by Jane Kindred
arrangement to her.”
Kae stood, giving me a look of rebuke, but at least it was a look
I recognized. “Ola is not an arrangement to me. You cannot imagine
how much I love her.”
“I don’t doubt it, Kae. But I’m not the one you need to convince.”
He turned on his heel. I had angered him, but I hoped I had
knocked him from whatever fantasy he was pursuing with the owner
of that white mare.
With relief, I watched him find Ola settled upon a cushioned
bench across the hall watching the orchestra play. Kae kissed her hand and held her gloved knuckles to his cheek for a long moment before
kneeling on one knee to lay his head against her belly. Ola sifted his pale curls through her fingers. For the moment, all was well.
Tatia and Maia were making the rounds with Mama, doing their
social duty, while my father played host to the noble houses of the
Heavens, asserting his autocracy. With Azel still bedridden, I ought to have checked in on him and read to him to cheer him up, but my shade
could do it for me.
Instead, full of restless energy, I had come to the place where I did
not have to be charming, or gracious, or even interesting. I had only to put up my crystal and play my hand well. And in a single night at the
wingcasting table, I lost everything.
THE FALLEN QUEEN 15
Vtoroe: Chance
There was no order in Heaven, despite what the Host would have
the Fallen believe; its holy hierarchy was merely a game of chance.
Fortunately for Belphagor, he was a master at games of chance.
The Firmament depended upon its illusion—its de lusion—of
order and perfection. Everything untidy, unclean, and unrefined was
swept under the white, glistening veneer of Elysium’s alabaster streets into the gutters of Raqia.
And Raqia was where the real action was.
Belphagor rolled his cigar between his teeth and surveyed his
cards. With the heel of one boot hooked against the bar beneath the
table, he leaned back in his chair and balanced on the rear legs. From beneath his shuttered eyes, he focused on the player across from him.
She was an easy mark, an angel slumming in the nadir of Raqia.
He chuckled to himself against his cigar. It was a mark of her
naïveté that she believed her disguise convincing. No demon had such
undistinguished features. This one’s skin was like glass with liquid gold shimmering beneath the transparent surface. She had the distasteful
blandness of celestial perfection. Only the ruby eyes peering from
beneath her hood suggested the defiant individuality of one of the
Fallen; everything else said she was one of the Host.
Over the horizon of his cards, Belphagor watched the impostor
cast the die. He was going to leave this den of iniquity with every facet she had.
“Serpent,” he said with a yawn. The die struck the far corner of the
16 JANE KINDRED
table and landed on its side.
The angel’s face fell at the appearance of the serpent on the
skyward side of the die. She examined her hand with a frown and
placed an Archangel of tricks on the table.
Belphagor paused to take the lulava being passed to him. With his cards in one hand, the water pipe in the other, and the cigar rolled to the side of his mouth with a smooth flick, he took a draw on the end of the hose. The firedust swam in his lungs, and he closed his eyes and let the pleasant heat expand throughout his chest. When he opened his
eyes, the angel was staring at him, her mouth locked tight with disdain.
He rolled the cigar back to the center of his teeth and grinned.
“Looks like you could use a bit o’ heat ’twixt your lips,” he said with a significant lift of his pierced eyebrow, and passed the lulava to her.
She folded her arms with her cards tucked in the crook of her
elbow. “I don’t despoil myself. The airs of the Firmament are intoxicant enough without resorting to a cheap rise.”
He shrugged and passed the pipe to the next player, who took it
without protest. The dust was still bursting behind Belphagor’s eyes
with the pleasant crackling of a wood fire, and the scent of ambergris filled his head. He breathed in deeply to enhance the sensation.
“If there’s anyone ever needed despoiling more’n you, I’ve not
seen ’em,” he said around his cigar while shuffling through his cards
once more. “An’ a rise with me i’n’ ever cheap.” He winked at her and
she looked away, the translucence of her cheeks revealing the flush of blood.
Belphagor picked up the die and cast it with a flick of his wrist.
“Rook,” called his adversary. The die tumbled toward her across
the marble surface and snapped against her corner. The eel appeared
on its face. The disguised angel yanked her pouch from the table and
spilled the remaining facets into her palm, counting them furiously.
“I’ll be taking your full han’.” Belphagor shifted his cards once
more and rocked back on the chair. “Best keep a bit of your crystal.”
“Oh, you think so, do you? Well you’re mistaken.” She tossed the
last of her facets into the pot and dropped her hand face-up on the
table with a smile of triumph. “Virtues, full sphere.”
Belphagor was in no hurry to put her out of her misery. He moved
THE FALLEN QUEEN 17
another card in his hand and observed it, pointing his cigar skyward
like a smoking erection between them. After a moment, he lowered his
hand to place it on the playing table, but reached for her wingcasting hand instead. He dropped the Virtues between his Dominions and
Powers before he laid the cards in front of her.
“Full choir.”
Her eyes flashed with surprise and grudging admiration before
settling into defeat.
Belphagor scooped the pile of crystal facets toward him and
filled his pouch. For a novice, the angel had actually played quite well.
The real key to wingcasting, however, was paying attention to one’s
opponent, and there she had been woefully unskilled, accepting the
most obvious misdirection without question. If she didn’t learn it now, she’d learn the lesson the hard way with less scrupulous opponents. He grinned to himself. Fleecing her had been a service.
The lulava came around again, and the players beside them started another round. He tightened the string on his pouch, removing his
cigar to take a solid draw on the pipe. The firedust pounded through
him and his lids drooped while his neurons fired with vigor.
“I have a ring,” the angel said. “Give me a chance to win back my
crystal. The ring is worth twice what you’ve got in the pouch.”
Belphagor gazed at her through the slits of his half-open eyelids.
“Don’ need it,” he murmured with the cigar clamped in his teeth.
“Afraid you’ll lose, then?” She drew the ring from her hand and
reached across the table to set it before him, a crescent of light from the open doorway lighting her face.
A woman had entered The Brimstone from the street above, some
servant of a noble house, more out of place in a den of iniquity than
the angel. She hesitated on the top step, blinking in the dim interior, and then her gaze fell on his opponent. She hurried to the angel’s side and spoke to her in tones too low for Belphagor to hear.
He picked up the ring and with one eye open, gave it a cursory,
in-toxicated glance. The pale blue gem set in white gold was etched
with the supernal seal. Belphagor sat up straight just as the angel leapt to her feet.
“You must stay calm,” urged the woman at her side.
18 JANE KINDRED
The pristine marble of the girl’s face had gone ashen. “No. No, Helga, I have to go home!” She yanked her elbow from the woman’s
grasp and stumbled backward over her chair. “They need me!”
Helga gripped the young angel on either side of her face and
forced her to meet her gaze. Blood stained the woman’s cuff. “There
is nothing you can do for them.” The girl stopped struggling and
her angelic mask twisted into naked pain. Her body went slack and
she slipped through Helga’s fingers and onto her knees beside the
wingcasting table.
“Nenny!” the woman whispered, dropping down to the girl. “We
have to get you out. They’ll be looking for you, and they will show you no mercy.” But Nenny was weeping copiously, hanging onto the edge
of the table, unreachable.
Patrons of the den were taking notice, heads bent together in
whispers, no longer absorbed in their games. Belphagor glanced at the
ring in his palm and dropped it into his pocket.
“Friends of yours?” he murmured.
The servant acknowledged him for the first time, following his
gaze to the window at street level. The cold glow of the Ophanim
Guard, Elysium’s gendarme, was visible through the leaded panes.
Helga clutched the cloak at her throat, her eyes wide with alarm.
There was always some kind of upset brewing among the Host,
one duke or other stirring the political pot, but for the Supernal Guard to be involved, there must be serious trouble. If the angel was who he thought she was, this encounter could prove extremely lucrative.
“Come.” He took the angel by one of her elbows and hauled her
to her feet. “I rent a room in back, away from curious eyes.”
When Belphagor shut out the noise of gaming and merriment,
the angel collapsed onto his cot. The older woman, likely the young
one’s governess, peeled the cloak from the girl’s shoulders while the
girl continued to sob, curled into a ball on her side.
Belphagor had seen plenty of the Fallen with ample cause shed
fewer tears. He drew the tattered curtains from one wall to the other, shutting his guest off from the front of his room—the “grand reception hall.”
He nodded at Helga. “Your girl’s in trouble. I have a knack for
THE FALLEN QUEEN 19
hiding things, and it seems she needs hiding. Won’t find any better in Raqia.” He held up his hand with the smoldering cigar to silence any
contradiction. “No use denying it. I can be bought by those you want
to hide her from as soon as hire on with you. Knowing fetches near as
much as actual doing.”
Helga drew back her hood, sizing him up. She was a handsome
woman, but had the tired look of one who had spent her youth in
service to others. She met his gaze in a manner some would feel
inclined to look away from, but Belphagor backed down from no one.
After a moment, she reached into the purse tied at her hip and
rattled crystal. “How much does silence cost?”
With a laugh, he set the cigar between his teeth once more and
folded his arms. “What it costs you, it’ll cost them that want to break it double, an’ then how much more will I have to charge you? Where
will it end?”
“How much will it cost to ensure my charge’s safety?” Helga
tightened the string on her purse. “Even your kind must have some
price you put on conscience. What price to buy moral sensibility?”
“You insult me, madam. I’ve offered my skills. I will hide her for
the price you name.”
The angel had gone silent. Helga pulled back the curtain to
observe her charge, her face heavy with concern. “She’ll need more
than hiding.” Helga turned back to Belphagor at the sudden, unnerving
quiet from the gambling den. The Ophanim had arrived. “You have a
back way out of this establishment?”
Belphagor smiled. “Naturally.”
She glanced around his humble room with distaste. “You say
you’re the best in Raqia. I hope you’re better at smuggling than you
seem to be at cards.”
Belphagor laughed aloud. “Sometimes a thing of value isn’t
obvious.”
She continued to regard him as something slightly soiled and of
dubious origin. He stubbed out his cigar on the top of his dressing
table and opened the door, holding it wide. “I’m sure you can find a
demon trafficker or two in the house who would be all too happy to
find somewhere to put your girl. On her knees, most likely, servicing
20 JANE KINDRED
civil servants.”
Helga yanked the door from his grasp and pushed it firmly shut.
“It seems I have little choice.” With reluctance, she untied her purse.
“You must take her immediately away from the princedom. Speak to
no one. Keep her face hidden.”
Belphagor raised an eyebrow. “Am I to know who I’m hiding and
why?”
“No.” Helga handed him the purse without opening it again. “This
should be enough to cover her expenses for a month. After that, I’ll
send word when I can.” Belphagor weighed the pouch of crystal in his
hand. It was more wealth than he’d ever encountered in one place, and
it was on the person of a servant. He wondered what sort of expenses
the governess had imagined they ought to incur.
He closed his fist around the purse. “We can leave posthaste. Just a
bit of business I need to attend to first.” She was too astonished to stop him when he swung the door open and went out. Belphagor chuckled
to himself. Let her wonder if he might just take the crystal and run.
He peered through the smoky air of the den. The unsettling white,
electric glow of the Ophanim lit the faces of players at the tables
while the towering angels phased in their subtly shifting form through the gaming room in search of their quarry. With eyes that seemed to
shift and move independently of their heads, there was nothing they
missed. Hustling the girl out the back way was going to be difficult. At the very least, he would need an accomplice.
A demon he’d done business with on a number of occasions
occupied a corner booth where the gaming room opened onto the
tavern. For the moment, he was alone.
Belphagor tucked the crystal inside his shirt—best not to tempt
Paimon with the whole of what could be gotten—and slipped into the
booth while the demon had his head down over his blood pudding.
When Paimon looked up, Belphagor smiled. “I have a proposition
for you.”
The demon untucked his napkin from his shirt and wiped his
mouth. “Can’t wait. What’s this one going to cost me?”
Belphagor laughed. “Nothing but your time and assistance, friend.
And it pays well.” He nodded toward the pair of Ophanim. “I need
THE FALLEN QUEEN 21
someone to distract them.”
Paimon followed his glance. “Hell, no, Belphagor. Not on your
life. They’re looking for an excuse to arrest anyone who steps out
of
line. Word on the street is certain factions aren’t too happy with
all this ‘liberation’ talk lately—seems the Liberationists had some
action planned in front of the palace to force the principality’s hand and ensure he’d sign the Decree. Members of the Order of Powers
have persuaded the principality it’s in his best interest to abdicate the throne.”
“Ah, the ever-popular changing of the guard, certain to solve
everything.” And certain to be the cause of his current good fortune.
It must have been the principality’s “abdication” that had a supernal
celestine-wearing angel blubbering like a spoiled child whose birthday party had been ruined. In all probability, the supernal family had been arrested. Which meant he had a rogue grand duchess on his hands—
information certain parties might find extremely valuable. He was
a demon of his word, and he would never take money under false
pretenses or sell out a person he’d promised to hide, but that didn’t
mean he couldn’t make the most of the information he had.
Paimon went back to his pudding. “Anyway, they’ve got a death
warrant for whoever the poor sod is they’re looking for. Some
‘agitator.’ They’re all over the District right now.” He gave Belphagor a significant glance. “There’s a pair of Ophanim stalking the back alley as we speak.”
So much for slipping out the back.
There was, of course, one other possibility. If he let Paimon in on
his ace in the hole, he might agree to help smuggle the angel out.
Belphagor opened his mouth to take Paimon into his confidence
when a flash of color across the room caught his eye. Belphagor started out of his seat and then fell back. The rest of The Brimstone might
have burst into flame around him at that moment and he wouldn’t
have noticed.
At the far end of the bar, an unmistakable shock of deliberately
matted, magma-red locks spilled over a set of broad shoulders—were
they broader than they had been?—like a river of molten iron. The
burly young demon they belonged to sat drinking from a smoldering
22 JANE KINDRED
clay cup, eyes focused on the wall behind the bar with the air of a man who wished he was anywhere but where he was. Below sideburns of
a more natural red that braced most of his hard jaw, metal glinted for an instant in the smoking candlelight. A row of thin spikes pierced the flesh of his neck.
