Looking at the city around him, the old bishop shook his head.
What the fuck did they expect?
The quartet made their way through crowded streets, over the Bridge of Laws and Bridge of Hosts, under a triumphal arch and into a vast and crowded courtyard. To the south stood the Basilica Grande, the city’s greatest cathedral. It was wrought in stained glass and polished marble, archways and spires lit by a thousand arkemical globes, trying in vain to banish the night above. Behind the basilica loomed one of Godsgrave’s ten War Walkers. The mekwerk giant resembled an Itreyan soldier made of iron, standing silent vigil over the city below. But it was unfueled and unmanned—the ancient guardians only to be operated in times of absolute crisis.
In the courtyard’s heart, surrounded by the faithful, stood a statue of almighty Aa. The Everseeing loomed fifty feet tall, his naked sword held out to the horizon, three burning globes in one upturned palm. Mia had torn that edifice to rubble during the truedark massacre, but Scaeva had ordered it rebuilt at his own personal expense.
As Mercurio led his band through the streets, the old bishop noted the countless legionaries, the Luminatii in gravebone platemail and crimson cloaks. The cobbles were packed with revelers in their beautiful masks, bright and garish and O, so loud. But there seemed an odd chill to the air. The whole city seemed on edge. Mercurio could have sworn even the shadows seemed a touch darker than usual.
The old Blade and his fellows moved quick and silent, Mercurio melting through the throng so swift that Sidonius and Bladesinger struggled to keep up. For the first time in a long time, and despite his growing trepidation, the old man felt truly alive. His knees barely ached, his arms felt strong, his grip firm. He was put in mind of past turns, when he was a younger man. A blade at his waist. A throat to slit or a fine lass to charm. All the world just his for the taking. He didn’t rightly know what the night would bring, or how this story would end. But he’d made a promise to Mia, and by the Black Mother, he intended to keep it. He owed her that much.
He could see the Spine rising before them now, the Senate house, the great bibliotheca, the Iron Collegium, the halls of Itreyan power carved within. All around them, high into the truedark sky, rose sixteen great ossified towers—the Ribs of Godsgrave. To their left rose the first of them. The greatest of them. Smaller buildings were clustered around its feet, beautiful gardens hemmed in on all sides by an artful fence of wrought iron and limestone. Mercurio could see the broad front gates were flung wide, but dozens upon dozens of Luminatii guarded it with burning sunsteel blades.
The old man stopped at a sugar-floss stand on a busy corner, asked the young lass working it for four whips of strawberry. The girl smiled behind her domino mask and busied herself, spinning the fluffed confectionary onto long willow sticks. Mercurio waited silently, peering at the first Rib across the way. Fine coaches carrying the city’s marrowborn were lined up outside the gates, spilling dazzling donas and handsome dons from within and, after a brief check of papers, into the beautiful grounds beyond.
“I favor not our chances of entering here, good Bishop,” Adonai murmured.
“Aye,” Sidonius said, plucking at his plain clothes. “Not dressed like this.”
“You look passing fine to me.”’Singer’s smile was hidden behind her volto but glittered in her eyes. “I’d let you through the gates if you asked nicely.”
Sid chuckled. “Well, I might—”
“If you two are finished flirting?” Mercurio growled, handing out the sugar-floss.
Adonai eyed the tuft of pink confectionary with deep and abiding disdain. “No sustenance can a speaker draw from fare such as this, Bishop.”
“Aye, I’m no fan of strawberry, neither,” Sid said.
“Maw’s teeth, just fucking follow me,” the old man hissed.
Treats in hand, the quartet pushed their way through the tight-packed mob, down a broad side street. The high wrought-iron fence of the first Rib rose up on their right, the third Rib stretching up to their left. The side street was well-lit and crowded—merrymakers were making their way back and forth to their galas, servants and messengers running to and fro, and among it all, the patrols of legionaries and Luminatii were ever present. There was no chance to slip over the fence undetected.
’Singer lifted her volto, chewing thoughtfully on her floss.
“All right, what now?”
A loud bang sounded behind them, a shrill scream came a second after.
“Now that,” Mercurio replied.
More shouts followed the first, accompanied by a series of poppoppops! The crowd around Mercurio and his crew turned toward the noise to see what the fuss was. A tall plume of black smoke was rising into the truedark sky, accompanied by more cries. The curious and the brave rushed for a look-see, a patrol of legionaries barreled past, shouting for folk to make way. Soon enough, a gaggle of busybodies and gawpers and fuck-all-else-to-dos were gathering in the thoroughfare behind them.
Their side street was all but empty.
“Age before beauty,” the old man said.
Tossing his sugar-floss over his shoulder, Mercurio reached up to the wrought-iron fence. Straining with his own weight, legs kicking the air, he tried to drag himself up. But spry as he was, it seemed sixty-two years in the game was a little long for a bout of impromptu acrobatics. Red-faced and cursing, he hooked an arm around the fence, looked over his shoulder at Sidonius’s gobsmacked mug.
“Don’t just stand there like a bull’s tit, give me a fucking hand.”
The gladiatii came to his senses, offered cupped hands. Stepping on the big man’s palms, Mercurio flung himself over the fence, dropping into a thick clump of well-manicured bushes with another curse. Bladesinger followed swiftly, saltlocks streaming. Adonai came behind, Sidonius thumping to the dirt beside him last of all.
“What the ’byss was that?” Bladesinger asked, eyes back on the thoroughfare.
“Small tombstone bomb and some black wyrdglass,” Mercurio replied. “Found them in one of Drusilla’s caches. I dropped them into the sugar-floss cart while the lass was making our treats.”
“You blew that poor girl up?” Sid asked, aghast.
“Of course not, you bleeding nonce,” Mercurio growled. “It was mostly smoke and noise. But enough for a distraction. Now, if you’re done being a fucking blouse, we’ve got a daring rescue to undertake.”
The old man dragged himself upright (with Bladesinger’s help) and stole across the garden grounds, his walking stick sinking into the grass. The shrubbery was thick and lush, the fruit trees swaying in the truedark breeze. The old man knew it must have cost a fortune to maintain grounds like this, but all the greenery proved fine cover as the quartet stole toward a servant’s entrance. Bringing his crew to a halt with a raised hand, Mercurio eyed the four Luminatii sentries on duty outside.
The men guarding the door were dressed in the red cloaks and gravebone armor of their order, the triple suns of the Trinity embossed upon their breastplates. They wore the kinds of dour expressions one would expect to be wearing after drawing guard duty during the most raucous piss-up on the Republic’s calendar.
“All right,” Sidonius said. “There’s about forty feet of open ground between us and them. We need to make that distance and end them before they see us. You two stay back here, ’Singer and I will…”
The gladiatii blinked as Adonai drew a long knife from his belt.
“What’s that for?”
The speaker ignored Sid, carving a deep furrow into his wrist. Blood welled in the wound, a long slick of it pooling along Adonai’s skin. His pale brow creased in concentration, and he murmured a handful of arcane, impossible words. The blood formed itself into a long rope of scarlet, pointed like a spear, edged like a blade.
Adonai flung out his hand, sending the sluice of blood toward the Luminatii. Serpentine, glistening, it curved through the air, slicing through the throats of all four guards in quick succession. The men gasped and gargled, sinking to
their knees and clutching their severed windpipes. The blood speaker wove his hands in the air like a conductor before his orchestra, and his bloodblade swung back through the air, slipping back into the wound in his wrist.
“… Or we could do that,” Sidonius said.
Bladesinger made the warding sign against evil.
Adonai smiled with bloodless lips.
Mercurio sniffed and spat. “Right, let’s be off, shall we?”
The quartet hurried across the open space and into the servants’ entrance. The gladiatii hid the bodies in a nearby storeroom, while with a wave of his hand and more whispered words of power, Adonai swept the spilled blood up into a long whip of red, which he promptly swallowed with a faint grimace.
“So quickly doth it cool,” he said sadly.
“My heart fucking bleeds,” Mercurio muttered.
The speaker glanced at him sidelong.
“Tease.”
Slipping into the storeroom and locking the door behind them, the comrades stripped off the dead soldiers’ armor and donned it with haste. The gravebone was light enough, but still uncomfortable on Mercurio’s aching shoulders. The helmets were set with long cheekguards and tall red plumes and did a decent job of hiding the wearer’s face. But still …
“You three don’t make the most convincing legionaries,” Sid said.
Looking at Bladesinger trying to squeeze the helm over her nest of saltlocks, Adonai’s lithe frame wearing a suit of armor far too big for him and his own old, withered arms and walking stick, Mercurio was forced to agree.
“Look, this is the grandest gala of the Itreyan calendar,” the bishop replied. “The cream of Godsgrave society is gathering out in that hall, and every servant and slave in this building has their minds on not losing their job or their heads. Walk tall, eyes front, Sidonius, you’re next to me. Anyone stops us, you do the talking.”
“What happens when they find those guards missing?”’Singer asked.
“I imagine an alarm gets raised and the whole Abyss breaks loose,” Mercurio said, pulling on his helm. “So we’d best get moving.”
After a quick peek into the hall and a pause for a flustered serving girl to run past, the four marched out of the storeroom and into the corridor beyond. Boots tromping, red cloaks billowing about them, they marched as if they belonged, and did a passing job of appearing to do just that. Mercurio’s supposition was exactly right—with the guests arriving in droves and the gala now in full swing, the servants and slaves and mistresses and minor domos they passed all seemed far too busy to even look their way. A long procession of slaves was streaming out from the many kitchens and larders, bearing carafes of the finest wines and trays artfully stacked with exotic aperitifs. It was simple enough for the quartet to slip through the brimming chaos to a quiet stairwell, and from there, to the apartments above. But still …
This is too easy.
Another cadre of Luminatii waited on the landing above, their centurion frowning at Mercurio as he led their small cohort up the stairs. The man’s question was silenced by a wave of Adonai’s hand and a bloodblade whipping through his throat, sending him and his fellows to the marbled floor. The blood speaker drank a few quick mouthfuls from the fallen centurion’s neck before Sid and ’Singer dragged the bodies into an antechamber, and the quartet were soon marching through the apartment levels. Past a grand study with a grand map of the Republic laid out on the floor. What might have been a counsel room, lined with charts and shelves full of scrolls. An elaborate bathhouse trimmed in gold and peopled with beautiful statues. The old bishop couldn’t shake the trepidation from his shoulders, the feeling that something simply wasn’t—
“Where’s Jonnen’s room?” Sidonius asked.
“How the fuck should I know?” Mercurio muttered.
“Because you were bishop of this city for almost a year?” Bladesinger whispered incredulously. “And you brokered information for the Church for fifteen years before and your eyes are fucking everywhere?”
“Well, not everywhere, obviously,” Mercurio said.
“’Byss and blood,” Sid hissed. “So we just stumble about until we find it?”
A bald man in expensive servant’s livery and the triple circles of an educated slave branded into his chubby cheek walked out of a washroom, wringing his hands. At the sight of the four mismatched Luminatii before him, the fellow came to a stop, looking somewhat confused. Mercurio shrugged.
“We can ask him?”
In a quiet blinking, Sidonius had slammed the servant up against the wall, palm clapped over his mouth, knife to his groin.
“Make a squeak, I’ll cut your fucking jewels off, tubby,” the gladiatii growled.
Bladesinger sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “He’s a eunuch, Sid.”
“O…” Sidonius glanced downward, then lifted the knife to the bald man’s throat. “Apologies.”
“Nw wpwujzz mwssussuwuh,” the eunuch replied.
Sidonius lifted his palm away. “What did you say?”
“No apologies necessary,” the man whispered.
“I presume you want your insides to stay inside you?” Sid asked.
“O, most assuredly,” the eunuch nodded.
“Then you can tell us where the young master of the house sleeps.”
One detailed explanation, one sharp blow to the head, and one slumbering eunuch stuffed into a washroom later, and the comrades were making their way upstairs. Mercurio could hear a multitude of voices from the ballroom below now, the beautiful notes of a string orchestra. Another Luminatii patrol was swiftly dealt with by Adonai’s blood magiks, and finally, all too miraculously, the bishop of Godsgrave found himself outside Jonnen’s bedchambers with the alarm as yet unraised. A quick peek inside showed a large empty bed with crisp white sheets, rich tapestries on the walls, toy soldiers, long shadows cast by a single arkemical globe. Mercurio stole inside, the others following, Adonai closing the door with a soft click.
Fear sat on the old man’s shoulder, ice roiling in the pit of his belly.
Far too easy …
“Right, it’s after tenbells,” he said. “The boy will be abed soon enough. We hide in here, snatch the little bastard when he hits the sheets, then get the fuck out, aye?”
“First we seek Marielle,” the speaker said, unbuckling his gravebone greaves.
“That eunuch said she’s down in the basement cells.” Sidonius watched Adonai slough off his breastplate. “You might need armor in quarters that tight.”
“Love be my armor.” Adonai tossed white hair from blood-red eyes, flung his vambraces onto the bed. “Devotion my blade.”
“… Touching…,” came a whisper.
Mercurio wished he could have at least felt surprised. But as he turned and saw the dark shape of Scaeva’s daemon slithering out of the long shadows, all he felt was a sinking inevitability. The serpent licked the air with its translucent tongue, peering at Adonai and hissing soft.
“… Most touching, Speaker. Your sister sang much the same when we put the hot irons to her…”
Adonai stepped forward, dagger raised. “If thou hast done her harm…”
“… You may be most assured we have, Adonai. You threatened my master, after all…”
“No threat, daemon, but a vow,” the speaker replied. Whipping his blade across his other wrist, Adonai let two long gouts of crimson spill forth. “And on matters of blood, count upon a speaker’s vow, ye may.”
Mercurio’s heart sank as he heard boots tromping in the hall outside. He glanced over his shoulder, saw at least two dozen Luminatii assembling just outside the room. Ornate suits of gravebone armor. Blazing sunsteel blades setting the shadows dancing. Scarlet cloaks edged in purple.
Scaeva’s elite guard.
Sidonius drew his sword with a curse, Bladesinger beside him, each setting their backs against the other. But Mercurio only glanced at them and shook his head.
“This is no time for heroics, children.”
&
nbsp; The bishop of Godsgrave turned rheumy eyes to the shadowviper.
“How long have you known we were coming?”
“… Since first you set foot in one of Godsgrave’s shadows, old man…”
Mercurio sighed, reached into his cloak, and retrieved a cigarillo from his wooden case. Striking his purloined flintbox, he lit the smoke, breathed gray into the air.
“So what now?”
“… My master, Julius Scaeva, People’s Senator and imperator of the Itreyan Republic, requests the pleasure of your company at his grand gala this eve. However, I must insist you abide by the dress code…”
“Dress code?” Sidonius growled.
Half a dozen of the elite stepped into the room, eyes on Adonai, sunsteel burning in their hands. One held out a set of heavy manacles as Whisper hissed.
“… Iron is in fashion this season…”
CHAPTER 43
CRIMSON
Mercurio could smell the fear as soon as he walked into the room.
On the surface, it was a picture of opulent splendor. The finest of Godsgrave society, perhaps a thousand dons and donas, filling the great hall to brimming. A kaleidoscope of color and sound, of shimmering silk and glittering jewels. The ballroom itself was gravebone and gold, ringed with statues of Aa and his Four Daughters. Graven pillars rose to the high ceiling like the trunks of ancient elms, vast chandeliers of singing Dweymeri crystal glittered like stars in the high gables overhead. The dance floor was a revolving mekwerk mosaic of the three suns, inlaid with gold. The long tables were set with delicacies from every corner of the Republic—sizzling meats roasting over open coals, the sweetest treats laid out on silver platters. A twenty-piece orchestra played on a mezzanine above, the beautiful notes of a sonata drifting over the throng like smoke.
The guests were all arrayed in their finery, like songbirds in a jeweled cage. They hid their faces behind a multitude of astonishing masks—dominos of finest porcelain, voltos of black glass, masks made of peacock plumage and carved coral, of glittering crystal and flowing silks, smiling, frowning, laughing. Slave-marked servants wore gladiatii helms and suits of armor decorated with gold filigree—perhaps some nod to Scaeva’s miraculous survival at the Venatus Magni. They carried silver trays set with Dweymeri crystal glasses, overflowing with the finest vintages, the most precious goldwines. Candied treats and spiced fruits. Cigarillos and needles loaded with ink.
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