The Duchess of the Shallows

by Neil McGarry

  Lysander laid a hand on her arm. "Hector's just trying to get you angry," he whispered, "and to recover whatever's left of his pride. There are other fences; we'll use one of them." Duchess nodded, unappeased, and she took the coins from Hector and slipped them into her belt pouch. She turned to leave, Lysander at her heels, but at the door she stopped and turned around, feet crunching on broken glass.

  "Oh, and Hector?" She looked at him levelly, unsmiling. "When I come back tonight, I'd better not hear any more sad stories about disappointment. I'll leave tonight with what you owe me, or your future will be too short for even Anassa to read." The look on Hector’s face almost made up for the paltry deal she’d gotten on the medallion. Almost.

  Chapter Sixteen:

  Minette locks a door

  "Did you just threaten to kill Hector?" Lysander asked as they made their way back towards the Shallows. "You were so grim in there that for a moment even I believed you."

  Duchess shrugged. "Let's hope Hector did as well. We went through too much last night to put up with the likes of him." She rested a hand on her purse; she'd never before carried so much money, and was a bit paranoid about thievery. Lysander was likely to spot any cutpurses before they could get in range, but you could never be too careful. Twenty-five gold florin was a fortune for someone like her, but in truth she was less pleased with the day's take than she would have expected. Evidently, the woman in the gallery had not been in costume at all; she was a genuine facet of Anassa, perhaps the same one who'd sold Hector his prophecy and set these wheels in motion. And how on earth did someone like Hector get a prophecy from the facets? Was he more influential than she guessed, or were the facets themselves up to some manipulation? But whom was the cult manipulating: Baron Eusbius, Hector, or Duchess herself? And who was manipulating them?

  It was too much, and she shook her head as if to clear it. The only certainty was that the dagger was now her problem and her danger. She couldn't very well give it back, and approaching other fences, even if she knew their names, might spawn rumors that would eventually lead back to her. She couldn't take that risk, not with both the baron and Uncle Cornelius looking high and low. Maybe Minette would have an idea; if not, she might well take Hector's advice and send the dagger to the bottom of the harbor.

  For the thousandth time she fingered the brass mark in her pocket, the one that, so far, had brought her nothing but trouble.

  The Vermillion was, as always, quiet at this time of day, but Lorelei seemed out of sorts, greeting them without any offer or request for gossip and waving them towards Minette's office. Lysander and Duchess exchanged a glance. Perhaps Minette was in a foul mood, which happened occasionally and always made the staff nervous. They went down the hall, knocked, and entered. Minette was at her desk, fiddling with her gloves, but when they appeared she placed them aside and motioned Duchess and Lysander to chairs. The wine glass before her was empty; another ominous sign.

  She folded her hands neatly and regarded them, saying nothing for a long moment. "I hear you had a busy night," she said finally. "So did I, as it happens." To their surprise she did not offer them refreshment, nor did she ring for Lorelei. She merely sat and watched them both with her dark, dark eyes, and Duchess got the uncomfortable feeling that Minette was looking for something in her and had found it. "Before I ask about your visit to House Eusbius," she said, finally, "I should like to tell you about a visitor of my own, a lieutenant of the Red – Antony - who is upstairs right now with Daphne, although she's not the girl he was looking for."

  There was a moment's shocked silence, then Duchess leapt from her chair. "He's after me, Minette," she babbled, her heart pounding. "Hector must have sold me out, the rat, no matter what he said." She turned to Lysander. "The Uncle doesn’t know you're part of this, so he won't bother you when I'm gone."

  "Gone?" Lysander asked. Minette lifted one carefully cultivated eyebrow but said nothing.

  "From the city. While Antony is distracted with Daphne. I'll hide out in the Shallows until I can find a way to sneak out of Trades Gate, maybe in a farmer's wagon or something. I can live on the gold we got from Hector for a long time, and after that…" She ran her hands through her hair, frantic, and Lysander looked desperately to Minette, who was shaking her head.

  "My dear, that can't happen-" Minette began, but Duchess cut her off.

  "It can Minette, and it will. I won't endanger Lysander or you or anyone else because of what I did." She moved to the door, still talking. "I'll find a way to get in touch, maybe later after-" She pulled the door, which rattled a bit but did not open. Surprised, she tested it again. Locked.

  She stood rooted to the spot, unable to take her eyes from the whorls and knots in the wooden door that seemed as tangled as her thoughts. Why hadn’t she thought of this? Minette knew everything; there wasn’t a whisper in the Shallows that she didn’t hear. She collected secrets like Lysander collected notches on his bedpost. She had even mentioned Hector by name back during that game of tiles. How hard would it have been to do a little asking about his grudge with Eusbius? Assuming she hadn’t already known.

  And of course Minette had not been surprised when Duchess had asked for help finding a job at Eusbius’ party. Duchess had known going in that Minette would have an inkling of her general intention if not the specifics. And when the news came of Eusbius’ anger at a certain missing dagger…she looked to Minette. "Hector didn't tell Uncle Cornelius about me, did he?" she asked, feeling stunned and weightless, but certain. "You did."

  "I did," Minette agreed. Lysander gaped at them both. "So when I said leaving can't happen, I meant that quite literally. I told Lorelei to lock the door after you entered."

  "So you've betrayed me, then," said Duchess, trying to seem more calm than she felt. Minette knew everyone in the Shallows, and nothing that happened there escaped her attention. She could find Duchess in a heartbeat no matter how deep the hole or well covered the trail. Duchess felt the sting of tears in her eyes, to have come so far and lose so unexpectedly, and to betrayal.

  Minette sighed. "Oh, do stop being dramatic," she said, testily. She snatched up her cup, seeming honestly annoyed. "I had a flair for it when I was your age, and I admit I've indulged both of you further than I should, but come now." Minette gestured Duchess to the chair again, but Duchess remained where she was. "No one's betrayed you, Duchess; in fact, I may well have saved the both of you a beating, and probably worse."

  Lysander stood, holding his hands spread before him in a calming gesture. "Wait a moment, Duchess," he said. "I don’t think Minette understands exactly what’s going on here." Minette’s face was impassive, but her cheeks had turned a deep shade of crimson so dark as to be visible even under her heavy powder. "We already talked to Hector, and the Uncle doesn’t know anything about Duchess or the–"

  In one quick motion, Minette stood up and slammed down her glass. There was a moment of ringing silence. "That’s enough," Minette said calmly. "Now. Sit. Down. "

  Duchess was in the seat before she could think about the motion, and Lysander followed suit. She had never seen Minette so angry, and every part of her wanted to knock down the door and run. As if nothing had happened, Minette held her glass up to the light, looking for cracks, and then went smoothly to the sideboard and filled it from a flagon. "I just got in this lovely plum wine. Care for a glass?"

  "Yes, please," they replied in unison.

  Minette busied herself with pouring. "You see, Uncle Cornelius and the man now known as Baron Eusbius are connected," she said as if the Red and the Grey were simple after-dinner conversation. "You don't need to know how, but suffice it to say the Uncle owes the baron a favor or two. After your little escapade last night, the baron called in that favor and the Uncle turned the Shallows upside down. Not that he ever expected to find this dagger; he was certain one of the highborn guests had stolen it as a joke on Eusbius, and the Uncle very wisely does not get involved in the games of the nobility. At least not anymore." She handed each o
f them a glass, and Duchess sipped without tasting the wine.

  "But he had to seem to be doing something," Minette continued, taking her seat, "so he roughed up a number of Eusbius' known enemies, including your new friend Hector. The Uncle never dreamed Hector would be behind such a thing, and to be honest I don't think he was, at least not originally. But I haven't yet been able to discover who put him up to it." It was the first time Duchess could recall knowing something Minette didn't, a historic day indeed, but she knew better than to gloat.

  "In any case, when I saw what the Red was up to, I decided it was better for the Uncle to hear the truth from me and not to discover it on his own. That kind of discovery leads to violence, you see. So I spent most of the morning getting in touch with the Uncle and persuading him to call off his people."

  "Why would he do that?" Lysander’s courage seemed to have returned. Duchess figured it must be the wine. "Can't he just do as he pleases?" he asked.

  Minette smiled. "As the saying goes, in Rodaas no one does just as he pleases. Not even Uncle Cornelius." She fiddled with her wine glass. "You see, whenever the Red and the Grey intersect…well, the meeting must be handled delicately. Very delicately. You, Duchess, are not a member of the Grey, yet when you stole this dagger you acted under its aegis. Baron Eusbius is not on the Red, never was, and is not under their official protection; if he were, he'd have a red hand on his gate. Which he does not." She smiled again. "No one of noble lineage, even if they purchased that lineage, would truck openly with the Red. So," she concluded, "when I told Uncle Cornelius what had happened, he found himself on the horns of a dilemma. He could either disappoint his friend the baron, or he could punish you for acting according to custom and thus earn the ire of the Grey. He remains still on those horns, you may be interested to know, which is why he has sent for you." She nodded at Duchess.

  Duchess' head spun as she tried to make sense of it all. "So…I'm not in trouble?" she finally asked.

  Minette laughed. "Oh, indeed you are, but not the kind of trouble that ends in knives. Unless, of course, you do something foolish…like, say, trying to hide from Uncle Cornelius." She fixed Duchess with a stern glance. "So do you understand why I had that door locked?" Duchess nodded, feeling foolish. Minette had saved her from a fatal blunder. She would never have gotten involved with Hector if she'd had the slightest notion of the snake pit she was stepping into; when he'd made his mad offer she should have told him to jump in the harbor.

  Lysander spoke up. "If Duchess goes to meet with the Uncle," he asked, "how do we know she'll come back alive?"

  Minette shrugged elegantly. "There are no sureties in these matters, or in any, really. But I will tell you this: When Uncle Cornelius wants someone dead, the man he sends carries a blade and not a polite request. Remember too that this situation involves a potential conflict of the colors, and the Uncle is just as aware of that as you are. The last war between the Red and the Grey was a long time ago, and no one is ready for a repeat. Also," she went on, softening a bit, "the Uncle values my friendship, and he's well aware that if anything were to happen to you – either of you – I would be most put out."

  "So what happens now?" Duchess said, feeling lightheaded.

  "We call Antony and he delivers the Uncle's message. And assuming anything I've said has gotten into your head, you do precisely as it says." Minette sighed and finished her wine. "I do have your best interests at heart, Duchess, believe that or not as you will. Now can I unlock that door, or do you feel the need for more dramatics?"

  Duchess sighed, but said nothing, merely watching Minette.

  As if hearing the answer she expected, Minette took a moment to settle languidly back into her chair, a brilliant smile plastered across her face. Then she leaned forward and drew open a drawer. She gracefully produced a small metal key from its depths.

  "Lysander," Minette said, leaning forward and handing it to him, "be a dear and run upstairs and interrupt Daphne and Antony at whatever they’re about. I need a word with Duchess." Lysander looked doubtful, and Duchess felt doubtful. When you just wanted to chat, you asked to speak with Minette; when Minette asked to speak with you, it meant trouble. Still, she nodded and Lysander unlocked the office door and left the room. Duchess turned back to Minette with trepidation, torn between wanting to know what information Minette would choose to share and fear of what she might learn.

  There was a silence as Minette rooted in the drawer again. Without a word she laid on her desk a small, brass coin. Duchess’ breath caught; on the coin was stamped, along with the worn image of a snake devouring its own tail, a letter P. She willed herself not to touch the mark in her pocket to ensure it was still there.

  "You’ve seen something like this before," Minette said without preamble. She smiled without warmth. "As have I." She touched the coin with one finger. "Rare as rainstorms, they are, and even less welcome. It's not mine, if that’s what you’re wondering. I've come across three of these in my time," she said, watching Duchess carefully. "The first appeared in the midst of the Color War, well before you were born. The only true bit of trouble I've ever known between the Red and the Grey." Duchess blinked, and Minette laughed. "This business with the knife and Baron Eusbius is a child's spat: simple, controllable, a fire in the hearth and not in the house. Nothing compared to what I saw during that conflict. Be glad you missed it."

  "The second mark – this very one here – appeared during another, more recent bit of nastiness, known commonly as the War of the Quills." Duchess bit her lip. "No, the mark wasn't given to me; I acquired it on my own...after quite a bit of doing, as I recall. It was given eight years ago to a woman named Gelda."

  Duchess started in her seat, no longer bothering to hide her surprise. She cursed the tears that sprang to her eyes; Minette was the last person to whom she wanted to show weakness. "Gelda? Where is she? Is she…" Duchess could not continue, torn between fear and anger. Fear that her secret was out, and anger that Minette had known her for years and never told her the old nurse was still alive. With an effort, she got control of herself. "So you’ve known about me." It was not a question.

  Minette placed a hand over her heart. "Duchess, you wound me," she lamented, not sounding wounded. "Do you think me capable of missing what was right under my nose? Noam can keep a secret like few Rodaasi I've ever known, but sometimes silence can speak louder than a shout. It was not so unusual that Noam would take in an orphan – a great many children were orphaned during the war – but that he'd be so close-mouthed about it was...interesting. Then of course there were tales of an old woman, dressed better than any low-district crone, towing a soot-stained child through the Shallows at night, at a time when anyone with sense was hiding behind a closed and bolted door. And all of this happening on the same evening as a violent end to a piece of nasty high-district politics, during which a small girl went missing. A girl the same age as Noam's mysterious foundling. A challenge to make the connections, but not impossible."

  Minette was never one to answer a direct question – not unlike her father, in that way – but Duchess could not restrain herself. "Who?" she choked out. "Who set fire to my family’s house? We both know it wasn't a gang from the Deeps. Who have I been hiding from all these years?"

  "Who, indeed?" Minette said, as infuriatingly vague as always. "I imagine you've dreamt up hordes of black-cloaked assassins, stalking the Shallows at night, looking for the last scion of House Kell?" Minette shook her head ruefully. "That's simply not the way things work in Rodaas, as you well know. Remember the story of One-Penny Will."

  Then how did things work in Rodaas? The last time one noble had assassinated another had resulted in the Color War; after all the chaos of the War of the Quills she was certain no one would have wished that. The blackarms would never dare such a thing, the Grey would never take such direct and destructive action, the Red would have little to do with such high-hill politics and of course the Whites were too direct to stage a house fire. If they had wanted the family obl
iterated they'd have simply knocked in the doors and put the entire household to the question if they were lucky, the sword if they were not. And no one up or down the hill would have said a word in protest.

  "Such a destructive conflict, the War of the Quills," Minette mused, as if she were discussing the weather. "Ended by a truce, to be sure, but imperial blood was spilled, and your father had left the guilds in such a…conspicuous position, wouldn't you say?" She folded her hands before her. "There are hundreds of books and thousands of songs that tell what happens when a war is nobly won or tragically lost, but so very few speak of the messy details of a negotiated peace." She watched Duchess intently.

  The pieces were before her; she simply had to put them together. If the nobles had decisively won the War of the Quills, Marcus Kell would have been hanged as a traitor, and if they'd simply lost, he might have been crowned emperor. But when both sides negotiated a peace, could the rebel leader simply go back to his previous life as if nothing had ever happened? But that meant…no…

  She sat numbly as shape of it came to her. The nobles had given the tradesmen the political power they wanted, but after the deaths of Violana's sons there had to be some accounting, some way to save face and demonstrate to their enemies the cost of victory. "My father set the fire himself," she said at last. "His death was the price of peace. He killed himself for his own cause." She didn't need to look at Minette to know she was right. She put her head in her hands as the tears came in earnest. She cried partly in relief, washing away her fears of a threat she now realized had never existed. But mostly her tears were for her father and the price he had paid for speaking hard truths. She was certain that he had paid that price with eyes open, fully aware of what he did.