“Small talk. Election is today—”
“Did you vote?” Helene asked.
“Saints, no,” Mister Gin said. “No one cares what I think. But people will expect you to be versed on it.”
“Us?” Mila asked. “Can noble ladies vote? Because we can’t.”
“Go vote, Pilsen!” Verci yelled from the stable.
Mister Gin ignored Verci. “No, but the lords and other men there will probably want to hear you say things that they’ll approve of.”
“Which would be?” Helene said.
“Probably some variant of ‘I know it’s poor taste to politicize the tragedy, but if it means more Traditionalists in the Parliament, then at least some good will come from it.’”
“Tragedy?” Mila asked. She had heard Asti mention something like that earlier. “What tragedy?”
Helene answered. “Some swells in the Parliament were murdered, or something.” She shrugged. “I just wrap sandwiches in the newsprints, I don’t read them.”
“It doesn’t matter what the tragedy is, honestly,” Gin said. “There’s always some tragedy.”
“Fine,” Mila said. “Is there anything else, Mister Gin?”
“I’ve been trying to remember what a Feast of Saint Jontlen even is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one or . . .”
“I don’t even know who Saint Jontlen is,” Mila said.
“The bloody saint,” Helene said. “That’s what I remember.”
“The bloody feast,” Mister Gin said, snapping his fingers. Then he stopped. “No, I don’t remember. Damnation and sins. It’ll come to me.” He sat down for several moments, a blank look on his face.
“Mister Gin?” Mila prompted. “What should we—”
He looked up at her. “We should get to the Elk Road Shack. We need to—but I was supposed to meet you on the street, and . . .” He stopped and shook his head. “That was yesterday. Today is lessons of ladyship. Sorry.”
Helene moved a bit closer. “Things we need to know for this party? Table manners? Dancing?”
“Dancing!” Mister Gin said enthusiastically. “There’s no possible time. If you’re asked to dance, politely decline. Saints and damnation, we need to know where we’re supposed to be from. That would help. Where is Asti?”
“He’s meeting with the lady,” Helene said. “He should be here in the afternoon.”
“Then we’ll know more,” Gin said. “All right, girls, on your feet.”
Mila stood up from her chair. “I thought we weren’t going to do dancing.”
“No, something far more important,” Gin said. “Walking.”
“I know how to walk,” Mila said.
“Yes, like a common urchin, the two of you,” Gin said. He stood up himself, spine straight and chin high. “Now to walk like a proper lady. Which reminds me, at five bells we’re going to see a friend of mine to get you proper gowns and shoes.”
Mila sighed and got on her feet. “This will be worth it, yes?”
Helene shrugged. “I suppose we at least get to go to a fancy party. That’s something.”
* * *
Once he had arrived, Asti spent the morning pacing in the ruined safehouse, his hands continually going to the knives at his belt. She would be here, and he could just slice her open the second he saw her. That would be good.
Except that wasn’t the plan.
But she would get what she deserved.
He found himself drumming his fingers on the handle of the knife.
Maybe she did deserve it. Maybe she had been ordered. She could have defied the orders, told him. Or maybe that line was just sewage, keep him guessing.
He hadn’t slept well the whole night, eventually wandering over to Kimber’s so he could get a good look at the rest of the mail she was holding for him. It was all rubbish. Even The Veracity Press one was probably rubbish, but he wrote back to them to come meet him at Kimber’s at five bells.
That should keep him from trying to kill Liora. He had an appointment later, he didn’t have time to kill her and ruin the rest of the plan.
Killing her would ruin the plan.
He kept telling himself that.
The door opened and he drew his knives before he even knew what he was doing.
“Hey, hey, none of that.” It was Almer.
“What are you doing here?”
Almer hauled a small crate into the kitchen, putting it on the table. “Verci sent me with this baby and my own stuff.”
“But why?”
Almer rummaged through the crate, taking out a strange contraption of Verci’s. Asti didn’t recognize it. “Because he felt you needed someone with you for this, and thought I was the best choice.”
“Why you? No, Liora’s going to be here, she doesn’t know about you and—”
“Verci said you’d say that, and he said to tell you ‘we should bump to hide the pull.’ I don’t know what that means.”
Asti knew, and he even understood what Verci meant. “He means letting Liora see you is a way to get leverage on her. Tells her we have a crew and she doesn’t know the half of it.”
“Fine, whatever,” Almer said. He took out two vials and handed them to Asti. “Drink those down.”
“What are they?” He had had far too much of Almer’s nasty-tasting sludge for one purpose or another.
“First one’s my own special distillation of the oils from phatchamsdal and hassper. Calm your nerves, because you’re a wreck.”
“No, I need to stay sharp—”
“You’re already razor sharp, and you’re going to cut yourself, now drink it.” Asti did, and found it oddly pleasant to the tongue. Not like most of Almer’s concoctions.
“How long will it—”
“Shouldn’t be too long, nor will it last long either,” Almer said. “That’s the mild one. Just enough so you aren’t getting stabby at the slightest twitch.” He poured a liquid into the top of Verci’s device.
“I’m not—”
“I saw you when I came in.”
“Fine,” Asti said, looking at the second vial. “And what’s this one?”
Almer pulled out a vial of powder. “That’s the antidote to the poison I’m about to make.” He poured the powder in the hole and then slammed the lid shut.
Asti drank down the second liquid. It tasted not entirely unlike what a dead horse smelled like.
“That was horrible.”
“Yeah,” Almer said. “I just took it myself a few minutes ago.”
“And why?”
Someone was opening the door. Almer took note and grabbed a handle on the device, squeezing it.
“Because we need some protection right now, I gather.”
Liora walked in, this time fully in her aspect as Lady Henterman. Regal dress, dazzling jewelry, long clothes, and a ridiculous hat with a veil. “Well now,” she said, maintaining the accent. “I’ll have you know my driver is down there with a whistle, and he will call for Constabulary if anything untoward occurs.”
“Stop it, Liora,” Asti said. Almer’s concoction was working, because while he did still want to slice her throat open, it was more of an abstract idea rather than a pressing urge. And the beast, for once, was quiet.
“I have to maintain some illusion,” she said, now normally. “Who’s the rat boy?”
“Insurance,” Almer said with a sneer. “See this handle I’m holding shut? I let go, the vents on this open and fill this room with nilari smoke. Are you familiar with that?”
Liora looked slightly fazed. “I am.”
“Good,” he said. “So talk to Asti and don’t give me a reason to let go.”
“Like stabbing him,” Asti added.
“Yes, like that,” Almer said.
“I see you haven’t changed in the important wa
ys,” Liora said. “Did you vote?”
“Always,” Asti said. Not that his opinion on the Sauriyan Chairs of the Parliament and the city’s 15th District Alderman really made a difference, but he stopped in Saint Bridget’s and did it. Dad always said, “Voting don’t matter, but it lets you gripe with authority.”
“You, rat boy?”
“Minties down the line,” Almer said.
“I would have pegged you both for Salties or Frikes . . .”
“This isn’t why you’re here,” Asti said.
“No, of course not.” She cautiously reached toward a chair and pulled it over to sit down. “I’m guessing your brother is not here right now. Or the lady with the crossbow.”
“They’re elsewhere, preparing for the party.”
“So you’ve agreed to my proposal.”
“I really need to know what the proposal is,” Asti said. “Obviously, you want to use me at the party to get further intelligence on your . . . husband.” The absurdity of it was almost amusing. Almer’s potion really was working. “How did you manage that?”
“The usual way. He was looking for a wife, and I was available.”
“Presenting yourself as of noble birth, minor enough and from somewhere far enough away to not be questioned.”
“Third daughter of the fourth daughter of the Earl of Greckinvale.”
“Where is Greckinvale?”
“Utterly fictional, but supposedly in northern Patyma. That’s the trick, you know, the fictionality.”
Asti shook his head. “Don’t tell me my own tradecraft. I need to know because we’re going to need to use it. Helene and I will play your cousins who have come down from Greckinvale.”
“You want to be related to me? And her as well?” Liora looked a bit put off.
“Minimizing our fictional earldoms is probably for the best,” Asti said. “Plus I imagine you want to minimize the potential scandal of you inviting a strange man to your husband’s party.”
She sighed. “You’re right. That would look better. Though I did relish the idea of a good scandal.”
“Why would you?” Almer asked.
“Because, rat boy, this particular assignment is deadly dull.” She gave Asti a sly grin. “Frankly, your attempt to murder me was the most fun I’ve had in ages. I have missed you dearly, Asti.”
“Stow that,” Asti said. He didn’t need to hear her sewage, and through the calming haze of Almer’s drug, he could see it for the clear, naked attempt at manipulating him that it was. He wasn’t going to rise to it. “Tell me what we need to know about the party itself, and what our objectives are.”
“The party is the Feast of Saint Jontlen. That’s going to give us our chance.”
“How can that give us a chance?” Asti asked.
“Do you know how the feast goes? What it entails?”
“Never had the pleasure,” Asti said. “Though I know the story of Saint Jontlen.” After that old soldier had compared Asti himself to the saint—“red-eyed and anointed in blood”—he had done further reading. Kimber had been quite pleased to go over that particular Tale of the Saints with him.
Jontlen had been an old soldier who had become a priest, taking charge of an orphanage in the outskirts of a small town. The orphanage had been sacked by slavers, all the children abducted, and Jontlen left for dead. But Jontlen tracked the slavers down, and singlehandedly killed them all, calling out “Free! Free! All free!” to the children before he succumbed to his wounds.
Asti wasn’t sure how a one-man killing spree qualified someone for sainthood. Kimber had said it wasn’t about the killing, it was how he had been driven by godliness beyond his mortal endurance so he could save the innocent. Several stories of the saints involved rescuing children from bad men.
He had no idea how that translated to a feast, though.
“The meal is laid out—all sorts of dishes made to suggest bloodiness,” Liora said.
“What?” Almer asked.
“Things like roasted lamb, sausages, beets, and berry pies. As much bright red as you can get. All placed out on a table in the center of the ballroom.”
“I’m not seeing. . . .”
“Then most of the guests—really, it’s supposed to be children, but this party will be adults playing the game—”
“This doesn’t shock me,” Asti said. “Most nobles act like children.”
“True.” She sighed ruefully. “Especially Lord Henterman. But the guests all go hide, all over the house. Then the host—that’s Nathaniel.”
“Of course.”
“The host plays Saint Jontlen. He goes around and collects the ‘guards’—some of the guests play the slavers—”
“Of course they do,” Asti said. This whole thing was a strange and morbid way to celebrate slavery and slaughter. “Go on.”
“He’ll bring them back to the table, and feed each of them a bit of the food with his bare hands, making a point of smearing it on their faces and his hands.”
“Symbolizing Jontlen’s bloody rampage,” Asti said.
“And once he’s done that, he calls out ‘Free! Free!’ to the household.”
“And all the people hiding come running out, right?” Asti said. “Like the children ran to Jontlen as he died.”
“You’ve shot the bunny,” she said, with an infuriating wink.
“So our opportunity is when we’re supposed to hide,” Asti said. “Henterman will be focused on his game, and we can go through the trapdoor in your wardrobe to get into his study.”
“So you did find that,” she said wryly.
“Why did you think I was in there?” Asti asked. He then realized he might be giving too much away, at least in terms of what his real agenda was. Before she could ask why he wanted into the study, he gave her a fake answer. “Trying to find the best way to Henterman’s safes.”
“You think he has safes in there?”
“We’re not in this for the challenge of it,” Asti said.
“Our crew needs a good score, lady,” Almer added.
“Well,” she said curtly. “Once we’re in there, you can get whatever you want for your . . . score. And then we’ll part amicably.”
“As in we don’t try to kill each other once the gig is done?”
“I’ll point out, dear Asti, that I’ve not actually tried to kill you.”
“Don’t worry,” Asti said. “I haven’t really tried, either.”
She stood up. “Then we are arranged. I’ll see you at the feast.”
“Cansling,” Asti said. “As your cousin, my name will be Cansling. And Helene will be Jennidine.”
“You always loved making up your character,” she said. “You should know that I’m Anaphide in that household. Lady Anaphide Henterman.”
Asti gave her a mock bow. “Lady Henterman. What’s your old family name?”
“Onterren.”
Asti nodded. Cansling and Jennidine Onterren. He locked that in.
“Get to work on your aspect,” she said. “No one can see a hint of Mister Crile in you.”
“Please,” Asti said. “I’m a professional.”
She rolled her eyes, and then with a slight shift of her shoulders, fully became Lady Henterman again, gliding out the door.
“Well, that was horrible,” Almer said. “I was of half a mind to let go of the handle just to kill her.”
“Do we need to disarm this thing?” Asti asked.
“Yeah,” Almer said. “Probably for the best. There’s three pins on the bottom there.”
Asti noticed the pins, familiar with Verci’s typical designs. He slid them into place, and Almer let go of the handle.
“So this stuff that you had me take,” Asti said. “That . . . that was a big help.”
“Glad I could help,” Almer said. �
�I’m going to warn you, though—”
“Of course there’s a downside.”
“When you come down, it’ll probably hit you hard. So be ready for it.”
“And I suppose I can’t just take more.”
Almer touched Asti on the chest, feeling around for a moment. “Yeah, I don’t recommend it. While you’re calm, your heart is pounding like a hummingbird. It can only take so much of that.”
Asti scowled. “Fine. I just thought—”
“I know, Asti,” Almer said. “I know what you need. Right now, this is the best I have, and you shouldn’t abuse it.”
“I understand,” Asti said. He wasn’t sure if he truly did, or if it was the drug talking. “What about the antidote? Any side effects I should know about?”
Almer nodded, rubbing his stomach a bit, and then let out a noxious belch. “We’re both going to be doing that for the next hour or so. Sorry.”
“You’ve done worse to me,” Asti said. “Come on, let’s get back to the neighborhood. Plenty to do.”
Chapter 18
VERCI HAD DRAFTED OUT sketches of a new brace for his foot, one that would let him walk without hurting himself. But he needed parts to get building, and that meant waiting for Vellun to get back. So, in the meantime, he worked with Kennith on trying to improve the spring-engine carriage. It had been an ongoing project of theirs, and if they got something working in time for this gig, all the better. It wasn’t like escaping at high speeds wouldn’t come in useful.
The improvements to the spring engine weren’t working. Verci had tried several different tweaks and changes, and Ken had come up with quite a few good ideas, but nothing they tried gave them the results they wanted. It didn’t help that, without Julie, they had a blazes of a time cranking it up to its maximum torsion. So they couldn’t do a proper test. Nor could they really test it in the stable of the safehouse.
The problem was, the engine always only had one charge. Let it loose, and it unwound like mad, sending the carriage off like a sinner. That had limited use. Without a flattened street, without a straight path, like they had after the Emporium, it was pointless. Turning it at full speed would be a nightmare. Verci had tried to make a device that could clamp the torsion release, so they could accelerate in controlled bursts, but it kept getting torn apart.
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