The Fall of Ventaris (25 page)

Pain blazed suddenly along Duchess’ ribs, snapping her out of her trance. She whirled to see a skeleton upon her, one hand dripping with her blood. She fell to her knees, crying out. And then her dagger was in her hand and her feet back beneath her.

Acting purely on instinct she slashed, scoring a hit across the creature’s throat. The blow would have left a living man choking on his own blood, but this thing had no veins to sever. Her blade grated uselessly against bone, and she only barely avoided the counterstrike that would have scraped off half her face. She skittered back, desperate, wondering how in Mayu’s name she could kill something that was already dead. Then she remembered what Castor had said about the torch, and she poked out with the fiery brand, praying to whatever gods were listening that even the undead feared fire.
 

The gods heard, and the skeleton staggered backwards, away from the flames. Encouraged, she swung the torch in a wide arc, driving the thing back with a scrape of bony feet against stone. Again she swung and again the thing gave ground. It tried to skitter around to her left but she kept the fire between them. Her reach with the torch was longer, but the thing was quick, and if it got too close...

This dance seemed to go on forever, and Duchess’ world became the flutter of flames, the click of bones, and the play of shadows and light across the inscrutable face of the deathless thing. The clashing of steel against bone from the battle behind her seemed far away. With no better idea she pressed forward, reasoning that if the creature were backed against the wall it would lose some of its mobility. She poked out here and thrust there, and the skeleton retreated, step by lifeless step. Once she moved too quickly and nearly got a slash across the face for her trouble, but finally she had the thing pinned against the stone. When it slid right, she moved the torch to intercept, and when it danced to the left she blocked it there as well.
 

She was just wondering if she could burn bones when she heard Castor behind her. “Duck,” he said calmly, as if commenting on the weather. Without hesitation she crouched, and Castor’s blade whistled cleanly through the space she had vacated. One swing severed the creature’s skull; the second shattered its ribcage and severed its spine. The skeleton fell to the floor in three pieces, and Duchess saw that its hands still clutched and grasped blindly. She backed away hurriedly before they could grab her.

By the light of her torch she saw that the corridor was now littered with shattered bones: a cracked skull here, a ruined ribcage there, and more severed limbs than she could count. Several of them still turned and clutched at the air, and she shuddered and looked away. Castor had not been idle, and she realized that if she had been alone down here, the undead things would have swarmed around and torn her quickly to pieces. She didn’t know what had happened to Darley and Finn and in that moment she didn’t care.
 

“You’re bleeding,” he said, and she was suddenly aware of the pain in her side where the creature had mauled her. The shirt under her jerkin was warm and wet, but there was no time to tend the wound, not in this place of horror.

“Let’s get out of here before more come,” she gasped, trying to slide her dagger back into its sheath. She missed, and the blade clattered to the floor. She bent to retrieve it and the world spun around her. The torch slipped from her other hand and the floor rushed up to meet her. She was dimly aware of Castor pulling at her clothing, trying to open her jerkin, and she remembered faintly that she had seen him naked, long ago, so perhaps it was only fair he do the same. That should have been funny but it wasn’t. Lysander would have come up with something better, she thought hazily, and she clung to the thought of him and rode it back to the stone chamber where Castor crouched over her, concern clear on his features.
 

She clutched at him as if to keep herself from slipping away once more. “Lysander,” she gasped. “In the Shallows.” She could feel wetness against her skin but the pain was fading along with everything else. “Near the Vermillion...Lysander...he knows...”

And then the darkness swallowed her, the bones, the tunnel, and all the world. And oh, she was so glad of it.

Chapter Fifteen: Practical matters

The first thing she thought was that Lysander was taking far too long with the mask. How long had she been lying beside the fire, waiting for the clay to dry? And even with the heat from the hearth she was far too cold for a summer day. There were voices, too, murmuring back and forth through a haze. Darley and Finn, she thought blearily, but no, both were male. The thought of Darley brought everything back: the tunnels, the bones, the screams, and the fleshless foes beneath the city. She bolted upright, feeling pain at the sudden motion, clawing for her dagger, but found only nakedness under the blanket from Lysander’s bed.

Lysander was there, brow furrowed. “Stay still,” he said, his hands easing her back to the bed. More pain. “I patched up that wound of yours, but let’s not reopen it.” She felt along her side where the skeleton had slashed her and found tightly wrapped cloth. She was in the garret, in the Shallows, and Lysander had taken care of her, she thought, shaky with relief. As always.
 

“It was a nasty wound,” came another voice from across the room, and she looked to see Castor standing near the window, which shone with morning light. “But it’s been patched up well enough.”

“It’s not exactly the first time I’ve handled a bandage,” Lysander replied shortly, giving the former White a long look. “We can get Midwife Marna to check for infection later. But what I’d still like to know,” he went on in a tone sharp with suspicion, “is just how you came by this
nasty wound.
I tried getting it out of this one, but he said I should ask you.” Castor did not reply, but his eyes flicked to hers, and she read the question clearly enough.

She tried to smile. “You’re right, of course. You two haven’t been introduced. Lysander, this is Castor, who is new to my service.” Lysander’s look went from suspicion to surprise as he realized just who Castor was. “Do you have wine? I can’t tell this story sober.” Part of her lectured that she’d caused Lysander enough trouble, but she knew that the days of keeping secrets from him were over.

Lysander rummaged around for a bottle. “Stephan bribed me with this a few nights ago, when he wanted me to—”
 
he broke off, glancing uneasily at Castor. He poured them each a cup and then, after a moment, one for Castor. The soldier took it without a word and sipped.

After half a cup she felt strong enough to recount the trek through the tunnels, and Darley and Finn, and the living dead and their attack. After the other half, her hands no longer trembled as she spoke. She was glad Castor was there for the telling, for otherwise she would have sounded like a madwoman. Every detail of that dreadful encounter was impressed luridly on her memory: the sound of the bones scraping across stone, the eyeless gaze of a skull, the fiery slash of a bony claw tearing at her flesh. In the light of day she still felt dazed, uncertain that such things had actually occurred. The city was full of stories about magic and monsters, but no one believed them as anything more than tales to tell around a fire.

Now she knew better.

When she was finished, Castor was as stone-faced as ever, but Lysander was pale and pensive. “What am I supposed to say to that?” he said at last. “I can just see me at Lady Vorloi’s next party. ‘Did you know the city’s built on a pile of the living dead? Pass the wine.’”

“No,” Castor said, surprising them both. “At least it wasn’t before.”

Duchess struggled against wine and pain, remembering Tyford’s tale of the Whites guarding the imperial prisons. “Of course you would know. You’d been there before.”

Castor hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “The empress and the council have been digging there for years, off and on, and so I got down there myself a few times. The area’s normally off-limits, by imperial decree.”

But not off limits to the likes of Savant Terence. After all, someone had to map the known portions of the tunnels. Duchess thought of the diagrams she’d found in the scholar’s study, drawings of gears and pulleys and scaffolding. “And this Ossuary Darley mentioned?”

Castor shrugged. “Never been there, or even heard it called that. We only ever referred to it as
the Pit
.” She’d never seen the place, but the name nonetheless sent a shudder along her spine. She held out her cup.
 

Lysander laughed as he filled it. “We’re all true Rodaasi here, aren’t we,” he muttered. She looked at him, confused. “Practical to the bone,” he said by way of explanation. “We’re faithful when we stand in the temples. We follow the cults when required. But we only
believe
what we see. The wonders and the miracles have always been in the past, from what I knew, yet you two are here telling me you’ve seen otherwise.” He filled his own cup.

Castor had no answer. Nor did she.

She drained her cup. “Speaking of practical matters...” She gestured to Castor. “How did you end up getting me down here from halfway up the hill?”

He shrugged. “Getting you back to the surface was easy, but after that...I came upon a craftsman making a late-night delivery, and convinced him to lend me his barrow and his cloak, both of which fit you well enough.”

“And the guards just let you dance out of Scholars District without a word, is that it?”

Castor returned a bland expression. “I don’t wear the same armor, but there are a few people in this city who still know my name.” He set down his empty cup with a click. “Once I got to Bell Plaza I dropped a penny on a lightboy and asked about you.” He looked at Lysander. “You know the rest.”

He was hardly telling the whole story, but she decided she did not care to press him. However he’d gotten her to the garret, she was there, and only somewhat worse for wear. Getting Castor out of prison had been risky, but she saw now that leaving him there would have been fatal. She might now be lying deep under the city, as dead and buried as any.

“You have my thanks,” Duchess said, to bring the matter to a close. “I’ll need you again in a few days, but we can discuss that later. In the meantime, I have to see Midwife Marna to make sure I’m not going to die of infection, and then I have a lesson to schedule.”

If Castor was intrigued by her last remark he showed no sign. He merely stood, nodded to her and Lysander each in turn, then took his leave.
 

“You’ve got him well-trained,” Lysander remarked as Castor’s footsteps sounded woodenly on the stairs outside.

“He came that way,” Duchess said, gingerly feeling her side. “Think I’ll have a scar?”

He smiled ruefully. “Is the empress old? You’ll be showing that to your grandchilden, assuming you live long enough to actually have any.” He meant the remark lightly, but she found herself shuddering in delayed reaction to the horror of the previous night. She had looked into the faces of the dead, and they had looked back and seen her. What power had brought them to life? How could she ever feel safe in the city again? She covered her face with her hands and Lysander was there, holding her close as she shivered tearlessly. They stayed that way a long time, as the fire crackled and the bustle of the Shallows came through the open window.
 

When they parted, she felt steadier but he looked more shaken than before, as if her anxiety had somehow transferred itself through the embrace. He looked into the fire for a long moment. “The last time you were under the city you had a scare, and now...do you think this has anything to do with...?”

He did not say the name, but she knew anyway. He Who Devours. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I can’t even think about it, not now.” She tried on a smile. “Let’s just say that I won’t be venturing below ground again any time soon, unless it’s to a wine cellar.”

Lysander stood. “We’d better get you around to Marna, and then you need food. You lost a good deal of blood, and they say meat is the best cure.” He hunted through his clothing. “Your breeches are fine, but that tunic was torn to shreds. I’ll find you one of mine.”
 

As she watched him scout for a shirt, she thought how strange the world seemed in the morning light. The real had become ethereal, the solid uncertain. She felt untethered. Worries that had churned her stomach not twelve bells ago suddenly seemed very small, indeed.
 

Lysander dressed her in the cleanest of what he could find, then helped her down the stairs. They stepped into Bell Plaza, slipping amongst the ghostly figures moving through the morning mist, heading for Market and the promise of healing. As they did, she wondered if perhaps the horrors of the night before had been worth it. After all, they’d taught her a truth far deeper than the simple mundanity of Darley’s secrets. She’d learned there were things in Rodaas far worse than the mere threat of violence and the promise of death.
 

Minette, she thought, would be pleased that Duchess somehow drew comfort from that.

*
 
*
 
*

The
Grieving Bier
was much the same as ever. It was she who had changed. Julius — hells, even Antony — seemed far less frightening than the things she’d seen in the last few days. She hoped her newfound bravery and Tyford’s lessons would be enough to see her through.

She slipped into the back room of the
Bier
to find the man and his dice game, both as lively as ever. Julius did not seem to notice her, nor did the dealer nor the large, beefy gentleman who watched the crowd with a gimlet eye. Duchess found a place to sit in the shadows and did the same, her latest lessons foremost in her mind. Bets were placed but before the dealer could roll the dice Julius raised a mug of ale to the previous round’s winner. There was an artful pretense to the act, much like when he’d snapped his fingers at her the last time. The players followed suit with a cheer, lifting their own drinks, but Duchess kept her eyes on the table. As she watched, the dealer picked up the dice and with a slight, nearly imperceptible motion, slipped them up his sleeve. They were swiftly replaced with another, identical, pair. She nodded. Duplicate sets of dice, no doubt weighted to produce different results. The dealer brought out one set whenever he felt a player needed a win, and then quietly replaced them with another when it was time to favor the house. In fact, he might have several pair of dice hidden away, each set to produce whatever result was required. Which explained Antony’s sudden run of bad luck.