Irritated, I considered going back out to the boat, but that seemed like a waste of a good evening. I was already here; might as well make it worth the trip. I stuck the handle of my mask into my bodice and set off across the club, looking for spoils.
Cartouche seemed to be the domain of Tiboran, run wild. There was a play — I saw performers onstage, looking vaguely put upon — but nobody was paying it any mind. An amorous couple had shifted from their seats to the edge of the stage, where they were in danger of interrupting a dice game between a young nob and an obvious confidence sneak with a deep-bosomed accomplice. I plucked a few gold marks and an uneaten meat pie from a fat man in red, mulling over what Koya had — or hadn’t — told me. None of it mattered anymore, but I couldn’t shake the image of Durrel and Koya in that potioner’s shop together.
As I crossed the crowded common room, a scene in a far corner, away from the bar and near a back exit, caught my eye. A dark-haired beauty leaned over a table, speaking urgently to a pair of young, daft-looking boys in conspicuously expensive clothes. She moved subtly, lifting a hand to shift aside her hair, and I saw deep, smoldering eyes, a smudge of bruise on her cheek, cut by a tear — and a tattoo on the inside of her wrist, half hidden by her sleeve.
Oh, yes. Celys had built this one precisely to be impossible for Durrel to resist.
I shoved my way through the cluster of bodies and dropped down into an empty seat beside her. “Well met, Fei,” I said cheerfully. She stared daggers at me, and one of the pretty boys at the table said, “Hey!”
I took a swig of his wine. “So I hear you’ve been pretending to be a Sarist refugee. That’s beneath even you, Fei.”
The boys looked confused. One of them said, “Do you know this person?” as his companion choked out, “Pretending?”
“Go away, Digger, I’m in the middle of something,” Fei said, but she knew she was blown, and when the boys packed themselves and their drinks (and their purses) up to leave, she barely looked at them. “Haven’t seen you around in a while. How did you find me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“This doesn’t really seem like your sort of place,” she said. There was an insult in there, but it could be one of so many that I just ignored it. Fei’s accent was real, but nobody was quite sure from where — Talancan, Vareni, hells, maybe even Tigas with that coloring. It suited her to give a different birthplace any time she needed one. We’d done a couple of jobs together, back in Tegen’s day, and we hadn’t liked each other much then either. I wasn’t surprised to see her in a place like this, running this kind of scam.
“You took a friend of mine for five hundred crowns,” I said. “If the Greenmen hadn’t caught you, he’d still be waiting to hear from you and your ‘father,’ safe in Talanca.”
“Oh, him,” she said, a languid smile spreading across her face. “I thought he was nice. Very . . . noble.”
“He’s a big dumb puppy; he’ll follow anything that wags its tail at him.”
“Well, not just anything,” she said. “I see you’re alone. Did you really come here to tell me to keep my hands off your boy? Again?”
“I think you mean your talons, don’t you?”
Her eyes narrowed, and she pushed away from the table, but I put out an arm and blocked her path. “A friendly warning, that’s all this is. Find another line of work.” I didn’t quibble about the money; chances were she really did need it a lot more than Durrel. But still. There were principles.
“Let me go.” Her voice was thin and tense, but I didn’t budge.
“You’re lucky the Greenmen let you off,” I said quietly. “I hope you realize that.”
Fei tried a different tactic. “Maybe I should speak to them. Maybe they’d be interested to know about a man who paid so much money to help a Sarist. That might be profitable too.”
“Maybe, but you’re a little late,” I said. “Or hadn’t you heard he’s in jail already?”
When she didn’t snap back with a catty reply, I frowned at her. She wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Fei? What do you know?”
“Hist! Do you have to be so loud about everything?”
In fact, my voice had been so low it was a wonder she’d heard me. But I hid my surprise and dug one of the fat nob’s coins from my dress. After five hundred crowns, you wouldn’t think a mark would be that tempting, but Fei was a magpie, attracted to anything that shone gold. “You know something about the murder? Tell me now.”
She shook her head, and the dark curtain of hair swirled around her face. “Nothing — just. There’s a guy, I’ve seen him around Temple Street sometimes. Big. Scary. One night I was working the Bat, where I met your friend, and I heard him brag about doing some nobleman’s wife. At the time everyone thought he meant — well, you know. Not that he’d killed her.” She gave a shiver. “But afterward, when we heard about Talth Ceid? I don’t know. It could have been true.”
“What guy? What’s his name?” Fei shrugged; she really didn’t know any more. With a sigh, I pulled out another coin. “If you see him again, or you hear anything else, let me know, all right? I’m staying at a bakery on Bargewater Street.” She looked sullen, and I kept my fingers wrapped around the gold. “Do I have to remind you about that Copper Street job?”
I saw her color deepen, and she gave a single unhappy nod. “Fine.”
“Your boys are up at the bar,” I told her, rising to leave. “If you hurry, you can probably still catch them. I’m sure you can figure out another way to get them to buy you dinner.”
She was still glaring at me as I left her there. I knew there was no reason to believe anything she’d told me; Tiboran’s influence was strong here, and that smoke-eyed sneak was clearly a favorite of his. But the look of alarm on Fei’s face when I’d brought up Talth’s death had seemed genuine. She also had nothing to gain by fingering someone else for the murder, so maybe she was telling the truth after all.
I sat at the Cartouche bar a long time, staring into a drink I didn’t want and trying to make sense of things. I’d convinced myself that Durrel and Koya were guilty, but Koya’s vague explanations and Fei’s story threw everything apart again. What was I supposed to do now? Camp out in the bars of Temple Street, waiting for “some guy” to show up and start bragging about killing noblewomen again?
After a while, a footman in pink Cartouche livery approached me. “Mistress Koya wants you,” he said. I followed, not particularly eagerly, until he deposited me at the door of a low room, dimly lit and filled with various types of smoke. I spotted Koya in the shadows, her golden hair practically the only bright thing in the room, her dress of night-dark silk making her look as radiant as the moons.
Or possibly that was the flush of wine on her cheeks.
She waved when she saw me. “Darling Celyn!” she called, and the tide of bodies shifted me over to her. Her eyes were wide, her pupils big and dark as she drew me closer. “Where’s your young man?” she asked me, sounding almost comically disappointed.
I just shrugged and said, “Where’s yours?”
She gave a merry laugh and fluttered her fingers behind her, where a familiar figure had fallen asleep on the floor beside her cushioned bench. He was missing his doublet and one of his boots. “But wait until you see who I have for you!” she said. “Keep your mask on; you’re far more intriguing that way.”
She clapped her hands, and her retinue parted, and someone gave a gentle nudge forward to a young man — a boy, really — who looked about as happy to be here as I was. He had a shock of dark brown hair that hung over his pale face, and he wore an ill-fitting slashed doublet, too big around but too short in the sleeves. He stumbled forward and took my hand.
“Good evening, mistress,” he mumbled. With a surge of sympathy, I tried to draw my hand away, but he held fast to me, as if afraid to let go.
I tugged again. “I won’t hurt you,” I said, frowning through the cutout eyes of my mask.
“I
know,” he said, his eyes darting nervously to Koya, but his hold on me never let up.
Whatever this was, I’d had enough. I marched firmly up to Koya and held out my hand — the one still clutched firmly in the boy’s death grip. “I don’t think your friend and I will hit it off, after all,” I said. “I’m ready to leave.”
She was watching me, her expression unreadable. Finally she gave a sigh of utter boredom. “Oh, all right. Vorin, why don’t you take our boy back to his room. Sweetling, you can let poor Celyn go now.” She shook off the young men surrounding her, and, taking my arm, tottered off toward a bench tucked privately in the corner. I rubbed at my hand, which still tingled from the force of that boy’s grip. She settled herself down like a bird adjusting its plumage, and then abruptly said, in a much-too-loud voice, “Is it true you can see magic?”
It took all my control not to start, not to stare, not to blink — not to move a single muscle in my face. “Where did you hear that?”
She gave me a patient smile I recognized — the one that said, We’re the Ceid; we know everything. But I thought my question actually had a different answer: Durrel. He’d probably thought it safe to tell her, once, assuming she and I would never cross paths. I tried to hand the mask back. “I’m tired, Koya. I’ve had enough of your . . . entertainment for one evening.”
“Show me! Is there any magic in this room?”
“Koya!”
She grabbed me by the skirts and pulled me down beside her. “Is there any magic in this room?” she asked again. Her voice was playful, teasing, and insistent.
With a sigh, I gave the room a cursory glance. “No. I don’t see anything.”
“Good!” she said gleefully, and I stared at her.
“Why good?” Sweet Tiboran — was I reasoning with a drunk?
“Because there’s a Greenman here!”
“What?” I was on my feet again and ready to flee, but Koya pushed me back.
“Sit down. He’ll see you!” But she didn’t sound overly concerned. I turned in the direction she was looking to see Raffin, still in uniform, coming our way. Strange that that sight should be any kind of a relief, but I sent up a hasty prayer of thanks to every god in the heavens.
“Mistresses Koyuz, Celyn, good evening.” There was the Raffin I remembered — the smooth, handsome gentleman. He bowed low to both of us and held out his hand to Koya, which she kissed with exaggerated delicacy.
“Have you come to play with us, you pretty boy?” She flung her arms around his neck, dragging him down to the bench almost on top of her.
Raffin gently disentangled himself. He was a little flushed, but still more sober than Koya. “Maybe I ought to take you home,” he said, looking closely at her too-wide eyes. “Will you allow me to escort you back to your boat?”
For a moment Koya looked almost belligerent, but Raffin at his smoothest was difficult for even a woman with her head about her to resist. Finally, beaming, she rose and slipped under his arm. Raffin caught her around the waist and steered her toward the stairs. “Celyn, you should probably go too.”
Almost dizzy with relief, I stood up and nodded. “Thank the gods.”
I was so grateful to get out of there that I almost didn’t bother nicking the doorman’s diamond stickpin on my way out.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I slept late and rose later, in a dull and perplexed mood. I tried to shake off (and scrub off) the last residue of my evening at Cartouche, but my thoughts weren’t so easy to cleanse. First Raffin with his tale of dead girls in Tratua; then Koya with her poison; and now Fei’s story on top of it all. From now on, I’d just have to be smarter and avoid Durrel’s friends altogether. A niggling little voice whispered that Lord Durrel was running out of friends by the day, but I ignored it.
It was a hot, heavy day that threatened rain but wouldn’t deliver. Grea’s customers were increasingly unruly, with their grumbled complaints about the price and quality of her goods. She bore it with a steady patience, but I didn’t like the look of some of them, so I lurked about, wiping tables and sweeping, just in case something happened.
And, of course, something happened.
After the noon bells, when the midday crowds started thinning out, I saw a green shadow darken the open Bargewater Street door, and glanced up to see — pox. Raffin.
“Come to strong-arm me into seeing Durrel again?” He didn’t answer. His face looked odd, troubled, and abruptly I understood that something was very, very wrong. “Raffin?” I said, alarmed. “Is it Durrel?”
He stepped inside, but wouldn’t look at me. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. I was about to ask what for, but I didn’t get the chance. Behind him followed two more green-clad guards, their nightsticks held aloft as if expecting the bakery folk to attack. And behind the Greenmen — I sank against a chair.
It was Werne.
They swept into the bakery, silence falling around them. There were five guards besides Raffin, making His Grace’s party number the sacred seven, as always. The Greenmen swiftly cleared the common room, as Aunt Grea observed silently from the kitchen. There was no question why they’d come, let alone of gainsaying them.
“Wait for me outside,” Werne said to his men. One of the Greenmen protested, but Werne flicked his hand toward the doorway, not looking, and they reluctantly filed out. The Lord High Inquisitor stood before me, hands tucked into his heavy green sleeves, studying me. I wouldn’t let myself look away.
“Sister, I rejoice in the Goddess’s providence that has led me here to you today.”
When I didn’t answer, he seemed at a loss for what to do next, besides stand there and scrutinize me. He was unchanged from when I’d seen him months ago; still the same slight build, my dark eyes and hair, his brow creased in a look of perpetual disapproval. What was it now, I wondered — the cut on my cheek? The flour on my skirt? Some failing only he could discern?
And then, praise Tiboran, there was Aunt Grea. “Will Your Grace take refreshment?” She held a steaming small loaf of dark bread and a mug of ale — peasant food, no doubt an unforgivable insult to the Goddess’s servant. Without waiting for his answer, she set the food down on a table and drew a chair around for him. Werne seemed almost relieved to take it, to thank Grea and give her the customary blessing.
“I’m afraid it’s only rye,” she said humbly. “Your Grace deserves better, but with the grain shortages . . .”
“It is a worthy offering,” he said, but I saw the twist of his lip as he broke the bread to find it coarse and brown. Bowing her head, Grea backed off, but only as far as the kitchen. Annoyance flashed in Werne’s eyes, but there was no way that the Inquisitor could quibble with a woman baking bread in his presence. The work itself was Mend-kaal’s province, but grain and flour were sacred to Celys.
“Sister.” His voice broke into my thoughts, and I snapped my gaze to his sweating face. “Surely you know why I’ve come.”
I said nothing; I had nothing to say to him. Last winter he had quit my presence in disgust, pleading time to pray for guidance on what to do with me. He’d claimed he thought I was dead, and it was possible — but he’d also denied any connection to me when I made my own allegiance, to Prince Wierolf and the Sarists, plain. Raffin had told me the Inquisitor was still debating; had he come to some conclusion about me, then?
“I am here because the Goddess rejoices in your return to her,” Werne said. “Thought dead for so long, only to be restored to life by her mercy.”
“I think Celys knew I was alive all along.”
Werne ignored that. “The Goddess has revealed to me her purpose for you, and it is wondrous. She has called you back so that you may resume your work in her holy name.”
A chill formed at the base of my spine. I didn’t know what he meant, but I was sure I wouldn’t like it. Werne leaned closer in his chair, his small hands reaching toward me. They looked like mine, and I curled my fingers into fists beneath my skirts. “You belong by my side at the
Celystra. Come and take up your rightful place in your home.”
“My rightful place?” I edged to the front of my seat, tense. “They were getting ready to bleed me when I ran away. Or don’t you remember?”
A shadow passed briefly over Werne’s face. “What was once feared an abomination has been revealed to be a gift,” he said. “Return to the Goddess’s holy bosom, receive her blessing and her sacraments, and consecrate your gift to your Sacred Mother, that she may arm you, as one of her Holy Arrows, to strike down the unrighteous.”
The chill turned my backbone to ice as I realized exactly what he wanted from me. “Get out.” It was barely a whisper, but it carried. Like a Holy Arrow.
Werne the Bloodletter rose and took a step toward me, arms outstretched. “Sister —”
“Don’t touch me!” I sounded shrill. “ ‘Unclean,’ ” I said, moving closer, one hand lifted toward him. At that moment I would have loved to see a flicker of silver from my fingertips. “ ‘An abomination.’ Those were their words. Those were your words, Werne.”
He opened his hands. “Forgive us. The imperfection of men — we misread the Goddess’s gift — we did not see the holy and righteous path she had laid before you! We did not know that she had given you vision to see, so that you could seek out and strike down her enemies.”
“You told me I would burn.” My words made him flinch, just that much.
“Forgive me.”
“No.” I don’t know where the fire came from, but it seared away the chill. “No. I didn’t burn. I didn’t die. I don’t forgive you — not you, not the Confessors, not the entire cursed Celystra.” I stood up. “And I will never — understand me: never — use my skill to hunt Sarists for you.”
“We can compel your return.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
Werne smiled, smooth as satin. “Not for yourself, no,” he said. “But there are those you care for.” His eyes slid past me, to where Grea watched us silently. “I think you will not hold out forever. These are dark days, and people should be among family. You’ll make your way home soon enough.” He rose in a composed swirl of green robes, and glided out of the bakery. I watched him leave, my fingernails biting into my palms as I squeezed my hands into fists.