He knew where he was headed, of course he did, but that didn’t stop him from keeping the birds clearly in vision as he tracked them across the city. Snow started to fall, a light patterning of cold over Ashiol’s fur and the concrete pavements under his feet, but it didn’t matter.
By the time he reached the Palazzo, the snow was thick enough that he could see the scratchy falcon’s claw prints beneath a particular window. Ashiol could have gone after them directly, but the lantern light streaming out of the Palazzo reminded him of all the other things this place had to offer. Clean skin. Clothes. Boots. A chance to save the city. All good things.
Cat by cat, he climbed the walls and scrambled over the balcony and into the suite he had been given as his own. There, he collapsed into a shaking pile of fur until he was able to shape himself back into a man.
There was no time to bathe, though he caught sight of himself in the looking glass above the water basin and was mildly horrified. His skin and hair were grey with dust and he looked ten years older than he should. His wounds had scabbed over but not healed as well as he was used to.
He washed quickly, and found clothes for himself — a suit in the Bazeppe fashion: grape-coloured velvet with sage-green silk trim. It was hard not to think about Velody removing his last suit, piece by piece.
The soles of every pair of boots he had were too thick. It clouded his judgement not to be able to feel the shape of the ground under his soles. He went barefoot, along the corridor. He should eat while he had the opportunity, but his stomach roiled and rebelled when he considered that option.
Some work was best done on an empty stomach.
He had never been inside Troyes’ rooms but he knew they were in the same corridor as his own. For convenience, the young man had said with a wink. Ashiol could smell him on the other side of the door — falcon, man, hurt, blood, fear, panic, dust. So many scents.
Ashiol didn’t knock but allowed his animor — angry, hurt, burning animor — to blast the door open.
‘What was that for?’ Troyes yelled at him, picking himself up off the floor. He was still naked, and covered in bruises. Several long, ragged cuts were half-healed on his legs.
‘You left the Emporium in a hurry,’ Ashiol said, not bothering to couch his words in diplomacy. He wanted answers, and now that Bazeppe had lost its odd dampening effect on his animor, he had run out of patience.
‘I have a job to do,’ his secretary said sullenly. ‘A life to maintain. I couldn’t —’ he swallowed nervously, his whole body radiating shame — ‘I couldn’t take it any more. The Court is broken, so many dead. The smell of it was making me sick.’
Ashiol had no way of knowing how far he could trust Troyes. But trust was not needed right now. ‘Get dressed. You’re right. We have a job to do.’
‘What did you have in mind?’ Troyes asked warily.
‘What else? We have to reveal the Clockwork Court and the skywar to Duc-Elected Henri and save the city.’
Only when he heard the words coming from his mouth did Ashiol realise that this was what he had always had in mind. It was why his paws had led him here.
‘You’re mad,’ Troyes said finally.
Ashiol grinned fiercely. ‘That’s what they say.’
Duc-Elected Henri and his family were in the crimson parlour watching a show of mummers and gilded marionettes. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and laughter. The Palazzo was going on as it always did. Servants handed around delicate glasses of imperium and hazelnut wine, all performing their routines like an awful kind of clockwork, oblivious that there was something terribly wrong with their city.
They wore scarlet, all of them, the Duc-Elected, his family and their guests, velvets and brocades that matched the decor of the damned room. One more elaborate and empty performance. Why did aristocrats of the daylight go to such trouble? It wasn’t as if their actions had meaning.
Ashiol’s stomach gnawed at him with hunger, but there were only cheese and tapenade and pickled fruits on every platter. How did these people stay alive?
‘High and brightness,’ he said, his voice harsh and hurting with dust and blood and his own screams of pain. He pressed all that down. No time for weakness. ‘I need to speak to you.’
‘Seigneur Ducomte!’ cried the Duc-Elected in delight, tugging at Ashiol’s sleeve. ‘We have missed you. There was crab for luncheon, a fine repast, with honeyed carrots. Do you see our new performers? They are such a delight. I should send them to entertain my new daughter, your cousin the Duchessa d’Aufleur. Do they have such marvels in Aufleur?’
Ashiol looked despite himself. There were prancing creatures on the stage, working without strings. Their clanking, uneven gait was familiar. Clockwork beasts. He couldn’t restrain a shiver at the sight of them.
‘Please, high and brightness, it is most urgent.’
‘Have a glass of imperium, my lad, and tell me all about it,’ the Duc-Elected said effusively.
The smell of the imperium hit Ashiol hard. He had been drinking little the whole time he had been here, away from the harsh memories and pressures of Aufleur. Now it was all he could do not to bury his head in the carafe and never surface again. He jerked his hand back from the proffered glass.
‘It is a matter of grave importance, high and brightness. The safety of this city relies upon it.’ Surely the man could see how serious he was about this.
The Duc-Elected’s face changed slightly as he took in Ashiol’s desperation. ‘Indeed?’ he said, giving away little.
Ashiol kept his voice low, not wanting it to carry to the other guests. ‘If you do not listen to me now, high and brightness, Bazeppe could be destroyed. We may only have hours in which to act.’
‘Excuse me, my friends,’ the Duc-Elected said loudly. ‘I will return to you for the second act.’
He led Ashiol to a quiet antechamber. Troyes joined them, looking nervous and afraid. ‘Wait here a moment,’ the Duc-Elected insisted.
‘He won’t listen to us,’ said Troyes as soon as they were alone. ‘He is daylight. We can change in front of them, buildings can fall around them, and they won’t see what we really are. You’re wasting time.’
‘We can’t afford this any more,’ Ashiol replied forcefully. ‘We can’t fight this war with a handful of soldiers. Those of the daylight must be made to see. Velody was right. It’s not just Bazeppe; there’s something wrong with all of us, with the ridiculous rules we live by. None of it makes sense as soon as you try to explain it to an outsider who isn’t twelve years old.’
He paced the floor, back and forth. His cats were yowling to get out of his skin. It would be dark soon, and if the sky fell again this nox, there was nowhere to hide, nowhere that was safe. So little time.
‘She’s your Power and Majesty,’ Troyes said softly. ‘Isn’t she?’
‘Yes.’ Of course she was. How could she be anything else?
‘She’s the most important person — not just to you. To all of you. The Court of Aufleur.’
‘Yes, stop talking,’ Ashiol said, pacing another lap of the room. ‘We’re wasting time.’
The doors opened, finally, and the Duc-Elected returned, alone. Ignoring Ashiol’s impatience, he went to the sideboard and poured three small measures of imperium from the carafe there. Was there one of those on every flat surface in this damned place? There was a time it would have been the first thing Ashiol noticed when he entered a room. He was under no illusion that he had been cured, but he was far too busy to destroy himself right now.
‘Now, my lad,’ said Duc-Elected Henri in a pleasant voice. ‘Tell me what you are about.’
‘My tale is long and I cannot tell you all,’ said Ashiol, taking the glass but resolutely not drinking from it. ‘You must take me on faith. Seigneur Troyes here will support me in this, and my cousin the Duchessa Isangell will confirm my verity once you are safely in Aufleur.’
Safe being perhaps not the most accurate of words.
The Duc-Elected raised his
eyebrows. ‘I can see you are disturbed, seigneur, but you surely cannot wish me to decamp to your cousin’s city at a moment’s notice?’
‘Not just you,’ said Ashiol. ‘Everyone. Everyone in Bazeppe will die if they do not leave now, before nox falls.’
‘I see,’ said the Duc-Elected, and took a swallow from his own glass. ‘And you expect me to perform such an elaborate sleight of hand on your word, my friend?’
‘You must. Ask me any question you like, only trust me in this. I am trying to save your people, for the city cannot be saved. The clockwork saints have ensured that.’
The aroma of imperium hit the back of his throat and Ashiol glanced down at the glass. He shouldn’t drink. If he started now, he would never climb out of the bottle. And yet, and yet. It was a small measure, and it might clear his head enough to get his point across. He swallowed it easily.
‘What are we facing, Seigneur Ducomte?’ There was still a level of scepticism in the Duc-Elected’s voice.
Ashiol was getting desperate. What could he say or do prove it to him? ‘All I can do is show you, and then you will have to listen.’
He had never done this deliberately in front of one of the daylight before. Keeping his eyes firmly on the Duc-Elected, he shaped himself into Lord form, glowing brighter than the lamps that hung on the walls.
The Duc-Elected’s expression did not change. He smiled politely, as if waiting for something impressive.
Ashiol went chimaera. His clothes tore, his teeth lengthened and his skin expanded into sinew, muscle, black fur, wide wings. ‘This is the least of the monsters you will face,’ he said, though the words came out only as growls. His tongue tasted thick, coated with more of that fucking dust.
‘Indeed,’ said the Duc-Elected, and he was still waiting, damn him. Couldn’t he even pretend surprise?
Ashiol stepped forward, unfurling his wings, and fell flat on the floor. He couldn’t feel his wings, nor his claws. Everything was numb and strange and lost.
‘What was in that fucking drink?’ he muttered.
He looked up, trying to see through suddenly blurred vision. There were no wings, no claws, just his own hands scrabbling against the polished parquet flooring. He saw the clatter of footsteps — a man running away. Troyes had escaped, at least. But escaped what?
Ashiol tried to speak, but his tongue was too thick. He fought unconsciousness. More footsteps, more people. Someone coming to his rescue? He heard voices above him, echoing as if spoken inside a brass vase.
‘It seems the rumours of the Ducomte’s complaint were true, my sons. We were right to prepare for this possibility.’
‘What shall we do with him? Send him back to Aufleur?’
‘My dear boy, that would hardly be civilised. My dottore shall attend on him until he is in a far more respectable state. We do not want to endanger your upcoming marriage by embarrassing your future wife.’
‘She’s the one who left us a madman as her ambassador.’
‘Not intentionally, I am certain. Families are always the last to be aware of our little foibles …’
Ashiol opened his mouth to scream at them, but he managed nothing more than a grunt before the floor swam up to swallow him whole.
40
Velody dozed for a little while, long enough to be thrown into the middle of a disorienting dream. Garnet lay draped over a gold throne, his eyes shining brightly. He looked as young as he had that nox when he stole a kiss and her animor in a single breath.
‘Tick tock, tick tock,’ he teased. ‘Time to wake up, little mouse.’
She jolted awake and looked around. The Clockwork Court had no shelter. They were all huddled near the river, wrapped in blankets. They looked miserable and defeated. Celeste and Lysandor, down by the bank, were planning the strategy for the coming nox.
‘If only they had sentinels, they would have nests,’ Kelpie hissed to Velody.
‘If only they had a Seer, they might know for certain that they are doomed,’ Velody said back. ‘It’s no use wondering about if only. All they have are the saints, and the dust.’ And nests wouldn’t protect them if the whole city was swallowed. ‘Where’s Ashiol?’
Kelpie shrugged. ‘Gone.’
Velody swore. Trust him to slope off on his own without saying a word. ‘If ever a cat deserved to be leashed …’
Celeste was coming towards them, her face grave. ‘Where is Ashiol?’ she demanded.
‘Gathering his strength,’ said Velody, gazing right back at her, daring the other woman to challenge her word.
‘As long as he is here for the battle.’
‘Of course he will be,’ said Velody, though she knew nothing of the sort.
It was a reasonable promise: if Ashiol hadn’t got himself killed, chained up or drunk, he wouldn’t miss a battle. Sadly, none of those possibilities were unrealistic. She glanced at Kelpie, who looked worried. Oh, yes. One way or another, Ashiol had to be in trouble.
Velody stood up. ‘Your pardon, Power and Majesty. We need to do something. We will return by nex fall.’
Celeste’s smile was bitter. ‘We never expected you to stay for our fight. You have a city of your own to think about.’
‘Your expectations are meaningless to me,’ Velody said flatly.
She took Kelpie’s hand and they headed away through the city. ‘Where do you think he could have gone? He looked too damaged to walk.’
‘It’s Ashiol — he could be up to anything.’ Kelpie looked at her. ‘Are you really going to fight at their side? What if you die here? Aufleur needs you.’
‘Tierce could probably have done with me, too,’ Velody pointed out. ‘We do what we can, where we can. This is our battle now. Only we have to get Ashiol back first.’
‘Right, then,’ said Kelpie, stretching her battered body. ‘Train station or Palazzo?’
Velody gave her a hard look. ‘You think he might be running away?’
Kelpie grinned fiercely. ‘Of course not. He’s not that smart.’
Ashiol was cold, shivering all over, his whole body dripping with sweat. He didn’t know what the fuck the Duc-Elected had dosed him with, but it was nothing familiar. He was going to die here, like this, helpless.
Every time he fell out of consciousness, he heard Garnet laughing at him.
He couldn’t change shape. He rolled, tried to get out of the bed, but the blankets weighed him down and he fell with a crack to the floor, humiliated at his failure.
Some time later, cool hands lifted him back onto the bed. Cold, rigid hands.
Ashiol opened his eyes and stared into the face of a clockwork saint.
‘Saints,’ Kelpie whispered. ‘All around the perimeter of the Palazzo.’
They were hiding at the edge of the oak grove, surveying the scene.
‘Are they there to keep us out or something in?’ Velody muttered. She could not forget the sight of the mechanical men blasting the Emporium to pieces.
‘Does it matter? We can’t get in, and we don’t even know if he’s in there.’
‘Of course he’s in there,’ said a voice.
Both women spun in alarm to see a young man standing before them. Falcon, Velody realised, her animor sparking in response to his. He wore a bright blue and ivory suit, but the dust and skysilver burn from the Emporium collapse still clung to his skin.
‘I know you,’ said Kelpie. ‘You’re one of those secretaries.’
‘He’s Clockwork Court, too,’ Velody warned.
Kelpie looked at her as if she had tried to teach her grandmam to darn socks. ‘Obviously. Question is, whose side is he on?’
‘Yours,’ the young man said with a pout. At their sceptical looks, he added. ‘Ashiol’s. He tried to convince the Duc-Elected to evacuate the city.’
Velody sighed. ‘Of course he did. He keeps forgetting that he’s not ten feet tall. What happened?’
‘He tried to show them how animor works, but they didn’t see it properly. They’re just assuming that he’s cra
zy.’
Above, the light was beginning to fade from the sky.
‘We can’t get to him in time,’ Kelpie said in frustration. ‘Not with all those saints standing between him and us.’
‘Yes,’ said Velody patiently. ‘If only one of us had the power to become something small enough to escape their notice.’
Kelpie glared. ‘I liked you better when you weren’t sarcastic all the time.’
‘No, you didn’t.’ Velody reached out and patted the arm of the secretary, who looked distressed and ill. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Troyes,’ he managed.
‘I think it wouldn’t hurt to fetch a few more friends for this, don’t you think, Troyes? Just in case stealth fails us. Backup is important.’
Ashiol was lost in the darkness now. There had been more drugs, he was fairly sure, something green and sticky that left a coating on his mouth. Dust clung to it, so he could taste Priest all the way down his throat.
Not Priest. The sky. The sky was not Priest. Priest was dead.
Ashiol was so far gone that his vision was almost clear again. He saw the Duc-Elected cross the floor, coughing, and saw the dust that emerged from his throat onto a handkerchief. He saw Velody under him, crying out, her skin so hot he couldn’t bear to touch her. He saw Livilla, head thrown back in a laugh, only it wasn’t Livilla at all, it was Tasha …
He saw Celeste, blood all over her white dress and wings, shrieking angry owl hoots at Garnet. A child. Not one of them had a child they hadn’t stolen from someone else or rescued from the streets. If Celeste had managed it, it had to mean something. Had to be for a reason.
The next drug they gave him made his skin so hot that he screamed. There were clockwork saints everywhere, holding him down, standing guard at the side of the Duc-Elected and his sons.
Dust. There was dust everywhere.
‘Forgive me for what I have done,’ said Priest, sounding older and sadder than in the entire time Ashiol had known him. ‘I am not myself.’
Ashiol opened his eyes, squinting through damp eyelashes, and a mouse ran over his pillow.
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