by Jill Archer
Something inside me snapped. I shaped a knife that was so hot it burned blue and sprang toward Kalchoek, imagining all the ways I was going to gore him with it. But midway between the ground and him, someone tackled me. We slammed to the ground, the wind temporarily knocked out of me. But my fury fueled my magic and I wrestled with my opponent, the burning blue of my knife setting my entire signature alight. Viciously and instinctively, I slashed at my assailant, but he caught my wrist and held it tight.
“Noon – stop!”
Those words and that voice… His signature swirled around and over me. His body pressed on top of mine. His hand gripped my wrist. He released his hold once he saw that I knew who he was, but that only made it worse. All the heat from my magic seemed to rush toward my face and I shoved him off of me and stood up.
By that time, Fara had regained some of her composure and I went to stand beside her. This first melee had not gone the way I’d wanted it to. Not one little bit. But I refused to cower or act as if I was the one who’d done something wrong. I met Ari’s stare hoping like hell that my face looked as stony and cold and unfeeling as Yannu’s had just a moment ago.
The bunyip lumbered up to where we stood. I was sadistically satisfied to see no less than a half-dozen cauterized burns on his hide. He motioned to Fara, who was still avoiding direct eye contact. “I could have given the order for her to be attacked the moment the melee started,” he said. I clenched my jaw, but held my magic in check. “She’s a liability. All Angels are because they’re weak.”
I nearly choked, remembering Fara facing the demons at Ebony’s Elbow and the Stone Pointe keep. And I remembered Rafe – not just the demons he’d faced, but the spells he’d cast. The way he cast them. I’d always had the feeling he’d shown me only the tiniest fraction of what he could do. And then I remembered the Angels I wished were weak, like Holden Pierce and Peter Aster.
“Angels aren’t weak,” I snapped at Yannu. “You just limited the spells she could cast.”
The mountain seemed to go quiet. The fifty-odd Hyrkes watching from the observation decks were still.
“I limited the spells she could cast?” Yannu asked. “Or Luck? Aren’t you training to be a Maegester? You should know the law.”
I held Yannu’s gaze, my face expressionless, my magic banked, my temper controlled. Nova came over and nudged my hand. Virtus sauntered over and sat next to Fara. Almost absentmindedly, she stroked his head.
“Looks like you’re surrounded,” Yannu said. “You lose.”
I scoffed. “I’ll only ever lose once – when I die.
“Yes, I know the law. St. Luck’s taught me well. And I know the most important rule – follow the rules. Praeceptum primum, praeceptum solum. But you know what rule I learned on my own? Si fortuna et angeli tui tecum sunt, nemo tibi obstare potest. If luck and your Angels are with you, no one can be against you.”
It’s more than risky making up your own rules in Halja, doubly so when your rule suggests luck is more powerful than Luck. The quiet seemed to extend beyond the mountain. But then Yannu laughed and looked at Ari. “Your ex-inamorata did well, Lord Aristos. She might even last six months as your consigliere.”
7
ROTA FORTUNAE
Fara and I managed to hold our heads high until we got inside the rotunda. I led her through the atrium, past the fountain, and into my chambers. Tenacity was in the study room, but she wasn’t cleaning. I paused at the doorway, in no mood for a joke about domestic chores, but then I saw what she was doing – gardening. Sort of. She stood in front of my desk, which was piled high not only with papers but also razors, folding bones, beads, seeds, pins, pens, inks, and dyes. There was even a small guillotine.
She turned to face us wearing a short dress that was covered in colorful paper flowers. In fact, there were paper flowers everywhere – on the desk, chairs, floor, bookshelves, in Tenacity’s hair, on her wrist. They were strung on garlands hung across the window and they were “planted” in a new window box. Tenacity’s face was grave, a marked contrast to her bright cheerful creations. She walked over to us as a ballerina might, en pointe, curtsied to me and then offered Fara a folded piece of paper. If we were looking for a non sequitur to distract us from what had just happened, Tenacity couldn’t have come up with anything better. After a brief glance at me, Fara accepted it. Tenacity leaned toward her, surprised her with a quick hug, and then drew back. She pirouetted, made a sweeping gesture toward the room’s new décor, and bowed.
Fara looked down at the piece of paper she’d been given. It was a whirlybird – a paper fortune teller. On the outside were four colors; on the inside, eight flaps.
“Go ahead,” Tenacity said. “See what it says.”
Fara held it out toward me. I chose orange and then three and Fara opened the flap. It was a quote from the Book of Joshua.
“Fall down seven times, stand up eight.” – Book of Joshua, 5:12
Despite everything that had just happened, and the real physical pain I was still feeling, I laughed. “I think I fell down more than seven times,” I said.
“Nineteen,” Tenacity said, nodding. “But you got up twenty.”
I grunted my reluctant agreement, took the fortune teller from Fara, and offered it back to her. She chose blue and seven and I opened the flap.
“The first thing we do, let’s kill all the rats.”
– Henricus Sexto, Part 2, Act 4
This time, my laugh was unrestrained. Even Fara was smiling. Henricus Sexto was a popular street play about a mythical outpost lord, who has to deal with all sorts of chicanery and shenanigans. It was low comedy at its best.
“How did you know which colors and numbers we’d choose?” Fara asked. I could tell she was impressed. “Which soothsaying spell did you use? And what spell helped you make all this? The only growing spells I’ve heard of have to do with grape vines.”
Tenacity’s face fell. “Oh, I don’t know any spells.”
Huh?
“But you’re an Angel, aren’t you?”
She looked uncomfortable and then shrugged. “I believe in the teachings of Joshua, so the demons call me ‘Angel.’”
I frowned.
What kind of answer was that? Did she pray to the Savior or plead to Luck?
I started to ask but then decided against it, too afraid her answer would be “neither” or “both.” Rockthorn Gorge seemed to dictate a very different “first rule, only rule” than I was used to. Instead of follow the rules it seemed to be make up your own.
TERROR IS DREADFUL BUT NECESSARY.
I stared at the cartoon Zeffre had just shown me. It was a rough, crude drawing but no less effective for its rudimentary style. In the background was the gorge, the destroyed dam, debris, and victims. In the foreground was a black-robed figure whose facial features were obscured by a hood. The repulsive words of the caption were signed with a single initial – the letter D.
I grimaced and handed the paper back to Zeffre.
We were sitting on stools at a wooden bar at The Horn & Tail, a pub on Third Street with stone floors, dark paneling, and bitter pale ales. Outside, a slow drizzle was falling and the fog had come back. Evening was creeping up on the town, and some passersby now carried lanterns.
After our brief tête-à-tête with Tenacity earlier, I hadn’t waited for specific instructions from Ari. I probably should have, but frankly, after our tumble in the sparring ring, I hadn’t trusted myself to be calm around him. So I’d told Fara to check in at the hospital and I’d gone looking for Ari’s foreman.
Over the past four months, Zeffre and I had traded a handful of letters, which made him more of an externship advisor than Wolfram had ever been. I figured my investigation should start with him. I’d found him down at the dam site and he’d given me a tour of the wreckage and the town.
According to Zeffre, this outpost had once been a lonely castle built on the precipitous face of Mount Occasus to the west. Servius Rockthorn had brought his family a
nd a few demon legionaries to settle here after Armageddon. Within a few centuries, however, gorge settlers had moved to the relatively less steep slope of adjacent Mount Ortus. Today, all that was left of the original Mount Occasus settlement were ruins and the Magna Fax, which, despite its name, was not a fiery meteor or a giant torch or even a big light. It was simply a large cannon.
Meanwhile, despite periodic attacks by Displodo, the newer town built on Mount Ortus had thrived.
“Displodo has destroyed the dam four times over the past year,” I said, pointing at the cartoon. “Why?”
“It’s a symbol of New Babylon’s interference in gorge affairs.”
“Don’t most people want the dam? Its construction has created hundreds of jobs. Its completion will generate revenue for each of the three major patrons up here: Acheron, Aristos, and Cliodna.”
But Zeffre just laughed. “Let me guess, someone in New Babylon told you that?” When I didn’t respond, he nodded for me. “Look, I don’t know what the exact terms were, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever they were, I’m sure Acheron wasn’t interested.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know Acheron.”
“Do you follow Acheron?”
“No. I follow Aristos.”
“But you haven’t always. Do you follow other demons?”
His eyes crinkled but I couldn’t tell if he was amused or annoyed. “How is that relevant?”
I shrugged. “I was just wondering if you adore any other demons here in the gorge.”
“Ah,” Zeffre said, “I get it. You’re wondering about my loyalties. You’re thinking I might be throwing suspicion on Acheron so you don’t look too closely at whoever else I might follow.”
I gave him a look that told him that’s exactly what I was thinking, and he snorted.
“First off, I’m not accusing Acheron of anything. I’m just telling you things he would want you to know. It’s no secret he opposes the dam. It will completely block the natural flow of his river. Second, you may be Lord Aristos’ consigliere, but you’re a Council MIT. Word on the street is that you’re also the new lord’s ex-inamorata. Don’t call my loyalties into question when yours are still up for grabs.”
I almost dropped my jaw – the man’s audacity was incredible – but I stopped myself just in time. What had I expected? That Ari’s foreman would be milquetoast? Zeffre was testing me, that’s all. Just like everyone else here.
I scoffed and pointed to my bloody lip, which still hurt. “Yeah? Well, I’m the one who bled for him today, Zeffre, not you.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Zeffre raised his glass to me and drank.
“So if not Acheron or an unnamed separatist, then who?” I asked. “Who else would want to assume the mantle of Displodo in order to sabotage the dam project?”
Zeffre shrugged and I thought that was it. That this cheeky old man was finished telling me what was what – at least for today. But then he jabbed at the cartoon with his finger and said, “He was there.”
“Of course he was there—”
“—No, I mean afterwards,” He looked around the room to see if anyone was listening. They weren’t, but he leaned closer anyway. “Displodo didn’t just blow up the dam, he was there during the search and rescue. He walked among the dead and the dying.”
My blood chilled as I stared at the drawing. No need to ask Zeffre what he meant. I saw.
“How many demons were present at the search and rescue?” I asked softly.
Zeffre grunted and made a vague gesture. “A lot. But not Acheron. He wasn’t there.”
“Other than Cliodna, who else from Lord Aristos’ camarilla was there?”
The old man turned to me and met my stare. Even in the dimming light, his eyes were a bright, robin’s egg blue. “All of them.”
“Which of them knew Aristos was going to be there the day before?”
Zeffre sighed and repeated his previous answer, but then he lowered his voice even further and said, “They also knew Lord Potomus was going to be on the dam the day he was killed.”
“How’s that possible?” I asked. “You’re talking about two different groups of demons.”
But Zeffre shook his head. “The camarilla passes to the next patron, just like the rotunda does. Lord Aristos’ camarilla was Lord Potomus’ camarilla.”
We sat in silence for a few more seconds and I wondered whether I could trust Zeffre… whether Ari should be trusting Zeffre. Finally, I threw some coins on the counter and stood.
“You think Displodo is one of the demons in the camarilla, don’t you?”
He nodded once, but it was enough. I patted his shoulder on the way out.
“Thanks for the tour… and the warning.”
By the time I returned to the rotunda, the sconces and chandeliers had all been lit and Fara was back from the hospital. I fed Nova, plopped down on my bed, and started mentally sorting through coping strategies for tonight – my formal introduction to Ari’s camarilla. Considering how this morning’s melee had gone, and the fact that I’d just learned that one of them was likely a murderous traitor, I couldn’t wait to break bread with them. But when Tenacity came in a few minutes later she assured me that, while the affair would be formal and symbolic, it wouldn’t be long. In fact, we wouldn’t even sit down.
“So it’s not a dinner?” I asked.
Tenacity laughed, but she sounded more anxious than amused. “Not exactly… I mean, it’s not every day that his lordship adds someone new to his camarilla, right?”
Right… So what, exactly, had I gotten myself into? Since my dossier had been light on details, I asked Tenacity what I could expect.
“Well…” she stalled, as if wondering how to describe such an arcane event, “the whole thing takes place around a rota fortunae—”
“A rota what?”
“A wheel of fortune.”
“Like your whirlybird?”
“Oh, uh, no.” Again, that laugh. “Not really. It’s a round table that spins. After your introduction, you’ll walk up to Lord Aristos and shape your best weapon. Something like that pepperbox you shaped this morning, but a little less… explosive? But don’t point whatever it is at him. Instead, place it on the table, bow to him, and take your seat.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” I said. But Tenacity’s anxious look turned to one of guilt. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
She nodded. “Once everyone’s in place, Lord Aristos will spin the table and then… everyone gets their just deserts.”
“Let me guess,” Fara said. “Their just deserts won’t be dessert?”
Tenacity smiled sheepishly at Fara. “Do you know any spells that will make blood pudding, boiled cockscomb, or marmot meat taste good?”
Fara made a face and shook her head. Tenacity turned toward me with a grave look. “Just remember, each of the dishes is a delicacy here. Symbolically disarming yourself and then accepting whatever dish fate serves you is a way of showing not just fealty to his lordship but also experiencing kinship with his camarilla.”
Kinship? With a pack of demons? Ha!
I had one last question.
“Did you make whatever I’ll be eating tonight, Tenacity?”
When she nodded, I told her that no matter what it was, I was sure to love it. Then she reminded me I didn’t know what the other five dishes were.
She grimaced. “I’ll leave an extra mint on your pillow,” she promised, which made me laugh. Would I have gotten turndown service and extra mints if I’d stayed in the guard towers with Yannu and his retainers? I thought not.
After Tenacity left, Fara got down to the business of helping me get ready. She’d be on show too, of course, but only for a few minutes while she introduced me and, besides, her outfit was a glamour, as always. I was the one who insisted (much to Fara’s frequent dismay) upon wearing real clothes to these sort of events. So, after a brief dunk in a deep copper tub, I found the package that Sartabella had labeled “F
irst Night” and put on what was in it. Immediately, I was glad I hadn’t actually worn it on my first night here. Who knows what might have happened had Ari cornered me in the dark while I was wearing this?
The gown covered almost everything, but somehow still managed to look risqué. Cut from red, black, and white silk, it was floor-length with long drape sleeves, a cinched waist, and plunging neckline. There was no lining, so it clung to every curve. But, surprisingly, it didn’t show off my mark.
Like every other waning magic user, I had a demon mark – a splotchy spot of skin right above my heart. I’d always been told that Luck put it there, I guess to mark me for some nefarious purpose. But Ari was the one who taught me that our marks could be used for a more romantic – even erotic – purpose. Some waning magic users could brand their beloved’s heart with magic. A branded mark was called a signare. Not everyone could do it, he’d challenged, but somehow I was able to brand Ari’s demon mark with my signare within a few days of his declaring his feelings for me. Eventually, I’d let him do the same to me and, for months, our mutual signares had proclaimed to the demon world that we were taken.
I sighed.
Bliss was an illusion when you lived in Halja.
Ari’s signare on my heart was long gone now. The casualty of a curse and maybe something else. All I knew was that I didn’t want to think about it tonight, which was why this dress was perfect. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
Minutes before I was due in the rotunda’s great hall, I twisted my hair up in a chignon, slipped the silver vial of waerwater around my neck, and asked Fara to cast a simple healing spell over me – to get rid of the last of the burns and bruises from the morning’s melee.
The rotunda’s great hall had curved walls, two fireboxes, an enormous round table in the center (the rota fortunae, I gathered), and the aforementioned pack of demons. I sensed Ari’s presence immediately, as well as a barrage of other signatures. My gaze swept the room. In addition to Ari, Cliodna, Yannu, and Malphia, there were three other demons I hadn’t yet met: an argopelter, a selkie, and a sinister-looking man who could have been Malphia’s worse half. I may not have practiced eating blood pudding with a smile, but I had memorized the members of Ari’s camarilla. So I knew the argopelter was Runnos, his exchequer or money man; the selkie was Eidya, his New Babylonian liaison; and the dark wizard was Bastian, his Angel/Mederi emissary, who managed the hospital, vineyard, and wine cellar.
