by Neil McGarry
THE FALL OF VENTARIS
by Neil McGarry and Daniel Ravipinto
A Peccable Productions book
Learn more at
www.peccable.com
This is a work of fiction. All names, places, and people are products of the authors’ imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
©2013 Neil McGarry and Daniel Ravipinto
Cover illustration and map illustration © 2013 Amy Houser
www.amyhouser.com
This book is dedicated to all the readers and reviewers who took a chance on a couple of indie authors.
Your faith renewed our own.
Thanks to our test readers: Rosemary Auge, Mark Fabrizi, Daniel J. Linehan, Sean McGarry, and Suzanne Onesti, who so eagerly plunged into the Grey City and kept us from assuming we were just absolutely brilliant.
Table of Contents
Part One: Summer
Chapter One - Amongst the soulless
Chapter Two - Grieving before the bier
Chapter Three - At the end of her rope
Chapter Four - A thorn amongst roses
Chapter Five - Lost in the light
Chapter Six - Worth the candle
Chapter Seven - A matter of faith
Chapter Eight - A mask of clay and ashes
Chapter Nine - A bitter sweet
Chapter Ten - To the dogs
Chapter Eleven - A lesser resurrection
Chapter Twelve - A name for a prophecy
Chapter Thirteen - A herald of change
Chapter Fourteen - Blood and bone
Chapter Fifteen - Practical matters
Chapter Sixteen - The cost of doing business
Part Two: Fall
Chapter Seventeen - Pacing the cage
Chapter Eighteen - Not in the cards
Chapter Nineteen - Caught between colors
Chapter Twenty - The seed of a plan
Chapter Twenty-One - The absence of evidence
Chapter Twenty-Two - A fool's errand
Chapter Twenty-Three - Keeping faith
Chapter Twenty-Four - Best-laid plans
Chapter Twenty-Five - The nature of elegance
Chapter Twenty-Six - An unexpected guest
Chapter Twenty-Seven - The fall of Ventaris
Chapter Twenty-Eight - What she left behind
PART ONE
SUMMER
She sat in that room of reflection and running water with the unasked and unanswered question like a living thing and the single eye of the facet gave no quarter. She could come up with a lie, but to what end? She sighed. Her request had been made and the price set. All that remained was to pay it.
“My name... is Marina.”
The facet straightened in her chair, suddenly bereft of all grace, and lifted one hand to her throat, where she plucked at the collar of her robe. Looking up, Duchess saw that the facets passing before the doors to the great chamber had all stopped and were looking directly at her. She felt a chill and wondered if she had somehow offended, and if she would ever leave this place alive.
“Marina...Kell?” the woman asked.
Chapter One: Amongst the soulless
It took her two full bells to realize Lysander wasn’t coming.
Their plans had been vague, she told herself as she paced back and forth across the packed mud of Beggar’s Way outside Hector’s shop. She’d arrived at tenth bell, long after the morning fog had burned off. The beggars had already made their daily journey from the bottom of the great hill through the Shallows to Temple District and the Godswalk, where they’d beg their bread. Since then her only company were the folk who passed on business, moving along without a word or a glance, and her thoughts, which grew darker as the day wore on.
Lysander was always busy in the summer, attending the endless round of parties thrown at the country estates of various nobles. Lady Vorloi had taken a particular interest in the handsome young ganymede, and had kept her pet even closer this year, pressing him for details about the party at House Eusbius and the theft of the baron’s dagger. He’d told that tale a thousand times, no doubt, until the novelty had palled and the nobles moved on to fresher gossip. Perhaps he’d gotten drunk and been delayed getting back into the city, or perhaps Vorloi had demanded he extend his visit.
After all, he had promised he would be here.
Eleventh bell caught her by surprise, and when it rang her excuses melted more quickly than the morning fog. Having already paced a path in the mud, she forced herself to sit on Hector’s doorstep and slow her breathing. Lysander understood how important this was to her, and how pressing it was that he be here.
The Grey Highway had not, it turned out, been an immediate path to riches. Hector had placed a cloak on her shoulders, marking her as one of that group of gossipmongers and thieves. It even now hung in her new apartments above Nigel’s shop and when she’d placed it on its hook she’d imagined that opportunities for fortune would quite naturally present themselves. Although she’d shown audacity and wit in stealing Baron’s Eusbius’ prize possession and won a place in the Grey, fortune had yet to follow. Perhaps Hector had been right that her dealings with Uncle Cornelius, the widely feared chief of the Red, had tainted her reputation. She’d been on the Highway only two months or so, but in that time she’d learned that those who had fallen from grace were often the last to know. One of the many things Tyford was teaching her, although sometimes she only half-believed anything the old thief said.
Perhaps her worries about Lysander were simply a sign of something larger. She had no one to trust these days, it seemed, including herself. Sometimes she felt as if she were still just a scholar’s daughter, hiding behind a gray cloak far too large for her.
She sighed and bit her lip. That cloak was hers, no matter how well it sat on her shoulders, and it was time she put it to work. Whether or not she’d tarnished it before she’d broken it in, she could no longer wait. If she wanted a new opportunity, she would have to go out and make one.
Twelfth bell rang out from the imperial palace at the top of the great hill, and she decided to stop fooling herself. Lysander wasn’t coming. It was her own fault. Things had not been the same between them since the night she had left him to Malleus and Kakios’ tender mercies. Oh, they still giggled and gossiped, but every conversation since had felt slightly false. They never once spoke of the hurt she’d dealt him, and every time she caught his eye she wondered if part of him was still back there, on the stairs, being dragged off by the Brutes, his ears full of their dreadful threats and whispers.
She stood and dusted herself off. The day was passing, and if she were going to venture into the Deeps by herself, it was best to do so while the cloud-hidden sun was still high in the sky. Her father would doubtless have fainted at the notion of his youngest child wandering alone into the most dangerous district of the city, but it was either that or turn back empty-handed. Besides, it wasn’t as if she would be wandering blind through the streets. She’d fruned that the girl lived right along Beggar’s Way, almost within sight of the Shallows. She could be there in moments.
She set off down the hill, away from the Shallows that were now her home and the higher districts that were no longer. She dove into the Deeps, full of nothing but doubts, with no certainty of her place, her present, her future. Worse, she held no certainty in Lysander, nor herself.
All she could lay claim to was the knowledge that she was no longer what she once had been. Whoever she might be, she was no longer her father’s daughter.
* * *
“You are just one?” the young woman as
ked through the warped and scarred door. The building was like many in the Deeps: old and dilapidated, leaning heavily against its neighbor, and unlike most of the city, made entirely of wood. The lower level had been obviously vacant, its door missing and its windows broken, but a staircase that crawled up the side of the building gave access to the apartment on the upper floor where the weaver made her home.
“Just one,” Duchess replied with a sigh. The girl was wise to check. Those who lived in the Deeps and opened their doors unwarily often did not live to regret it. Fortunately for Duchess — she fingered a rising bruise on her cheek — those who came into the Deeps alone without an escort sometimes did.
After a pause Duchess heard the clacking of locks disengaged, and then the lifting of a large, heavy bar. The door opened a crack and an eye peered out, verifying that Duchess was indeed by herself. The crack widened, revealing a small Domae woman – Jana, no doubt – perhaps a few years older but an inch or two shorter and so petite that Duchess felt positively muscular in comparison. She wondered fleetingly if the girl ever had trouble of the sort Duchess had encountered on the way down.
The girl’s hair was black or nearly so, parted down the middle and long enough to fall past her shoulders, and her skin was a rich brown. Quite pretty, Duchess thought. Her clothing – skirt, tunic, scarf – was made of many different pieces of brightly colored cloth, all wrapped and cleverly sewn together. Her brown eyes were wary but not hostile, and they looked at her curiously.
“You are hurt,” the woman said simply. It was neither a question nor an accusation.
Duchess shrugged. “A little disagreement over my boots,” she said lightly, looking down at the muddy things. “A very large woman decided they should be hers, and when I disagreed she threw me into a wall.”
Jana blinked. “A wall.”
Duchess grinned ruefully. “Fortunately it was wooden. Further up the hill it would have been stone and I might have lost a tooth. Still, I decided to run away before she could take a second turn.”
The girl did not smile back or laugh at the joke. She simply stood there, watching.
Duchess coughed, uncertain. “I’m here to see your cloth,” she tried, by way of explanation.
The girl blinked again. “My...but you are edunae...Rodaasi.” Her accent seemed stronger than other city-dwelling Domae.
Duchess nodded. “Is that a problem?”
The girl’s eyes suddenly went wide as if she feared she’d given offense. “No problem, but...” Jana shook her head. “Rodaasi do not buy my cloth. May not buy my cloth.” She tried again. “I sell to Domae, and sometimes Ulari, and those who are from the east, the Ahé...”
“Well, I’m not like most Rodaasi.” Duchess smiled at the understatement. “So? May I see?” Jana hesitated another moment, glancing over Duchess’ shoulder as if to ensure she was truly alone, then opened the door wider, gesturing her inside.
Duchess stepped into a room barely larger than her own bedroom but far more crowded. Thick rugs and pillows of unusual red-and-yellow patterns covered the floor, complemented by wall hangings trimmed with black. The hangings portrayed natural scenes – grasslands, mountains set against sky. The largest covered the entirety of the back wall, depicting a goat-like creature emerging from tall grass to drink at a river, its thick, enormous horns entwined with the branches of a nearby tree. Everything in the tapestry seemed alive: the clouds had faces, the river eyes, and the animal a strangely human expression. There were several small tables here and there, most of which had seen better days, and a thin mattress in one corner, piled with blankets of light green and pale yellow. On several of those tables were wooden frames bound with bands of cloth at top and bottom, with slender threads between. Duchess was reminded of the looms in her mother’s day room, although these were smaller and less familiar. The room smelled both sweet and sharp, like apples and vinegar mingled. Strange, but not unpleasant.
“Please, be seated,” Jana said graciously, barring the door behind them. “I have no chairs, but...” She gestured to one of the large floor-pillows. Since the chairs in Duchess’ own apartment, and indeed the apartment itself, were all on loan from Uncle Cornelius, she wasn’t about to complain. While Duchess had a seat, Jana busied herself at the hearth, and Duchess saw she was preparing something to drink. She even had cups and saucers, although they seemed old and mismatched. It was a welcoming scene, but Duchess tried not to get too relaxed.
She’d fruned everything she could about Jana, but what she hadn’t been able to learn was more interesting than what she had. That subtle dance of unspoken insinuation and occluded query was fantastic for ferreting out general gossip, but fell flat when it came to detail. There were a few foreigners on the Grey, but the Domae who wore the cloak had been notably unwilling to say much about the young weaver. Duchess could not imagine what they might be afraid of. Jana seemed innocuous enough.
Jana carried over two cups with enviable dexterity, handing one to Duchess and seating herself neatly on a nearby pillow, all without clattering the cups against the saucers.
“I am Jana,” the woman said formally. “Your presence honors me.” Duchess fidgeted. Was she supposed to say something back? Her experience with Domae was limited to brief transactions at the market or over Noam’s bread cart.
“I am Duchess,” she replied, settling for a smile and a nod. She took up her saucer and realized the strange scent was coming from the cup. The tea inside was darker than she was used to, and appealingly aromatic.
Jana tilted her head curiously. “I have never heard that name before,” she said, holding her cup with a practiced hand. “But I am certain that my name sounds as strange to you.”
Duchess smiled, curiously at ease with Jana’s unselfconscious honesty. “Trust me, my name is strange to everyone.” She nodded to the tapestries, the rugs. “You’ve got yourself a lovely place here.” She paused and sniffed at her cup. “I, uh, have not had tea for a long time. We don’t drink it much in the Shallows.” Jana nodded encouragingly and Duchess took a sip. The tea was sweet and rich and strangely thick, as if it were not tea at all. Her split lip ached from the heat, but it was worth it. “Delicious,” she said, meaning it. “I’ve never tasted anything like it.”
Jana nodded again, pleased. “I add sugar that has been heated into a syrup.” She gestured to a small glass jar by the hearth. “Your people do not use this, but there are Domae in the Foreign Quarter who make it. I buy it there.”
Duchess reflected that she might make a fortune just selling that syrup up the hill, but she hadn’t come for that. “Speaking of the Foreign Quarter, why don’t you live there? It’s safer than the Deeps, and there are more of your people about.” A bit forward to ask, but either something about the tea or Jana’s manner seemed to encourage ease.
Jana’s smile faded. “The men who own the buildings will take my coins, but since the guild of weavers will not have me they do not allow me to practice my craft there. If I cannot weave I cannot make money to live.” She gestured to the room. “Those who rent in these Deeps, they take the coins and ask no questions.” She shrugged. “I am still getting used to all these coins: pennies and half-pennies and sou.”
Duchess blinked. “You...don’t use coin?”
“Now that I am here, yes. But in the plains things are different. My people trade one thing for another. These metal coins are confusing.” She looked suddenly anxious. “I do not mean to say that our ways are better,” she added hastily.
Duchess waved off the apology, not offended but interested. Clearly the Domae were more unlike Rodaasi than she had thought. “At the door, when you saw me, you said I was...ehdunay?”
“Edunae. It is what my people call yours.” Jana smiled nervously. “I am of the people — Dom — thus, Domae. You are not, thus, edunae.”
“Edunae.” Duchess tried out the word on her tongue. “What does it mean?”
Jana dropped her gaze, as if Duchess had asked something embarrassing. “It is the word
we use for those who live in the city,” she replied quietly. “Those not of the people.” She looked up, seemingly worried. “Other.”
Duchess sensed an evasion. “But what does it mean in your language?”
The woman glanced about the room, as if seeking some way out of the question. Her eyes settled on the tapestry, then turned back to Duchess. “It means one without a spirit,” she said, tentatively. “Soulless.”
Duchess hesitated, while Jana looked on anxiously, obviously afraid she had offended. At first Duchess was offended, until she considered those who trudged along Beggar’s Way each morning, past homes more opulent than they could ever dream. Until she thought of the party Baron Eusbius had thrown, with more food than Duchess had ever seen and more gold than she’d ever owned. Until she remembered the story of Lenard and his poor monkey, and the blackarms who had refused to protect them both from the Uncle and the Red. Finally she shrugged. “Well,” she replied with a sigh, “I suppose it fits.”
Jana smiled in obvious relief. “The name is from long ago, and we no longer remember where it began. The elders say that the world ends where the plains do, and to go beyond means to lose one’s soul.” She shrugged. “If they speak truly, then I am now edunae as well.”
Duchess found herself returning the smile. “Being edunae isn’t so bad,” she quipped, drinking more tea, “and in this city you’ll never miss your soul.” She and Jana shared a small laugh. “I’m always glad to find when my elders and supposed betters are wrong,” Duchess dared, still smiling.
Jana’s smile took on a wry edge, as if she were sharing a secret. “It is refreshing to find how often it happens, is it not?”
