by Neil McGarry
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Duchess put away her tools with trembling hands, sending a prayer of thanks to Mayu, Ventaris, Anassa and any other god who might be listening. She wasn't very pious as a rule, but on this night she needed all the gods she could get. She debated locking the door again once she got inside but decided against it; re-engaging the lock would take too long, and if she needed to make a hasty exit she wouldn't have time to fool about with picks. Belatedly, she wondered what she'd do if the sentries returned to the hall before she obtained the dagger and made her escape. Once Lysander had cleverly escaped their grasp, as of course he would. The Brutes would never believe any excuse she could manufacture, and neither would the baron, when they dragged her before him. If they dragged her before him. With a shudder, she pushed the thought away and the door open.
* * *
The room beyond was octagonal and redly lit, and Duchess was reminded fleetingly of the front room of the Vermillion. The baron's art gallery was less comfortable and more cold, however, with gleaming marble floors, polished columns and blazing braziers whose bases were shaped like serpents entwined. Those serpents were man-headed, creatures she dimly recalled from some children's tale or other. Scattered strategically throughout the room were glass-topped casks containing wood or ivory carvings that glinted with gold or precious stones, flanked by paintings propped on plinths or hung from the walls. Where there were no paintings the walls were covered by tapestries that depicted scenes of imperial glory, hanging between high windows that were partway open to admit the cool, moist spring air. At the room's center stood the most impressive cask of all, flanked by two more snake braziers and set upon a wooden platform draped in a black cloth. Eusbius' pride, and her goal, she guessed as she crept away from the doors to peek through the glass into the pillowed interior of the cask. There held in a gentle grip of red velvet, was the dagger.
She would have known it even without Hector's description, though it was unlike even the fine blades she had seen on the belts of noblemen. The dagger was perhaps as long as the distance from her elbow to the tip of her longest finger, and from its shine all silver, perhaps to the core. The gleaming blade was double-edged and sinuous, sharply pointed at the end, and incised with lines along its length. These lines were curved like the blade itself, except at the grip where they ringed the weapon in slender bands. More engravings graced the hilt, and the flaring pommel was set with pale blue stones. The blade was not straight enough to be effective in combat, she judged, but it was impressive nonetheless; small wonder the baron treasured it so.
Her mind filled with images of trip-wires and other wicked traps, so she slid one of the lockpicks from her pocket and drew a large circle in the air around the cask and pedestal. Nothing. She released her pent-up breath, lifted the cover from the cask and reached for the blade.
Something went wrong in the reaching. Her body felt clumsy and impossibly slow, as if she were suddenly underwater, while every sensation sprang into painful relief: the shadows took on an edge sharp enough to cut; the crackle of the braziers was a roar in her ears; the air was strangely heavy and oppressive with heat. She forced her hand through this thickness and as the tips of her fingers brushed the hilt the room seemed to spin, the firelight mingling with shadows, swaying to and fro like a living thing. She was overcome by a sense of something terrible closing about her just as her hand closed about the metal hilt. The weapon was cold, but at its touch the spinning ceased, the sharp clarity dimmed, the roar of the flames hushed, and the thickness in the air dispersed as if recoiling from the knife she grasped. She lifted the blade noiselessly from its velvet nest and it dragged at her arm, seeming strangely heavy.
Then these sensations faded as quickly as they came, and she was simply standing in a room with a dagger in her hand.
She sagged against the pedestal, sweat running coldly down the nape of her neck as she gasped for a breath of air. With an effort, she pushed herself up and away, holding the dagger uncertainly before her. The stress of the night was getting to her, she decided, at a time when she could least afford it. No member of the Grey would lose her head when there was so much at stake and so little time. The Brutes could be back at any moment, and Eusbius himself might be leading his guests upstairs even now.
She couldn't safely carry the dagger in her pocket, and she hadn't thought to bring along a sheath, naturally. Her eyes flicked about the room for options, finally coming to rest on one of the tapestries. It was a map of the empire, embroidered on rich white cloth. The city was larger than all the other lands that made up the imperial holdings; artist's prerogative, she supposed. In fact, throughout the depiction size seemed directly related to importance; the empress' palace at the top of the hill was the very largest thing on the map, whereas the Shallows and the Wharves were the width of two fingers, and the Deeps hardly visible. The view of Rodaas for the likes of Baron Eusbius, for whom Duchess and her neighbors were of little notice and even less importance. The weaver had been a true master of his craft; Duchess could make out specific areas like the Godswalk and the Market, and the winter homes of the more prominent nobles. The area where Scholars District now lay was labeled Low District, which meant the tapestry must have been woven some time ago. No one had called the district by that name since she had gone to live with Noam. Her father's house had been in that district, and she wondered fleetingly if it had been purchased and rebuilt.
The rest of the empire was depicted in sweeping generalizations: the vast, fertile lands immediately outside the capital, where the nobles dwelt in summer and where their tenants worked the farms that fed the city. Eastwards was the sea, northwards the mountains, and to the west lay the wide grasslands where the Domae made their home. Beyond those, crowded against the embroidered border of the cloth, lay those lands on the outskirts of the empire which yet owed fealty to the empress: to the far west, the Territories, and to the south, the Southern Duchies. Her long-lost cat, and by extension Duchess herself, had been named after the nobles who ruled there. Running a finger along the terrain, she found herself suddenly thinking about that cat. Her father had named the animal, she remembered, but only when she was older had she understood the joke. Dukes and duchesses were impressively titled but poorly provided, and that cat had been proud and haughty but easily cowed. After the night of the fires, when Noam told her she must adopt a new name, she had been able to think only of that pet. Standing there in the baron's treasure chamber, a stolen dagger in her hand, a flutter in her chest and a roomful of potential witnesses two floors below, she wondered if she'd chosen more aptly than she'd known.
The tapestry was valuable but nothing she could carry with her; even so, it could still serve a purpose. Hoping the blade was more than ornamental, she drew it against one edge of the map. The tapestry parted easily and almost noiselessly; yes, the blade was quite sharp. She cut across the duchies and down, pulling free a roughly triangular piece of cloth. She didn't have the legal authority to grant those lands their independence, she thought with a grin, but she didn't think the empress would mind. She was just wrapping the dagger in the cloth when a voice rang out behind her, shockingly loud in the otherwise silent chamber.
"I would be careful with that. It has ruined greater than you."
She whirled to find the masked woman from the balcony, in the garb of a facet, leaning casually against a column, wineglass in hand, as if skulking about Eusbius' gallery were the most natural thing in the world. Duchess' throat closed with fear; one shout from the facet and it was over. She made no reply, her eyes flicking fruitlessly about the room, seeking escape.
The woman smiled. "Why ever would you want such a thing?" she asked, raising her glass to take a sip. Her dress rustled with the movement, and Duchess recognized the same sound she'd heard through the study door. The woman must have followed her up the stairs and moved along the corridor while Duchess was exploring the baron's study. She’d probably hidden in one of the rooms that opened on the hall and then followed through the gal
lery doors. Which Duchess had left unlocked, she remembered, wincing.
Duchess took a moment to gather her courage. "I guess you're not much with locks," she said at last. The feathered mask obscured Anassa's face, yet Duchess sensed the lift of her eyebrows nonetheless.
"Perhaps I stole in before you."
Duchess shook her head. "You didn't. I would have seen the scratch marks on the lock where you tickled it." Clearly, the woman was not interested in raising the alarm, but was she playing another, more dangerous game?
"Very good," Anassa replied, her voice silk. "But you haven't answered my question."
Duchess considered a moment. This was like playing tiles with Minette, but her life was the stake, rather than coins or a handful of stones. She hoped her opponent was less skilled than the Vermillion's mistress. "I was sent …for something sharp and pretty."
Anassa smiled brilliantly behind her mask. "Much like yourself?" she asked.
Duchess remained silent, wishing she'd thought to say that. Feeling slightly foolish, she finished wrapping the dagger in the piece of tapestry. The peacock feathers on the ornate mask swayed in the breeze from the windows, each covered with eyes…the thousand eyes of the goddess. Duchess felt as if each could see right through her. Her mind suddenly flashed back to that afternoon upon the Godswalk, of the facet standing at the top of the steps of the temple, touching Lady Agalia first on one eye then the other. The mask was different, true, but this woman before her moved with the same easy grace, and Duchess wondered if they were one and the same. "So why are you here, m'lady? Other than to ask me questions?" she said finally. Time was wasting, and Duchess was growing tired of this clever banter, particularly since she was behind in cleverness and she'd already felt the fool one too many times tonight.
"I was curious to see this dagger Eusbius is so proud of. Is that enough?" When Duchess gave her a skeptical look Anassa laughed languidly. "Or perhaps I came to see what happens next."
Duchess felt a tickle of unease. "And what might that be?" she asked, uncertain she wanted to know.
"The baron and his guests are on their way even now, and I doubt you'll make it back downstairs before they arrive." Duchess kept a straight face even as her heart leaped with fear. Whether or not the Brutes were still distracted, the corridor was brightly lit and neither the baron nor his guests could miss her even if she were invisible. A quick glance around showed that any attempt to hide in the gallery itself would be equally futile. She was trapped. "They are, however, unaccompanied by the guards your pretty friend distracted so easily. A fairly transparent ruse, but then Ophion's men aren't called the Brutes for naught." Duchess felt a pang at the mention of Lysander, and she searched the masked face for any sign of what might have become of him, but she could find no hint even in a thousand feathered eyes.
"I should think you’ll need another way out," Anassa suggested gently. Duchess agreed, and she looked to the open windows. They were too high on the wall for her, but under one of them stood a marble dog: Teranon, the favored animal of a hunter deity whose name she couldn’t recall. It should serve as a step, and she doubted the god would object. Moving felt better than thinking at this point, so she stood on Teranon’s back and boosted herself up and onto the window ledge, hindered by the linen dress. She would have worn trousers if she'd thought to be climbing, but in any case the cool night air was a blessing on her face.
"If you go left along the ledge, you should find yourself in familiar surroundings…assuming you are more deft with your feet than with your words. If not…well, the courtyard is a long way down." Duchess didn't fancy an evening crawl along a high ledge, but that seemed infinitely preferable to being found by the baron and his men. She didn't like trusting this unknown woman, either, but she had little time and less choice; left it would have to be. She pushed the window all the way open and tucked the wrapped dagger into the bodice of her dress. "Mind that doesn't fall out," said Anassa, teasingly. "There's not much else in there to hold it."
Annoyed, Duchess turned awkwardly on the ledge to face the woman she was increasingly certain was a true facet and not just a costumed noble. Whoever she was, she would be in as much trouble as Duchess if discovered. "Unless you're going to join me on the ledge," Duchess said, "I wonder what the baron will find when I'm gone."
"Perhaps," the woman said thoughtfully, "he will find nothing at all."
There was no time to spare, but she was suddenly overcome by an urge to puncture this woman's smug certainty. "Or perhaps he'll ask his wife just who invited the facet to the party. That's how you got in, isn't it? Did you play Lady Agalia like you did Dorian?" Anassa made no reply, but even in silence Duchess sensed that the facet's clever self-assurance had vanished. "Was it her idea, or yours? Or does it even matter? When I make up a story to sneak into a noble house that's a lie; when you do the same it's prophecy." She snorted disdainfully and checked the dagger under her dress one last time. "We're all pieces moved by another hand? Well, one day you're going to run into a better player. Until then, my lady, enjoy your wine."
Just before she stepped out into the night, she looked back to see Anassa as still as a temple statue, glass in hand, an unreadable expression upon her masked face.
Chapter Thirteen:
Duchess takes a fall
If the ledge had been six feet above the ground, Duchess would have considered it wide. Since the ledge was sixty feet above the ground and the bare width of three hands, Duchess considered it too narrow by half. The gentle night breeze now seemed a gale as she edged along, clinging to the wall as if it were a lover. She dared not look up for fear she'd miss her footing, and she dared not look down for fear of dizziness, so she kept her eyes only on her feet, moving step by careful step. Time ceased to have meaning as she shuffled along, and it seemed that she had never done anything in her life but creep along that narrow path above the Eusbius estate. Her world became pockmarked stone and cold night air. Her dress dragged against the wall, and the wrapped dagger slipped farther down, fulfilling Anassa's wicked warning. Duchess risked a small movement to adjust it, nearly sending herself over the side when the wind suddenly gusted.
After thirty feet or thirty miles, she came to a corner of the house, which was guarded by a grinning, winged gargoyle. Navigating the turn would be frightening, but going back was impossible. Reaching up, she grasped the gargoyle, one hand around its neck and the other on a wing, and began to swing herself slowly around the corner. One foot was around and the other in the air when her left hand slipped on the stone, which was damp from the wind off the harbor. Her feet left the ledge entirely, and for a moment she hung from nothing but one arm. She flailed wildly with her legs for footing, terror lancing through her veins. In that instant she was certain the night would end with her sixty-foot plunge to the courtyard below, to be found in a bloody mess by the Eusbius house guards. After an eternity her feet found the ledge and her hand the gargoyle’s claw, and she clung to the corner of the building, trembling with fear and exhaustion. Tears streamed down her face that she dared not wipe away; a wet hand could doom her just as easily as a wet gargoyle.
She didn't remember how long she huddled there, but eventually she summoned the courage to pull herself the rest of the way around the corner. A window stood perhaps five feet to her right, but it was closed tight against the night air. Trying her picks while balanced on the ledge was out of the question; she might as well just hurl herself down to the courtyard below and be done with it. She shuffled past that window and a second, about fifteen feet further along the ledge. Noam's wife had been fond of saying that every third chance came up right, and so it proved that night; the next window was, blessedly, unlatched and open. She sent brief thanks to the careless servant who had forgotten to close the window on a chill night and edged along until she could grab the frame. She peered about for a moment on the sill, but all inside was dark and all outside was quiet. She noticed, however, that Anassa had been right; the courtyard was a long way down.
She took a moment to recover, and she heard a babble of voices from the hall outside. The baron and his guests, no doubt, in a procession to the gallery to see the dagger that currently resided in Duchess' bodice. She had only bare minutes to escape the house, but after the fright on the ledge her head was curiously clear. Steel found the armoire by the moonlight streaming through the window, opened it, and selected the first cloak she found. She slipped it on, grateful for its warmth and for the deep hood that would shadow her face. With luck, the other guests would take her for a phantom or a ghost and not notice her passage. The baron was of much wider girth, and as she adjusted the voluminous cloak she saw a glint of metal from the inner wall of the armoire. She reached in and her fingers touched cold links of metal: a chain hanging on a hook. She pulled it free with a jingle, and in the dim light she made out a thick gold chain from which hung an engraved gold medallion. A house crest, possibly, although it was too dark to tell for sure if the etchings matched the one on the wall. Handsome…and hers, she decided as she stuffed it in her pocket. If she were caught lifting the baron's prize dagger she could hardly get in more trouble for also stealing his crest. Hector would give her a good price for this or by the gods he was going to receive that dagger in a way he hadn't expected. With a final adjustment of the cloak, Duchess opened the door a crack and peeked out.
