon. Isyllt wondered if she would ever enjoy pastries or spiced tea again.

  Three women dead since Forsythia, and saints only knew how many others they hadn’t found.

  They left the Sepulcher by the afternoon bells, as the light began to thicken and slant.

  “We can search for more tomorrow.” Isyllt said, scrubbing a hand over her face. She regretted it as soon as she did—the smell of corpses clung to her. Dahlia and Khelséa were still ashen, and she doubted she looked any better; no one suggested food.

  The bells began to ring only a moment after she spoke. Not the stately melody of the hour, but a wild and enthusiastic tintinnabulation. All down the street people paused mid-stride, stuck their heads out of shop doors, turned to their neighbors for confirmation. Isyllt knew they wouldn’t be doing much investigating tomorrow: The army was coming home.

  A young man burst from a doorway and bolted down the sidewalk, nearly trampling them. Isyllt swore as she tugged Dahlia out of the way. The rough plaster wall gouged her shoulder blades, and paper crinkled and tore. The parchment fluttered free when she moved and Isyllt caught it absently. An advertisement for the latest opera, or whatever had been the latest a decad ago; the paper was warped with moisture, the ink faded and smeared.

  “Looks like I’ll be containing crowds tomorrow,” Khelséa said with a grimace. “Maybe I’ll claim another ear infection. What will you do?”

  “I don’t know.” The paper crumpled in her fist. “More importantly, what will she do?”

  An idea welled in the back of her mind, and her frown eased. She opened her fingers and smoothed the flier.

  “Expensive perfumes are meant to be worn,” she said slowly, tumbling the idea end over end. “Especially ones from the most fashionable perfumery in the city. This witch of ours may hide her face, but she also buys scent and has dresses fitted. Where can a veiled woman go and attract the right sort of attention?”

  She dangled the paper in front of the others’ faces and watched their eyes widen.

  Khelséa argued, but it was Ciaran whom Isyllt asked to accompany her. Being seen with a Vigil wasn’t the sort of attention she wanted tonight—not to mention the opera would be wasted on someone deaf in one ear.

  He arrived at her door at Evensong, resplendent in black velvet and crimson silk, his hair loose and shining over his shoulders. Finer clothes than she’d thought he owned, but what Ciaran didn’t have he always knew how to acquire. Not a perfect complement to her dove grey and opals, but hardly an eyesore.

  “I didn’t think you liked the opera,” he said, leaning against the doorway while she pinned up her hair. Her shoulder was still mottled yellow and green, but at least the weather let her wear a scarf.

  “I don’t, particularly, but this is business.” She much preferred spoken theater, or even the musicals that flourished in the demimonde orpheums. Hours of constant song wore on her.

  Ciaran sighed. “Of course it is. You couldn’t simply want to go out for the joy of it.”

  She almost made a joke about the joy of expense accounts and bit her tongue. Her hand tightened on a hair stick and she took a deep breath. A crease formed between her reflection’s eyebrows. She still looked tired and wan, and hadn’t the skill with cosmetics to hide it. No powder could conceal the stark shadows below her collarbones—flesh she could ill afford to lose had melted away while she was bedridden. The iridescent fire of the opals at her throat and ears cheered her, though, and no one expected a necromancer to be plump and rosy with health. She forced a smile, held it in place till it fit, then pulled the black silk covering over the mirror and turned to find her gloves.

  “What’s playing tonight, anyway?”

  Ciaran gave a sigh for her ignorance. “Astrophel and Satis. Thierselis’s version.”

  “Damn. I prefer the Kharybdea.”

  “Of course you do. It’s one of the reasons I’m so fond of you.” He crossed the room to stand behind her, dropping a light kiss just below her ear. “Is that a new perfume?”

  The Orpheum Tharymis rose above the rooftops of Lyre, its marble columns and domes gilded by hundreds of lanterns. Musicians and dancers chased each other through elaborate friezes, and owl-winged gargoyles brooded dramatically over the doorways; golden light glazed the rain-damp street below. Vendors thronged the pavement beneath the broad steps, offering flowers and refreshments and forged programs for cheaper than one could find inside. Ribbons of scent twisted with the breeze—wine and cider, garlic and sugar and bruising blossoms.

  The Tharymis was the oldest and grandest orpheum in the city, though many would argue that the Magdalen—or the Garden’s Rhodon—had the better productions. Had it been an opening night, even Isyllt’s diamond wouldn’t have been enough to secure tickets. As it was, most of the other attendees looked through her and Ciaran without the aid of an obfuscation charm.

  Witchlights blazed in crystal chandeliers overhead, gleaming on brass and marble and polished wood, burnished the blue velvet seats and curtains. The tiny bowls that lined the aisles were witchlit as well. Beeswax candles burned in wall sconces—easier to light and douse, and less likely to catch someone’s cloak or skirts alight.

  Isyllt had managed mediocre seats on the ground floor—good enough if one truly wanted to watch the performance, but beneath the notice of the balconies and private boxes. She sent Ciaran for refreshments and tried to watch the Severos box without getting a crick in her neck. Eventually a page rapped at the door with drinks for two, but of the occupants she saw nothing but a pale hand emerging to take the tray. If Varis was there, perhaps his mysterious companion was as well.

  Ciaran returned with wine as the witchlights began to pulse and dim. The cacophony of a hundred conversations faded to a gentle susurrus, and finally died as the first notes drifted from the orchestra pit.

  The midnight-blue curtains opened, revealing the stage dressed as a city street and the chorus gowned in old-fashioned demimonde finery. They introduced the heroine Astrophel, a poor lacemaker who loved beyond her reach, and the object of her affection, the witch Satis, who lived in her dusty tower with only ghosts and one jealous servant, nursing her magic and grief for a long-lost love. Astrophel was played as always by the season’s up-and-coming soprano, a girl the program identified as Anika Sirota. A Rosian name, and she had the milk-and-roses complexion and shining golden hair to match. Satis was a role for aging contraltos, when they weren’t cast as mad queens or vengeful mothers. Isyllt had seen Zahara Noïs in a dozen roles over the years—a tall, rawboned woman whose white-streaked auburn mane was visible from the highest seats. The audience shivered whenever she sang one of Satis’s mad arias.

  Isyllt finished her wine long before Astrophel charmed her way past Satis’s doorstep for the first time. Her fingers tightened around her empty cup when they sang their first duet. Sirota’s voice rang with passion, with pain and longing beyond an ingénue’s years. When the two women sank into an embrace behind a scrim and the curtain fell for intermission, applause shook the orpheum to its bones.

  Isyllt kept an eye on the Severos box during the break, and saw Varis come and go. She didn’t follow, but drank more wine and let the din of the crowd wash over her. Sirota was the darling of the season, she quickly learned—the daughter of refugees, lifted from the slums by her talent. Isyllt heard a few snide remarks about her origins, but most of the audience seemed smitten with the girl, and thought her story operatic in itself.

  Isyllt didn’t appreciate Thiercelis’s opera as much as Kharybdea’s spoken theater, but Astrophel and Satis was powerful in any version, especially with singers as talented as these. Someone in the audience was weeping or cursing at any given moment during the second half of the show, as Satis’s ghosts tried to woo her back from her mortal lover, and her jealous assistant and Astrophel’s suitor Marius—the same tenor Nikos had commented on in The Rain Queen—tried to keep the girl aw
ay.

  Since it was a tragedy, Astrophel’s steadfast devotion might defeat mortal jealousy, but couldn’t overcome the hungry dead. The servant locked her in Satis’s tower overnight while the sorceress was away, and the ghosts did their work. When Satis returned at dawn, she found Astrophel half dead and more than half mad from the attentions of the specters. Thinking Satis another ghost, she threw herself out of the tower to escape. After the lovers’ final duet—for which the production spared no expense for pig’s blood—Satis stalked through her house dripping blood, murdering her servant and destroying the ghosts before finally drinking lye and dying alone in her tower, surrounded by crumbling dry flowers. Because it was theater she sang to the end, and Noïs’s raw, broken voice sent chills through everyone who heard it. Isyllt found herself clutching her throat; Ciaran didn’t laugh—his face was slick with tears.

  When the curtain fell on the final flower-strewn stage, the house was silent for a long sniffling moment before the applause rose in a tidal roar. Isyllt stood for the ovation, ignoring glares as she slipped down the aisle and up the stairs before the crowd began to pour toward the doors. Those with boxes tended to wait for the press to die, but she wanted to be sure to catch Varis before he disappeared.

  Wine still warmed her blood as she climbed the shell-curved side stair. The downward rush of people caught her before she reached the third story, and she clung tight to the banister as she fought her way up.

  Her timing was immaculate; the door to the box opened as she drew near and Varis Severos emerged, as eye-catching as ever. Tonight his coat was a green so dark it was almost black, the high-collared shirt beneath searing verdigris. Gems glittered along the curve of one ear, carnelian and amethyst and brilliant citrine; his rings glittered too, bright with power.

  “Lord Varis,” she called before she could think better of it, and dipped a shallow curtsy when he turned. She knew him well enough from the Arcanost to strike up conversation, but they were hardly peers. In addition to the gulf in age and wealth, he was a vocal opponent of vinculation, and her magic relied on it.

  One eyebrow rose. “Lady Iskaldur.” His smile was polite and distant, but his eyes were sharp beneath painted lids. He smelled of lime and lilac, citron and musk. “Imagine seeing you here.”

  He and Kiril had been lovers once; she hardly ever thought of it, but now the idea made her blush. Was that why Kiril was protecting him now? Was that—No. She set it aside, ignoring her stinging cheeks.

  “Did you enjoy the performance?” Varis continued. His pale eyes narrowed and she knew he marked her reaction.

  “I did. Though their tenor is still only adequate, I’m afraid.” Which was perhaps unfair—most singers were only adequate compared to Sirota and Noïs, and the character Marius and his infatuation with Astrophel were meant to pale in comparison.

  His response died as the door opened behind him; Isyllt’s pulse spiked in her throat.

  The woman who emerged wore plum velvet, the sort of dress that would cost a civil servant a month’s salary. Silver and jet glittered on her hem and cuffs, and spangled the black silk gauze of her veils. Beneath the gauze her black hair was piled high, a few locks uncoiling over her shoulders.

  She laid a gloved hand on Varis’s arm, cocking her head inquisitively. She didn’t need a face to draw eyes from all over the room—her stance and figure and exquisite taste did that perfectly well. Her perfume was even richer and more conflagrant in person.

  “Varis?” The woman’s voice was low and pleasant and otherwise unremarkable, but it still sent a chill down Isyllt’s neck. “Who is your friend?”

  “This is Isyllt Iskaldur, a member of the Arcanost. You’ll forgive me, Lady, if I don’t introduce my companion.”

  Isyllt held out a hand. “A pleasure all the same.”

  The woman took her hand so smoothly the hesitation barely showed. The briefest brush of fingers and the contact ended, leaving Isyllt with a lingering whisper of magic and the taste of cinnamon on her tongue. Her stomach tightened with the memory of corpses.

  “Likewise,” the woman said, and Isyllt heard her smile. “Kiril has spoken of you.”

  It was meant to goad and Isyllt knew it. That didn’t keep her spine from stiffening or her smile from sharpening. Varis’s eyes narrowed and he tucked the woman’s hand more firmly against his arm. “We should go, darling. If you’ll excuse us…”

  “Of course.” She stepped aside with a sweep of skirts. “A pleasure to see you again, Lord Varis,” she said as they stepped past. “And you, Margravine.”

  She hadn’t meant to say it, not really, but too many dead bodies crowded behind her eyes. The woman’s velvet-clad shoulders squared as the dart struck home and Varis nearly stumbled on the deep carpet, and though Isyllt knew it was a foolish risk to antagonize them, the rush of exultation more than paid for it.

  Neither Varis nor Phaedra responded, only continued down the stairs with their perfect grace intact. As they reached the final landing Phaedra’s veiled head turned, and Isyllt felt her regard like the weight of a hand. She had just made enemies of two powerful sorcerers—one with a penchant for slitting throats, and another who could ruin her career with a few well-placed words. At least, she thought as her stomach contracted, now she knew.

  “What did you do?” Ciaran asked when she returned to his side.

  “Something stupid.”

  “Have you heard anything?” Isyllt asked Ciaran as they left the orpheum. Claiming a carriage from the mob in front of the theater would require more violence than she was willing to bother with, so they turned down a side street to avoid the press.

  “About murders and disappearances and blood mages?” His hand twitched at his side, a warding gesture. “Someone is always going missing in Elysia. I’m not sure yet which might be connected to your case. There’s something else, though. About the vrykoloi.”

  He paused, glancing into the dark mouth of an alley as they passed it. “Speaking of which—”

  Her ring chilled and she spun, cursing heavy skirts and the lack of her knife as she shoved Ciaran behind her. A shadow moved in the alley. She hadn’t expected an attack this soon—

  “No!” Ciaran grabbed her arm as her ring began to spark. An instant later the shadow resolved into a familiar shape. Isyllt swore as she lowered her hand, her pulse sharp and painful with unspent energy.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Azarné said, pausing on the edge of the light. Her eyes flashed red and gold. “But I thought we should speak. I’ve learned things about the graverobbers. About Spider.”

  Isyllt nodded; his name was no surprise. “Yes, we should talk. But”—she didn’t glance over her shoulder, only because she knew it was useless—“Spider has been following me lately. I can’t guarantee you won’t be seen in my company.”

  Azarné’s tiny mouth curled in a sneer. “I’m not afraid of him.”

  Isyllt turned to Ciaran. “What about you?”

  “I’ve survived being your friend for this long. I hardly see the point in stopping now.”

  Her hand tightened on his arm before she let go. “All right,” she said to Azarné. “Meet me at my apartment and we’ll talk.”

  Isyllt stirred the fire and took her hair down while they waited for Azarné, and put the kettle on. She wanted wine more than tea, but she didn’t need any more foolhardiness tonight. She could always spike her cup with whiskey if she had to.

  Ciaran paced a restless circuit through the room, and Isyllt rolled her lower lip between her teeth as she watched him. Music or theater always roused him, but this energy was nervous, distracted—he should have been humming or talking, sketching shapes of songs with his hands as he tried to make her understand what he heard.

  Her wards shivered as the vrykola drew near, as they did with any stranger’s approach, but this shiver became an angry buzz as the magic realized the intruder wasn’t human. Isyllt quieted the spell before it could strike and allowed the vampire across her threshold. She was
, she thought wryly, making a habit of this lately.

  Ciaran stopped his pacing at Azarné’s light scratch on the door—Isyllt caught him running a hand through his hair as she rose to answer it. She wanted to laugh, if only to convince herself that his new infatuation didn’t hurt. She wanted to laugh even harder at her own double standards.

  Isyllt had only ever seen the tiny vrykola in shadows and witchlight. The warm light of the lamps made her metallic bronze skin all the more unnatural, but also showed the stains and tatters of her clothes, the dust and grime that caked her hems and dulled her tangled hair. Did the state of undeath lend itself to ruined, dismal beauty, or did the catacombs simply lack dressmakers who could work in the dark?

  Azarné’s eyes shone as she glanced around the room, pupils contracting to uncanny pinpricks. She didn’t stand beside Ciaran, but her weight and attention shifted toward him.

  “Can I get you anything?” Isyllt asked automatically as she poured tea for her and Ciaran, and shook her head at the silliness of the question.

  “No,” Azarné said slowly. “Thank you.” She drifted away from the door, spiraling through the sitting room like a new cat to inspect books and ornaments and furniture. Isyllt sat, cradling her teacup to warm her hands and waiting for the vampire to speak.

  “What has Spider told you of his plans?” asked Azarné after another circuit of the room. She paused behind a chair, taloned fingers dimpling the cushioned back.

  Isyllt sipped her tea, rolling smoke and tannin over her tongue. “He wants to renew the truce. He wants the freedom of the city. He hasn’t told me how he means to accomplish that.”

  “That’s true, but not the half of it. He wants control of the city. He wants to set his demon witch on the throne and rule through her.”