The Golden Haired Boys shepherded stray guests from the balconies and adjacent sitting rooms into the ballroom. Casimir had no interest in the serving staff and chefs; they were secured in the kitchens. The noble ball patrons were pushed to the centre of the room and made to stand still with their hands on their heads. Any attempt to speak was met with warnings ranging from brusque shoves to a rap across the temples with a fist or club. Already two young blades, sycophants of the late Duke either shaken into insensibility by his violent murder or perhaps perceiving an opportunity to make an impression on what would no doubt be an historical occasion, had spoken out in protest and been punished for it. They now lay unconscious or dead where they fell, untended at Casimir's strict instruction.
As his captive audience was set in its place, he and his bodyguards scarfed seafood treats from the buffet tables. Spoils of a successful campaign, he told them, cheerfully stuffing a small fortune in spiced delicacies into his mouth. There were general guffaws of agreement and sounds like pigs at a trough in response. He'd promised them a high old time, and as usual had delivered.
“If I understand correctly,” an authoritarian voice cut across their merriment, “you are Casimir Meldaran, the Corphenite gang lord, is that not so?”
Hodd Oughten stepped forward to give the wretched old bat a touch across the nose to keep her in line, but Casimir smirked and waved him off. He sauntered to the edge of the stage and peered down with imperious amusement. She was just about the oldest person in the room, he judged, but far from the most infirm. She stood straight and tall, makeup immaculate, grey hair tied up in fashionably severe knots, glittering with jewellery, striking in a gown of black and teal. Obviously dripping with money and used to having things her own way. “You understand correctly,” he said. “But you have me at a disadvantage, Madam, for I've no idea whom you might be.”
“Indeed I do, if you think that's your only disadvantage.”
There was a ripple through the captives, mostly comprising shock and dismay, but with a real undercurrent of admiration at her bravado. Casimir could see he was going to have to put a quick stop to this, but again he waved off Oughten. This had to come from him. “I see. You're used to wielding information as a weapon,” he observed with a curt nod. “I respect that. But allow me to demonstrate an alternative arsenal.” He jinked off the stage and dropped into a mock bow before her, then rose and grabbed her by the throat with a vicious suffocating grip. A knife appeared in his free hand. This he rested across her cheek, already red beneath the impenetrable layers of cosmetics.
As a horrified circle cleared around him, Casimir shouted “Listen to me, you rich of Fellport! Take this lesson to your blue-blooded hearts. You may each of you have a hundred butlers and maids and footmen to do your every bidding but you do not rule here tonight! I do! And I have only to give my word and any one of your precious dynasties might end this very evening. So when I say I want something, try to imagine what your best pet butler would do. You!” He pointed at the quailing Lady Yeardnott, who moaned with horror to be singled out. “Our gracious host! What's the name of your butler?”
“Sh-Sheltingdon!” she wailed, carrying on like she had signed her own death warrant, fanning herself with her own hat, biting at her knuckles and wobbling faintly.
“Tell me Lady Yeardnott, if you asked Sheltingdon the hour of the day, would he tell you the time or would he rebuke you severely for your lack of a clock?” She seemed to misunderstand the question, for she shook her head in mute terror, but Casimir reckoned the point had been made. The old lady under his grip was turning blue about the eyelids, but the eyes themselves were locked on his face with implacable fearlessness. How very unlike Lady Yeardnott, he thought with some measure of admiration.
“Very well, then – you!” He pointed the dagger not at all randomly in the direction of Sir Udo Herronvale. Herronvale glared with undisguised annoyance. He had made it clear that he expected to suffer no social harm by Casimir's ambitious scheme. He had been most specific on that point. Now that it came down to the facts of things, though, it was Casimir who was dictating the terms, and he saw no reason not to have some fun with this. He could smooth things over later with a few soothing words and a generous cut of the takings. “Tell me this grand old thing's name or I'll cut out her eyes and make her eat them as a canape.”
“The lady is Dame Jasmin Colliford,” said Herronvale with a disappointing want of showmanship. There was no delivery at all. Honestly, it was no wonder his saloon was on its way to the drink. Well, perhaps he would redeem himself in the second act.
“Well said, my lord, well said.” He released his choke hold on the Dame's throat and shoved her in Oughten's direction. “Dame Jasmin, the gentlemen of the Golden Haired Boys and I are very pleased to make your acquaintance. Please do me the honour of accompanying my associate to the stage. I welcome your generous offer to assist me in robbing these wonderful people. You too, my Lord Herronvale.” Herronvale glowered with fury, but Casimir had taken advantage of the awkward position. Herronvale could hardly exercise his supposed dominance as his employer and patron without disclosing their existing association, and under the circumstances he would be desperate for it to remain unstated. Perhaps there would be no placating him after all, though, for he came forward only with the greatest reluctance and unfeigned fury.
As Oughten roughhoused the spluttering, protesting matriarch through the dumbfounded crowd, Casimir scanned for and located a second familiar face. “Aha!” he cried with exuberant triumph. “Sir Beyda Chur! Thank you for volunteering! Boys, escort the gentleman to the stage.”
Skull and Kink fell upon the master of the Moistened Cardinal, raining several blows to his abdomen to ensure his compliance. Chur took his beating without complaint, though Casimir enjoyed an entertaining moment as his dark-skinned companion, a Woleji or Keerish by the look of her, tried to wrestle him away from them. She disappeared into the tangle of alarmed faces after Kink struck her head with his elbow. Chur was bundled onto display with Dame Jasmin, flanked by the two big gangsters.
“Now then,” Casimir cried, making a grand show of it, “our company is assembled, our stage is set, it remains only for the audience to pay the price of admission. My Golden Haired Boys will be coming around to take up a collection. Just a small offering on your part, that's all we require. Some token of your appreciation for the entertainment on offer this evening. But I pray you will be generous with your praise. We may be but humble lads, but we thrive on flattery. The more expensive, the better! Fill our sacks and leave with your your lives, your dignity and a story for the grandchildren!”
“In the meantime, let me introduce our cast for our little show.” A nod to Skull, who dragged Chur to his feet. “Presenting our hero, a humble farmer of no great means but humility to spare, whom we shall name Bertram. Bertram is a humble tiller of the soil and a tender to hogs. Till the soil, Bertram.”
Chur looked at him in winded confusion until Casimir prompted him with a gesture. A jab in the ribs from Skull's spiked club jolted him into action. He began a serviceable mime of a farmer working a hoe.
Crossing the floor to take up a station beside Herronvale, Casimir said “Our story begins: one fine day near the town of Chilogne, far from here, a tax inspector calls upon Bertram to take the census and collect his tithe.”
“Your debut, my lord!” he stage-whispered, giving Herronvale an encouraging shove towards his mark.
The noble stubbornly dug his heels in, finally giving vent to his anger. “This is preposterous! I refuse to participate in this disgusting charade! I demand to be released at once!” Casimir baulked. “Do you mean to say, my Lord Herronvale, that you have no taste for the dramatic arts? No desire to tread the boards, to see your name on billboards, to hear the cries of an audience hanging on your every glittering utterance?”
Herronvale's face was a livid red background to the powdery white moustache cutting from ear to ear. His arms were flat against his sides, clenched fists shaking with rancourous humiliation. “I do not, sir! It's nonsense for simpletons. Grotesque pandering to the ill-bred and the debauched. I'll have no part in it!”
With superb comic timing, even if he said so himself, Casimir had sliced open Sir Udo Herronvale's neck from one ear to the other and turned to the audience with a vaudevillian cry: “Then why would you own a theater?”
He overlooked the renewed shrieks of horror and disgust in favour of an imagine roar of hilarious approval, as Herronvale struck one last frown of disapproving pique and sprayed his lifeblood upon the front few rows. Before he could even slump to the ground, Casimir caught him by collar and buckle and swung him away towards the wings like last scene's prop. “Very well. Fortunately I'm an expert understudy.”
Casimir took his place and paused as his Boys moved in to restore order to the more disruptive audience members. Presently they lapsed into an expectant silence, allowing him to resume his narration. “The tax inspector finds Bertram in forfeit of his property and claims it in the name of Queen Paracastra.” Here he turned and pointed at Dame Jasmin, who rose to her feet with silent contemptuous dignity. Casimir decided that this was a reasonable depiction of her Majesty and carried on. “Bertram was incensed. His livelihood was to be taken away, his family left without a bite to eat. He refused the order and attacked the tax inspector.”
Chur adopted a wary look, supposing that he too was about to be murdered in the name of theatre. Casimir laughed as he grabbed two wooden skewers from the buffet, still adorned with various chunks of shellfish, bacon and fruit, and tossed one to him. “They fought!” he announced, lunging at Chur. The Cardinal's master turned the shot away and aimed a spirited riposte at his chest. Casimir parried and circled, arcing great slashes at Chur's head from every angle. Chur obligingly blocked each in turn and looked for a genuine opening, but Casimir's experience at both real and fake fighting told. It ended when he grabbed Chur's wide thrust with his empty and slapped his own 'blade' at his opponents side – from the stalls it would look a convincing double-death.
“And both took mortals wounds.” He fell to his knees with a warning look at Chur to do the same. Chur's eyes were on Skull's weapons as he obliged, lowering himself to the ground in a perfunctory death scene. “Alas for Bertram's only son: now was he not only fatherless but also obliged by Queen Paracastra's laws to assume responsibility for his crime.”
Casimir paused for the audience to boo the evil queen. No response. It was disconcerting to encounter a group so unschooled in their role in this production. Even children understood these things better than this. Tsk.
“Queen Paracastra ordered her soldiers to put Bertram's son on the gallows, but the crafty lad” - Here he took the new role, which he could obviously not entrust to anyone else - “escaped their attentions and fled to another town. He changed his name and took up a new life, and met a beautiful woman, and together they traveled the world on the sound of her voice, far from the reaches of the evil queen. And it was a good life.”
“And one day, they came to a dark city. The treacherous woman abandoned the son of Bertram and would sing for him no more. Instead she fled to the arms of another man. Here he was in a strange place with no money or friends, his heart broken. But the son of Bertram had come a long way since he was was not to be beaten. He looked about and he saw opportunity! The opportunity to make new friends! The opportunity to better his station! The opportunity for wealth he had never dared dream of before!”
He turned with mock gravity and stood over Sir Beyda Chur, who had raised himself on his elbows and watched him with hostile anticipation. “And the opportunity for revenge!” he finished, raising his bloodied dagger to climax the performance.
Chur sneered “I don't think I've ever been so grateful for a threat of death in my life, Meldaran. Kill me now so I don't have to endure any more of your acting!”
“Silence!” shouted Casimir. He kicked Chur sharp in the jaw. The head snapped back and hit the floor bouncing with drumbeat reports. He leveled the dagger at Dame Jasmin and said “You play your part and you'll be spared, my Queen. Do we understand each other?”
She rose from her chair and strode at him with a fearless look of steel in her eyes. “Oh Casimir Meldaran, I understand you very well indeed,” she said, glaring at the Golden Haired Boys assembling about her. “Perhaps better than you do yourself. You're a vicious little creature, are you not? Possessed of the crudest of intellects. Motivated by the basest of impulses. A savage with no place in the world and no sense of his place. You're a dangerous thing, Casimir Meldaran. But not for the reasons you imagine. You crave adulation but you've neither wit nor charm by which to claim it. All you have is a talent for thoughtless mayhem and mindless destruction, Meldaran. You're like a wounded animal.”
Dame Jasmin turned and pointed at Skull, who in turn expressed his surprise when Oughten's club flailed around in a wide arc and smashed into his unprotected throat. Skull fell backwards off the stage, the ruinous remains of his windpipe incapable of releasing the slightest whimper of protest.
“Worse!” she insisted. “You are chaotic and insane.” Oughten carried through with the element of surprise and threw himself bodily at the Golden Haired Boys remaining on stage. The three of them tumbled over the lip, collapsing the nearest ranks of ball goers into a mess of arms and legs. The tangled melee quickly began to spread as a civil war broke out amongst Meldaran's men. At every border of the room, gangsters began fighting each other. The peerage of Fellport, detecting an erratic and possibility temporary reversal of their dire fortunes, seized the opportunity and weighed in on the side of the Dame Jasmin's new Saints. “And I have no use for chaos in my city!”
Casimir had no comprehension of why his army was so suddenly disbanding. But it was clear that this wrinkled monstrosity Colliford was playing a central role. “You don't have a city, you wretched hag! Fellport is mine now! I took it once, I'll take it again, and I will do what I want with it! I'll drown this pit in a sea of its own bile. I'll – argh!”
He didn't see what happened, merely felt the pain begin in his foot. In the glimpse he caught before he clapped his hands over his eyes he saw Beyda Chur rolling away with a blood-tipped wooden skewer clenched in one fist. Then he felt something clamp onto his wrist and twist, forcing the dagger out of his grip. His arm began to swell at once. Blinking furious tears, he looked around for the giant or the wrestler who had inflicted the wound. There was only Dame Jasmin, directly in front of him, staring with cold angry eyes, whispering with malevolent resolve.
“I control everything that matters in Fellport, Meldaran. I control the people of quality and the people who count. I say who stays and I say what is permitted. I hold her purse strings and I dictate her customs. I hold the Accords in my hand, Meldaran. Did you really imagine that you could do what you've done without my knowing, without my blessing? I allowed you to gather your little gang because you could provide a service for me. You were intended to teach Berber Trigosi a lesson, to be the slap on the wrist he deserved for allowing foreign narcotics into my city. But you are uncontrollable, Meldaran. Rabid and mad, you went too far. You are chaos, Meldaran,” she whispered, “and I think we have had quite enough of y-”
Casimir said “Would chaos plan so far ahead as to bring two knives?” His eyes dropped to the space between them, where his left hand had pushed a knife into the very centre of her stomach.
Dame Jasmin blinked in suspicion, as though she had not felt herself being mortally stabbed and could not fathom his meaning. Her eyes held his for a long moment before she sloughed down into an oddly tidy heap on the floor. “I thought not.”
“Time to go, Cas old man,” he told himself. He looked about in desperation for signs of loyal Boys and saw a couple conveniently close to the main doors. They had just clubbed a former brother of the great criminal fraternity to death and were being closed in at all sides by rebellious prisoners. Between the stage and their position, a few members of the horde of Murb nobility were arriving at the conclusion that the advantage was shifting back in their favour. Even now looks were being directed at him that warned of gathering nerves. “A detour is in order, I think.” He bolted for the stairs with a hobbled skip.
***
Bey watched Meldaran stumble past, then turned a resentful gaze on the ball guests. Though one or two had produced weapons from somewhere – a dropped club here, a secreted knife there – nobody made a move to chase the Corphenite gangster. Addenfarrow leaped onto the stage and knelt at Dame Jasmin's side, whispering frantically something Bey could not quite hear.
Incredible. The man had conspired robbery with violence on a grand scale and had murdered at least two of their own before their very eyes, but none now moved to apprehend him. What did it take with these people?
Tamping the smears of blood seeping into his hair from where his head had hit the stage, he gritted his teeth and stood. For a second he imagined that might galvanise them into action, but instead he was met with incredulous stares from those few that noticed him at all. “He's getting away,” he said, to no visible effect. Most were looking behind and above him to where Meldaran was escaping up the stairs.
Meldaran would be looking for an alternate escape route. Bey couldn't discount the possibility that the Corphenite had some knowledge of another staircase elsewhere in the estate. It seemed likely – this one appeared to be impractically positioned for anything other than making grand entrances into the ballroom.
As he steeled himself for the chase, a figure pushed its way through the crowd towards him. Clerrance burst through a last loitering cordon and reached the foot of the stage. “Take this,” she said, passing a long bladed carving knife. “After I was knocked down I crawled for the kitchens and got an arsenal together.” She produced a second knife, the twin of the first.
“You crawled?” Bey was incredulous. “Didn't anyone see you?”
Clerrance smirked. “You wouldn't believe what these people won't see if you're doing something embarrassing. Now get going!” Resisting the temptation to risk their burgeoning friendship by asking why she didn't choose herself to chase the escaping murderer, Bey took the knife and headed for the stairs. They were more narrow than they looked from the ballroom floor, depending on some arcane trick of architecture to make them look broader and more grand than they actually were. Nor were they made out of marble, as they appeared from a distant, but painted timber with some sort of softwood surface to remove noise. Theatrical scenery, it seemed, rather than the real thing. Not entirely surprising, give Lady Yeardnott's pretensions.
Every other step was marked with a bloody footprint decorated with radiating red splatters. Sure he could not lose the trail, Bey glanced ahead. Meldaran had reached their summit and was making his way back along the mezzanine running the length of the ballroom. The pursuit was beginning to catch the attention of the crowd, some of whom were following his progress, shouting encouragements and pointing.
Others had gathered in a circle around their fallen Duke, now almost immediately below Bey as he cleared the final step. He only snatched a quick glimpse, but something about the tableau struck Bey as strange. Expressions of shock and dismay were common, but he felt no sense of mourning; not even the kind of posturing breast beating that might accompany the passing of an unloved liege. Perhaps there was some subtle Murb custom against emotional displays of grief, or perhaps the Blue Duke was held in such loathing or terror that none of them could relax until they had confirmed his death for themselves. Either way it was another small reminder that he was not really one of them.
Under the circumstances, probably better to be seen chasing down the villain of the piece rather than make some grave error of custom.
“Watch out!” His reverie on the curiosities of Fellport manners was cut short when his face collided with the thick crook of a muscled elbow. A sharp groan sounded from below. Bey's feet flew out from under him and he tumbled backwards, his corpulent assailant throwing him down with the force of his considerable bulk. He felt another bone shuddering impact as he hit the floor. The dull ache in his head flared into a blinding thunderstorm.
One of Meldaran's thugs stood with a foot to either side of him and dropped, knees first. Bey's ribs cracked in protest as the wind was driven from his lungs. Two fat hands clamped about his throat to prevent him from refilling them. In an instant the storm in his head raised in intensity and his vision began to stain red. All thought fled him save to unlock the hands in a death grip about his throat. As he grasped and tried to pull them free, he remembered Clerrance's knife. He swiped it with vicious desperation at the thug's arm and face.
“No you don't!” Removing just one hand, he warded off Bey's opening slashes. Then he intercepted Bey's wrist and drove it into the floor hard. Already weak from the lack of air, there was no way he could hold onto it. The knife bounced away. Bey was left staring helplessly into the man's pitted, craggy face, red with the exertion of throttling him, contorting into a malicious smile as he closed in on his kill. “Cas says to make an example of you,” the murderous face grinned.
His primary senses fast abandoning him, Bey was left to rely on dim reports from other parts of the body to inform him that he was being hauled to his feet by his burly assassin. He was seeing nothing much more than a bright slit of light in a gathering blackness, and could hear nothing more than the thug's harsh breathing and a roaring stream of blood. There was a sensation of weightlessness as he was lifted off the ground, turning sideways when something took hold of his hip and pulled hard.
Just then the thug shifted his grip to get a better purchase, loosening the lock on his windpipe. Air rushed in and with it his sensibilities.
They came as little comfort, when he realised all at once that he was being held above the thug's head and was about to be flung bodily into the aghast crowd twenty feet below.
***
As the insane Corphenite conducted his bizarre performance, a small knot of Murbs had gathered about their slaughtered liege.
Sir Kowan Dart had disarmed his wife's sister before they had even hit the ground. She had offered no resistance, had not even attempted to fend him off. The tackle had thrown them both soaring bodily into a shocked assembly of Lady Yeardnott's closest friends, scattering them like wailing ninepins.
Charmaine had hit the ground and fallen quite still; it had taken a horrified moment for Sir Kowan to realise that she had not been killed. Instead she had stared straight up, her expression serene but for the tears in her eyes. He'd grabbed her face with both palms and turned her gaze to meet his own.
“Why?” he'd demanded. She'd given no answer, just stared back with deep, composed sadness. Then he had understood.
“How long have you known about Fellisa?” Magistrate Broden had appeared, shooing aside anyone whose attention he could capture, which had been few.
She had smiled without humour at them both. “Not long,” she said. “I found out the day before she died that Yate was taking her to his bed. You knew, didn't you?”
He had not been able to meet her eye. Of course he had known. It had been already been happening for months before his niece had let it slip to him, perhaps not inadvertently. She had confided in him then, telling him all the things that the Duke had done, the words he'd said, the acts he'd demanded. The gifts, the clandestine rendezvous, the oaths of secrecy. She'd told him because she had trusted him, her dashing uncle, not to give her away to her mother. And he had been the Duke's sworn man, and had done just that.
Nor had he been the only one, he suspected. Of course he could not even hint at such awful knowledge, but he suspected the Duke's secret was known or suspected widely in the court. All that mattered to him had been that, if he could not as a loyal servant of the Duke prevent him from bedding whom he pleased, he must at all costs keep Charmaine Delarchre from ever learning the truth. And her sister, his wife. He had gone to extraordinary lengths to conceal this evil from her, only to discover too late that he had failed. “Yes,” he'd admitted at last.
She seemed not to have heard – or perhaps she no longer cared. “I wanted to kill him at once, when I found out. I planned it. There was to be a hunt the next day, do you remember? I would have done it then. I am a good shot.” There was a smile then, full of wounded pride. “But the assassin came for him that night, and she died in his place. She drowned in his bedchamber, didn't she? In that steam pool of his?” He had nodded, too ashamed to hear his own voice. “It should not have moved her body. You were wrong to lie to my face, Kowan. I would never have believed that she went to bathe so late, but I knew when you said it that it was a lie.”
She had sighed. “But I forgive you. That's what family does, isn't it? We protect one another and forgive one another.”
“Charmaine, I -”
“Don't,” she had said. “I took something before I killed Vormura. It takes a little time, but it can't be purged. I want to speak to my sister. Bring her to me. Then let me die in peace. I have no more use for Fellport, for a place of such cruelty and unfairness. There's nothing more I want from this life, nor anyone in it.”
He'd left her then, lying on the floor from which she would not rise, her sister's arms thrown about her neck. As they sobbed, he had became aware of the strange piece being played out on the stage. At that moment, Dame Jasmin had come forward in a towering rage, burning with indignant power. Meldaran's hand had slipped into his doublet and emerged with a blade, one that disappeared again in an instant as he drove it into her torso.
“Jasmin,” Broden breathed in empty horror. Sir Kowan was just as stunned, but for him the moment of incomprehension passed in a second. He snatched Broden's dress saber from its scabbard and hefted it.
“What are you doing?” hissed Broden, grabbing Dart's shoulder and leaning close. “Do not further endanger your cover!”
“The Saints can shit on my cover, Magistrate,” he replied, as he began to barge his way after the fleeing Corphenite and his unfamiliar pursuer.
***
Bey felt a shudder from his assailant beneath him. His strength has failed him, he realised. Bey flailed wildly, hoping in his blind panic to snatch a railing or baluster. His head was tilted away from the balcony – his entire field of view was of the broad expanse of the ballroom floor and the dozens of ball patrons staring in rapt horror.
Instead something grabbed his wrist and yanked hard on it. The scene below was swept from sight as he tumbled backwards, becoming entangled with the collapsing form of his would-be murderer. He was suddenly aware of great sprays of blood surrounding his face. It took a moment to realise that it was jetting from the thug's neck rather than one of his own extremities.
A figure loomed over him and reached for his hand, though with less vigour this time. Eyeing the man's other hand, which held a dripping rapier, Bey accepted the proffered assistance and levered himself to his feet. “Thank you, Sir Kowan,” he gasped, rubbing his tortured throat.
“I was not aware that we were acquainted. Sir Beyda Chur, is it?”
He nodded and said, “Since I owe you my life, I hope that we can correct that oversight.” At their feet, the thug gargled his last breath and fell still. Bey turned and looked along the mezzanine to a shuddering set of swinging door which led deeper within Yeardnott Estate.
“Agreed,” said Dart, “later. For now there is a killer to be put to rights.”
With a weary nod, Bey stooped to retrieve his knife and followed the towering Murb noble through the doors.
***
“This way, Boss Cas.”
Casimir didn't even know this one's name – like the sacrificial lamb being shredded back on the landing, he had run with the Nutfern Masks before the advent of the Golden Haired Boys – but he was glad to see a friendly face. Heart pounding, he followed the lad into a drawing room and beyond, into a bedroom. This in turn led to another, from which a great set of glass doors opened onto a high balcony. Together they threw a heavy mahogany dresser across the door to slow their pursuers, then Cas leaped onto the balcony and reviewed their avenues of escape.
The balcony was high, perhaps thirty feet on this size of the house, but from here he could look straight across to the boats, waiting on the riverbank. Of course the exterior of the house was slick with the constant rain of this miserable drizzle of a city, but leaning out and looking down over the lattice-like moulding affixed to the outer wall, Cas fancied he could make the climb without difficulty. Without so much as a backward glance at his rescuer, Cas set himself over the balcony rail and began the descent.
Ordinarily he wasted little time analysing what may have gone wrong with his schemes, but in this case it seemed to nag at him. The heist had been planned well enough, he'd had more than enough Golden Haired Boys on hand to control everyone and put them to a bit of menace. True, he had not accounted for that distraction with the Duke, but on the whole his little improvisation seemed to have wrestled the attention back on himself quite successfully. That spiteful hag in black had nearly stolen his spotlight; it had been a touch risky to give her a death scene as well, but on the whole he thought the audience had stayed with him.
As for that upstaging bastard Chur, well, there'd be a reckoning with him, sooner or later. Perhaps he should have finished him off as a demonstration to the rest, but with filth like Chur, you really had to make it personal, didn't you?
“He stole what's mine,” he muttered to himself as he clambered hand and foot down the wall. There was no chance he would slip – there were handholds aplenty in his path. “Steal a woman or steal a scene, there's only one way to deal with a thief like that.” From above there came the sounds of bursting timber, a scuffle and a death cry. Two faces appeared over the balcony above, looking down in dismay as they calculated his lead and knew they could not capture him before he made the boats. “The final act's not done yet, Chur! But don't worry, it'll be a crowd pleaser!”
Casimir dropped the final few feet to the ground and flicked the mist from his eyes and hair in gleeful triumph. He'd made it out, perhaps not with a fortune, but neither was he empty handed. With a cheerful grin he pulled from his pocket Dame Jasmin's tiara, a fishnet of turquoise and silver, and held it up for an inspection. Even this dull evening, where the main source of light was a distant orange glow reflected in thousands of droplets, it was a piece of rare beauty. Antique, of course, probably dating back centuries. The important thing is that it would melt down easily and fetch a good few simoleons. Whatever his next venture, he could fund it in grand style.
A shadow fell across his prize, obscuring its fiery glitter. Then with a sudden wrenching impact it disappeared altogether. Gripped in a fierce panic, he looked desperately about for it. He was only remotely aware of a large shape that circled around him. When a familiar voice said “On your right, you tilt-eyed yellow-headed fuck!” it took him a moment to comprehend it.
With a slow ball of fear rising in his gut, Casimir turned that way and saw the tiara lying there in the grass It was still twirled around his twitching fingers. “Hey!” he protested. “I didn't leave that -”
There was another incredible impact, this time close to his shoulder. He clapped his other hand to the spot where his arm had been a moment ago. Blood flowed from between his clamped fingers, and all of a sudden Casimir could not keep himself standing. He toppled to the slick grass and fell face upwards.
There was Magistrate Ductio, wrapped in bloody bandages and a scorched blanket, soaked to the skin and tied to his horse. His sword was raised high above his head, and as lightning cracked behind him, Casimir was reminded of a statue of a Saint of Murburan, wet and weathered and yet somehow magnificent. “My fucking mistake,” boomed the vision with malicious superiority. “I didn't mean to leave you your arm that first time.”
Casimir fell into darkness.
"Tomorrow morning, Meldaran.”
Cas blinked through puffy eyes and tried to sit up, gripping the cold stone bench edge with his one hand to provide leverage for an awkward shuffle. He had been asleep, the first time he'd been able to manage it in more than three days. He suspected that they'd been putting something in his food. His dreams had been unsettling, full of beautiful, desirable things just beyond his reach. His cheeks were wet.
The stinging needles of pain in his shoulder had subsided now. It had been three weeks. The Sentry physician had laboured day and night, fighting fever and infection and Casimir's own decision to give up. The remainder of his right arm had been amputated that night. It was done without so much as a shot of liquor to numb him, probably on Ductio's orders. A filthy scrap of leather had been crammed into his mouth. He had almost choked on it when the butcher started his work with the knife; when the rasp of the saw began, before he passed out, it fell out with his screams.
He awoke in abject dismay. His life had been spared only until the executioner resumed his duty, which awaited the brief period of state mourning for the Blue Duke. From his cold windowless cell on Coalface Hill, Cas could hear pipers playing some miserable lament, every day from dawn until nightfall. He'd memorised the piece by the second repetition; now it was a constant niggling torture replayed over and over. Someone had probably stationed them right outside his cell and charged them to keep playing until his head split open.
Ductio was there, outside the cage wall of his cell. He was sitting in some sort of wheeled sedan chair, pushed by some pet rookie guardsman. Ductio's was expressionless, but the boy was giving him a dark look. A pity, Cas thought. Without that frown he'd be half good looking; the boots flattered his legs. Then again, perhaps I've been in solitary confinement too long.
The boy must have loved his Duke. Just as to be expected, the popular story getting about was that he and his Golden Haired Boys had been responsible for knifing Vormura as well. Several Sentry loyalists had already come in to spit on him, throw taunts and rough him over. This one looked better disciplined; he just held his tongue and watched. Just like he liked them; forgetting himself for a moment, Cas imagined what it would feel like to wrap his arms around the lad.
Ductio must have caught some hint of his thoughts. He said “You miss it, don't you, Meldaran? Sometimes you even forget it's not there and try to scratch your arse.”
“I've been taunted by better than you, Ductio. Better and taller besides,” he scoffed, looking at the tied-off ends of the Magistrate's trousers.
“I'm not here to taunt you, Meldaran. The people can have that pleasure at your execution. There's always a good turnout for those in Fellport.”
“Then why?”
“Beats the fuck out of me why, but this bleeding heart here -” He jerked a thumb at the young Sentryman, whose scowl did not so much as flicker “- thinks we owe you an explanation. Me, I think we owe you about a year of fucking dental torture followed by slow strangulation while wild dogs rip your balls off. But, what the fuck, he's young. He can keep his ideals another fucking week.”
The youth said, “Casimir Meldaran, you deserve to die for your crimes. You have been found guilty of the murders of Dame Jasmin Colliford and Sir Udo Herronvale, both of noble blood and high esteem.” Ductio snorted with derision but added nothing further. The youth went on, “Not to mention the cold-blooded stabbing of Battis Fenchrow, a reputable businessman of the city of Fellport held in high regard. By some, at least.”
“But it is only fair that you be informed that, by consensus of a joint sitting of the Magistrates of the Ducal Guard -”
“The first in the nine years I've had the miserable fucking misfortune to hold the job.”
“- you are also to be convicted of the murder of Piety Korsolten, Mistress of the Moistened Cardinal, on the morning of the third Oilday in the month of Saint Gerrodern.”
“There's that name again,” said Cas, his interest piqued in spite of himself. “Who is she, and why does everyone think I killed her?” Ductio said, “I don't any more. At most, you only ever ranked second in the suspects list. But it's impossible now to pin in on the real culprit, and you make a very convenient substitute.”
The youth said, “On the night she died, you accompanied Piety Korsolten back to her lodgings in the company of several other...uh, celebrators. Heavy drinking followed, and at some point somebody – well, let's face it, it was you who brought out the yellowpetals, which...um, heightened the mood at the party.”
“You all started fucking like rabbits,” interjected Ductio.
“We did,” confirmed Cas. “I remember the evening well. So this Korsolten was our divine and willing hostess? Well, I confess to fornication in a variety of circumstances that evening, but I don't recall killing anyone.” He smirked with genuine pleasure. That had been a deeply satisfactory evening; he was pleased to be reminded of it.
The youth's frown became a mask of utter disgust. He said “One of your orgy partners that night was Fellisa Delarchre, the Duke's secret mistress. His fourteen year old mistress.”
“Not to mention his fourteen year old niece,” spat Ductio. “Hard to believe there was ever anyone out there more repugnant than you, isn't it?” Hardly the words of a fawning loyalist, thought Cas. “Korsolten found out about the Duke's affair and thought that she could hold it over him in some way, maybe blackmail him or curry favour somehow. That's why Fellisa was drawn into her little circle, along with as many rakes, deviants and other jaded degenerates as she could cram through her front door. I imagine you came highly recommended, with your exotic fucking medicines.”
The youth said “The Duke found out. He became angry, but he waited until Mistress Korsolten turned the last of her guests out – that was you – then he dragged her out of the bed she was sharing with Mistress Delarchre and beat her to death with his walking stick.”
“I see,” said Casimir, “and you have deduced all this and arrived at the unthinkable conclusion that if the great and noble name of the late and beloved Duke Vormura is sullied by a connection to this savage crime, the political repercussions will be too terrible to contemplate.”
“Something like that,” said Ductio. “The nobs are finding some way to dress it up as a criminal revolution orchestrated by foreign enemies and traitors within the court. All too fucking implausible for words, of course, but it only has to satisfy the King, and he's too far away to give a fuck what happens in Fellport. But Korsolten's the loose end that could unravel the whole thing. That's where you come in.”
“I take it my confession is already signed?”
“We even made it look like you signed it with your off hand,” said Ductio.
“I'm ambidextrous, Magistrate,” Casimir replied, smug with the petty victory.
“You can take that one to the headsman's block. Good night, Meldaran. We'll see you in the morning.”
***
As she waited to Jedlow to wrestle the Magistrate's chair awkwardly through the narrow guardhouse doors, Lynnis tried to decide whether what she intended to do really made any sense. They had said it themselves, tomorrow he would be hauled to the block and decapitated, to the delight of the good folk of Fellport and the relief of its nobility. The chaos would be pronounced past, a new liege lord would be dug up from somewhere and installed in the Ducal seat and the city would return to festering, corrupt normality.
She could not decide how to feel. Her position could not have been more uncertain since the tumultuous events of the ball, with the Duke assassinated from within his own circle and Casimir acclaimed as the greatest foreign villain ever to set foot in Murburan. She had the disquieting fear that somewhere in the recesses of her heart she secretly believed she had been cheated out her rightful notoriety. She had suffered a lifetime of cruel conditioning, coercion and manipulation, day after day of mindless physical training and demanding artistic pursuit, all leading inexorably to the moment when she would be dispatched on her Queen's vicious business. And Cas – stupid, malicious, unutterably self-centred Casimir Meldaran – had walked straight into her spotlight and collected the plaudits himself.
Nothing in her experience had prepared her for the moment when she would have to decide for herself what to do with the remainder of her life. She had expected that she would kill the Duke and be hunted and killed in turn; or that her success would be rewarded not with freedom but some grim new task. She had not expected to be forgotten. But as the tense weeks had passed with no word from Herok, she came to realise that there would be no new orders. She had waited, of course, diligently checking the designated letter drop spots according to the strict schedule he had provided.
But as each day went by with no word, she started listening, if not giving credence, to some of the rumours – that he had been murdered by the gangsters while trying to escape; that he had entered into a conspiratorial liaison with Charmain Delarchre; that he had been the secret benefactor of the Golden Haired Boys. Of course she knew enough to be certain that none of these were true. But as the rumours of his sinister implication in the affair gathered unchecked momentum, his position was becoming untenable. Even if he still lived, as Lynnis doubted more and more after each day without contact, it might soon be impossible to resume his place in Murb society.
If that were the case, Paracastra would no longer have any use for him. And without Herok to direct her, she was as effective as an arrow without a target. She had shed her entire purpose of being like a scarred, marked skin. Now she had no idea what to do next.
Is that what freedom is - indecision? If so, it didn't suit her yet. She decided to start with small steps, make some choices.
Hence, here she was, skulking in the cell next to a man she had pretended to love for years while she manipulated them both in the direction of the man she was ordered to kill. She had decided that she owed him something, undeserving as he was.
She stepped out of her cell and stood before his. “Casimir,” she said, “there are things we need to discuss, and you don't have much time left.”
He looked at her with contempt. “You betrayed me. Why would I listen to anything you have to say?”
Lynnis shook her dark head and smiled. “Nobody betrays you, Cas. You do it to yourself. You never stopped being the boy that saw his father die and didn't understand that he wasn't coming back. You just got bigger and better at taking what you want, but you never learned how to care for what you have.”
“I don't have time for your riddles, Lynnis. Tell them to the mob at my beheading in the morning. Maybe a song or two to get them in the mood.”
“Casimir, stop sulking and look at me.” She waited until he sullenly met her eye. “I need you to answer this question: if they hadn't caught you, what would you be doing right now?”
Casimir swore. “Lynnis, I don't care for hypothetical postulations and I don't wish to hear you practise your rhetoric right now. I will thank you to get out of my sight and let me be executed in peace.”
She began to pace with studied impatience. “I'll leave soon, Cas, and you will never lay eyes on me again, I promise you. But not until I have my answer. What would you have done?”
“You're serious?” She nodded. “Ah, I understand., You want to write about about me, yes? 'The Ballad of Meldaran', an epic tale to warm hearts and open legs. My rise and fall in A minor. Congratulations. I'm sure it will be a masterpiece.” Seeing she was not impressed with his ironic wit, he growled in frustration. “What is it you want, Lynnis? Do you want to see me humbled? To admit that I'm beaten? I'm about to be put to death. Can't be more beaten than that.”
The bitterness at the core of his bravado did not surprise her. It had always been there. “This city took one of your arms already, Cas. This place is sour and jaundiced and it's never dry here. If you could, if you had your liberty, would you stay?”
“To hell with that,” said Casimir. “I used to think that Corphena was the worst place in the world. If you say the wrong words or you make the wrong friends or you can't make a bribe -” He snapped his fingers in idle resentment. “But at least the rules makes sense there. Here, nobody is really what they're pretending to be. They hide themselves behind faces of false decency and never show what they care about. Probably they don't even know themselves. I'm better off out of it. Fellport doesn't have a place for someone that can't hide himself behind a mask.” He added tiredly, “Let them cut off my head tomorrow. At least the face they see afterwards will be the same one I was born with.”
For a creature with so little human empathy, Casimir was capable of worthy insights once in a while. She'd come to the same conclusion, that Fellport could not stand another day of Casimir Meldaran's version of honesty. It was a culture entirely wrapped up in its subtle intrigues and its grotesque fantasies. It could barely look upon its own face without shuddering into collapse; it could not bear its own ugliness reflected in such an open unambiguous mirror as Cas.
Though she did have to admit that he seemed to have arrived at this simple profundity through the most abominable egotism imaginable. That also was no surprise.
She made a decision. Tell him, and then he too would have a choice. Perhaps, as it had been with her, this would be one of the first real choices of his life.
“The gate of your cell is not locked,” she told him. “It doesn't matter how I know, just accept that it's so. I'm going to leave now, and I meant it when I said we'll never meet again. You can do whatever you want to. Stay here and accept your death – and you deserve death almost as much as anyone I've me – or try to escape. You're on Coalface Hill, in the middle of a thousand guardsmen who would recognise you on sight and kill you without hesitation. But if anyone could make it out of here, I think it would be you. It doesn't matter to me what you do. I just want to be able to live with myself. That means I owe you a decision, a real one. Take it, with my compliments.”
She turned away from him for the last time and headed for the door. Her show began in an hour. They would be waiting for her – Bey, Nana and the rest of the Cardinals, her new family. Her new world, away from intrigues and assassinations and the relentless ambitions of the powerful. It was still a world where masks were worn and lies were told, but one where nobody need die as a result. Could she be happy? She didn't know that. But she could simply belong. That was enough.
“Lynnis, I -” he began, but he stumbled for words and lost the moment.
“It's a beautiful night, Cas,” she said. “Maybe you should take a walk.”