Micah was still sitting at his desk, the only indication that the boy had moved since this morning the remains of a tomato pie and a neat stack of coins that generally indicated some time fleecing the unwary at Constellations.
“Now you are sick,” Micah said by way of greeting when Rafe stumbled through the door. Rafe sank into the old armchair that he and Joshua had carried home from a street corner in Middle City and always meant to reupholster. He looked at Micah and wondered when the boy had started to seem so sure of himself.
“Sick? Not drunk?” Rafe asked. He sounded hollow. But he felt about to crack.
Micah considered this. “You smell drunk. But you look . . . I don’t know, Rafe; I’m not good at these things. But there is something funny in your eyes.”
Rafe laughed, because there was nothing else. “Do you know, Micah, I think you’re far more perceptive than anyone gives you credit for.”
“Rafe, I’ve been meaning to tell you, I know that I’m supposed to be working on the geometry of spheres, which is very interesting and I will still do it, I promise, but also it’s a bit difficult, and two days ago I went to Goodell’s class with Joshua and he was better than Volney and showed us so much! And I have been thinking about a few of the problems from that class but as soon as I’ve finished them I’ll get back to the spheres, I promise.”
“You . . . Joshua did? Goodness, from whence arose such a sudden passion for learning? And what are you working on, Micah?”
Micah peered at Rafe and shook his head. “I’m not sure you’ll understand. But it’s very interesting. I think Joshua brought me because he was sorry that I saw him having sex with his boyfriend. I tried to tell him that I see animals do it all the time on the farm and I don’t care but he started turning red and I realized that meant he wanted me to stop talking.”
Rafe agreed that Micah had probably judged correctly. Then he stood and walked over to the desk, where Micah was working on his new problems. Rafe had a passing familiarity with Goodell’s work, and while it was certainly complicated and a subject of passionate interest among the ten people at the University who truly understood it, it had no practical application whatsoever. He discovered within himself an inexpressible relief. If Micah had stopped work on the navigational problem, perhaps no one else would be harmed by this terrible knowledge that Rafe had insisted on pursuing.
“You’re not mad, Rafe?”
“Why would I be mad? You’re doing work you love. That’s more than most of us can say.”
Micah sighed. “Oh, I’m so glad. You’ve just been so excited about the sphere geometry. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
“I’m not disappointed. In fact, I’m sure that Goodell’s . . . theories are much more interesting and important. Why don’t you forget about those dusty old spheres completely? Focus where your talents are truly needed?”
Micah beamed. “I think spheres are wonderful also,” he said, dutifully. “But it’s nice to hear you say so! If you look, you’ll see that Goodell’s argument for a different method of describing ecliptic rotations . . .”
Rafe let Micah rattle on for a few more minutes, but he was in no frame of mind to follow. He was thinking about Will again. He was thinking about how the duchess would never let him through the front door, but he had promised Will not to abandon him.
“Micah,” he interrupted. “Do you still have the clothes you came here in?”
“My clothes? You said that they smelled of turnips and weren’t fit for a University student.”
Rafe grimaced. “Did I? How rude of me. You didn’t throw the clothes away, did you?”
Micah shook his head. “They’re in my trunk. Why do you want them?”
“To wear, it would seem.”
Micah frowned up at him. “But Rafe,” he said, “you’re taller than me.”
The clothes did have a slight odor of turnips and were distinctly short in the leg, but they had been so loose on Micah that they more or less fit Rafe. Rafe then considered his hair. No farmer would grow a mane so long and unruly. Even braided, it would mark him as a University student as clearly as his robes did. He could hide it beneath a hat, perhaps. Or he could cut it. He waited for horror at the thought, but it only brought more sadness. He was a Master of the University, but this was due to a defense so fraudulent that no scholar who knew of it would take him seriously. He had his dream of a school, but the amount of political clout and influence he needed to make a success of it was entirely dependent on his lover. His lover, the duke, who seemed to be daily losing his grip on reality. What real claim did Rafe have to the University? He had entered so full of fire, but now he felt himself made of ashes.
Still, he couldn’t make himself take that final step. Surely he could salvage something from this mess? So he borrowed Joshua’s cloak and headed back into the night. As long as the man at the gate didn’t recognize him, he had a feeling that the cook would be willing to pretend she didn’t either. He would keep his promise to Will. He wouldn’t abandon him, no matter what game the duchess played. Maybe love would be enough to counteract whatever force was battering at Will’s mind.
Maybe it will be enough, Rafe thought, and looked up automatically for that star that could not speak. But all he could see were clouds.
Kaab walked to the Hill wrapped in a thick cloak with a hood that shadowed her face. It was useful for the walk, but her dark clothes would have to serve as camouflage enough when she infiltrated the house. She left the cloak behind a thick box hedge that lined the wall of Tremontaine’s neighbors. The damp cold hit her then, but she felt the sore perforation in her lip where the maguey needle had passed through, and she steadied. She had rope in her hand and a dagger at her waist. The stillness flowed from it like the water from a spring. She would do this, and she would do this well. Her uncle’s sources had told her that the duchess would be attending a dinner party tonight and would not return until the small hours of the morning. Whatever Kaab could do, she would have to complete in that window. Even the richest houses in this city did not employ soldiers, so Kaab did not have to contend with that worry. Still, she could hardly walk to the front gate and request entrance. Instead, she had determined to go over the wall. She would have to do so quickly and discreetly—if anyone saw her, she was certain they would not look kindly upon a foreign girl breaking into a Local noble’s house.
The rain beat against Kaab’s exposed neck and head. It felt miserable, but she was grateful for it. No servants or casual passersby were likely to be out in this weather. She used her rope to scale the outer wall, but no such method would serve her for the house herself. Fortunately, apart from the front facade, the walls were roughly mortared, awaiting repair, and cracked mortar meant sufficient handholds. Kaab judged the wall by the kitchen and felt reasonably sure of her ability to reach the second-floor window. It would be harder in the rain, but she had done even that with her cousins on the rock walls above the cenotes in Cehtuun.
“By Xamanek’s light,” she muttered, and jumped to the first handhold. She slipped once, when a bit of mortar crumbled in her hand, but she recovered before she fell. Her stomach didn’t even jump. She felt as her uncle had counseled her: as hard as flint, as incorruptible as jade. She pushed at the window until the old catch broke and the panes swung inward. The iron catch had made some noise bouncing on the stairwell. Kaab jumped inside and closed the window before anyone could notice the draft. She appeared to be alone.
It took some time to find the duchess’s rooms. Even then, Kaab had to wait for her maid to leave. Kaab hid herself behind a tapestry, painfully aware of how easy it would be for someone to spot her. After the maid had left, Kaab waited another half an hour. No one returned to the duchess’s rooms, but she heard an odd commotion nearby. It was Rafe, she would recognize that voice anywhere, but he was whispering while another man—the duke, she assumed—asked why he was wearing such odd clothes. Then the doors shut, and their voices grew fainter. Other footsteps approached the hallway where
Kaab was hiding.
“The duchess will have my head when she finds out,” a woman was saying.
“You didn’t recognize him, Matilda.” An older man’s voice. “That’s all you have to say.”
“Like she’ll believe that!”
“I think you’ll be surprised. Our duchess is a pragmatic lady, and she values your ability to make miracles in that kitchen . . .”
Their voices faded. Kaab wondered what it could possibly mean. Had Rafe been forbidden to see the duke? Was the duke truly losing his mind? She shook her head, checked the hallway again, and at last entered the duchess’s rooms. She judged that she had at least two more hours before the duchess would return. Carefully, she eased the dark lantern from her belt and lit it from the scented nightlight the maid had left burning. All the heavy drapes had been pulled for the night, so Kaab felt safe to open the lantern and take a good look around her.
The outer room seemed richly appointed, but was clearly meant for receiving guests. She doubted she would find anything of use here. Kaab passed through quickly to the bedroom and then the dressing room, by way of an open door to the west. The wardrobe held a number of dresses on hooks, but draped over the vanity and two chairs were four dresses that seemed to be in the midst of reconstruction. More evidence of cost cutting, Kaab thought. Noblewomen here did not take pride in wearing their own weaving and embroidery, as her own people did. They hired others to do it for them. It made Kaab respect the duchess more, knowing that she was willing to do such work creatively. But though Kaab made a rough search of the wardrobe, she found nothing beyond the clothes it was supposed to contain. She moved on to the vanity, which also bore evidence of the duchess’s direct hand. The perfume was arranged in one drawer, the ribbons in another, and there were several cabinets dedicated to her jewels. But the perfumes were arranged in such a haphazard fashion—some labeled, others unlabeled, others fallen over—that Kaab could not imagine any competent maid letting them remain in such disorder unless directly instructed to do so by her mistress.
Kaab unstoppered a few in the middle, where it seemed the finger smudges on the glass were more pronounced. Some of the smells she recognized as popular Local flowers—lavender, violet, honeysuckle—and others she didn’t recognize so easily. One in particular triggered an odd itch of a memory, but she couldn’t place it. Its smell was very subtle, in any case, hardly suitable for a perfume. Bemused, Kaab stoppered the jar and went through the rest of the vanity. Nothing. Unless you counted the mounting evidence for the duchess’s controlling tendencies. For a noblewoman, Kaab thought, she was remarkably grudging of her servants’ labor. Nothing of use in the bedroom, either, Kaab decided. So she headed to the last room of the duchess’s suite.
As soon as she opened the door, she could hear quite clearly the noise of two men making love. Kaab shut it quietly behind her. So the duke’s bedroom must adjoin this private office. Did he usually take his lovers there, so that the duchess might hear him so easily? The private office bore signs of recent and continued occupation. Tracks on the thick carpet indicated frequent use of the desk on the east side. Kaab searched the desk. She tried her best to ignore Rafe and the duke, but the frantic, pounding desperation made that difficult. They made love like two men on the eve of battle, who knew they might die the next day.
The desk held three letters, partially drafted, pertaining to social events, none of particular interest. Kaab replaced the letters and surveyed the room again. The desk overlooked a window with a view of the gardens. Then there was the wall that connected with the duke’s rooms. The fibers of the carpet were flatter along that wall, tracing a path along its length. And yet it didn’t appear that Diane had used the door in some time: Kaab blew a faint patina of dust from the hinges. Kaab traced the path slowly, running the tips of her fingers along the plaster and molding.
The sounds from the other room exploded and then drew back like the tide. This close to the wall and the adjoining door, Kaab could hear them with surprising clarity. After a time, the duke spoke.
“Rafe, I’m afraid I’m losing my mind.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? Shouldn’t I say the truth? Isn’t that what you always tell me? Not to hide behind convenient lies?”
“Don’t do that, Will. Don’t throw my words back at me. I don’t know what I believe anymore.”
“Neither do I, Rafe. The things I see . . . oh god, even now, even with you, the things that I see . . .”
“Like what? Tell me.”
“I see that old crow, the one that tells me stories about these two girls. And I see a great rat with eyes like the moon and the hands of a small child. It tells me that I will be betrayed by everything that I have ever loved. It tells me that it can still see her now, the girl who betrayed it.”
Kaab put her hand against the wall to steady herself. A great rat with eyes like the moon and the hands of a small child. He saw a possum? It could not be Citlali. It couldn’t. But the duke sounded like the priests who would consume sacred mushrooms to have visions. Kaab heard a faint click. She looked over her shoulder, but the door was still closed. She looked back to where her hand had been.
A panel, made nearly invisible by the clever molding on the wall, had snapped out. When she pulled it back, it revealed some kind of a chest, with three holes that indicated the tricky Local locks. These had been among the first technologies that her people had imported back home, and certain nobles had quietly adopted their use. As a Trader, Kaab had been trained in how to pick them. She was far from an expert at the task, but she recognized these locks and knew that they required merely patience. The moon had moved past its zenith by the time she turned the last lock in the prescribed sequence. She was sweating, and her shoulder blades ached as though someone had stabbed her. But the chest door swung open.
There were three objects inside. Two she did not recognize or understand: a battered tin trinket imprinted with some kind of Local religious symbol on a long chain, and an empty purse of cracked and aged leather. The third was a locket. The same one that poor Ben must have brought to the duchess in his failed attempt at blackmail. Kaab pulled it out: an oval of worked gold, with a jeweled swan raised above the surface. The tiny copper hinges had greened with age. And then, because she had to know, she undid the clasp and looked inside.
A beautiful miniature painting of a young girl. Diane, just as beautiful as Lady Ernestine had said. She had changed, Kaab thought. Her jaw was stronger than that of this pale slip of a child. Her face had been painted as a generous heart, though in reality it was thinner and longer. Her forehead was wider. Her eyes held more ferocity and more humor. The coloring was the same, of course. She wondered who had commissioned the miniature, and remembered that Diane and the duke had never met before their wedding. He would have wanted to know what she looked like. Still, Kaab thought, he must have been surprised. She resembled the girl in this painting, yes, but she seemed fundamentally—
Kaab looked back at the eyes. The slightly impatient, wide, vividly blue eyes.
But the duchess—the duchess everyone knew—had gray eyes.
Kaab snapped the locket shut. Two girls in a carriage. One vain, frivolous, stupidly cruel. The other sharply intelligent, watchful, ambitious. They looked like each other. The maid was fair, Lady Ernestine had told her, and the same height and coloring as her mistress. Diane was conceited and silly, often treating people as though she had forgotten they were truly human. The girls meet a highwayman. Not just any highwayman, but Ben’s father. Rupert Hawke, Gentleman Robber, steals your money but spares your daughter. But either he made a mistake or the Lady Ernestine was right, and his reputation for gallantry was more grandstanding than truth. However it happened, the noble lady died, and the maid said, Well, couldn’t I marry a duke? Who’s to know? And she hiked to the City with a dead woman’s dress on her back. The duke must never have received the painted miniature. He believed her implicitly.
And now? Rafe was telling the duke
about some kind of new mathematics. Trying to pull him from his visions. But Kaab had heard the duke’s voice. He was in a profound trance, one that she doubted even a trained priest could exit easily. And only after he had stopped consuming the mushrooms, of course.
And there, flowing from her hand to her nose to her heart and face: the truth of the duchess. Kaab had smelled the tincture hidden among the perfumes in the dressing room. She had recognized the smell, because it was one of the few Local imports that had regular market value back at home. The distillate of that particular Local vine, all but prohibited here, worked better even than mushrooms for communication with the gods. Though, for that very reason, it was regarded as highly dangerous and suitable only for very experienced priests. For whatever reason, the duchess had decided to use it on her husband. The very man who had been her only source of power for the last seventeen years. She was making him go mad.
If he stopped using the tincture immediately, the visions would eventually subside. In all likelihood, he would recover. Rafe would be overjoyed. And Kaab did consider it. Indeed, she longed for it.
But Kaab had seen the duchess’s heart and face. A woman who owed so much of her own strength to that of her husband would not deliberately remove that pillar of her existence without good reason. The duchess needed to be in control. And for most of her marriage, she had been. But now she must be losing that control. To be willing to take such a drastic step, the duchess must be afraid that her husband could even discover the truth about her. She wouldn’t have chosen to make him go mad unless it was his reason itself that threatened her.
And so Kaab’s choice was clear. She could tell Rafe about the poison. But in doing so, she would bring about the downfall of the duchess. The Balam would lose the immediate benefit of the lower taxes and suffer the long-term disaster of a powerful Local lord determined to navigate to their homeland and destabilize a volatile political situation. Or she could walk away and tell no one what she knew. She could let the poison run its course with the duke.
Tremontaine Season 1 Saga Omnibus Page 49
