I could hear music and voices coming from the end of the hallway.
“Lady Misrai, if you would do me the honor of stepping this way?”
The voice came from a silver-haired white man in a tailcoat with gold braid on the oversized cuffs and a perfectly knotted white cravat at his throat. The shirt he wore beneath showed a pair of familiar cuff links: a blue diamond on a silver field. He stood ramrod straight, one hand extended thumb side up like a statue.
“I am Wellsley, Elitus’s doorman,” he said. “Your man will follow me.” It was a statement of fact, and he followed it with another. “All the rooms on this floor—including the Imperial Library, the Satin Lounge, and the King Gustav suite—are at your disposal. A retiring room has been assigned to you on the second floor, though all other chambers on the upper floors are by prior booking and invitation only. You will be notified if such an invitation is forthcoming. Through this door to the Great Hall, if you would be so kind.”
Namud gave me an encouraging look and, so quietly I barely heard it, breathed, “Be calm. Keep your veil on.”
I approached the end of the carpeted hallway where a pair of white footmen stood on either side of a set of double doors. Without a word or gesture, they opened them in perfect unison, revealing a wood-paneled chamber with a high ceiling in which the air—gray with cigar smoke—moved slowly like fog. It felt more like a lobby than a hall, and I was a little let down by its lack of opulence. The central area was open, but around it was a disorder of armchairs and end tables, couches and newspaper racks, potted palms and drinks carts, around which a dozen or more men had gathered like elderly flies.
Wellsley stepped through and presented my calling card to a liveried servant in a uniform that evoked a military parade ground, crimson with brass buttons and a white silk sash. He wore a saber at his side. He was white, but then they all were, some reading, some playing backgammon, some considering their drinks as they listened to a young man playing a stately piece on the pianoforte.
“Lady Ki Misrai!” boomed the liveried swordsman in a voice so loud and commanding that I started, realizing too late that every face in the room had turned to look at me.
The music continued, but only for a moment. Nothing else did. And eventually, thrown by the sudden silence, even the musician broke off. Everyone stared.
For a second, I felt not merely an imposter, but an attacker, an insurgent deep behind enemy lines, in the very heart of their command headquarters. The room was not grand, but it was old and tasteful, layered with tradition. But then I knew what that tradition meant and what it had cost. The chairs these worthy gentlemen sat on may have been lacquered by Lani craftsmen, the gleaming tiled floor on which they stood had been swept, scrubbed, and mopped by Lani servants for two hundred years, the very stone of which the building had been raised had been quarried by forgotten Lani laborers who ended their lives poor and cast off as their bodies gave in to the ravages of age and they found they had nothing else to show for decades of work. Not just the Lani, of course—the Mahweni too, and the poorest whites, but for a second, I could see only the remains of my own people scattered like dust among the brass and stone of the Great Hall. It was like feeling the ache of a forgotten wound.
And just as quickly as it had come, I buried it. I drew myself up to my full height, met their appraising blue eyes, and held them as if I was wearing Madame Nahreem’s neutral mask, shedding my past, my identity like so much snake skin. I was dressed in a sari of amber silk, worn in the Istilian style—eight yards of lustrous fabric wrapped around my waist and wound up over one shoulder, baring my slim, brown midriff. It was paired with a close-fitting blouse called a choli and a lace shawl, which doubled as the veil I wore over my face. The silk glowed and shimmered like fire reflected on gold. In the center of my forehead, I wore the red bindi mark around which were positioned four minute grains of old, yellow luxorite held in place with spirit gum, and just bright enough to give a warm and gentle radiance.
There was a ripple through the gathering of drab, formally dressed white men as they looked up from their newspapers and got to their feet. At least one of them gasped. I left Namud and strode purposefully into the room, the sari trailing behind me, the shawl billowing slightly like wings, and as I did so, I smiled about me through the veil, each glance a little scattering of gold in a crowd of peasants and for a moment, a tiny, shining moment, I was a princess and the Great Hall had been built with the sweat of their backs for me and my kind.
They came to me, stopping what they were doing and gathering about me like hummingbirds to nectar, bowing and smiling and murmuring how charmed they were to make my acquaintance. I smiled and inclined my head a fraction and smiled some more, and in my heart I fought a war between blind panic and wild, savage triumph as they introduced themselves, proffering their cards, which Namud took and stored in a silver case.
I recognized some of their names, and I suspected that Dahria would have known them all, at least by repute, so I tried to remember who was who as best I could, filing their titles away while continuing to glide like a swan on water, its unseen feet paddling furiously below.
Nathan Horritch.
Something or other Ratsbane? Rathbone?
Lord Elwin.
Thomas Markeson.
Eustace Montresat.
A Mr. Vandersay …
Someone who might have been called Byron. Or was it Brian?
It was impossible.
I was offered drinks and selected a cordial in a tiny crystal glass shaped like a rose hip. It was rich and thick as syrup and I did little more than moisten my lips with it beneath my veil before setting it down, seeking with each movement to mirror that languid grace Madame Nahreem had modeled for me. As I did so, I considered my solicitous companions, all at least twice my age and pale as paper. None of them resembled the man with the pick and the bland smile, though they all wore his blue diamond cuff links. The thought of that gave me pause. The old men who seemed so delighted by me were, I had to remember, potentially very dangerous.
“Lady Misrai,” said one who had introduced himself as Nathan Horritch, twinkling over the rim of his glass, “do tell us all you have planned for your visit to our fair city.”
Another—Rathbone? Ratsbane?—pulled out a chair, and I settled carefully into it, thereby giving them permission to sit too.
“Well,” I began, speaking quietly but with clarity and decision, head very slightly cocked, planning the upward lilt of the statement even as I made it, “I have heard wonderful things about your great buildings, structures whose like we do not have in Istilia. A great bridge suspended by chains?” I said to Horritch. He was perhaps sixty, silver haired but robust, and his eyes were a deep blue and alive with thought and a watchfulness that felt different from the others, as if he were considering me from a great distance through some kind of lens.
“The jewel of Bar-Selehm,” said one Thomas Markeson, a florid-faced man who was beaming with pride as if he had built it himself. “A rare spectacle indeed.”
“And the Beacon?” I added. “I believe I saw its light from the carriage.”
“You may well have done,” said another, smaller than the others, a wheedling, ferretlike man called Montresat, who clasped his hands before his chest like a squirrel with a nut. “The Trade Exchange is indeed a marvel, and as for the Beacon itself, I suspect it is alone worth crossing oceans for!”
“Perhaps we should arrange a tour for you,” wheezed Markeson, leaning back as if to see over his gargantuan stomach. “I am sure we could find you suitable escorts who would ensure you saw only the best of the city.”
“That is most kind,” I said, feeling thoroughly overwhelmed, “though I’m keen to see the entirety of so wondrous a settlement. Bar-Selehm is renowned throughout the world for its industry, and I find myself driven to see the machinery that makes it work.”
“You may find,” chuckled the scarlet-faced Markeson, “that such places are full of noise and filth, and popu
lated by entirely the wrong sort of people. I think we can find a lady such as yourself more suitable pastimes.”
“Perhaps,” I replied, “but I find that to truly understand a place, to know its heart, you need to see what feeds it, what makes it move, wouldn’t you say?”
“Absolutely,” said Vandersay, as if speaking on behalf of the group, though they seemed unsettled by the idea.
“I think I can survive a little noise,” I added, still smiling beatifically. “As to the people, one never knows quite who the wrong sort are till one meets them, don’t you think?”
Another chorus of hurried agreement.
“Gentlemen,” said Markeson, his voice booming, “I think we know when we have met at least one of the right kind of people.” He bowed his head slightly to me and raised his glass. “My dear and most exquisite lady, welcome to our club and to our city.” As he took a drink, the others burbled their agreement and followed suit.
“Well,” said Lord Elwin, a man with an almost comically aristocratic air and a drawling voice that made every word sound like it was coming out midyawn, “we must not keep you to ourselves, much as we would like to. I am sure the ladies are waiting breathlessly to hear all about Istilian fashion and courtly gossip.”
I blinked.
“Ladies?” I said.
“The ladies of Merita,” said Lord Elwin. “Our sister institution. They are expecting you in the east wing. Activities here that take place in mixed company are rare and all too brief. You will spend most of the evening with our esteemed female companions. If that accords with your wishes, of course.”
“Certainly,” I said, covering my surprise and frustration. It had not occurred to me—or indeed to Dahria or Willinghouse—that the club had a woman’s wing, however nominally separate. The prospect of sitting around on uncomfortable chairs making small talk with a gaggle of Bar-Selehm’s elite flower arrangers and tea drinkers while we waited for whatever absurd ritual of social niceties would permit us to interact with the men in the building was maddening.
Unsure just how much of my face they could see through the veil, I forced a smile—the strain on my cheeks was becoming painful—and turned to where Namud was waiting to escort me out of the room I had only just entered. I found the man with the intense blue eyes—Nathan Horritch—watching me shrewdly, and as my gaze met his, his lip twisted into a knowing smile. Despite his years, he had something of the focused energy I saw in Willinghouse.
“I fear,” he said, “that we have caught Lady Misrai out.”
I hesitated, feeling my pulse quicken and my color rise.
“How so, sir?” I managed.
“This is not, I think, why you came,” said Horritch, his eyes narrow. “Confess yourself, my lady. We shall not judge you too harshly.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I said, lowering my hands so that their fractional quaver would not attract attention.
“I think,” said Horritch, “that you did not come to talk to other ladies. Indeed,” he said, raising his forefinger, “I do not believe you knew there were ladies here. I would go so far to say, that you dread the company of such light and silly creatures as you have no doubt encountered on your travels. I can only assure you that the ladies of Merita are most accomplished and that”—and here his stern countenance gave away the punch line he had been holding off—“we will do our utmost to rescue you as soon as decorum permits.”
His remark was greeted with laughter and agreement while I nodded and smiled again, though in my case it was relief that I felt rather than mirth, and I was glad to follow Namud to the door.
“Directly along the hall toward the street door,” said the uniformed swordsman who had announced me, “then keep walking directly across. An attendant will greet you at the far end.” He handed a key on a brass fob numbered 236 to Namud. “The lady’s retiring room.”
I stayed in character with each measured step I took down the hall, but my heart was racing, and I was unnerved by how quickly we had been forced off script. How could there be a women’s club here that Dahria had never heard of? It changed everything and meant, I suspected, that I’d be under even more scrutiny than I had anticipated while learning even less. I gritted my teeth, infuriated by how—in spite of all my finery—I felt powerless to do anything useful.
I glanced at Namud, and he flicked his eyebrows, a minuscule but expressive gesture of exasperation. We passed the entrance to the street door where Wellsley, the silver-haired doorman, was overseeing a young Mahweni as he swept the stoop with a broom of twigs and straw. Wellsley nodded respectfully, gesturing in the direction we were walking.
“The ladies’ hall is directly at the end of this gallery,” he said.
And once in, I thought, I am stuck till summoned.
“Perhaps there are other parts of the club I could explore first,” I said to Namud, hopefully.
“I’m afraid you are expected,” said the manservant.
“Fine,” I muttered, recovering my aristocratic poise as I walked on down the hall. “I’m sure this will be gripping entertainment.”
“I suggest,” whispered Namud at my elbow, “that you leave your sarcasm at the door. You are beginning to sound like Mistress Dahria.”
I couldn’t help but grin at that.
But then, back along the hall behind me, came the sound of men laughing and talking. I turned, gazing past Namud toward the entrance. Three men in evening wear were exchanging pleasantries with the doorman as they stepped inside, removing their top hats.
Him.
I took four hurried steps along the corridor, remembering at the last moment to force myself into some more stately gait, glad of the shawl that still veiled my face.
I did not need to see his mismatched cuff links. I knew his eyes, his bland smile. I knew the man who had tried to kill me on the crane over the river.
CHAPTER
13
“MY LADY…?” VENTURED NAMUD as I strode past him.
I was halfway along the hall, only yards from the entrance. The voices were louder, clearer though they had stepped back into the lobby to finish their good-humored banter with the doorman: jovial fellows, these, men who did not stand on ceremony, men who took pride in their bonhomie, their easy comfort with their inferiors. And one of them was a killer of the most sick and ruthless kind.
They stepped back into the hall just as I reached the entry alcove, turning in surprise at my golden exoticism so that for a moment they just gaped. One of them might perhaps have been one of the men from the boat, the one who had felled the unfortunate cat burglar, Darius. There could be no mistaking the other, with those eyes, cool even in impressed surprise.
“Our esteemed visitor from Istilia, no doubt,” he said, extending his hand. I hesitated only a second, but it gave him pause. “Forgive my forwardness,” he remarked, smiling the same bland smile that had been plastered across his face as he had prepared to put a pickax through my skull, “we are less formal in Bar-Selehm than you are, perhaps, accustomed to. Even here. My apologies.”
His voice had an edge of local accent under its cultured polish.
“Not necessary,” I managed, offering him my hand, brown fingers unfamiliar in gold rings with sparkling stones. He took it in his, bent slightly, and kissed it just above the knuckle. It took all my presence of mind not to yank it away and bring it hard back across his face, though my aggression came from fear, and not simply of discovery.
The mask. Remember the mask.
“Lady Ki Misrai,” said Namud, materializing at my elbow and managing to loom just a little, so that my admirer released my hand with a fractional and all too familiar smile.
“James Barrington-Smythe,” he said, with a little swagger. “Enchanted.”
I said nothing to that, but gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment, glad of the veil between us as I combed his face for any sign that he recognized me. I saw none, but I found that the hand he had kissed was trembling very slightly. Even here, when he
was being suave and urbane, when the killer I had seen that night by the river was as carefully hidden as it could be, I sensed what he was and could not stand to be in his company a moment longer.
I turned toward the doorman, looking for an escape, and only then did I see the third man. He was clad in a slim gray suit with black trim and silver buttons which had a whiff of the military about them. I did not need to ask his name. It was Norton Richter, head of the Heritage party, the man whose Bar-Selehm First Act had so incensed Willinghouse.
Up close he was lean and mirthless, and the hardness of his face did not thaw at the sight of me. The red and silver badge he wore on his lapel was the same as I had seen on his supporters in Parliament, and now I could make out its emblem: an upraised gloved fist clutching what looked to be a lightning bolt. I would have stopped Namud from introducing me if I could, but I was a fraction of a second too late in turning away, and I was forced to look the man in the face, even as he turned his blank, unimpressed stare from Namud to me.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” he said, cursorily, turning even as he did so to Barrington-Smythe. “James, I believe we are late for our meeting. Excuse us.”
This last was to me, a terse dismissal, but one I was all too eager to embrace.
“I’m sorry,” I managed, addressing the doorman. “I seem to have become disoriented. The ladies’ parlor is…?”
“At the end of the hall, my lady,” said the doorman.
“Of course,” I said, turning.
“It is a large house,” said the doorman kindly. “Easy to get turned around in.”
“Indeed,” I said, standing on my dignity. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Barrington-Smith—”
“Smythe,” he corrected, stung.
“Quite so,” I said. “These Bar-Selehm pronunciations are tricky.” I turned and walked away, once more repressing the urge to run, to get as far from that man as I could. The company of women, whoever they were, suddenly seemed very appealing.
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