A tickle in his wrist became a twitch that became a shake that became a hammering convulsion. Spasms wracked his dehydrated body and shook Ductio into gasping wakefulness. He forced his eyes open, searching out his tormentors, moaning as some invisible sadist applied simultaneous timber saws to his throat and skull.
There was nobody else in the damp grey cell. He was alone for – what was this, the third straight day?
His uncontrollable shakes were subsiding of their own accord. The violence of the fit had rubbed open the scabs on his wrists again. Trickles of blood ran down his arms and smeared the rusted inner surfaces of his manacles. He considered again whether to attempt to remove his hand by pulling hard enough to strip off the flesh as well, but by now he suspected he lacked the strength to go through with it. Even if he succeeded, he'd probably bleed to death before he could do anything about the other hand anyway.
So be it. Dying of thirst caged in a partially submerged cell appealed to his vicious sense of irony.
The single window, situated a few feet above his head, was open to the air, completely unbarred. It was broad rather than tall, though still wide enough that he could crawl through if not for his restraints. Every few minutes, a quantity of freezing sea water ranging between small pail and large barrel rippled over the lip of the window and cascaded down on him before sluicing off down gutters that ran into a grated drain in the opposite wall. A door in the wall was ajar, tormenting him with a view of a stone stairway beyond. Broken shards of crockery glued together by the dried remnants of his last dinner still lay on the stairs where they had been dropped by his warder. An undamaged copper mug, it contents spilled and drained away in the same incident, lay a little closer, just inside the room.
“The length and breadth of my fucking domain,” he mumbled through parched, sliced, swollen lips and a mouthful of broken teeth. He'd been worked over pretty well in the first few days, before they had lost interest. Odd how he didn't miss their company.
A flurry of vigourous drenchings brought him chattering and cursing to life. From their frequency he deduced that it was the middle of the afternoon, when the breeze angled back across Fellport's broad bay and broke the deep blue-black water's surface into stripes of whitecaps that dashed against the docks. It was too murked over with cloud at this time of year for him to make a calculated guess where along the miles of dockland his prison might be; he had only the vaguest idea where the sun was at any given time, and the thick bands of grey conceded no clues.
He strained to pick sounds of life from the background noise of the wind's tuneless whistling and the irregular waterfalls from above. Before he had blacked out, he thought he had caught snatches of hushed discussions and the movement of three or four sets of nail-shod boots, accompanied at times by regular scrape of metal across the surface of a whetstone. Here the gentle hiccup of a bottle uncorked, there a patch of laughter sharp as thistles. The sounds of men taking ease in the lull between battles.
Nothing now.
Ductio fell back against the wall, letting the chilled insinuations of the water dissolve his frustration and anger. For the first days of his imprisonment, he had raged against his restraints, taunting his captors with furious invective, scorning their assumption of dominance over him. Even as they beat him, tortured him with heat and cold and demanded their answers one savage gouge at a time, he had answered their questions with fiery contempt.
Of course he had known from the beginning that those first days had been nothing more than the warmup act. His interrogators' thuggish indifference to his unbreakable resolve was obvious; they had no interest in answers, just in the administration of the next whipping or the demolition of another toe. He had gritted his remaining teeth and waited for the ringmaster's entrance.
It was no surprise that the man in question was Meldaran. Who else had so little regard for the rules of the game?
At the end of a long session with two bruisers who favoured kicks to his ribs, knees and ankles, the Corphenite strutted in carrying a short stool, upon which he arranged himself with exaggerated care. When he had assumed a comfortable balance, he waved the kickers upstairs and regarded with Ductio with amusement.
He was not a tall man and in this hunched sitting position he resembled a particularly smug gargoyle. He was wearing his oddly childish golden curls pulled into two ponytails; his blue-green eyes were bright and searching, though ringed with dark furrows; his long face tapered from a broad forehead down deep crevices past a drooping yellow moustache to a small mound of chin. He was thin – his clothes seemed to fall over a jumble of bones rather than flesh. He looked sallow and unhealthy, like the victim of an advanced plague, but when he moved it was with a sharp alertness of a cornered predator. Ductio knew the type; manipulative and deceptive and craven and weak until you backed him into a corner, whereupon he threw off any pretense at civilization and fought like a rabid animal. Looks as harmless as he is dangerous.
“I heard you were looking for me, Magistrate Ductio,” he said with sinister interest. “It seemed our paths were doomed never to cross, so I seized upon the chance to engineer a little meeting.” He gestured at Ductio's restraints and the sluicing architectural features. “I trust my dear boys have fully explained the terms of our discourse?”
At that point Ductio still had most of his teeth. He gagged and spat a blot of blood from the back of his throat to the floor between Meldaran's feet. With a grunting effort he dragged his lifeless left foot under him and rose into an unsteady squat, his arms spreadeagled from his sides like he was telling a tall fishing tale. He said “Are those fucking tableflowers the best you have, you doughcock Corphy clown? They couldn't beat themselves, let alone me. Piss them off and get some real muscle.”
“Yes, I understood you were putting up a show of resistance,” snarled Meldaran, immediately riled. He scraped a gobbet of bloody sputum off the velvet toe of one boot with the heel of the other. “I assure you that's all about to change, Magistrate.”
Ductio hadn't expected to get under his skin so easily. He pressed his advantage. “How's that, Meldaran? You going to try to get on my good side? Swear to me you're straight on the path of the Saints from now on? Buy me a drink and suck my cock? Are you a cocksucking Saint now, Meldaran? Is that the way it is, you deluded little Corphenite fuck? Don't waste my time, turd.”
Meldaran came at him in unrestrained fury, punching him across the soft side of his mouth, shredding his cheek with an intricate cluster of jewelled rings. “Hold your tongue or I'll have it cut out! Talk to me like that again and I'll see you regret it, Magistrate.”
Spitting again, Ductio sneered. “You're contemptible, Meldaran. You fucking disgust me. It makes me sick that I spend my days nailing the lid of barrels full of shit like you.”
“You forget which of us is the prisoner -” protested Meldaran.
“Oh I fucking do, do I? Show some fucking balls and remind me then! You think you're in charge here? I've already got all I need to put you on the axeman's block for murder. Let's see which of us has the wind to fucking carry it through, Meldaran! Come on, you cockless fop, get your arse off that stool and knock me down.” He pushed himself to his feet, a magnificent exertion of pure hateful will. “I'm an old man, you weak fuck! Knock me off my feet if you think your cards are so good! Come on!”
Meldaran actually stumbled backwards as he hastily stood, his eyes blazing and teeth bared. He took a half-step towards Ductio, who strained with malignant zeal against his chains. Then second thoughts stayed his advance. An iota of sanity appeared in the glittering anger. He shook his head and wagged a theatrical finger, albeit one still shaking with repressed aggession.
“Oh no, oh no no no. I know your kind, Ductio. You think you're a rock, yes? You think nothing can break you, do you? Hard man, is it? Well I've seen hard men broken, Magistrate. I've watched them starved and parched and I've watched them curl up and pray for release until their voices burst. I've watched a man's eyes as that last little spark goes out and all he can do is bark like a dog dying in a gutter. I've watched harder men than you waste their last words begging their worst enemy for a drop of water.” He grinned. “I'll watch it again.”
Ductio saw through his fixed smile of sadistic menace to the grim recollections beyond. Meldaran was not exaggerating, he saw. Meldaran had watched as torture victims had died in excruciating agony. Too bad. “I'll eat your fucking eyeballs first. Why did you kill Battis Fenchow?”
“Die wondering, Magistrate. I'll see you again in a week. I wonder how much professional concern you'll show for dear Batty then?” He cocked a foot under the stool and kicked it up, snatching it out of the air.
“I don't give a fuck about him now. I was just curious. Who's manufacturing yellowpetal extracts for you?”
“Wherever you go, a policeman is always the same. Always has to ask his little questions.” Meldaran dawdled towards the door, intrigued by Ductio questions in spite of himself.
“And human refuse like you stinks as bad wherever I go, Meldaran. What's your connection to the attempted assassination of Duke Vormura?”
Meldaran scoffed “Oh, you'd love to fit that frame around me, wouldn't you? Foreign malfeasant, destabilising the noble Murb throne one duke at a time. Wouldn't it be convenient, to have a filthy old Corphy to execute? It'd save you the trouble of putting a nose to your own black little hearts and sniffing the rot there. Sorry, Magistrate, but your legendary powers of deduction have entirely failed you there.”
His superior smirk faded as Ductio said dismissively “I didn't really think a cottonbrained barker like you had a hand in it, Meldaran. You don't have the imagination. I was just curious whether you had a theory.” He shrugged. “Too bad it's as ignorant as you are.”
“You-” Meldaran's knuckles were white around the legs of the stool. “I'll see you in a week. Unless, that is, you have some hidden reserves of imagination yourself. Kill yourself if you can, Magistrate. I assure you that you'll want to. And when I return, you'll wish you had.” He opened the door to reveal one of his nameless minions bearing a loaded dish and cup. Without a word he dashed them from the guard's hands and sent him away. He watched as the thin wine from the rolling cup slithered across the floor towards him until it encountered a gutter and drained away. “Any last sane words, Magistrate?”
“Does everyone in your family fuck their own sisters, Meldaran? Why did you kill Piety Korsolten?”
Meldaran stared back at him with genuine confusion before disappearing up the stairs. “Who?”
***
With Nana Devolier summarily dismissed without warning, the people of the Moistened Cardinal harvested a bumper crop of their prime source of sustenance – rumours. They ran the corridors and common rooms like a flood of mercury; from the sublime and only coincidentally correct assumption that she had been caught with her hands in the till, to such ridiculous extremes as the suggestion that she had fallen pregnant to Sir Beyda and been sent away to his country estate to conceal his disgrace. A very few members of the company happened to know the truth, or part of it, and each had his or her own interests to protect in not revealing their inside knowledge.
Bey hoped that with the thief removed, there would be no obstacles preventing a sharp improvement in the Cardinals' personal wealth, and with it an acknowledgment of his status as their benefactor. Lynnis Chalcer, who knew that Fowart was the real thief, felt aggrieved for Nana, who was as close a friend as she would allow herself to make amongst the Cardinals. She said nothing to protect her many secrets. Fowart, who continued primarily to congratulate himself for evading Sir Beyda's swift justice, was not about to jeopardise his self-protective measures.
Gardenio had watched Fowart in the senior Cardinals' meeting with Bey with the suspicious judgment of one himself guilty of conspiratorial trespass and had known at once what Fowart's craven little head twitches had signified. From there it had been no great challenge to orchestrate the entire crisis, from arranging the letter from Chur's arch-rival to contaminating the drinks of both Chur and Fowart to ensure their suggestibility. Given the degree of effort in its orchestration, it might have seemed a petty attack on Beyda Chur's authority, but aware as he was of Nana Devolier's unaccountable popularity, her elimination could not possibly fail to have an effect on staff morale. Indeed, it had paid dividends almost immediately. That very night, he was sharing a bottle with Bessup and Cordumm, two of the house players. The conversation quickly ranged from mild to wild speculations about what had happened behind the scenes and who was to blame (Nana herself or the new lord?). It thereafter degenerated into a shouted argument conducted across deeply-felt lines of conviction between his companions which paralleling the divisions in opinion held within the Cardinal and coming at such a late hour guaranteed it an attentive audience. Every little bit of resentment and animosity had counted. Lord Herronvale had been most accommodating in his assurances that Gardenio would be looked after when the Moistened Cardinal's doors closed on Chur's reign.
It felt good for him to be a part of something important. Something big. Throwing in with Meldaran had been a gamble that had produced an encouraging return on a small risk.
Bey realised almost at once that he had misjudged the effects of his decision. Nana's absence had a noticeable impact on the Cardinals' good cheer. Where a week ago there had been vociferous debates and spirited disagreements there were now squabbles, arguments and even a few fights. Conversations held in dusty corners would cease at the approach of footsteps; others were spiked with open disparagements and punctuated with pinpoint stage whispers, audible beyond the limits of decency or discretion. Old resentments – some related to the distribution of Nana's attentions, others not – rose to the surface like poisoned fish, quickly staining the air with noisome fumes. The atmosphere was claustrophobic with churlish dissent in no time.
Work standards were dropping, with the exception of Lynnis Chalcer's performances, which she seemed driven to improve as though to compensate for her environment. It was imperceptible at first; a discordant note from the players, a few less compliments on the quality of service, things that Bey might have dismissed had he not been hypersensitised by one hastily-arrested corridor debate too many. Within a few days, though, it was impossible to dismiss the impact. A backstage argument between two hands had interrupted Chalcer during a dramatic recital; her attempt to make amusing light of it for the audience's benefit had come undone when it had resolved itself into a punchup that spilled onto the stage with her. No sooner had Bey separated them (one forlorn eye on several shocked patrons' early departure) than he was dealing with an unbalanced customer's noisy complaint that his drink had been poisoned. Placating that crisis, he had missed his cue from Nana's inexperienced replacement to return to the stage, leaving the stranded audience to make their own spasmodic applause arrangements. It was a clumsy, disquieting shambles.
The slow disintegration of the Moistened Cardinal's unity was not the only thing unsettling Bey's equilibrium. Herok's most recent visit had been much in his mind. After considering and dismissing some internal quibbles, he had taken his benefactor at his word and followed his advice concerning the employment of a bodyguard. The result was a scarred hulk named Nerth, who now followed him around with depressing attention to duty, peering with hostile regard at anyone in Bey's vicinity and doing little to improve the morale situation. He also served as constant reminder of his second obligation to Herok, his attendance at the opening Event of the Season, Lady Yeardnott's ball.
Bey was torn. The invitation had arrived, as promised, clad in gilt lettering and borne on a solid silver tray by a young messenger in elaborately formal dress. It was addressed personally her Ladyship in person, it seemed – an exhortation to “Come, dear Sir, please Do” was inscribed in a blotted scrawl within, along with some unsubtle general speculations as to his handsomeness and general state of bachelorhood. Bey wryly deduced that he could with only a little effort expect to easily legitimise his fraudulent nobility, but the amusing notion did little to ease his reservations.
The invitation to become integrated into Fellport's better social circles, however it was obtained, was clearly an Opportunity that Bey could not resist. The trouble was, Herok was aware of the fact of his inclinations. He had dangled this in front of Bey like a gold coin to a beggar, but Bey had a strong suspicion that viewed from the correct light that this bait would prove to have a hook hidden somewhere. Until he caught on to the catch, though, he couldn't see any choice but to accept the invitation. He did so.
A more direct crisis than Herok's unseen agenda, however, was the question of companionship. He could hardly turn up to the premier outing of the social calendar unaccompanied, but of the few women he'd met in Fellport, he had a choice between an ebullient sexpot whom he had in any case just fired or a manic foreign artist with an unstable ex-boyfriend. Not exactly a who's who of the social elite, he mused. He considered retaining someone of more professional standing, but until he was certain of the local mores with regards to high class prostitutes, that way was fraught with social mishap.
Under the circumstances, he had taken the only option available to him, proposing the event to Mistress Chalcer over a shared dinner one evening after the guests had departed. Given his reasonable assumption that she would be all to pleased for the opportunity to dress like a toff and enjoy the high life for an evening – if only to study the upper class in their natural habitat and prime herself with new material for her ruthless satires – he had been rather put out by her firm refusal. “I'm sorry, Sir Beyda. I feel it would be inappropriate,” she had said, granting him an appreciative smile before returning to her creamed lobster souffle. “But thank you for the invitation.”
“Think nothing of it. Just a thought.” Bey joined the rest of the Cardinals on their dissatisfied downward slide.
***
The Grape Corner gang rarely gathered. They were by and large an independent lot, a loose affiliation of serenely self-confident, violent criminals rather than the usual clutches of braggarts, cravens and overgrown bullies that agglomerated into gangs for self-protection and mutual reinforcement. In common they had only their loyalty – or, in a few cases, more or less ungrudging obligations – to Berber Trigosi. Without that influence this meeting might never have taken place.
That would have suited Honitt Sellton to the tips of his toes. If there was a less profitable use of his time, he was stumped if he could think of it just now. These wet hens had been going around and around on the subject of exterminated Splatters and Golden Haired Nancies for hours now, with Trigosi at the centre of the forum getting an acute dose of the sweats. Under the flickering orange lights thrown about by the warehouse's array of candles and oil lamps, the fat man looked like a wax dummy about to run to tallow. He positively dripped.
Not that Sellton could blame him for worrying. Meldaran had pulled off some spectacular coups in an astonishingly short time, thanks in part to his effective use of a Murb rumour mill ravenous for new grinding material. It was admirable. He was certainly a more naturally talented author of popular fictions than Battis Fenchrow had ever been. Sellton had to give him that, and more; Meldaran's capacity for unexpected violence was another tactic that seemed to have worked unwarranted wonders. So when the flavour of the circulating rumours starts to hint at Meldaran's plans for returning the compliment paid to him by Boss Trigosi, notice is taken.
“And here we are, stroking ourselves,” he muttered. He could not afford any delays, particularly not considering the deal he had struck with Ductio. The vicious old bastard could protest all he liked about his personal code of honour (not that he would, but Sellton knew him better than almost any man alive) but he could only be trusted to hold up his own end of the arrangement for so long. Sellton needed to guarantee the Magistrate saw through on his offer.
Trigosi was monotonously belittling the suggestion of truce talks, noting that Meldaran did not consider himself bound by the Accords and asserting his ineligibility to be extended any benefit by its provisions. He had been dominating proceedings in the same vein for some time, to Sellton's irritation. What exactly did he hope to achieve by debate, let alone stifled debate? Sellton tried to block it out and concentrate on his own plans.
Ductio's disappearance was unexpected but not necessarily a matter for concern. Quite apart from his conviction that not too many people of his acquaintance deserved a horrible death more than Vernal Ductio, Sellton knew the Magistrate could handle himself. Ductio had a gift for being underestimated that still surprised him. Besides, for all he knew, this was part of the plan.
His own part in the scheme was Sellton's primary concern for now. He'd achieved the first part without difficulty; indeed he had planned to have Meldaran's gang infiltrated long before Ductio had raised the subject. He regarded the Magistrate's suspicions about the Corphenite's connections to any number of murderous escapades as not much more than titillating gossip. He didn't like to think of himself as jaded, but short of a successful pass at taking out the Blue Duke, he couldn't imagine any murder in Fellport - and much less that of an hysterically lascivious widow with an obvious death wish – warranting significant notoriety. He put it down to Meldaran's apparent talent for just rubbing people up the wrong way.
But then there was his nascent narcotics industry. That did capture his attention. Even if Ductio had not intimated as much, Sellton would have assumed some connection between Kramus' death and sudden ascent of their new premier rival. He'd hoped to investigate that link, but Meldaran's people – whether deliberately or by serendipitous coincidence – had gotten to Eryll Fudge before he did. He was reasonably certain which of Fudge's former deputies had engineered the coup that had left ribbons of his skin decorating a fishmonger's cart. By extension, he now assumed that the same small cadre had probably participated in Kramus' killing, although he could only place four of the five killers' descriptions from the witnesses' reports. As new appointees to the Golden Haired Boys, though, the surviving Splatters were for all practical purposes untouchable. Certainly Sellton had no intention of exposing himself to their demonstrably homicidal attentions just to confirm a firm suspicion. Better to just assume the likeliest explanation and act accordingly.
“This new actor, he is not recognised,” observed Trigosi in a slowly exhaled huff. It was unusual to see him having to exert effort to restrain his emotions, but the sinuous beetling of his thick bare brows was like a road sign pointing from impatience to anger. “To the Accord, he is nothing.”
Someone quibbled “This Corphy's doing all right without the Accord, it seems to me! He might have the right idea!” There were some non-committal murmurers who might just as well have been assenting as making vague attempts to distance themselves from the speaker.
“The Sentry seem incapable of taking action. If they are not incompetent then they approve of Meldaran. If the latter, we must demonstrate that we remain strong. If we appear weak and indecisive, their tacit support will soon become overt. We will disappear along with the Accord.”
This was met with skeptical frowns. “And what if they are just incompetent?”
“Then we can depend only upon our own efforts.” Trigosi's gaze swept about to meet each man there in the eye, prompting Sellton in a hasty display of loyalty to fix a suspicious look on the impertinent interrogator. “We must act. They will not intercede on behalf of either party.”
“So you believe,” scoffed the doubter, tenaciously clinging to his losing argument.
“So I believe,” agreed Trigosi in conclusion. “This city belongs to us. We are its caretakers. As such, we must sometimes take it upon ourselves to exterminate infestations of vermin.”
As Boss Trigosi marshaled the resources of the Grape Corner Gang and laid his plans, Sellton tried to judge when it would be most to his advantage to murder him.
***
Jedlow's obedience to Staff Sergeant Kilritch's order – and by extension, he supposed, his career – lasted just as long as it took to follow Senior Guardsman Lyro Reynart to a notorious Sapwall street corner, where games of chance and negotiable women were to be reliably found. Since both attractions were of surpassing interest to Reynart and of no whatsoever to him, Jedlow had no trouble slipping away. He considered it a matter of courtesy to offer his superior officer the pretext that he had observed some suspicious behaviour outside a shop further along the way, though Reynart's disinterested grunt indicated that it was probably unnecessary.
That was the easy part. Jedlow, while far from stupid, was possessed of neither natural deductive instincts nor adequate training. He had no idea what to do next. Locating Ductio was an obvious first step, but again, how to go about it? At their final meeting he'd given no particular clues as to what he planned to do about tracking down Casimir Meldaran.
Very well, then, what about Meldaran? Jedlow had witnessed him commit a calculating murder. Aside from any possible connection to either the death of Piety Korsolten or Ductio's disappearance, he had a clear duty to bring the man to the Duke's justice. Considering the likelihood that his own assailant had probably been one of Meldaran's lookouts, Jedlow felt a frisson of anticipation at the thought of bolting the Corphenite into a set of stocks.
But there again was a problem. In the occasional interruptions to his solitude this past week, the physician's orderlies, like nearly everyone in or associated with the Sentry, were full of news about the upheavals disrupting the Fellport underworld like an earthquake. None of his direct informants had been sufficiently well-informed to know the name of the mysterious upstart at the head of the growing army of vicious drug smugglers, but Meldaran had been much in his thoughts so Jedlow had known his identity at once. Too bad that the only benefit of that knowledge was the virtual certainty that Meldaran would now be too well protected for a simple trainee plodder like himself to reach.
At least, not without a key. Aha. A key such as Mistress Chalcer.
He was not unconscious of the fact that he would never have thought of using her to get at him had she not been the other person that had been on his mind all week. At least, he might not have, had a veritable forest of leaflets bearing the likeness of her alluring foreign face and exhorting all discriminating comers to attend to her performances in Grape Corner not been plastered along the entire route from Coalface Hill to Sapwall. He'd probably thought of her fifty times without even thinking of it.
Pondering thus until his head hurt, he made off for the Moistened Cardinal.
***
“Please answer the question. Is the situation out of control?”
Realising with a start that he had lapsed into what would seem to Magistrate Broden to be an uncomfortable silence, Kowan Dart said “It's too early to tell, I think. There are certainly uncontrolled factors. The disruption to the Accord in Rackhutch is serious in itself, but may also be an indicator of worse to come.”
They were walking together along a secluded pathway through the western forests of Coalface Hill. Their course had probably passed that which the failed assassin had taken after the attempt on Duke Vormura's life. In retrospect, it had been an obvious escape path. These were the Duke's private lands, lightly patrolled so as not to disturb its population of small game. His Grace occasionally liked to take small parties out to shoot them with his crossbow. Dart was aware that these parties often consisted of a single young girl, on which occasions he had no desire to see or be seen by wandering squads of bored Sentrymen on patrol. Hence it was generally an ideal venue for secret meetings.
“I did not expect you of all people to be a dissembler,” snapped Broden. “That is not the situation to which I refer.”
Being unable to look Broden in the eye made it difficult to gauge his mood. These conferences were usually simple reporting, in which Broden invited frank disclosure, but on this occasion Dart would have preferred some clues as to what the Magistrate did and didn't want to know. Broden resolutely kept a few steps ahead of him, staring ahead. “It is certain that there is some kind of enemy conspiracy acting against our interests.”
“Certain?”
“There is no doubt that my agent and her bodyguards were specifically targeted. The evidence appears to have been arranged to implicate them in the assassination attempt. A deliberate connection has been drawn to connect the two events.”
“For what purpose? The conspirators risk exposure.”
The question had plagued Dart for days. “I don't have any answers yet. Either this is an elaborate taunt on the part of someone who believes themselves untouchable, or it's another exercise in misdirection. Either way, it is an informal declaration of war.”
“Is it your opinion that the conspirators are native to Murburan?”
Dart said, “I can't absolutely rule out that possibility that some or all of our enemies are personally known to us. But my feeling is that the strings are being pulled from elsewhere.” A light mist of rain started penetrating the thick canopy above.
“I presume you have considered the possibility that the Lephali Empire is considering a resumption of its expansionist habits of old.”
“The thought keeps me awake at night, Magistrate.”
Broden harrumphed, pausing to relieve himself at the side of the path . “I have reported what we know to his Grace already. He will soon arrive at the same conclusion, if he has not already done so. I need something concrete to tell him. If these are truly the first days of a new war, Murburan is already in a losing position.”
“There are a limited number of administrators in a position to coordinate the actions that we know to have been undertaken. I am having them watched.”
“If the enemy is so well-placed, can you be sure of your own people?”
“I'm having them watched as well,” replied Dart. “But my resources only go so far.”
“I can place certain discrete Sentry personnel at your disposal. That will compromise your anonymity.”
Dart sighed, “Yes, it will. I'm afraid that we don't have much choice. Thank you Magistrate. Will there be anything else?”
“One thing I should appreciate your advice on. Magistrate Ductio has been missing for a number of days. Should I consider my own safety?”
“The Magistrate was preoccupied with routine investigations. I believe they led him to the attention of the miscreants in Rackhutch. He is probably dead. No, I don't think you have any reason to be concerned for your personal wellbeing.”
Broden shrugged. “That's something, at least. I'll speak to the Duke about his replacement. You'll have your men by tomorrow. Good day. I'll see you at the ball.”
“I look forward to it, Magistrate.”
***
Lynnis set down the bow and flexed her tired fingers. The viola was a relatively recent addition to her repertoire and she had not yet built up the endurance required to play it well for long periods. She confined its appearance in her act to short comical pieces that relied on it to complement and punctuate her voice rather than stand on its own.
Draining a glass of water, she stood and walked a slow circuit of the garden. The light sprinkling of rain was not unpleasant, though it was heavy enough that she left her instruments under the pergola for their protection. It had also driven away the last of her admirers, one of a gaggle from the company that frequently lurked about when she practised in the open. Today she had preferred to keep her own company, and so had seen them off with a relentless campaign of scales and arpeggios. One by one they had succumbed to the tedium and sought better entertainment elsewhere, but the last of them had only given up when the weather joined the battle.
She was suddenly aware that she was not alone after all. A voice said from beyond the wall, “Mistress Chalcer, I know you're there. I need to speak to you. Please don't go.”
Lynnis had half been expecting this. She was sympathetic, but were Nana's problems a complication that she could afford to indulge? She couldn't see how.
She found herself by the wall nevertheless. “I can hear you, Nana. Keep your voice down.” She did a couple of experimental stretches to work the kinks out of her wrists, flexing them this way and that. Then turning towards the wall, she did a handstand and propped against it, stretching to full extension. Her layers of skirts peeled away from one another and flopped down around her chest and head. She couldn't sure that her ardent audience had fully dispersed, but if any of them now remained, she was reasonably sure that they would not notice she was speaking to someone. She just hoped that the drawers she had chosen to wear resisted complete transparency when wet.
“I need your help. I didn't take that money. Somebody made it look like I did, but I didn't do it, I swear.”
I know that, thought Lynnis. It had been a pretty obvious setup. Why hadn't Beyda Chur seen that for himself? “Go on.”
“I think Sir Beyda is in trouble. I think they want to ruin the saloon. I think that's why they tried to get rid of me.” She sounded on the verge of tears. From anyone else, any claim that equated singular persecution with the downfall of the entire company would have seemed egotistical, but Lynnis knew this was no exaggeration. Outside of a royal court, she had never seen such a large group so completely founded around a single individual. Without Nana, the Cardinals were adrift.
“What do you want me to do? I can't get you back in, Nana.” Actually that was probably not true. She had encouraged Beyda Chur's reluctant slide from professional admiration to helpless attraction. She could probably exercise that influence without effort. But his growing ardour was a useful tool that she would not wield other than on behalf of her mission.
Nana hesitated. “I've watched you, you know. At first I thought I could...well, talk you into my bed. I don't like to sleep by myself.” She laughed, not happily. “You noticed that, of course. Everyone knows. I hate it when I'm alone, so I make sure that I never am. I wear my outrageous outfits and I speak in my silly accent and I never have to be alone with myself. That's why I love the Cardinal so much. It's the only place where I never have to stop pretending.”
Lynnis had a bad feeling she knew where this was going. “Nana, you never tried anything with me.”
“I was afraid of you.”
“Afraid.” It wasn't a question. Lynnis uncurled from the wall and stood, finding her knees a little weak.
Nana's voice was hollow, her words like one long sigh of regret. “Lynnis, you are beautiful and strong and smart and wonderful, but I knew straight away that you were someone like me. You don't want anyone else to see what's inside you, do you? People talk to you and admire you and think that they have come to know you, but that's not true is it? You just reflect back at them what they want to feel or what you want them to feel and they never know that it wasn't real.” Lynnis felt a gentle thump as Nana slumped against the wall. “The only difference is, you don't do it because you're afraid like I am. So you must have some other reason to hide yourself away behind your pretty picture of a songbird, some secret reason. And people with secrets scare me more than anything.”
“I won't hurt you, Nana,” said Lynnis, for want of the truth.
“I don't think you can promise that,” came the simple reply. “I don't care anyway. I can't stand to live outside this wall. I can't stand the rain. I can't stand my sister and her tiny house and her horrible brute of a husband and all her children and cats. I can't bear to walk in the streets full of filth and strangers. Do you know, until this week I hadn't been outside the Moistened Cardinal in almost a year? Nothing out here mattered to me, nothing outside my own little world.” She felt another vibration through the stone wall; Nana slapping her hand (or head) on it. “Now I'm banished in it and all I can think of is what will become of my beloved Cardinals.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“You know what I want.” Yes, thought Lynnis, I know. You want me to be what you know I am. “There's a rat crawling somewhere in the walls. It's eating away at the heart of my Cardinals, Lynnis. I want you to find it. Find out who the rat is and get rid of them before they do any more damage.”
“What if I decide not to help you?”
Nana said, “I'm not going to threaten to expose you. I don't have to. You need the Moistened Cardinal back the way it was just as much as I do, is that not the case?”
She was right. This was her problem too. “As you say. Very well. Tell me where you're staying. I'll meet with you again soon.”
Nana giggled. “Let's not get carried away, Mistress. I trust you to do what's in your best interests, but just in case you decide that includes slitting my throat, I'd just as soon you didn't know where I sleep at nights. We'll meet someplace neutral.”
***
It must have been the magic of the theatre rubbing off on him; Jedlow's performance had been a star turn. If he hadn't known better, he could probably even have convinced himself that he was a real guardsman. Recalling the head waiter – excuse me, table captain – Fowart's surly resentment that he hid behind the mask of simpering deference, Jedlow had gone to work on him. He barged into the Moistened Cardinal without waiting for an invitation, loudly declaring his (technically assumed) credentials as Magistrate Ductio's personal assistant, hand resting on his belt truncheon for emphasis. He had stumbled slightly when, upon demanding to speak to the manager, had been told that Sir Beyda Chur was indisposed with poor health; he recovered his wits in time to inform Fowart that he had intended to pay no more than a courtesy call upon his Lordship and that it was Mistress Chalcer he wished to interrogate.
That word 'interrogate' seemed to have the desired effect. Fowart had started like he'd been bitten by a snake, said “Oh! Her!” and dashed from the room, leaving Jedlow behind with a small army of waiters who had just begun to set up the tables and chairs for the lunchtime crowd. He was tempted to exercise his newfound authority and order them to clear out, but he doubted that his stern-voice-and-sounding-important methods would work on a larger group. Instead he negotiated a corner he could stand in to stay out of their way.
Fowart returned with Lynnis Chalcer a moment later. Jedlow retained just enough bluff to bully Fowart into finding them a room where he could speak privately with the minstrel. He showed them to a store room that had just finished being cleared of chairs.
Having never before conducted an interrogation by himself, he was unsure where to begin. Nevertheless, it seemed the onus was on him to do the talking – she stared at him with an expression of polite fear and said nothing. “Mistress Challe- ahem, Chalcer,” he started, before losing track of his thoughts. He remembered that upon his first glimpse of her over Ductio's shoulder he had been struck by her eyes. How they had locked onto his, for a few brief seconds commanding him not to turn away. Well, that's how it had seemed, though since she was wearing nothing but a bit of sheet at the time it would not in any case have been proper for him to look anywhere else.
The eyes were doing that locking thing again. “Mistress Chalcer, I need to ask you some questions about an associate of yours.”
“I remember you. You were with the Magistrate, looking for Casimir.” She smiled, as though taking genuine pleasure at placing his face. Then her expression melted into a quizzical frown. “Are you still looking for him? I thought I answered all your questions.”
Jedlow felt as though he might faint in a heap. He realised that in the hour he'd spent preparing himself for this interview he had only come up with this initial line. In fact, had she not mentioned Casimir Meldaran by name, he suspected he might have forgotten even that much. “I just – we've got – Ah, there's some more, ah, stuff that I need to -”
“I haven't seen Cas in over a week,” she said as though he hadn't spoken. “We had a fight and I withdrew from our contract. Then he became angry at both myself and Sir Beyda Chur, he's the manager here at the Moistened Cardinal you know, and he stormed out making all sorts of dire threats.”
That seemed to go well, so Jedlow ventured, “Do you know where he might have -”
“I believe he mentioned as he left that he had taken up with Sir Udo Herronvale in the Chattering Casket, on Fortune Lane you know, that's where I think he might be found, Sentryman.”
Jedlow wondered whether it was the natural authority of his Sentryman title, his imposing hat and boots or some other artefact of his professional appearance that had impressed upon his witness the need to cooperate fully. He did not imagine that it was anything to do with his demeanour, and he seemed to recall that on the whole witness interviews were meant to be a little more difficult than this. Still, he had no intention of looking a gift horse in the mouth. “Have you any idea of his current-”
“You do hear all sorts of rumours around here don't you and the Saints know that half of them are probably tall tales and if they aren't well they will be by the time I've finished with them ha ha but I did hear that he might have taken up with some unsavoury types that he met in Rackhutch and it's possible he's involved in something shady I always did wonder about him sometimes. I recall once in Woleji this was some months ago you see he and I were entertaining at a tribal affairs and he-”
Jedlow's head was spinning. He knew this woman was a singer but did she even need to breathe? It was his turn to interrupt. “Mistress Chalcer, I – Mistress Chalcer! Thank you. I beg your pardon, but I'm afraid that serious crimes have been committed and that Master Meldaran is implicated.”
“Crimes?” she said, shocked.
“Serious crimes, yes,” he asserted, trying to think where to start on the long list of offenses that could probably or certainly be laid at Meldaran's door. “It's most important that I locate him as soon as possible. I think the Magistrate's life depends upon it.”
If anything, this seemed to shock her even more. “The – you what?”
He explained that he was not at liberty to divulge the particulars of an open investigation, a phrase that had been repeated with sufficient frequency during his training that he could recite it now by rote (it meant “I'm asking the questions, so don't be nosey”, but was a lot more official-sounding). “But I have lots of reasons to believe that the Magistrate's disappearance is connected with Master Meldaran.”
He could see this was making an impression. Mistress Chalcer's eyes darted back and forth, up and down as she racked her mind to think of something useful to tell him. She said “If anything happens to a Magistrate, there would be an uproar, wouldn't there?”
“Magistrate Ductio has served his Grace the Duke for seventeen years, Mistress, with great distinction if I may say so. His Grace would count it a personal loss, I am sure.” Actually, that was probably an exaggeration – after all the only conversation he had ever know the Duke and the Magistrate to conduct had been a raging argument – but he thought he was probably on safe ground declaring it an unbearable tragedy.
Mistress Chalcer seemed to come to a decision. “We can't very well have things getting political, can we?” she asked, in a tone very reminiscent of his instructors. “I suggest you take up your enquiries at the Chattering Casket, Guardsman. There's not a moment to lose. Be assured I will pass on anything else that may be of use to you in person.”
“In person?” It took a minute for Jedlow to realise the interview had come to a close.
***
“What? Argh!” Bey produced a series of racking coughs, his face turning from red to purple as he doubled over in an effort not only to overcome the spasms but more importantly not to die of embarrassment from his ill-timed outburst. Mistress Clerrance concealed an amused smirk behind a polite cough of her own.
“Oh dear, Sir Beyda,” she smiled as he straightened with a gasping breath and did his best to restore some dignity to his creased waistcoat, “had I known my invitation would be so poorly received, I would never have put it so abruptly. Indeed, contrary to all expectation, it seems to have made quite an effective weapon.”
While she waited for him to get his lungs under control, Clerrance signaled the waiter to refresh their cups. Between the watering cracks in his eyelids, Bey snatched glimpses of her as she supervised the decanting of the silver teapot with undivided attention, studiously ignoring his wretched spasming. She was perched at the edge of her cane lounger with precise formality, yet somehow managed to exude an impressed of supine relaxation.
Regaining some composure, Bey said, “Please forgive me, Mistress Clerrance, my health has been out of sorts lately. If you will allow me to be clinical, I have suffered from dizziness, shortness of breath, obviously severe chest coughs. Now I find I must add hallucinations to my list of symptoms. Just now I am certain I heard you ask me to accompany you to Lady Yeardnott's spring ball.”
“So I did,” she said. “And must I remind you yet again to call me Cheva? I don't recall communication between us being this difficult on our last meeting. Perhaps there is something to your diagnosis after all.”
“You are taking some amusement at my expense,” Bey replied, with a brave smile to show that he had not taken offense. He feared it probably looked like a startled rictus of horror. “But surely you see that I am somewhat taken aback. To my certain knowledge, it is entirely unknown in Murburan that a gentleman be escorted by a lady, is it not the way of things?”
Clerrance replied like the sudden pounce of a hunting cat, “Look at me, Sir Beyda. I am not from Murburan. I am not familiar with its customs. Moreover I am disinterested to observe any tradition that would assume I will abide with patience and humility as I am overlooked by Fellport's population of eligible escorts.”
“It's my impression that you were not anticipating to receive an invitation?” Bey understood her position well enough, the outsider trying to integrate and meeting resistance. His sympathy was coloured with the guilty knowledge of his innate advantage; Clerrance might one day be able to suppress the rumbling timbres of her sensuous Keerish accent, as he had, but the deep teak sheen of her skin would always mark her as an outsider. She could never overcome Fellport's smouldering hostility to outsiders.
“I have come to conceive the notion that I am not perhaps in vogue with the most elevated strata of society.”
Their loss, thought Bey, giving her proposal frank consideration. He was still unsure what it was that Herok hoped to achieve by parading him before Fellport's best and richest. Whatever his purpose, Bey's instinct was to rebel against it. Fawning compliance with the whims of a benefactor was not a charade he had ever mastered. The lack of pretense on Herok's part that this was not part of a greater scheme rankled him. Of course he owed his continued – or rather eventual - prosperity to Herok, but did that mean that he could never dictate the terms? Bugger that.
“In other words, Mistress, to appear upon your arm at a glittering social occasion would be to risk inviting outrage,scandal and the opprobrium of my peers in gentle society?”
“It would.” Bey admired the glitter of furious pride that flashed in her eyes.
With haughty superiority he demanded “I could expect ostracism from the company of my betters? To see only turned backs and hear only whispered disdain wherever I may encounter them? Is that the fate you propose for me?”
That her reaction to his craven display of class consciousness was a sneer of contempt rather than any show of disappointment sealed it. “It seems I overestimated you, Sir Beyda,” she said with a diplomatic nod of regret. “I will not take up any more of your time.” She raised a finger to the waiter, who hurried forward with her fur shawl and elegant Lephali longcoat. She stood, like a flag unfurling in a gentle breeze.
“Oh, I hope you will,” he replied, smirking with calculated insolence. “I wouldn't wish to contradict you, but I rather think you've got my measure exactly. I would consider it an honour to have my good name brought low in your disgraceful company.”
She hesitated, the prideful anger lingering, and for a moment Bey dreaded that he had gone too far. But then she grinned and said “I can see you're going to be a challenge, Sir Beyda. You like to retaliate in kind. A lady brought up properly would find it most unseemly in a gentleman.”
“A proper lady would not contrive to set her peers' tongues wagging, Cheva.” He wished he could have given the comment the suave nonchalance it deserved but a sudden resurgence in his cold left him fumbling a sodden handkerchief to his face as quickly as possible. “Ad caw be Bey,” he added.
“Well, Bey, now that we have come to an understanding, I trust you will devote yourself to resuming your good health as soon as possible.” She stroked the back of her finger down his ear with frank intimacy. “Otherwise, I regret to say, those are the only tongues that will be engaged that evening.” She left him to collapse into a new round of coughing. This one was not wholly related to his cold.
***
That night was Hedgeday eve, traditionally quieter than most. To the delight of the audience, Beyda Chur had cited self-evident illness and had turned his harbinger duties over to Lynnis herself, “for this special occasion only”. She orchestrated a subdued show, more a prolonged conversation with the small crowd interrupted by a few of the other acts than the usual vaudevillian production.
Afterwards, she had paid an uninvited visit on Sir Beyda's chambers, to find him sleeping as peacefully as his choking, snorting snores would permit. At his bedside was an untouched glass of some brandy concoction, no doubt to treat his cold and help him get a night's rest. Satisfied that he at least would not interrupt her night's work, she left his room by the window, outside which stood a ledge that could be partly circumnavigated to reach the gardens unseen.
As the table captain, Fowart could certainly have demanded more prestigious accommodation than his converted attic above the fourth floor. However he had chosen his rooms for the specific reason that they were a considerable distance from the stage and, more particularly, from the backstage dressing and waiting and rehearsal rooms, where many of the Cardinals celebrated noisily until very late. An unsociable, difficult man, Fowart preferred to get a decent night's sleep by keeping as far away from the revelry as possible. On the rare evenings when he felt inclined to human company, he would spend as few coins as possible on a prostitute in Jade Street. He didn't care what they looked like, as long as they weren't talkative.
Tonight was such a night, and Fowart left the Moistened Cardinal on his errand just as the distant chimes of the Martello signaled midnight. He strode down Cerulean Street, carefully avoiding puddles and muttering with frustration at the lack of carriages available at this hour. He'd been waiting no more than a minute before Lynnis, hooded and draped in several thick layers that disguised her shape, clubbed him from behind and dragged him out of sight.