by Neil McGarry
“That I know less than I did when I first began wondering.”
He laughed long and loud. “My dear Duchess, you never disappoint. Faith is like a flower. It blooms in its own time.” She smiled, struck that this merry-seeming man had poisoned his way to primacy. Rodaas abounded with murderers, but they seldom seemed so cheerful.
That thought caught her. Amabilis had risked everything, had countenanced murder, in an attempt to bring down Jadis. “Keeper,” she found herself asking, “do your fellows agree with your philosophy of doubt?”
Jadis stopped in his tracks and she turned to find the most curious expression on his face. His jovial smile had vanished. He seemed almost sad. And then it was gone, his smile returned. “What makes you ask, my dear?”
“I understand there was some issue between you and one of your fellows. A keeper named Malachar?”
He looked for a moment as if he would simply turn and walk away. Instead, he nodded. “Yes, poor fellow. We were not always in such...vehement disagreement. It was something that grew between us.”
She fell into step beside him. “You were friends once?”
He nodded again. “Very much so. And if I am honest, I must say that I respected him, to the very end. Regardless of our disagreements.”
“He did not believe in doubt?”
“Very much the opposite. What is the point of the gods, he would say, if they do not give us certainty? He thought Mayu a fixed point amidst chaos, a safe haven against the dark. He should have been born a radiant.” He seemed to shake himself from some reverie. “His death was quite sudden, and marked the fall of his philosophy amongst my brothers.”
She thought again of the bone in the keeper’s hand. “And do you think he found his certainty? In the end?”
“I do not know. I like to think so.” They walked on in silence amongst the greenery for a long while. Then the First Keeper stopped again and gestured to a locked gate, hidden behind a wall of flowering ivy. “But we approach the alchemery. What is it you need?”
She’d thought of little else since yesterday’s talk with Gloria Tremaine. The guildmaster had much to tell about the Atropi, little promising. It would be an especially difficult heist, calling for especially rare tools. “I need...something that will ruin cloth. Not instantly or in a dramatic way, though. I can’t have the fabric bursting into flames or raising some awful stink. Do you know of such an elixir?”
He watched her for a long moment. “Such a thing is possible, though I imagine I should not ask why you need it.”
“Best not.” She smiled. “Like faith and flowers, plans are best shared after they bloom.”
He shook his head, grinning. “My dear, your cleverness knows no bounds. One day I must bed you, if only so I can say I had an evening with the inestimable Duchess of the Shallows.” She rolled her eyes. “The magic of Mayu is not so easily given, however. What do you offer in return?”
She’d given this some thought. “You know the dagger belonging to Baron Eusbius has gone missing again. I think I know where to find it. Help me in this way and I’ll tell you.”
He regarded her somberly. “I hold Mayu in my heart, but to hold a piece of her in my hand? That is too much for any man.”
She blinked. “You don’t want it?”
He shook his head. “Malachar would have. Malachar would have chased such a thing with all the fervor he possessed. But I fear certainty. And I fear men who hold no doubt in their hearts. The artifact is gone, and perhaps it is best that it remain so.”
She had not expected this. “Then I don’t know what to give you.”
“What to get the man who has everything? That is a conundrum.” He tucked a hand under his chin. “Perhaps a trifle, a token of a young lady’s affection?” He smiled broadly, and she only belatedly took his meaning. Evidently Tremaine was not the only one who’d gone asking after Duchess of the Shallows. Sighing, she pulled out one of her embroidered handkerchiefs and handed it over, telling herself she should be pleased her mark carried any value with the First Keeper.
“Lovely!” he said, admiring it. “I shall keep it close to my heart.” The mark vanished into his pocket. “Wait a moment while I nip behind. Best you remain, in case there are eyes watching even here.” He moved off, unlocking the gate and vanishing behind the ivy.
Left to her own devices, she wandered to a small pool surrounded by pink flowers. She unwrapped her cut finger and dipped it in the water, tracing a slow circle. The small wound bled and she watched the traces of blood slowly dissipate. She drew more circles in the water, drawing faint trails of blood in circles and spirals. If she tried hard enough, she might trace the image of the snake devouring its own tail, the symbol of He Who Devours. She thought of the card-reading Jana had performed and the water suddenly seemed colder. She drew her finger out and re-wrapped it.
“The magic of Mayu,” Jadis said, and she turned to see him standing there with a small cloth bag. He offered it, unsmiling, and she undid the strings that closed it and peeked inside. The bag was filled with tiny, black pebbles, each one small enough to fit on a fingertip with room for two more. She shook the bag gently and heard a rattle.
“Seeds?” she asked suspiciously.
“After a fashion.” Jadis leaned close. “These must be kept dry until you are ready to use them. One day before their...magic...is needed, you must dampen a piece of cloth with water and seal it inside the bag. One day, and not before or after. Place the bag near the cloth you wish to ruin and...well, you will see what you will see.”
She weighed the bag in her hand. “Should I scatter the seeds across the cloth?”
“No need,” Jadis murmured richly. “The bag will not impede their power.”
She regarded him for a moment. “If these don’t work, I will disappoint someone very powerful and look a fool in the bargain.”
“You and I have already walked a dark path,” he said, unoffended, “but if that is not enough to convince you, let me offer one more thing.” He gestured at their surroundings. “When I first brought you to the Godswalk, to the statue of the goddess, you agreed to answer three questions. Before the face of Mayu, it is said keepers may weigh men’s hearts, just as, after death, Mayu weighs their souls. An untruth rings as clear to us as the bells atop the palace dome.”
“And?”
“I expected you would not deceive me, and I do not believe you did...but I do not know.”
She tried to make sense of this. “What do you mean?”
“Even before Mayu’s gaze, when I listen to the truth of your heart I hear nothing. Nothing at all.” A shadow crossed his face. “There is something in you that is beyond justice, and what lies beyond justice is something I fear almost as much as certainty. And yet I trust you.” He held her gaze for a long moment, then his smile returned. “Uncertainty. Trust. Faith. These bind us more tightly than any promise I could give.” Then he bowed slightly and moved off, leaving her to the quiet of the garden.
Chapter Twenty-One: The absence of evidence
Of all the hiding spots Duchess envisioned, she would never have thought to use one provided by the Imperial Whites.
The brick-walled room was located beneath a small storehouse but, thanks to that redoubtable brotherhood, it could no longer be accessed from the building above. Only a door three steps down from the alley gave access to the large, square chamber. Besides a few narrow, barred windows, the only source of light came from the two candles Castor had taken from the stash of clothing, weapons and other supplies stored carefully in chests and wardrobes.
Duchess had worked out a plan for getting into the Atropi’s shop, but had failed to imagine how she might get to the damned place. Entering Scholars District by day was easy enough, but by night the blackarms at the gate would question anyone who sought to pass. She might be able to come up with a story that would satisfy them, but that meant concocting a false name and a falser errand, both of which might be remembered and investigated later. Worse, if they in
sisted on a peek into her rucksack full of the burglarious equipment, she’d be finished.
Nor did she dare to enter the district by day and lurk about until night, as she had done when she broke into Savant Terence’s house. That selfsame rucksack would mark her as clearly as if she were on fire, and she could not take the risk. She needed another way.
And Castor had provided the solution.
“A safe room,” she had repeated, dubious.
Castor nodded, not offended. “The Whites keep safe rooms in every district in the city, places they can repair to if there is danger, or if they need to assume a disguise.”
“Disguise?” she asked, shocked. “I thought the White served the imperial family?”
“They do...in whatever manner is required. Not every man wears the White openly. In my time I posed as a sellsword, a merchant or two, and any number of beggars.”
“You mean anyone on the street could be a White in disguise?” Disquieting news, indeed. “How many have I met and never knew?”
He shrugged. “The Whites can’t be everywhere, but they often turn up in places where they’re not expected. The safe rooms make that possible.”
“And what if the Whites happen to show up at this safe room while we’re using it?”
“They’re not often used, though they’re always maintained. It’s not likely we’ll be discovered.”
“And if we are?” she pressed.
Castor shrugged again. “Then we won’t have to worry about the blackarms finding us.” There was nothing left but to trust his judgment, so they’d entered the district at noon and gone to ground.
Duchess had to admit that hiding in the safe room was better than spending the day lurking in alleys or dodging blackarms. The door was strongly bolted, and the room equipped with comfortable chairs and even food in the form of hard biscuits. After they’d been soaked in water for an hour or so, they could even be eaten. While her dinner soaked, Duchess moved amongst the stores, opening chests and cupboards. There were clothes — breeches, tunics, hose, jerkins, capes and cloaks, as well as a hat or two — of every color, ranging from frayed to finely sewn. She found an entire chest of boots in a variety of sizes, and a bag of gloves and scarves. All men’s clothing, but all wearable. She noted stacks of parchment and stores of ink, leather satchels such as a scholar might carry, and enough quills to dress an entire flock. There were weapons, too: bows and arrows, daggers, a few short swords, and even a magnificent crossbow, made of oak and black iron. She hefted it, feeling clumsy. “Can you use this?”
He nodded from his perch near a window, where he’d taken up position shortly after entering the room. “Whites must practice with any weapon they’re likely to encounter, including the crossbow.”
She liked the feel of the weapon, and would have liked even more to take it with her, but it was too large and ungainly to carry without attracting attention. Not without regret she eased it back into its wooden cradle. Perhaps one day she’d buy one of her own, and then Castor could show her how to use it. Not that she was likely to need it in the twisting alleys of the Shallows, but you never knew.
Most interesting was the small metal coffer, filled with pennies, sou and florin, that she found hidden in the base of a tall wardrobe. Before she could fill her pockets, Castor said, “I wouldn’t. The Whites keep a detailed list of what goes into each room and what goes out. Anything you take now will be missed later.”
She pouted. “You mean the empress can’t spare a few sou?”
He glanced at her blandly. “Perhaps she can, but the Whites take a dim view of stealing. They’ll go looking even for a few sou.” She rolled her eyes but returned the coffer to its hiding place unspoiled. He was right, of course. The real prize was in the Atropi’s shop, and nothing was worth endangering that.
After then there was little to do except gnaw on her biscuit — she doubted the Whites would miss a few of those — and watch the light outside the window darken. She fidgeted and once again wished that Lysander were there. He was a far better conversationalist than Castor. But Lysander was outside the city, and in any case it was best not to involve him in this matter any more than necessary.
After what seemed like years the last light faded from the sky and the evening fog pushed up the hill, wrapping Scholars District in its chilly embrace. Ninth bell rang, then tenth, and Castor glanced at her. She nodded and rose, her belly tight and her nerves thrumming. All the lessons Tyford had taught her would be tested. Tonight, she’d learn precisely how good a teacher he really was.
* * *
“What’s the problem?” she asked herself silently, huddled in a doorway and listening for footsteps. Tyford had said that just as a good chef cooked a meal one dish at a time, a good thief solved one problem at a time. Her problem was getting to the shop, nothing more. She took a breath to steady herself and left her hiding spot, slipping along the wall to the next bit of shelter.
She moved from shadow to shadow, from door frame to overhang, taking her time, keeping her hood up and her head down, making sure she saw any patrolling blackarms before they saw her. And there were blackarms, many of them, walking in pairs, armed with stout wooden clubs banded with metal and, just as threatening, bright lanterns. Blackarms patrolled the Shallows only casually, but here in Scholars they were much more diligent, checking dark corners and narrow alleyways and keeping their hands near their weapons. Castor’s knowledge of their deployment had helped her stay clear of them, but he’d warned her not to get too comfortable. “Sheriff Bartol isn’t the most imaginative man to wear the black, but he is a prudent commander who knows the dangers of unvarying patrol routes. He’ll change the pattern from time to time, delay one set of guards or direct another to double back unexpectedly.” She wished Castor were here now, but she’d left him at the safe room. Sneaking around the district by herself was task enough without having to worry about anyone else. Besides, if she were discovered swords would do her no good.
Whether by good planning or good luck, finally she crouched behind a low brick wall that enclosed a small garden, just across the way from the shop of the Atropi. The two-story building was built of the ubiquitous gray stone, neatly mortared and obviously well tended, with green-painted shutters. As with many of the houses on the street, a shining lantern hung from a hook beside the stout wooden door, illuminating the sign above, the name of the Atropi above three chalices. She’d seen that sigil before, though she could not recall where.
A wide window, clear glass in diamond-shaped panes, would admit a good deal of light into the shop during the day, but at night it would keep out even a skilled thief. To enter that way she would have to break the glass and smash the framework, a job that would take an hour or two and bring every blackarm in the city running to investigate. The door beside it was solid and banded with iron to boot. It would take a strong man with a strong ax to break it down.
Luckily she knew a better way in.
A noise from behind made her turn just in time to see a pair of blackarms come around the bend, one holding a lantern, the other a club, and she melted into the shadow of a bush. They walked slowly, looking this way and that, and she thanked Mayu for this garden, for the street was otherwise too well lit for her to have hidden anywhere else. The blackarms drew closer, and she was disturbed to see they engaged in none of the idle chat that would likely have distracted their low-district counterparts. She ducked below the wall and listened until the sound of their boots on the cobbles faded away.
She waited a few moments to ensure they were really gone, then slipped over the wall and across the street. At the left of the shop was a narrow alley that ran between the building and its neighbor, that no doubt gave access to the rear of the building. Across it lay an iron gate. Six feet tall and topped with sharp spikes, it was a formidable barrier. A large padlock hung from the wrought-iron handle. She was unlikely to tickle it open before the patrol returned.
The device she produced from her pack was shaped like a metal T
, with a half-circle attached to each upper branch and a small lever protruding from the bottom. A thief’s step, Tyford had called it. “Enough of these and you can climb a fence as easy as a ladder.” He’d had six, and had sold her one for an exorbitant price. At the time she’d howled at the cost, but now she was glad she’d spent the money. She held the thief’s step between two bars, perhaps four feet from the ground, and with her free hand she began to turn the lever. The body of the step was threaded like a screw, and as the lever wound up the device the half-circles extended to right and left. She’d applied fresh oil that morning, and there was not one squeak to give her away. Still, it seemed like ages until the step had expanded enough to touch the bars, and even longer until it would stay in place on its own. She cranked the lever harder until it would move no more, locked it in place, and then tested the step by pressing down hard with her right hand. The device did not budge.
Grasping the top of the gate with both hands, she set her right foot against the step and pulled herself up. She set her other foot atop the gate, neatly between two spikes. She stood, left hand against the neighboring building for balance, and paused to collect herself. So easily circumventing the gate made her feel clever and wicked, like a thief from the stories. Even Naria of the Dark would have —
The bat that had nested under the eave chose that moment to flutter from its perch and brush past her in a flurry of leathery wings. Duchess managed to hold back the shriek that would have brought a patrol running, but was unable to contain the lurch backwards towards the street. She pinwheeled her arms wildly, fighting for balance, and at the last moment managed to throw herself forward. She half-fell, half-slipped into the alley, and she heard the tear of cloth just before the collar of her cloak suddenly tightened around her neck like a noose. Her feet scrabbled madly on the stones of the alleyway, but she could not gain enough purchase to relieve the pressure on her throat. As she fumbled madly for the clasp, she heard footsteps on the street outside, coming closer.
