Bey was dreaming. Images came and went; waking in the darkness of cool mornings, thin red strips of glowing embers seen through the grill of the furnaces, making warm, welcome love on the kneading tables, the air thick with dusty flour and alive with fresh bread's mouthwatering aroma. In the hours before dawn, before the noise of the day rolled in with the sun - before the desperate lies of unimaginative men and the cruel betrayals of conspiratorial women were cast into the light - that had been his favourite time. The work was hard and hot, and he was not a gifted baker - he burned his skin on the ovens almost as often as he burned the bread – but he was, for a few months, content.
It had unraveled so suddenly. Bey's dreams turned red and angry, and he felt rather than heard the thrum of the rope as it snapped taut under Hereward's weight, a death chord accompanied by Jessa's screams and the pounding storm of blood in his head. Again came the blow, again he heard the crack as his scalp opened up beneath the splintering rolling pin. Again he heard his own sobs as he watched Nella's fingers fumbling with knots of the Earl's coin purse as he kicked and fought until, frustrated, she had cut it free with three furious slashes that had severed the leather thongs and sliced through his waistcoat, opening his belly. Bey's stunned attention had fixed on the drizzling blood as Hereward's frantic throes had subsided.
He woke sobbing, confused and uncertain, the horrific memories receding into a general blur of guilt, failure and loss.
Doing nothing to ease his disorientation, Nana was there, dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth. “Ah, my poor Bey Bey. Such sad dreams you 'ave, such pain.” She smiled. “You should let Nana take care of you,” she said, giving him a playful flick on the nose to let him know she was teasing.
Bey was grateful she seemed for once not to be intent on ravishing him. He supposed she would consider it too little a challenge to take advantage of his vulnerability. Attempting to muster some indignation, he said “What's the meaning of this? How dare you come into my bedchamber and wake me?” He could not manage much conviction, sounding more huffy than outraged. She dismissed the protest with a laugh, swiping his cheeks with the cloth and dropping it over his eyes.
“Don' be so silly, Master of the 'ouse!” she mocked. “Of course I must come and raise you from your terrible dreams. You 'ave a caller.”
“A caller? Who is it? Why did you not tell him to come back at a decent hour?”
Nana started pulling down the bedsheets, completely ignorant of any affront to his modesty. “I did that, yes of course, but now the 'our is no more indecent and 'e is returned. You must attend to him at once. 'ere are your clothes. I will make some eggs for your breakfast and bring them to you in the garden, yes? Now, up with you!”
She swept him along in the wake of her bustling activity, prodding him to dress as she gathered up his washing and fussed his room back into order. When did she become my housemaid as well? wondered Bey in a daze as she fixed his cravat and wrenched the knots from his bed-hair with a fat-toothed comb. Declaring him presentable, with a firm shove she propelled him in the direction of the sitting room and disappeared the other way.
Bey was dismayed to register the sun's brightness through the high windows of the hall, understanding now that it was less than an hour to noon. He had not realised how much the previous day had taken out of him.
The caller was Herok. He lounged at a full stretch on a chaise, messily devouring a ripe bunch of berries without apparent concern for the bright green splatters of juice. He looked as smug as a cat. “Sleeping late, Sir Beyda? The sign of a conscience at its ease, unless I am mistaken.”
“I assure you my conscience will continue to prickle me until I apologise for keeping you waiting, Master Herok.” Bey tried to jog himself alert. This was certain to be more than a social call. “Will you join me for breakfast in the garden? I believe that we might speak more freely there.”
“Certainly.” Herok had undergone another transformation from their previous meetings. His dress was now extravagant, fashionable and expensive, from the gold riding coat embroidered with fine lace trim to the tall cocked hat with a silk tail and the nut brown boots with heels calculated to make him look taller. He smelled of a subtle perfume and a horse's fresh perspiration. His voice was different too, Bey realised. There was now no more than a trace of the reedy Leph accent, and he spoke now with an altogether deeper tone.
Bey regarded him with frank suspicion. Was he playing the part of well-heeled noble or was this finally the real man, emerging like a dandy butterfly from a common cocoon? What did it mean, that Herok had shown him one character and had now replaced it with another of entirely separate station and means? It almost seemed a threat. At the very least it must constitute a warning not to underestimate the man, but Bey was sure the message was intended to be more subtle and significant. There's that leash again, he thought, and perhaps it's not so long as I've let myself hope.
For his part, if Herok noticed his doubts at all, he regarded them with supreme indifference. “Do you know that the dreshathym flowers have started blooming already? It has taken polite society quite by surprise and thrown the winter season into utter chaos. I heard that Lady Yeardnott hopes to steal the march on the rest with an early event. She has offered treble the usual price for flower arrangements, quite outbidding a number of rivals, some of whom are rather more highly positioned.” He chuckled. “It was all rather magnificently cut-throat. An enormous gamble, of course, with her standing apt to hang quite in the balance, but I find I tend to side with takers of great risk. Perhaps you should attend, Sir Beyda. I feel certain I could arrange for an invitation.”
“I've no doubt that you could.” They arrived in the garden and dragged their seats from beneath a gazebo entwined with bare rose runners, in the unspoken hope that some warmth would penetrate the thick cloud layer overhead. “Of course I would appreciate any efforts you could make on my behalf. I'm sure it's an opportunity to relish.”
“Oh, you can be certain of it,” smiled Herok with assured charm. He swept off his hat and hooked it on the leafless branches of a fruit tree, dislodging a shower of droplets remaining from the most recent downpour.
They continued their airy discussion of Fellport notables, the casual exchange of flippant observations and mild anecdotes disguising a comprehensive basic education in the structure of local society, until Nana came with the breakfast. She fawned over Herok with her characteristic lack of concern for etiquette before Bey made it plain that this was to be a private conversation and she departed.
Bey's mind raced. He was already aware of Fellport's reputation as the cosmopolitan host to travellers from all corners of the world – it was one of the reason he had come here himself – but he had imagined that the influx of new blood had been largely confined to the lower strata of her social fabric. From what Herok implied, this was not the case. Foreign nobility in considerable numbers had taken up residence both in the city herself and in the better parts Southern Murburan.
He gathered that this was a recent phenomenon, promulgated in the latter half of Duke Vormura's reign to coincide with generous trade concessions that made Fellport an inviting destination for foreign merchants. While there had been few complaints about the booming improvements to the local economy, it was apparent that some elements of Fellport's population were finding it difficult to adjust from a tradition of insularity.
There's a lot more I need to know to get off the bottom rung of this ladder. First thing's first though. Bey said, “Two questions: what do I call you, and what can I do for you?”
Herok's smile managed to seem both patronising and self-congratulatory. “Two excellent questions, each of which I shall answer twice.” He was superior, making no attempt to disguise the fun he was taking at Bey's expense, however apparently harmless. “As to my name, I'll answer to the one I gave you, of course. It's mine, after all - well, lately at any rate.” There was the secretive grin again, a conspiratorial moment that vanished in an instant, but which merely underscored the unusual nature of their relationship. It's not just me that he plays games with, thought Bey, and I'll bet I'm one of the few who gets to know some of the rules.
“But perhaps in certain less informal situations, you may feel more comfortable with a veneer of social distance, for the sake of appearances, in which case you should have your delightful Nana Devolier introduce me as Lord Kamier Herok, Baron of Nettlefield. I find that quite does the job on the regrettably numerous occasions when I am forced to exercise my heritage.”
Bey rose from his chair and bowed with an ironic “My lord” curling from his lips. Herok acknowledged the gesture with a dismissive wave of one hugely ruffed cuff, grinning again. “Well, it works on peasants and courtly dowagers, at any rate. Sit, sit, sit. You make me quite exhausted with your incessant energy.”
“I take it you enjoy somewhat more legitimacy in your entitlement than certain others?” asked Bey under his breath. Until he knew the ins and outs of the Moistened Cardinal, he would not assume that their conversation could not be overheard. Circumspection and the avoidance of open admissions was called for.
“Entirely the fault of my parentage, I am sad to report. Would that I were born the son of a carpenter or sailor or baker, born to a life of honest toil and simple decency.” Bey didn't miss the emphasis on the word 'baker'. “Instead I find myself at the heart of a world made of intrigues and deception, fragile reputations at the mercy of petty liars with spiteful tongues.”
“You appear to bear your burden with no great reluctance, my lord Baron.”
“It seems I was born to it. Now, I perceive you are impatient for the answers to your second question. To begin with, I'm afraid I must make an indelicate inquiry. I perceive that you have yet to see to your personal protection, is that the case? It is? Then you must attend to it at once. Fellport is a dangerous place and grows more so by the day, particularly for those in our respective occupations. I will leave the name of a reliable procurer of large gentlemen.”
“Thank you. I had given some thought to employing someone after an altercation last evening.”
“An unsatisfied customer?”
“A contractual disagreement with a business associate,” conceded Bey, wishing he had not brought up the subject.
“Perils of your trade, I'm afraid,” sympathised Herok. “No doubt we are discussing the much sought after Casimir Meldaran, the Corphenite?”
“You're well informed.”
“Your poster bills regarding the lovely Mistress Chalcer happen to mention his name.”
“Ah, those. Yes, he brought them with him. I will have to have them papered over with new ones.”
“I can't recommend it highly enough. You would be most unhappy to share in the sort of attention that Meldaran is beginning to attract.” Bey was about to enquire further but Herok shook his head and changed the subject. “The other matter is this. You may already be aware that your startling ascendance as a salooneer - for which I will modestly decline all credit, should the question ever be put – has been the subject of animated debate in circles of great interest to me.”
“It has been made quite clear to me,” said Bey. “My good fortune seems to be quite confronting to some. To a disinterested observer, it might seem as though my stewardship of the Moistened Cardinal is nothing so much as a calculated provocation.”
“Your perspicacity is among your finest qualities, Sir Beyda. No doubt you appreciate my insistence on your looking to ensuring your safety.”
“No doubt you have a professional judgment as to how long I can expect to remain safe?”
“I cannot fathom what profession you perceive me to occupy, that I might make such an assessment,” Herok said, “but I doubt that you are especially safe even now.”
“I take your point,” Bey said dryly. “So may I assume that the particular service I am now called upon to provide involves further provocation?”
“A little tinder in the hearth, you understand. I was not joking about Lady Yeardnott's invitation, which I have graciously agreed to deliver on her ladyship's behalf. I will convey your gratitude and acceptance when I call upon her later today. The ball is tomorrow evening at her estate in Ruvenal Park. I trust you can judge an outfit of suitably fashionable excess?”
“I'll have qualified advisors. Is there anything else?”
“I leave any other undertakings to your discretion. I cannot conceive that your efforts will come as a disappointment. On the contrary, my faith is quite confirmed.”
“Then I will see you out and get to my arrangements. It appears I have a lot to do. I suppose I will see you tomorrow evening?” Herok sniffed. “Oh, I shouldn't think so. I rarely make public appearances. I find such engagements frightfully dull, don't you think that? In any case, I should hardly want to distract attention from your social debut. All eyes on you, do you see? Good day, Chur.”
I do see, thought Bey. All eyes on me. Wonderful.
He saw the Baron to the door and went in search of Nana. He hoped she would know what colours were out this season.
***
By mid morning the break in the overnight downpour was over. The foul weather rolled back in off the bay, borne on stinging winter gusts and carrying off what little of Ductio's patience still existed. None of his commandeered troop of guardsmen had managed to locate Meldaran, a fact that gave him no great satisfaction on just a few fitful hours of sleep. Right now all that was keeping him standing was a cup of warm tea, a pinch of kissel and a smouldering rage that would flare at the first puff of bad news.
He huddled at a corner table in the barracks mess, picking randomly at bundles of reports and ignoring his regulation fruit bun with butter. One finger would sometimes steal into a lidless jam jar and convey about half a scoop of sticky yellow jelly into his mouth. The rest he would wipe on the underside of the table or on a particularly contemptible report. None of them told him anything he wanted to know – this grocer hauled in for getting drunk and urinating on a rival's stall, that pair of butcher's lads pulled kicking and spitting off some defaulter just before they finished beating him to death. Another ordinary night of pitiless inhumanity before a morning of shame and repentance and punishments to be exacted. Nothing that warranted Ductio's interest.
He almost missed it. It was so familiar, so routine, that it almost did not register at all. A body; identified firsthand by the guardsman who found it dumped behind a hedge along the Double Way as that of a known Grape Corner knuckle man, later identified as having been involved in a gang dispute in Milkwell in the early hours of the morning. Ductio had skimmed it at first, barely devoting sufficient concentration to redraft his mental chart of the fortunes of those various underworld factions careless or brazen enough to have come to his attention. He almost missed it. The name was buried in a bramble of statements prefixed with “It came to my attention that -” and “I was alert to the observation that -”. Saints! There was even a space at the top of the form for the victim's name. This wordy prick needed a couple of weeks breaking up knife fights on Dockside to cure his narrative urges. Ductio dashed off a short reassignment instruction to Kilritch.
“Silly fuck. I almost missed it.”
The aspiring novelist had identified Milch Kramus, a name Ductio knew more by reputation than by personal acquaintance. Prime muscle for Boss Trigosi. Willing with his fists, no renown as a thinker but possessed of resource and imagination when it came to forceful persuasion and intimidation. A very, very hard man. Unlikely to be the victim of anything less than a concerted effort at assassination. Especially given the company he was best known for keeping, a name with which Ductio was rather better acquainted: Honitt Sellton. His partner in crime, so to speak.
Ductio jammed his hat on. The search for Meldaran could wait. This was a time to pay a social call, pass on his respects.
If he hurried, he might be in time to break the news before Sellton heard it from a friend.
***
“Explain your unwelcome interruption.” Berber Trigosi grated a piece of dried cheese with studious care over his bowl of faintly poached eggs. He was not disposed to treat this messenger with kindness, having already judged from the boy's nervous pacing that the news would not be good. He gave his breakfast an experimental stir with one finger to test its consistency and decided it could do with more cheese and perhaps some crumbled toast.
“Please Boss,” the boy almost whimpered, “it's Master Kramus. The Splatters done for him up in Milkwell last eve. Cut him half to pieces, it's reckoned.” Trigosi ceased his stirring and sucked the gobbets of eggs from his finger. “Unexpected,” he mused. “Eryll Fudge was cowed. I am certain of it. He is much too craven to risk taking his revenge. Not even with a dozen men at his back.”
Encouraged by Trigosi's mild reaction, the boy ventured more information. “They say there was some toff involved. Farmik said he talked to a singer who saw the whole thing. He says this toff chummed up to Kramus and then he-”
“Bring the singer to me. I have no interest in third hand accounts. Is there anything else?” “Yes Boss. Holthock's not in this morning. Nobody has seen him since yesternight.”
The cardinal law of working for Berber Trigosi, understood by even his meanest and least regarded employees, was that nobody shirked. You didn't miss a day's work, not even if your legs had rotted off from the pox or your mother had died in the night. He was known to be sympathetic in such circumstances, granting leave and recommending his own personal physician, but by the Saints, you made yourself known at the first duty call of the morning or you were in for it.
The boy was well aware that Harbinger Holthock was not among the privileged few who could flaunt the rule and get away with it. “There's some as say he's lying with that dancer girl, day and night, Boss. Having his way, they say.”
“Spare me your tawdry gossip. I do not-” It occurred to Trigosi suddenly that there might be substance to this muck. “Wait. Has he seen her since her incapacitation?”
“Twice at least, Boss,” came the eager reply. “Saw him coming out of her room with my own eyes just yesterday.”
Trigosi's response was disappointingly calm . “I want him found. Tell Vurder and Ilchard to see to it. Now go. My eggs are hardening.”
***
The storm's respite was short and self-evidently doomed, the clouds breaking only to regroup with a simmering density a few hours later. Now it announced its cacophonic return with a web of lightning cracking directly over the city. Fellport fell black, taking a midday cast only in brief snatches. Her roofs guzzled the downpour, her gutters jetted, the streets filled and ran.
Her people took what business they could indoors and postponed the rest to more opportune times. Lightning strikes were not uncommon in winters here, and most knew of some unfortunate soul who had been a sudden and unwilling participant in tragedy. It was enough to contemplate the possibility without courting the eventuality.
Some few persevered with their routines however – those whose economic circumstances were more compelling than the risk to life and faculties, the imperturbably dutiful or addled, the unheeding young. And there was Ductio, driven by a depth of malice few others could summon, even on so malicious a day as this. He stood ankle deep in a hour-old tributary that coursed through the March of the Saints courtyard on its way down Zeal Street to the more established Burntword Stream. The statue depicting Murburan's ancient band of liberators that gave the yard its name seemed to shrink from its usual dominance as the water lapped over its low pedestal. The procession of stern granite Saints now appeared to be fording a shallow creek rather than triumphantly crushing their tyrannical Leph overlords and freeing an oppressed nation.
“Fucking weather,” he growled as his soaking coat opened the door to the penetrating cold. Despite the distant likelihood of witnesses, Ductio feigned nonchalance and tried to appear as though he was not huddling beneath the overhanging forequarters of Saint Orethorn's horse for shelter. Rain slicked down his leather hat strap and drizzled from his jittering chin. His teeth rattled. He sputtered and snarled his discomfort and impatience in an incoherent monologue.
“You're an old man. I suppose it's too much to hope you'll catch your death.”
Ductio's head snapped up. He hadn't known that he was not alone. That was far from a welcome surprise. There was Sellton, glowering at him through the murk, soaked to the bone and unconcerned with it. There were a few more lines spanning the face, the hair plastered to his neck and shoulders was longer, his clothes contrived to appear shabby and expensive at the same time, but this was still the same man he remembered. His eyes still wore the same expression, and you didn't forget eyes like those.
“You're fucking late. I don't like to be kept waiting.”
Sellton shrugged. “I don't work for you any more, remember? Besides, I've been here for an hour. I just like listening to that rattle you make when you cough. It's mesmerising.” He trudged across the courtyard, cutting a moment's swathe through the stream and stopping a few feet beyond the magistrate's reach. “Besides, I've been thinking.”
“Then I can die and know I've seen every-fucking-thing.”
“I've been wondering what horrible business could be so very compelling that a busy and important officer of the Sentry, one such as yourself for example, would break the habit of years, not to mention what sounded at the time to be a very serious and binding oath, and seek out a notorious criminal and despised renegade guardsman?” His question was light and amused, but there was no trace of humour in his hard expression.
“You think you're a renegade, do you?”
“My little hubristic affectation. I'm a romantic.”
Ductio laughed. “You're a fucking discard, Sellton, and don't you forget it. If I'd had my way, you'd have been hanged, spiked and cut up for hogfeed.”
“Then it's a shame things don't always go your way, isn't it, Magistrate Ductio? This city would be a simpler place were it so, isn't that right? Peace and civil calm, not a one out of place, not a word heard against his Grace your Duke.” Sellton's grin was knowing and spiteful. “How is the dear old fellow, by the way? I heard a no doubt soon to be hotly denied rumour there was an incident. An outraged parent, perhaps?”
“If I didn't have three witnesses who swore themselves backwards that the assassin was a woman, you'd have been the first name on a very short list, you fucking zealot.” Ductio had been extremely reluctant to dismiss as coincidence the many correlations between Sellton's former crusade and the Blue Duke's proclivities. The right arrow called for the right bow though. He had known straight away it would never hold together. “I know for a fact that's a job you'd never delegate.”
“It's heartening that I'm still in your thoughts. I -” Sellton abruptly sneezed, a wet, tangible splash. “Shit. That's what I get for tormenting you, I suppose.” He hawked and spat. “Well, I've learned my lesson. You didn't answer my question.”
“Yeah, well, there's something we have in common,” replied Ductio. “We relish our good fat plates of spite, don't we? I know something you don't and by fuck it's keeping me warm.”
“I'm happy you've kept up your studies, but I already know how to put it to your mother, Magistrate.” Sellton put on another face, one that he knew well: the suspicious guardsman who expects to hear a lie. He recalled teaching him to wear it when he interrogated a witness or intimidated a suspect. It was a versatile look with a multitude of useful applications. Right now, though, it was a defence. Ductio pressed ahead. “Why don't we come to the nub now?”
“This hasn't been a good week. Oh, it's been great for grave diggers and gossips, but for me it's just been one long damn migraine. Too much going on for my liking. Like you say, I don't like it when this town is off-kilter, and right now it's very fucking tremendously off-kilter. It's almost as if -” He began to wander back and forth beside the statue, kicking up waves with each languid step. His voice had drifted off, the words veering inwards into silent thought. Sellton came closer, irritated at the sudden show of neglect.
“There's a lot of very unfortunate fucking people turning up extremely dead. A foreign narcotic I haven't seen in this town for near a generation is suddenly in circulation again. And as you so astutely noted, to top it all someone tried to scrag our lord and protector in his own bedchamber.”
“Do you have something specific in mind that you want me to confess to?” “Now that you mention it, when was the last time you saw that ox you're usually hitting people with?”
“Kramus?” He fancied that anyone else would have missed Sellton's miniscule flinch, but even after all this time Ductio knew what to look for. That's not what he expected me to say, he realised. He's bursting at the seams with guilty secrets. “What about him?”
“I'd like to ask him some questions.” Ductio peered up at the Saints' greening faces, streaked with corrosion and bird excrement. What must it have been like for them? he wondered with sudden curiosity. They hid and fought and bled for years, killing a Leph soldier here, burning a tax wagon there, hunters one day and hounded the next. Always fearful of discovery, never certain whether the next betrayal would be the one that led a legion to their hideout. No friendships, just alliances with grim, remorseless killers like themselves. No life of your own, just a cause and a sword, fighting until enough blood spilled to drive the invaders away. Fucking awful, he supposed.
“You wouldn't like his answers. He's not so partial to Officer Lonely, and while he perhaps lacks your gift for eloquent emphasis, he's been known to underscore his opinions with a refreshing directness.”
“You missed my point, Sellton,” said Ductio, suddenly tired. There was no sport in this after all. “I'd like to ask him some questions, because I very much suspect that with the proper encouragements he could settle several grave concerns of mine. But I cannot ask those questions, because last night your partner had the shit kicked out of him for about three hours before one or more likely several men hacked him to death with knives and buried him headfirst in a flooded ditch.”
“He – oh.” His hands dropped, wet slaps against his thighs. His head rolled back, rain tapping on his face like birds at a window. He glared at the impenetrable sky and said nothing for a long while.
Ductio looked away, aware that this was not precisely grief but was still a private moment in which his presence was an intrusion. He was uncertain why he cared, or even what he felt exactly. He hadn't expected to feel anything, seeing Sellton again – or, if anything, then anger, surely. And yes, there was a bitter taste in his mouth and the nails of his fingers were curled tight into his shaking palms. But regret? Disappointment? Those were a surprise.
“I didn't see him after dark yesterday,” Sellton said at last. “We parted ways and I didn't see him again. If you think you're going to pin this on me, I'll kill you where you stand. He was my partner. You know I mean it.”
“Yeah,” said Ductio. “You mean it. Except for the part about it having anything to do with my imaginary accusations. Now shut the fuck up. I don't think you did it and I don't give a shit if you did. I just wanted to tell you to your face because I don't want you thinking straight when I ask you what I came here to ask you.” What in the red blazing fuck are you doing?
Sellton folded his arms and tilted against the statue, but the attempt at indifference was betrayed by the curious frown tugging at his brows. “You want what from me?”
He wasn't going to make this easy, Ductio realised. What did I expect? This is mad. “I want your help. I - Things are going to be bad and I don't think I can stop them from getting worse. I need your help.”
Too shocked to laugh, Sellton stared. “You want what?”
“Don't play the fucking simpleton with me, Sellton. We both know you're too fucking smart for that. I need you because of how fucking smart you are. I need you because you're not a longcoat. I need you because you're a stone cold murderer. I need you because every man, woman and child from here to fucking Ruvenal Park is scared of you fit to piss themselves. I need you because this isn't about the law, it's about politics, and you know as well as I do what that means.”
“You're got some unbelievable balls for an old man, Magistrate. By rights this conversation should end with me cutting them off and choking you with them. Instead you want me to come and work for you again?” He shook his head, his expression undecided whether to settle on disgusted, baffled or amused. “What can you possibly offer me?”
Ductio steeled himself, allowing righteous rage to bubble up like bile. He needed that. Treachery was a hard business. “I'm going to tell you a story. Then we're going to help each other.”
“You seem very certain of that.”
“I'm very fucking certain,” said Ductio, and told him.
***
“I am deeply honoured, Dame Jasmin.” Cheva Clerrance blew a gentle breeze over the rim of a delicate porcelain cup, sending little swirls of steam into flight. The dark tips of her fingers delicately encircled the cup's gleaming white rim. “I never anticipated an invitation from so prestigious a host.”
Dame Jasmin fought down an urge to show her disdain for this barbaric mishandling of her finest tea set. Manners are what set us apart from them, she reprimanded herself. “But my dear Mistress Clerrance,” she exclaimed with the mildest hint of reproach, “whyever not? I can hardly leave such a compelling creature as yourself off my social rounds. Since your arrival you have been quite the talk of polite society.”
Clerrance laughed, a peal of soft chuckles. “I'm sure that I am quite the topic of fervent discourse. An unescorted widow, with suspicious wealth and unacceptably shaded skin? Why, my presence alone is worth a whole season's deliciously scandalous gossip, is it not?”
“Oh my dear, you simply cannot take such idle talk seriously. Far too many of us are like sparrows, flitting from perch to perch and twittering about whatever happens to float through our heads. You mark my words, you need only wait a month or two and they will have buzzed onto the next poor victim and leave you quite forgotten.” Dame Jasmin smiled indulgently. “Of course, to be forgotten is widely considered a worse fate than to be spoken poorly of. One that I would not like to be visited upon you, my dear. No, social obscurity is too terrible to contemplate. I can scarcely describe what the state of Fellport society would be if so lovely a gentlewoman as yourself were to continue to disregard it. If you will allow me to advise you - and I implore you with all earnest heart to hearken to me – I believe that I can help steer you through and assume your rightful role.”
Clerrance set her cup down with a brisk rattle. “Dame Jasmin, please do not think me ungrateful. Truly I am humbled by your concern and overwhelmed by the generosity of your offer. But I assure you I am quite content with my place in the world. I grew up dreaming of balls and garden parties and tea with delightful and wise companions. But those were the dreams of a child and I have no illusions that they may yet come to be.”
“Come, my dear, I think you underestimate yourself,” insisted Jasmin. “But I will be frank. I have lived your dreams for a very long time, and now I find I tire of them. For all of our scandals, for all of our capricious, malicious gossip, we are a very dull bunch. When the most terrible fuss imaginable breaks out over who has offered the best bribe to a glorified florist, I think it is high time to look for something new in life.”
Dame Jasmin rose and crossed to the windows, tugging an invisible crease from a curtain. “You represent a changing Murburan, dear. You are young, independent, wealthy and, may I say, quite gloriously exotic.” She circled the room with predatory nonchalance. Clerrance merely raised her tea and sipped it with care, unconcern pronounced in her eyes as Dame Jasmin came to a stop behind her and stroked a finger along the ruff at her neck. “Why, just ten years ago I might have risked a scandal myself for you.”
Clerrance smirked and took the hand in her own. “To be sure, Dame Jasmin, I am flattered,” she said. “Your offer is kindly meant and gladly heard, but I must in all good conscience decline it. I mean no disrespect, naturally, but I find I am sometimes unable to comprehend the subtleties of Murburan's more exalted social circles. At every turn I would surely commit some heinous offense, entirely innocently, which would mark me an interloper and no doubt reflect ill upon my sponsor. I should be more horrified of that than anything.”
“My dear, nothing could be further from-”
Clerrance interrupted in a voice tinged with crystal hardness. “Please understand, also, that I am no novelty prize to be claimed and paraded.” She set her cup down and turned to meet Dame Jasmin's eye. “I will take my place in Murb society, on that we agree. But when it occurs, it will be in a manner of my choosing, not one dictated by immutable and blinkered traditions. On that day, let us tap our glasses together and celebrate an end to tedium, shall we not?”
The impertinence! It was all Dame Jasmin could do to maintain her composure. “I – I look forward to it, my dear Mistress Clerrance.”
“And I too, Dame Jasmin. Above all things.” Clerrance rose and signaled to the butler for her coat. “Now I really must be going, if I may pray you to excuse me. There are a million details to attend to at Nutmeg and – well, I am sure you are a busy woman yourself. I will not keep you a moment longer.”
And with that she departed, leaving a flustered butler to scamper after her before she could disgrace him by opening the door herself. She would probably do it too, mused Dame Jasmin thoughtfully. Indiscriminate vulgarity seemed to be a trait peculiar to the Keerish. She wondered that they had ever been allowed to crawl beyond those revolting peat bogs they were so ridiculously proud of.
“That seems not to have gone well.”
Walden Addenfarrow strode through from the library and dropped onto her favourite sedan chair. He was insolently naked, reddened and tousled and soaked to the bone. No doubt one of her maidservants was in a similar state somewhere nearby.
“I do hope you have not stained the carpets, dear Walden,” she sniffed. “They are quite impossible to clean in this cool weather. And you might care to draw that chair a little closer to the fire. I should not want you to catch your death of cold.”
“It is not death by chilled bones that haunts me at the moment, as it happens.” Nevertheless he did as she suggested, throwing another log atop the embers for good measure. “But pray, don't change the subject. It is not every day your overtures are so confidently rejected. I'm quite privileged to bear witness. Indulge me, I beg you – why in the name of my aunt's pink tits were you courting that shabby little waitress at all?”
“You are a terrible disappointment to me, Walden. You have no sense of imagination and I declare you have entirely failed to cultivate a sense of fun to compensate.” She retrieved a pinch of dried kissel from a coral jewel box and sniffed it delicately off the nail of her ring finger. “What kind of entertainment is there for me in destroying her at a distance? It's so impersonal. I had rather hoped that she would be tempted to become my protege. Think on it, Walden. I could have become her trusted confidante. When everything she holds dear is stripped away from her, piece by piece, who else would she turn to but her port in a storm?” She sighed. “I pictured a touching little scene, perhaps in this very room, with mine the sympathetic shoulder she cries upon as she mourns her lost fortune and devastated looks.”
Addenfarrow shivered. She hoped it was not due solely to the cold.
“I see,” he said. “Well, since we have both indulged our pleasures already, perhaps I should get to business. Have you heard about Eider and his wife?”
“I have,” she replied, snorting a second nail-load through her unblocked nostril. “It seems we have provoked quite the vengeful response. I underestimated Trigosi's benevolence as an employer.”
“Underestimated -? Damn it, Jasmin!” exploded Addenfarrow. “He's gone insane! Eider was chopped to pieces with kitchen tools! Tansy had an axe in the middle of her face!” He gulped in a deep breath, struggling for self-control. “She must have been his lover, a favourite somehow. We must have been wrong about him. That's the only reason that he would go so far. Fel's dead, I'm sure of it now. Eider butchered in his own bed, and I'll be next. Or maybe he's sending a message of his own-”
Dame Jasmin waited as he wrestled with his speculations. Her heart was fluttering and she felt herself become flushed with determination, insight, power. This was a setback, yes, but there would be some advantage to be gained, if only one looked from the proper perspective. “Hush, Walden,” she said, a little short of breath. “Tell me about this other fellow they found at the scene, the killer. Who was he?”
“Why in the name of the Saints -?” he began, but seeing her expression harden, he hurried to civilise his tone. “His name was Gerhud Acklon, a leatherworker in one of the small Nuthedge tanneries. He is known to have a handful of acquaintances among the gangs in that area, but seems not to be affiliated with any particular one. As best my man can determine, he hires out his services to the highest bidder. Hammer, he called himself. The Nuthedge Hammer.”
She sneered, “I've never understood the predilection of these people to adopt these ridiculous sobriquets. Nuthedge Hammer indeed!” It never ceased to astound her, the inanity of the common classes. Of all things, Dame Jasmin could least endure an absence of panache. “Very well, so this brute has no particular associates who might shed light on whom it was that purchased his services.”
“My man made appropriate inquiries,” said Addenfarrow. “But none of them could be persuaded to recall anything useful. Although none of them were prepared to avow that he had any connections in Grape Corner.”
“Interesting. I had wondered why Boss Trigosi would not simply command his own men to carry out these reprisals. Moreover, how must we interpret the savagery of the Nackridges' murders? Your graphic descriptions suggest a crime of passion, not an execution. And where is Baron Galford, he of the reliable habits?” She turned this conundrum over. “The more I consider, the more I entertain the possibility that Trigosi may not monopolise this vendetta business.”
“Then what do we do?”
“We take action, naturally,” she replied. “But first we must see to your safety, dear Walden. Of course you have discussed this with your surviving companions, have you not? Cautioned them against hasty behaviour?”
“Yanghan is arranging for rooms for us in Winterford Street,” reported Addenfarrow. “I shall send along the particulars of the address this afternoon.” He added bitterly, “I didn't get to Olderchiss in time. His apartment was a mess. He had apparently taken a maul to the floorboards when he could not locate the key to his bolthole. His landlady said that he intended to catch the next ship out, but I I suspect he's on his way to his cousin's estate in Deremar.”
“Satisfactory,” she pronounced. “Then get dressed. We have plans to lay, and I refuse to be distracted a moment longer by your shrivelled genitalia.”
***
“Something about this doesn't sit right with me.”
Siner Kilritch signalled two of his men to cover the door with crossbows. Two others were sent along an alley two doors down to circle around and break through a back entrance. Another was stationed out of sight in the street, watching and ready with his whistle. His three largest guardsmen, each a trusted loyal, stood abreast the door, the middle with a heavy studded hammer.
The Staff Sergeant slipped the dagger from his sling into the fingers of his injured hand. His grip still weak and uncertain, but he thought feeling might be starting to return to the arm. Then he drew a short sword in his free hand and looked about for any sign that would confirm his paranoia. Nothing could be this easy. This had to be some sort of set up, didn't it?
He didn't want to be here, about to kick down the door of the woman who'd stabbed him with his own known and tried to murder the Duke under his very nose. Shot or not – and Kilritch would swear she'd been hit, maybe more than once – she was a killer. A decisive one, not a twinge of hesitation in her. She'd kill every man here if they gave her a chance.
No chance would come off his account, that's all he knew. Up the middle point-first, that's how it would be. Kill first, count the pieces later.
The reports had started filtering in that morning. First there had been the cab driver who had mentioned to a guardsman about a disheveled woman he'd driven from Gardenford to Vine Street late on the previous afternoon. To his disgust he had later found blood all over the seat and floor of the cabin. Of course he had thought nothing of it, ignorant of the assassination, but the vigilant guardsman had reported it to Kilritch at once. When questioned about times, places and the woman's appearance – she had worn a scarf as scarlet as the Red Ring and thick as a curtain! - the cab driver had quickly corroborated his immediate suspicions.
Then came the sensational story that one of the nurses who worked in the hostels in Neverstay had been dragged off the street on her way home and forced blindfolded into a cab. According to the breathless account conveyed to him by a trainee an hour ago, the nurse had been taken to a secret location and forced to tend to a masked woman suffering a crossbow wound and various contusions inflicted by shards of glass. Though she was not mistreated, she had been tied up and blindfolded as soon as she had completed her ministrations. Incredibly she had fallen asleep and had only this morning recovered her wits sufficiently to summon help with vigorous cries.
Kilritch had been on his way to confirm her story personally when a landlady from Pepperleaf Street corralled one of his patrols in the area in a screaming panic. She had been approached that morning by a group of foreign men – precisely what nationality she had not been able to say, not being involved in “any of that sort of business”, ash she had put it. These men had been determined to gain access to her lodger, Mistress Hethezhen, who worked in the courts and was quiet and bookish. When the landlady had refused them access on account of their crude manner and persistent accents, they had thrown her bodily into the street and bolted the doors, presumably with immoral intent.
Without knowing the precise background details, it was obvious enough to Kilritch that if this bookish young miss was the assassin, who perhaps had fallen out with her accomplices, there might never be a better opportunity to corner her than this. He knew, at any rate, what the Duke's wishes would be. His Grace had made his thoughts plain as he had been bundled, with no great dignity, off to a secret location known only to the two of them. “Find her, Staff Sergeant, and bring her to me. I want her to whisper who ordered this into my ears alone.”
And now here he was, outside the door, and he found himself reluctant to order that it be kicked in. Nothing could be heard from the apartment within. According to the guardsman who had been on site since the incident, the door had been locked the entire time, nothing could be seen through any of the barred windows and not a sound had been heard. All was still.
This has to be a trap. With a wince, he nodded.“Do it.”
In his state of tense expectation, it all seemed to blur for Kilritch. There was one crack as the maul hit the metal lock plate, then another punctuated with the sharp splintering of teak. The men one either side of the door pushed at it with their elbows and when it would not give they stood side by side and shoulder charged it. The door burst off its hinges under their weight and they fell into the room. A flash of movement as something loomed over them in the door frame. Two vibrant twangs as his archers loosed bolts at the figure. Two simultaneous whacks as the missiles hit their mark. Kilritch shuffled forward, both blades presented with nervous aggression, until he found himself stopped in confused repulsion.
Alongside the scrambling doorbreakers, who were failing to find their footing due to the slippery wash of blood, three men lay in various positions that could only have been arrived at during a violent struggle. Each had been stabbed or slashed at his throat, the murder weapon lying discarded beside them. Above them, still swinging and twisting after her collision with the door, a young woman with dark hair and bulging eyes was hanging suspended from an exposed beam. Her face was white, her lips almost black. Her thumbs, tied together with fine wire behind her back, were cut almost to the bone, and the flesh beneath the rope was rubbed raw.
She had fought before she died, but that had happened long before she had stopped these two crossbow bolts.
Kilritch puffed in relief, not immediately sure how to adjust back to a normal life expectancy.
“I was wrong. Nothing about this sits right.”