The Fall of Ventaris

by Neil McGarry

  Again that question. “They call me Duchess.”

  Tremaine scoffed. “I’m certain they call you a great many things.” She sighed, tapping the scroll against her fingers. “Perhaps the gods — or someone else — are on your side in this matter.”

  “Does that mean we can do business, guildmaster?”

  Tremaine smoothed down her dress, as if Duchess’ question had rumpled it. “If the contents of this scroll were to become public, in the proper manner, of course, I’d have little choice but to look once more at your friend’s petition. After all, who would fault me for obeying Our Lady of Wisdom?”

  Duchess smiled. “Then our business is concluded?”

  “Soon, or so I devoutly hope. Wait a few days while I see that this scroll makes its way to the people who matter, and then tell your friend to reapply. I imagine she’ll have it easier this time than last.” Her eyes narrowed. “But if this woman expects any special favor from me henceforth, she’s sadly mistaken. Unless Anassa herself appears in my shop, licensure is the one and only boon she gets from me. I don’t want to hear from her again unless it is about official guild business and through proper guild channels. Is that understood?”

  “Clearly.”

  Tremaine nodded crisply. “Then Lynda will see you out...the back door. I’m sure Lady Miriam doesn’t need to look at you twice. I certainly do not.” And with that she was gone.

  As Lynda guided her to the exit, Duchess felt a spring in her step. She would at long last be able to keep her promise to Jana. There was still the worrisome thought of Antony, and of course, none of this was a guarantee that their business venture would succeed, but as Minette was fond of saying, in life there were no guarantees.

  As she stepped back into the street, she thought perhaps she should have brought Castor in with her after all. Perhaps he could have stood down the imperious head of the weaver’s guild with more bravery than she’d managed.

  Or perhaps not. Gloria Tremaine was, clearly, no dandelion.

  Chapter Fourteen: Blood and bone

  “You’re smirking,” Castor muttered, cutting at her again faster than she thought possible. She threw up her own sword just in time, and metal screeched against metal. He was stronger and pressed her hard, so she spun away and to the right, lifting her blade for a return stroke, but the godsdamned thing was too heavy, even wielded two-handed. She was still bringing the blade to bear when she found the tip of Castor’s own sword against her belly. Disgusted, she dropped her weapom to thump on the hard-packed earth of their new practice space.

  “You’re not good enough to smirk,” Castor said flatly. She made a sour face, but as she bent to retrieve her weapon she had to admit he was right. Even though her swordplay would in a real fight have ended up with her gutted, she couldn’t help grinning. She’d secured Jana’s admission to the guild without spending a single penny, her skills at subterfuge were improving under Tyford’s tutelage, and now a former White was teaching her the ways of armed combat. Tyford and Castor were as different as any two men she’d ever met, but they were equally unflinching in their criticism. Even using the padded doublet Castor had provided...well, even blunted blades hurt.

  Castor took the weapon from her as if it weighed nothing. “It’s too heavy,” she complained. “I just can’t swing it fast enough.”

  Castor raised an eyebrow. “I was wondering when you’d finally admit that.” He turned to the bundle of practice weapons and padded armor he’d shown up with that morning, when he’d led to the spacious cellar he’d found under the burnt-out wine shop on the very edge of the Deeps. Under normal circumstances she would never dare visit this sort of place alone, particularly after that scuffle outside of Jana’s apartment, but with Castor at her side she felt safe from even the roughest thug the district had to offer. She didn’t know where he’d acquired the gear, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to ask. Already she was coming to know that Castor was as sparing with his confidences as with his words. Despite the fact that she knew enough to get both of them hanged, he’d not said a single word about the son that had landed him in a cell, nor the woman who’d borne him, and Duchess hadn’t asked. When he wanted her to know something, he’d tell her, and until then, it was enough for her to learn what he had to teach.

  He rummaged in the bag. “The first rule of combat is that you never fight on the other man’s terms. If he wants to fight with swords but you’re better with maces, you bring a mace.” He turned back, holding two blunted daggers. “You’re strong enough for a woman, but most men are stronger than that. You’re quicker than most men, though.” He offered her the hilt, which she grasped, instantly more at ease. She was no stranger to knives. He took a step back and held his own dagger at the ready. “Start again.”

  She did better this time, but not much. Quick she might be, but Castor was quicker and he seemed to know where she would strike before she did. He moved with fluid grace, sliding out of the path of her blade no matter how quickly she jabbed or cut. He had a longer reach besides, which meant she had to move quickly to avoid his return stroke.

  “And now you’re thinking,” Castor noted calmly.

  That pulled her up short. “I thought that was a good thing.”

  “Not here.” He settled back on his heels. “The second rule of combat is to turn off your mind. You’re obviously off thinking about something else, not here at all. And while you’re doing that, I’m killing you, or would be if these blades were real. A good fighter does his thinking before the steel comes out. After that, it’s all instinct.”

  “Instinct.” She thought about Lysander’s almost careless confidence, whether at cat-catching or lock-picking, as if success were as natural as breathing. Was that what Castor meant? When he came at her again, she tried to shut down her thoughts but then it was almost impossible to hear his lesson. “You know, it’s not easy to stop thinking when you’re talking to me.”

  He sent a swift cut her way. “Distraction is something every warrior must face.” They went around in a slow circle, with Duchess yielding ground and Castor taking it. After a few turns around the cellar, she made as if to retreat, then lunged forward, blade out to catch him in the belly. He whacked it away, but only after she nearly connected, Duchess noted with satisfaction.

  “That was a good feint, except I saw it coming.” They paused a moment. “You’re watching my eyes, which works for tiles but not for swordplay,” he said without rancor. “But eyes can lie, and an experienced fighter knows it...and uses it. He might feign a look of fear, or dart a glance over your shoulder at the enemy he hopes you’ll think is there, and that’ll be the last trick you ever fall for.” It was the most he’d ever said to her at one time, but she supposed he felt more comfortable on the familiar ground of the practice yard. He held up a finger. “If you want to know where a man’s about to move, watch his hips. A man’s not going anywhere without his hips, and that’s what gave you away. Now try again.” She did, this time keeping her eyes trained on the belt knotted around Castor’s waist. It was strange not to look him in the face, but she figured a White knew what he was talking about. He was certainly not a Wharves thug.

  She jabbed at his chest with the blade, and this time she noticed his subtle slide to the right. She slashed out in that direction, and he jerked back, a bit less gracefully that time. “Good,” he told her. Then his finger darted out to poke her left shoulder, fast as lightning. “But you don’t forget to watch the arms as well.”

  “I only have two eyes,” she growled, trying to keep clear of another poking finger while watching for his next move.

  Now he was smirking, or at least as close as Castor ever came to a smirk. “And only one life, and if you mean to keep it you’ll learn to watch more than one thing at a time.” She gritted her teeth and reminded herself that she was lucky to have the counsel of an Imperial White. And then she stabbed harder.

  And found herself striking a glancing blow to his side. She shouted out triumphantly, then pulled herse
lf short. She froze in place, suddenly seeing his blade a hairbreadth from her throat. Her eyes flicked to his. He was frowning.

  “You’re too focused on the offensive. The only way you know how to protect yourself is to attack.”

  She found herself unable to breathe, her weapon hand suddenly numb. He caught her blade before it hit the ground, then turned, packed up the weapons, doused the lantern and brought it along. “Will there be anything else?” he asked as he led her up the stairs.

  His final critique still stuck in her craw, though she could not say why. “I’ll need you this evening,” she said at last. “Nothing difficult. Another escort job, in Scholars. For my protection.” She bit back her anger on the last word.

  If he caught anything in her tone, he did not show it. He merely nodded his head, and headed off without a backward glance.

  * * *

  It was time to deal with either Antony or Darley, and she was less afraid of Darley.

  She’d thought a long time about the secret tunnel Darley had unwittingly shown her, and what it might mean. For all the victories she’d won in the past few weeks, she still didn’t know what had happened to the Freehold. Breaking into Terence’s house again would not serve, not until she learned more about puzzle-locks. And what would happen if the savant’s hidden safe contained nothing of interest? Besides, on her last visit she’d stolen from Darley, and it was possible that the girl would be on alert for burglars. The reward was just not worth the risk.

  The knowledge of that tunnel, however, opened interesting possibilities. Darley was taking quite a risk in using such dark and secret ways simply to sustain a tryst with a low-born suitor. Perhaps there was something more there. In any case, she needed to do something. The prophecy she’d passed on to Gloria Tremaine had not yet become common knowledge, which meant Jana could not yet reapply to the guild, and she still didn’t know what to do about Antony. Duchess’ only other option was waiting, and she’d never been good at that.

  But she did not dare explore the tunnels alone. Her last journey beneath the city, escaping from House Eusbius, had been harrowing, and she remembered well the fog in the sewer tunnel and that dreadful presence. She wasn’t sure if such things could be fought with a sword, but she’d rather face them with a warrior at her side.

  She left her apartment, locked the door, and trotted down the steps, where Castor was already waiting. He was carrying the torches, wrapped in cloth, and more importantly wearing a long sword, which was a good deal more comforting than the daggers she carried on her belt and in her boot. He nodded his usual greeting, and off they went.

  They entered Bell Plaza and moved towards Beggar’s Gate, and she noted with some relief that Burrell was absent. She wasn’t in the mood for him today; the thought of the work that lay ahead was already coiling fearfully in her belly. However, the senior guard on duty moved to block them. “Where are you bound?” he challenged in a voice twice as loud as necessary.

  Duchess regarded him impatiently, keenly aware of the time. Sunset was not far off, and they had to be well within Scholars before dark fell or else the guards would never let them into the district. “To the Gardens of Mayu,” she said, for no particular reason.

  The man’s eyes flicked to Castor. “And why’s this one armed? Afraid of the keepers?” His lip curled in casual contempt, and she cast about for some reply. She needn’t have bothered. Castor stepped forward and fixed the man with his steely gaze, and said nothing. The guard fingered the club hanging from his belt, but Castor did not so much as twitch a finger towards his own weapon. He simply stared.

  After a long moment, the blackarm dropped his gaze and stepped away. “Go wherever you like,” he muttered. “No skin off my arse.” The other blackarm smirked in his direction, but Duchess decided not to gloat. She and Castor passed beneath the gate and moved into Temple.

  “That was...interesting,” Duchess remarked when they passed out of earshot.

  Castor shrugged. “Blackarms are used to dealing with thieves and petty thugs. Stand them up against a warrior and they melt like morning fog.” And a good thing, she reflected, for it saved them the long path through Market and around the hill. She said nothing more, and they navigated Temple without further incident and reached Scholars Gate well before sundown. The guards there were either less bold or less curious, and let them pass without challenge.

  She’d thought hiding in the district and staying clear of the blackarms would be more difficult with Castor in tow, but in fact it was easier. He knew the names of most of the guards and their patrol routes — she didn’t ask how — and guided her through lanes and alleys where they rarely or never came. The other Scholars folk they encountered also seemed uninterested in Duchess, most likely because she was escorted by a man, she thought sourly. Either that or Castor’s hard gray eyes discouraged idle questions. In any case, she was glad she’d brought him along.

  At nightfall they came to Savant Terence’s garden and slipped quietly over the wall. She was pleased to note that Castor was as adept at sneaking as he was at fighting. They’d have need of that, later. She led him to Teranon where they crouched, setting down the torches. She’d have preferred a lantern but feared the sound of squeaking metal in quiet tunnels, and Castor had pointed out that a torch made nearly as useful a weapon as a sword. She hoped neither would be necessary. She pointed up to the third-floor window and Castor nodded, his eyes carefully sweeping the garden. They dared not move until they were certain Darley had either entered the tunnel or was not planning to do so, so they settled down to wait.

  The last time Darley had not emerged until midnight, but eleventh bell had barely ceased ringing when the window opened and the girl slipped out and descended the trellis. Castor was statue-still, and only the movement of his eyes indicated that he’d seen her. Duchess had already warned him about the secret entrance, so he was unperturbed when the general slid aside to reveal the stone steps. Darley vanished and the general resumed his post, and they waited for a long moment to allow Darley time to move away through the tunnels. Then Duchess signaled.

  She was just kneeling near the statue, reaching for the hidden lever, when she noticed him looking past her, upwards towards the palace, his expression unreadable. Perhaps something he saw there reminded him of his time in the Whites, or perhaps the cold reality of his new existence was finally settling into his bones. She’d had that feeling herself, when she’d first moved into the bakery. It seemed the past refused to stay the past, regardless of what one willed. She watched him until the moment passed and his gaze and his attention returned to the present. He nodded, once again all business.

  Duchess pressed the hidden lever and Castor pushed back the plinth. He descended a few steps, peered around, and then nodded. The way was clear. Duchess joined him in the stairwell and produced a torch, fumbling for flint and steel. In a moment she had it blazing, and by its light she could see a large metal ring embedded in the base of the plinth, evidently the handle for closing the passage. At her nod, Castor grasped it and slid the plinth back into place, closing them in the passage with the flickering, smoking light of the torch.

  The stairway descended well into the earth, fifty feet at least, and at the bottom was a long, narrow passage, perhaps six feet wide, lined with the same gray stone that graced most of the city. The Domae who had built Rodaas had certainly been consistent, she’d give them that much. Castor pointed to the floor at a small circular patch of clean in the dust. “Lantern,” he breathed. Darley would need her own light source, and of course she was less worried about stealth. No one else came down here, as far as she knew.

  Taking a deep breath, she nodded, and Castor led the way into the darkness beneath the city.

  * * *

  Duchess did not want to be here. She wanted to be home, or drinking with Lysander at the Merry Widow, or — gods help her — even haggling with Hector. Anywhere but here, far below the city, buried under an empire’s worth of stone and humanity. Every step took her de
eper into the darkness and away from the cleverness and bravery that had brought her to this place of gray rock and shifting light. Castor took the lead, moving with cautious grace, hand near the hilt of his sword, and she followed, clutching the burning brand as if it were life itself.

  Beyond that light the darkness was complete, and the gods only knew what would become of them if the torches gave out. The tunnel was smooth and gently sloped, sometimes curving left and sometimes right, but always down. Occasionally the way branched, and there white marks, chalked into the gray stone, were their only guide. The blocks that lined the tunnel were all of precisely the same size and hue, and only those marks broke the monotony.

  Only a fool would rely solely on the memory of a map, and Darley was clearly no fool. Duchess had brought some chalk of her own, to use if there had been no path to follow, but there’d been no need. Castor had caught sight of the first marking, drawn so close to the floor that she herself had missed it...no doubt as Darley had intended. She blessed each one, for without them she would have been hopelessly lost. They’d passed so many side-corridors and passages that she could only imagine the scope of the tunnels. As they went, part of her mind whispered that around the next corner was the wet chill of the fog, impossible this far underground. She wiped sweat from her brow and tightened her grip on the torch.

  As they moved more deeply into the labyrinth, the tunnels changed, and they passed long, shallow niches carved into the walls. They were empty now, but who knew what treasures they might once have held? Each one was perhaps six feet wide and half that deep, enough to hold a small chest, or even a human being...

  ...and that was when she guessed they’d entered the fabled necropolis, where the long-ago Domae had interred their dead. The corpses had either decayed to dust or been removed, but here they had lain since before the founding of the empire. Castor glanced back at her, as if to measure her resolve, but she met his gaze squarely. She would not turn back.