The Fall of Ventaris (33 page)

Duchess should feel satisfaction, she supposed, that Manly Pete’s murderer was dead and gone, yet she felt only disquiet. She could not banish from her mind the red of his hair against the sand, the folds of his skin around his sightless eyes, and the mob of watchers before the waves, standing and whispering.
 

She shook her head to banish the image and turned her thoughts back to practical matters. Whoever was responsible for Whitehall’s murder had closed off the path Tyford had pointed out to her before she’d even taken her first step. Whatever he’d been doing with that dagger was a tale he’d tell only to Mayu. She could approach Amabilis with what Tyford had told her and hope to shock him into giving himself away, but a man who’d been Grey as long as the preceptor would be unlikely to fall for a simple bluff. She needed to know more about what Whitehall had been up to, but how?
 

By the time she had gotten back to the shop she’d come up with nothing except a headache, which was only partly due to the previous evening’s wine. Lysander said the cure for too much wine was another cup, but she had too much to think about to get drunk again. Some food was what she needed, she decided, climbing the stairs to the second floor. She could wake Jana and they’d get some breakfast. There was a woman on the docks who sold grilled fish, fresh from the harbor...

She found Jana awake and sitting cross-legged on a pillow, eyes closed and hands lying palm-up on her lap, one upon the other. Her lips were moving, and Duchess could make out words in another tongue, whispered faintly as a breeze. She spoke for a while, then sat quietly. A moment passed, and she spoke again. Uncertain what to do, Duchess slipped into the room and sat down against the wall, waiting. Jana spoke and was silent, spoke and was silent, in a strange but soothing rhythm, and Duchess felt herself relaxing, almost against her will. Finally Jana opened her eyes and smiled, evidently unsurprised to find Duchess there.
 

“Are you all right?” Duchess asked.

“Quite,” said Jana, standing and stretching as if nothing untoward had happened.

“What was that?”

“It is a tradition of my people.”

“But what
is
it?”

Jana paused, considering. “It is a litany. A listing.”

“Of what?”

The smile vanished from Jana’s face. “Of what I know.” She sighed and looked away. “And what I should fear.” She turned back to Duchess with sadness in her eyes, then opened the door and stepped lightly down the stairs.

Duchess turned to follow her, then halted in her tracks.
What I know
. Perhaps Tyford’s trail was not entirely cold. Wasn’t there at least one other person who had seen the dagger since it had been stolen from Ivan Eusbius a second time?

She sighed and followed in Jana’s wake, certain that, between her knowledge and her fear, the latter far outstripped the former.

Chapter Nineteen: Caught between colors

“Finn is more than he appears, so stay sharp,” Duchess said as she and Castor moved along Dock Street. “He can often be found at the
Harsh Mistress
at this time of day, if I
fruned
it right.” Castor shook his head slightly, and Duchess guessed he was still bemused about
fruning
. She’d tried to explain the concept to him on several occasions, but the former White was a bit too straightforward to appreciate the subtlety.
 

“And you’ve been to this
Harsh Mistress
before?” he asked, stepping around a broken wagon wheel lying on the cobbles.

She grimaced. The first and only time she’d been near the Wharves’ most famous ale house had been after her escape from the Eusbius estate. She remembered all too vividly her run-in with Sheriff Galleon, and how he’d nearly found her with the baron’s prize dagger. “Not exactly,” she evaded, deciding that Castor did not need to know all that. “But by all reports it’s a rough place. A regular hang-out for guild stevedores, when they’ve no ships to unload.”

“And Finn is one of them?”

She nodded. “Well, at least for show. Since a half-Ulari can’t get any guild seniority, he gets work less than most, which leaves him plenty of time for his other activities. Like wandering the undercity with Darley.” Castor only nodded as they arrived before the
Mistress
. No writing announced the ale-house, but on the painted sign a raven-haired woman with a thunderous expression frowned down at them. She glanced at Castor; he wore no sword but she was confident that he was nearly as deadly with the knife at his belt or even his bare hands. She pushed through the door.

Inside, the place was much the same as any tavern in the Shallows: splintery tables and chairs, burning lanterns that seemed to shed no light, the smell of sweat, piss and vomit, and shouts for ale or wine. The patrons, however, were noisier and more varied than one saw elsewhere. Here Ahé were bent over mugs of ale, and there two Domae men arm-wrestled for a small pile of half-pennies, watched by a crowd of Ulari, Rodaasi and even a few Nerrish. Most were men, large and brawny, with the look of the sea about them, and she received more than one appraising look. She normally never drew this kind of attention, but now that she had she was not sure she wanted it. She was suddenly glad Castor was by her side.

She scanned the room for a man too light to be Ulari but too dark to be Rodaasi, and soon enough she spotted him, sitting alone at a corner table. His face was long and dour, but it was the same one she’d seen below the city on that dreadful night. Gathering her courage, she motioned to Castor and they weaved their way through the room.

Finn hardly looked up as they approached. “Go away,” he said, waving at her with his mug.
 

She ignored him and took a seat across the table while Castor positioned himself behind her chair, alert and expressionless. “No interest in company, then?”

“No.” He glanced up from his cup. “You.” His surprise was obvious, but muted, most likely by whatever was in his mug. “You were there the other night, when — ”

“When last I saw you,” she finished, before he said more than was wise.
 

“And what were
you
doing there?” He glanced over at Castor. “Are you a spy for the White?”

That
guess was too close by half. “If I were, it’d be the least of your problems.”

He raised a mock toast. “And there we agree.” He finished off the dregs in a single swallow, then banged his tankard on the table, calling for more.

Duchess waited until the server had come and gone. “How long have you been working with Darley?”

He picked up his mug again but did not drink. It looked for a long moment as if he would not say anything, then he shrugged. “Since last winter. She heard that I’m the one who knows people in the lower districts. I know how to sell things quietly, without raising any imperial eyebrows.” He glanced again at Castor.

“Like the kind of things one might find beneath the city.”

He shrugged. “She’d read things in her father’s papers about artifacts just lying about, free to any taker. Sounded too good to be true.” He grimaced. “It was. We didn’t find very much: bits of jewelry, an old coin or two – “

“And a dagger,” Duchess said.

Finn eyed her, but to his credit did not ask how she’d known. “And a dagger. Not the kind of thing you can sell to just anyone, but there are some people who’ll pay for old things just
because
they’re old.”

“Ivan Gallius was one of those people.” Finn nodded blearily, but she felt no satisfaction, not where that dagger was concerned. For a long time she’d thought about what happened under the city, how those old bones had come to life when Darley had cut herself. Just as Duchess’ blood had made that bone dance for Keeper Jadis. There was no way to prove it, of course, but she did not doubt her guess. After all, they’d all touched the Key of Mayu, hadn’t they? The blade had lain under the city since the gods only knew, but given the symbol upon the hilt, the snake devouring itself, she guessed it was older than Rodaas. One of the treasures the Domae had left behind? A weapon of He Who Devours? Or was it, as Jadis seemed to think, truly of the goddess of death and justice? “But you told Darley you made money from that dagger twice. The first time you sold it to King Ivan. Who was the second buyer?”

“And now you’re guessing,” he said, taking another long drink.

She sighed. There was always blackmail, but that would leave him bitter and possibly vengeful. There had to be some other way. She watched Finn for a long moment, thinking. He was drinking heavily. It might have been over his argument with Darley, or the horror in the tunnels, but his mood seemed neither angry, nor scared. There was a resignation to it, a certain fatalism...

She blinked. Then she called over the server and got Finn another drink, and one for herself. She glanced over at Castor, who shook his head.

Finn looked at the offered drink suspiciously, but took it nonetheless and drank deeply.

Duchess lifted her own mug. “So you’ve heard about Adam Whitehall, then.” He said nothing, but the look in his eyes told her he had not only heard but was
very
interested in finding out more. She was still guessing, but she was close. Tyford’s rumor had linked Whitehall with the weapon. Finn had made money on it a second time. And now Whitehall was dead. “The story is that one of the boys he killed had a father or a brother who finally caught up with him.” She toyed with her mug. “I saw him, you know, after. It could not have been an easy death.” Finn did not look at her, but as he raised his mug for another drink she saw fear flicker across his face.
 

So that was the way of it. “But you don’t believe that, do you?” she said quietly, “It was odd that Whitehall should be in the Wharves, where one rarely hears of radiants wandering alone. He wasn’t even wearing his whites, which come to think of it is even odder.” She sipped her own ale and regretted it. The stuff was half water, if she were any judge, and she wondered how many mugs Finn had had to consume to get drunk from it. “Whoever killed him was bold, to risk waking the wrath of the Halls of Dawn. Perhaps there was no risk at all. Perhaps someone told Whitehall’s killer where the poor lad would be that night, all alone and without his radiant’s robes.” She left off, watching Finn carefully.
 

“As you said,” he muttered in reply between gulps, “a spy for the White would be the least of my problems.”

She leaned forward. “Because the preceptor is cleaning up after himself, isn’t he?” Finn hesitated, then nodded. “This time he used some grieving father or brother, but next time it might be the Brutes, or maybe even the Red.” His gaze flicked up to meet hers, full of desperate calculation. Whatever he had to tell her was near the surface, she sensed, and she had only to reach under.
 

“I think we can help each other, Finn,” she said. “We share a common enemy, you and I.” He watched her, wordless. “I know Whitehall had the dagger, and either you gave it to him or he gave it to you. Either way, I need to know more. If you can tell me, I can protect you from Preceptor Amabilis.”

He shook his head. “You’ll protect
me
from the preceptor? Who’ll protect
you
?”
 

She shrugged. “Oh, Castor looks after me well enough, and I’m more formidable than I appear. Just ask Baron Eusbius.” Something dawned in Finn’s ale-reddened eyes. “That’s right,” she whispered. “My name is Duchess, and I know more about that dagger than most.”
 

Finn looked at her for a long while, and on his face Duchess could see his desire to believe warring with his suspicion. Desire won out. “I didn’t
sell
the dagger to anyone. I delivered it to someone.” At her gesture, he went on. “Whitehall said he needed it taken down to a man in the Narrows. Someone named Morel.”

She tapped the table, considering. The Narrows were the worst part of the Deeps, where no sane person went, so it was little surprise Duchess had never heard of him. “Who is he?”

“A keeper, I think, or at least he wears the black robes. He runs a little group down there, a few dozen strong.” He smiled mirthlessly. “They’re trying to grow their own little garden, if you can believe it.”
 

She exchanged a look with Castor. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could eke out a living in the Narrows without being murdered by Deeps gangs, nor why anyone would bother to try. There were other areas of the city far more hospitable. And this news about Morel was just as interesting. Hadn’t Lysander told her something about some kind of splinter sect that had broken with the Gardens of Mayu?

“You said something about being paid twice for the dagger,” she said, turning back to the matter at hand. “That was Whitehall, yes? He paid you to take the dagger to Morel?” He nodded gravely. “But there’s something else, something Amabilis is trying to cover up.”

Finn looked down at the scarred and ale-stained surface of the table. “The dagger...wasn’t the first weapon I took into the Deeps.”

As he went on, she realized that not only had she found what she needed to pressure Amabilis, she knew precisely the man that could save Finn’s life.

*
 
*
 
*

Duchess watched the light that played along the length of the Delaying Glass. The Glass remembered, it was said, and she wondered just when this particular glow had first descended into the great crystal’s milky depths. This morning, when the sky ports were last open? Last year, when she was a bread girl and the Grey only a fable? Or centuries before, when the Domae had called the great hill their home? She looked around at the few other worshipers — an old woman carrying a wicker basket; a large man, cloaked and hooded; a trio of well-born women only slightly older than she — but if any of them had the answer it did not show on their faces. Not that it mattered, today.
 

The mysteries were not due to start for another few hours, but this time she had purposely arrived early. Only a few radiants were present, sweeping the marble floor or tending to the great gilded lanterns set about the Halls of Dawn, but she only needed one to carry her message to Preceptor Amabilis. As she faced the Glass, she heard slow footsteps coming up behind and knew that the senior radiant had received it.