The Fall of Ventaris

by Neil McGarry

  “Savant Terence,” she said, too drunk and too tired to be surprised.

  He nodded, smiling gently. “I apologize for the intrusion, but I wasn’t sure when you would return, and waiting outside seemed unwise.”

  After a long moment she slipped her dagger back into its sheath, wondering if she were sober enough to be a threat to anyone. She fetched the clay jug of water from the windowsill and poured herself a cup. She offered some to him but he waved it off. “You caught your daughter,” she said, slipping into her own seat across from him.

  He nodded. “Darley is not nearly as clever — or as stealthy — as she thinks. She shan’t be visiting you any time soon, and I’d appreciate it if you returned the favor. In the meantime, I’m afraid I’ll have to suffice.” His smile remained, not mocking in the least but sad, somehow.

  “Have you come to turn me in?” It was the only explanation she could imagine for his presence.

  He shook his head. “Beyond suborning my daughter to spying, I know of nothing you’ve done that requires punishment.”

  She took another sip of water. If Ahmed was to be believed, this man had watched, and profited from, Marcus Kell’s downfall. “And what of my father and his punishment?”

  Terence’s smile faded. “What happened to your father was not punishment but sad necessity. His crime was trying to change a city that wishes always to remain the same.”

  Duchess set down her cup to hide the trembling of her hands. “I’ve heard a story that my father, he...he...” She couldn’t say the words.

  There was no need. “It was the only way to save you, and Marguerite, and Justin, and the three of you were never far from his thoughts. If there had been any other way...” He sighed harshly. “But he made arrangements for you all.”

  Duchess laughed bitterly. “Yes, such arrangements. Gelda dragged me out of a burning house in the dead of night and off to some Shallows bakery, without a word of explanation, and with no idea where Father, Justin or Marguerite had gone. “ She was surprised at the anger she could still feel for something that had happened so very long ago.

  Terence rubbed his forehead. “Yes, I thought Gelda had something to do with it. It was not supposed to be that way.” He ran a hand through thinning gray hair. “I have loved three people in my life. The first was my wife, gone sixteen years now. The second is my troublesome daughter, whom you’ve already met. The third was Marcus Kell, who was the bravest, kindest and most intelligent man I have ever known.”

  “What happened?” she asked, her mouth suddenly dry. “At the end?”

  “We all knew your father’s final gambit would fail, and I tried to talk him out of it, but he would not listen. He was never a man to wait for danger to appear at his own door before striking out. In the end, I gave up trying to dissuade him because, truth be told, I never thought he’d convince the Uncle to release the Deeps gangs. I still don’t know how he managed it.” So her father had known the Uncle, and had somehow struck a deal with him. She hadn’t thought of that connection, but now it seemed obvious.

  Terence leaned back in his chair. “I brought him the poison, the day before. I knew what he intended and I knew there was no other way. But believe me when I say that nothing Gelda did was part of our plans.”

  “What was the plan?” The thought of her father taking poison broke her heart. Had it been something painless? She was afraid to ask.

  “Justin was to bring you and your sister to me.”

  Duchess felt lightheaded, and not all of it could be attributed to drink. “To you?”

  He nodded. “I would shelter Justin until the time was right for him to assume your father’s mantle. In the meantime, I hoped to make a match for Marguerite. As for you...your father had hopes that you would study at my side, to someday become the city’s first woman scholar. You were an exceptionally bright child and would have done well...but clearly, Gelda had other plans.”

  Duchess felt as if someone had reached into her chest and squeezed her heart. She would have grown up with the books she used to love, reading, researching, perhaps writing works of her own. Darley would have been her sister, and they would have grown up together. Her life would have been not flour and yeast and work, but ink and quill and paper, status and an assured future. So much would have been different.

  “When Justin never came, I searched up and down the hill for you,” Terence went on, “but with things so unsettled I dared not move openly. It was too soon for the scions of House Kell to reappear, you see. I may not be Grey, but I have friends in the city who see and hear for me. They reported no sign of Justin, nor Marguerite, nor you. Then I discovered that Nurse Gelda had also gone missing, which gave me a lead to follow. When the political situation in the city stabilized I searched more openly, but by then the trail had long gone cold. After a few years I had given up hope, assuming that something terrible had happened, that you were all lost in the fire. I did turn up news of Gelda, for what good it did me.”

  “What news?” Duchess asked, heart leaping. Gelda could tell her so much about that mysterious coin. And now we’re quits she’d told Noam, but Duchess still did not understand what the old nurse had meant.

  Terence shook his head. “Gelda was six months dead when I finally tracked her down. Of a fever, or so I was told. Whatever her reasons for smuggling you into the Shallows that night, she took them with her to the grave.” He sighed.

  She felt as if the world were spinning, and she put a hand against the table to steady herself. “And you never heard from the others?”

  He shook his head sadly. “I had all the papers in place to speed Justin’s inheritance, wills and other documents that detailed the disposition of your father’s gold and lands. But he never appeared to make the claim.”

  Her father’s plans seemed a shambles: Marguerite and Justin mysteriously vanished, and her left alone in a house on fire. With each answer she discovered another riddle. “What’s become of my father’s wealth? Of the Freehold?”

  Terence smiled grimly. “Your father’s death cost us dearly, but my comrades and I made sure it was not a complete loss. Your father was and is something of a symbol to us, and we have not forgotten him. We made sure that his holdings that survived the fire were not swallowed by the empire. The Freehold is held in escrow, along with most of your father’s gold. As time passed there were occasional efforts by the council to liquidate the estate and funnel the profits into the imperial coffers, but we managed to stave them off, each and every one. After a few years...well, things in Rodaas tend to settle in one place. Half the council has forgotten House Kell ever existed, and the other half no longer cares.”

  Duchess considered. “What if a Kell made a claim now?”

  “Assuming the claim could be proven — and testimony from me would help in that regard — that Kell would inherit everything: the lands, the gold, even the title of lord.” He gave her a long look. “Or lady.” Before she could respond, he held up a long, thin finger. “But there is something else you should know. Your father and I planned for Justin to make that claim, not you or Marguerite. Justin would have been seventeen, two years shy of the age of majority, but he would most likely have been permitted to inherit without any imperial supervision. If you were to make that claim...well, you are almost the same age as Justin would have been, but as a woman...” He pursed his lips. “You would likely be assigned a guardian who would manage the estate until your nineteenth birthday, by which time you would already have been married. Your husband, of course, would then assume control of the estate in your name.”

  “And so a stranger would become Lord Kell.”

  Terence sighed, looking mournful. “I do not make the law, Marina, and much as I might wish I cannot change it.”

  She rose from her seat, anger burning away the haze of ale. Claiming what was hers by right would turn her into another Lady Agalia, forced to wed to secure her House. Would she be paired up with another Ivan Gallius, a well-off criminal in search of a noble name?
Or perhaps an Adam Whitehall, from a House old in honor but personally cruel? Neither option was attractive. And what of the work she’d done with Jana? Her fledgling business would end up as yet another part of the bounty her husband would inherit. Would her Grey cloak even mean anything? All the risks she’d taken, dangers she’d faced, and strength she’d gained would be as nothing. She would no longer be Duchess of the Shallows.

  She had to laugh; she had spent these last months haunted by the ghost of what she might have been, and now the ghost of what she might yet be had come knocking at her door.

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Terence, because this isn’t funny. The girl you came looking for died in a fire many, many years ago.” She met his gaze squarely. “Since then every step has taken me further and further away from that life. There is no going back.” She thought of Jana and the Atropi. Julius and Jadis and Amabilis. “I am many things, but I am not Marina Kell.”

  Terence looked at her kindly. “Only you may make that decision. There are so many years between your life now and the life you were meant to lead, it – ” his voice shook and he paused for a long moment. “I fear that I’ve only brought you heartache, and for that I apologize. Consider what I have told you, and if you change your mind please know that you can count on my support.” He smiled then, unexpectedly. “Perhaps you are right. Marina is gone, but it seems that Duchess thrives. Even in Scholars District we have heard of Baron Eusbius and his disappearing dagger. I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t clean me out of house and home.”

  She took a deep breath. “You were a good friend to my father. I’m sorry I didn’t come to you sooner, but...I learned fear at an early age. And I’m sorry I sent your daughter snooping about your study.”

  Terence chuckled. “That girl is ten times trouble even without you to egg her on. Thank goodness that’s been put to an end.” He paused and raised an eyebrow, waiting for her nod. “Do you know that she still hasn’t told me how you and she met?” He shook his head. “She’s strong-willed, like her mother, and I never had the heart to take that away from her. She’ll need it, in this city.”

  “Yes, she will,” she replied, thinking of Jana. Others would see that softness and take it for weakness. “Savant, you took quite a risk coming down here alone. I did break into your house, after all. How could you be sure I wouldn’t...” She gestured vaguely. “Try something underhanded? Or dangerous?”

  “I couldn’t be sure,” he replied. “Which is why I did not come alone.” He gestured, and the drunken lout she’d nearly stepped on in the alley entered through the door, silent as a shadow. She’d never heard him climbing the stairs. He moved to Terence’s side, his hands behind his back, all sign of drunkenness gone. “Imperial Whites,” Terence said wistfully, “don’t always wear their armor.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five: The nature of elegance

  “You look worse than I do,” Lysander said as they trudged across Bell Plaza towards Beggar’s Gate. “I’ve got my work cut out for me today.”

  He had shown up later than he’d promised, but as Duchess had been sleeping when he arrived she could scarcely complain. Fortunately, she didn’t need to concern herself with dressing and bathing — Tremaine had said she would see to that — Duchess had only to throw on yesterday’s clothes before setting out to the guildmaster’s shop.

  “I’m sure you’re up to the task,” Duchess replied. “The next time I go to the imperial palace, remind me not to spend the night before getting drunk.”

  He chuckled. “I still don’t understand why Tremaine wants you to go to the Fall with her.”

  She shrugged. “Most likely she wants me there so that if things go wrong she won’t have to look far for someone to blame.” She glanced at him. “I wish you were going, too.”

  “I can’t, not if you’re posing as the guildmaster’s handmaid. Most servants don’t have servants of their own.” He turned more serious. “With the empress there, though...this just sounds dangerous. I have this feeling something bad is going to happen.”

  “Well, I might vomit all over the Atropi, but other than that I should be safe enough,” Duchess replied, more lightly than she felt. She, too, had a nervous stomach. Robbing an upjumped smuggler was one thing, but this caper was to take place before Violana, Most High Sovereign of the Empire of Rodaas. Part of her would rather face the Brutes again.

  They crossed the Godswalk and turned towards Scholars. “Are you sure we’ll get past the gate with me carrying this?” Lysander hefted the wooden box he was carrying, nearly two feet wide, with iron clasps and hinges. “The blackarms can look inside if they want, but...”

  She waved a hand to reassure him. “Tremaine gave me a letter, stamped with the guild’s seal, if you can believe it. I doubt any blackarm is going to question that.”

  She was right. There was a good deal of traffic at the gate and the blackarms gave them only a cursory glance as they passed. Soon enough they arrived at the shop, where Lynda escorted them to the main workroom. Tremaine was waiting, clad in red and yellow, along with a large brass tub of steaming water.

  “I dismissed my apprentices at noon,” the elegant woman said, by way of greeting. “The better to prevent them from seeing you and your...assistant.” She glanced at Lysander and his box. “I hope you are skilled with makeup and hair and all that a lady needs to appear presentable. Your skills are most certainly needed here.” She gave Duchess a sour look. “I’ve done all I can with needle and thread, but some things are beyond my powers. I trust you know how to make the Shallows look at least one district higher.”

  Lysander nodded. “Indeed I do, but I’ll need to see to Duchess before I get to you.” Tremaine’s eyes shot daggers, but he merely gave her an appraising look. “I’m not hopeful, in truth. Some things are simply beyond my powers.”

  Tremaine turned to Duchess. “I suggest you make use of the tub.” She swept from the room without another word. Duchess and Lysander shared a smile and got to work.

  The bath was hot and wonderful, and Tremaine had considerately provided several vials of bath oil, which Duchess had never used. She chose one that smelled sharp but sweet, while Lysander opened his box, removing bottles, jars and various brushes. The only makeup he’d ever applied to her face was the clay and ashes of a Feaster. She wondered if that said something about her. Washed, ready and wrapped in a towel, she sat at a nearby vanity, closed her eyes and let him get to work.

  First, he applied color to her face. Not Minette’s pure white but a mellow peach, somewhat darker than her own skin tone. “This,” he said, dipping his brush in the small jar, “covers any, ah, imperfections.” She almost had her mouth open before he clipped it shut with a finger under her chin. “Which of course you don’t have.” She dipped a finger into the jar; the makeup was smooth like ointment and yet somewhat gritty, almost like salt. “And it doesn’t go on your fingers,” he warned, shooing her away.

  “It feels hot. Will it be hot? I’m going to have to wear it all throughout the feast and after.”

  He began to apply the goop to her face. “Ever notice how the noblewomen never seem to sweat? This is why. It absorbs moisture without running.”

  She smirked. “Sounds like you speak from personal experience.”

  “No smiling. I need to get this right.” She tried to keep her face a mask while he worked with the brush. “And, yes, I’ve worn this a time or ten, although not always on my face. Before you ask...” She giggled, earning a frown from him. He dipped and brushed, dipped and brushed, until she felt like her face was coated with paint, which in a way it was.

  “Noblewomen wear this every day?” she asked, moving her jaw as little as possible.

  “Just to parties and balls...and the Fall of Ventaris.” He set down the brush and drew back to look at her. “Now just a bit of the rose,” he said, taking up another jar. She groaned. “You’ll thank me when this is all over.” He produced another, smaller brush and went to work. “I wish,” he said, suddenly more
serious, “that you were taking Castor with you tonight.”

  She sighed. “In all honesty, I don’t know if I’ll be seeing Castor again any time soon. Especially if tonight goes well. It’s a lesson, I suppose. Every man has his limits, and I ran into one of his.” She flicked her eyes about the room to indicate that the guildmaster might be listening from some hidden bolthole. “In any case, he protected me with his sword, and if things go wrong tonight a hundred swords won’t protect me.”

  “No,” Lysander said quietly, “they won’t.” He sighed as well. “We keep ending up here, don’t we? So many leaps from so many cliffs and me calling you fool all the way down.”

  She thought of Jana’s card, and of the pit beneath the hill. “Maybe it’s who I am, Lysander.” She thought of who she was, and who he was. Jana had said there was no word in Rodaasi for Lysander, and maybe that was why she had taken so long to understand that he was not for her. As the facet said, naming a thing gave you power over it. Perhaps if you had no name, you had no power.

  She looked at him for a long time, so long that he stopped fiddling with the powder. “What?”

  “There’s someone who will love you as much as I do, you know.” She hesitated. “I think one day you’ll find him,” she said, emphasizing the final word.

  She’d seen Lysander cry only once, and that because of her. Now his blue eyes gleamed, but this time she hoped she was the reason. “Maybe I will.” He paused and looked away. “And maybe you will too.” They were both quiet for a long time. Then Lysander sighed and turned back to her, the moment passed. He brandished another brush. “But not before I finish those lips.” He reached for another jar, this one filled with a dark red substance that was slightly iridescent,.

  She shook her head in disgust. “Ugh. It smells awful. Where does that horrid stuff come from?”