The Virtu (65 page)

:I most certainly can.:

“They will recognize you. And once that happens, you’re doomed, I’m doomed, Mildmay’s doomed. And most likely the Mirador is doomed as well.”

He glared at me, but he couldn’t deny that what I said was true.

“I can’t go to the Curia,” I said, painfully spelling it out for both of us, “because they won’t believe me. And if they do, they won’t trust me. Especially since I didn’t tell them about Malkar and Vey in the first place.” I bared my teeth at him, not in a smile. “A course of action I regret.”

:But you have friends. Surely—:

“Who would you suggest?,” I said, vicious with my fear for Mildmay. “Thaddeus?”

:No,: Gideon said.
:Not
Thaddeus.:

“And my other friends… I was mad, and then I was gone, and now that I’m back, they don’t quite know what to do with me. I can’t ask it of them. Not now. And that leaves Mavortian.”

:Yes,: Gideon said, his mouth thinning. :Mavortian.:

“And thus I need you to tell me what he did.”

:You admit you don’t remember?:

“Yes, damn it. Is that what you need to hear?. I don’t remember what Mavortian von Heber did to you.”

:Very well,: Gideon said. :The short version is that he blackmailed me. The longer version is that, if it were not for him, I would still have my tongue.:

“Oh,” I said, almost voicelessly.

:You had had a dream,: he said, dispassionate now, as if recounting the events of a romance he had read. :You couldn’t explain it, but you said you had to go east. Across Kekropia. And Mildmay said he would go with you. You weren’t coherent enough to be argued with, and nothing I could say, or Mavortian could say, would budge Mildmay in the slightest. He said he’d promised you, and as far as he was concerned, that was that.:

“Is there a way to tell this story that doesn’t increase my feelings of guilt?”

:Probably not. Once Mavortian realized he couldn’t change Mildmay’s mind, he decided we would
all
go.:

“Why in the world… ?”

:Beaumont Livy. You were his key to Beaumont Livy, and he wasn’t about to let you out of his sight. He insisted I come, too, although I am not in retrospect certain whether it was for his stated reason—to protect you from being detected by the Bastion’s warding spells—or merely because he did not trust me not to betray you. And when I said I would not go, for I thought then and think now that it was an insane and suicidal thing to do, he blackmailed me by threatening to have Bernard take me to the nearest town and tell them I was a Eusebian. And as he very kindly pointed out, once we were in Kekropia, it would be even easier to denounce me to the Eusebians as an apostate.:

:I didn’t know,: I said, mind to mind, desperately. :I swear to you, I didn’t remember. I still don’t.:

:I know that. I knew it during that horrible argument. If you’d remembered—:

“If I’d remembered, I wouldn’t have been talking to Mavortian von Heber at all.”

Gideon made no answer, one eyebrow rising in eloquent skepticism. I blushed and was unable to meet his eyes.

After a moment, he took pity on me and said, :Be that as it may, the question, as you said, is what you are going to do now. Do you still think Messire von Heber a suitable ally?:

He expected me to say no. I wanted to say no. But the sending was still raw and vivid in my head: the welts on Mildmay’s back and thighs, the swollen mess of the left side of his face, the dried blood around his nose and mouth. The way he shivered. “I’m afraid it’s hard to think of anyone
more
suitable.” I felt Gideon stiffen and said, almost apologetically, “We want the same thing.”

:You want Malkar Gennadion to die horribly? To the exclusion of all other desires?:

“I didn’t say we wanted it in the same way. But—”

:You needn’t go on. I understand. But do you really think this is the way to help your brother?:

“If nothing else, Mavortian will distract Malkar. Even if he isn’t successful. Malkar loves to gloat.” I couldn’t hide the shudder that wrenched through me, and Gideon’s arms tightened comfortingly.

He said, :Your ruthlessness, in this instance, actually pleases me. But you have to have someone who knows the Bastion. It’s every bit as labyrinthine as the Mirador.:

The word struck an echo in my mind. I remembered sitting with Mehitabel in the labyrinth beneath Klepsydra, remembered her saying,
I worked in the Bastion for a time
.

“I have someone who knows the Bastion,” I said. “And I think she’ll be happy to help.”

“You must be mad,” said Mehitabel Parr.

“Mehitabel—”

“No!” She had risen to pace somewhere in the middle of my explanation, and now she whirled to face me. “Look. I’m as sorry as anyone about Mildmay, and I’m glad you want to help him. I really am. But what you’re asking…”

“Would you prefer I took Gideon? He’s already volunteered.”

“Oh, God, no.” From her expression, she knew what the Bastion did to wizards who tried to run.

“Mehitabel, I need someone who knows the Bastion. Someone I trust. Someone who can get Mildmay out, even if everything else goes wrong.”

“And you think I’m that person?”

“Yes,” I said, with perfect truthfulness.

“Damn you,” she said and started pacing again.

I waited; there was nothing more I could say, nothing she did not already know. I had described the sending as graphically as I could bear to.

She said, “I have spent the past three years doing everything in my power to get
out
of Kekropia. And now you want me to walk back
in
?”

“I want to save my brother,” I said.

And when Mehitabel began cursing in a bastard argot of Kekropian and Midlander, I knew that she would help.

Mavortian was easier, if even more degrading to my pride. He had the tact—or perhaps the wisdom—not to gloat over me, and the only questions he asked were sensible ones about logistics and plans.

We had several problems facing us before we even confronted Malkar. I had to invent an acceptable reason to absent myself from the Mirador for two weeks or more, and then we had to find a way to leave Mélusine unobserved, since anyone who knew I was heading east would instantly assume they knew where I was going—about which, admittedly, they would not be wrong—and why. And I did not think anyone would listen to my explanations. Then we had to get across the border into Kekropia. And once we reached Lamia, assuming we were arrested by neither Protectorate Guards nor Imperial dragoons along the way, we had to get into the Bastion, again without being observed. And
then
we could worry about Malkar and Mildmay and getting out again.

Mehitabel said that if her information was still good, she could get us from Lamia into the Bastion—although she warned me to bring all the gold I could lay my hands on. In an odd way, it was comforting to have evidence that Lamia was as corrupt as Mélusine.

After some careful thought, I went to Giancarlo and said, truthfully, that I was feeling the strain of my exertions in mending the Virtu and, also truthfully, that I did not find the atmosphere of the Mirador conducive to recovery. I mentioned neither Robert nor Shannon by name, nor did Giancarlo, but he agreed with me that the Mirador was not a restful place and suggested I should go south to St. Millefleur to recuperate. He even advanced me generous traveling expenses out of my stipend without my having to say a word. I answered my guilt at deceiving him with the memory of Malkar’s sending and turned my attention to the next task.

My thoughts kept returning to the letter from Mildmay’s keeper. She had said she would help Mildmay if she could, and I remembered Mildmay mentioning, in an offhand way, having done work with smugglers as a teenager. Was it so very unreasonable to put those two things together?

At the least, I decided, as we neared the midpoint of the second week that Malkar had had Mildmay in his power, I could ask her. I knew how things worked in the Lower City. If Kolkhis herself could not help me, she would know someone who could. And I could pay for any help provided.

I did not want to write her a letter, for anything put in writing was potential ammunition against me later—assuming there was a later, and I was going to assume that until every other option had been taken away from me. Therefore, I went to Mavortian and asked to borrow Bernard.

“What in the world for?”

“I need to go into the Lower City, to speak to someone about… well, let’s say arrangements and leave it at that.”

“And you need Bernard for this?”

“A Cabaline wizard alone in the Lower City sends entirely different signals than one who’s brought a bodyguard. I don’t want anyone to get confused.”

“Ah,” said Mavortian. “What singularly unpleasant vistas that opens to the imagination. Then, yes, by all means, take Bernard.”

And Bernard rolled his eyes but didn’t complain. We did not need to like or respect each other as long as he continued to do what Mavortian told him, and whatever the bargain was between them, he showed no signs of breaking it.

We took a hansom to Britomart, although the driver was not happy about admitting he knew the Stag and Candles, or how to get there, or that there was a district of Mélusine called Britomart at all. We had, however, come out of the Mirador, and I let him get a good look at my tattoos and an even better look at the septa-gorgon I was offering, and he acquiesced. Bernard and I said nothing to each other all the way there.

The Stag and Candles was higher-class than I had expected; floor and bar alike gleamed with polish, and the thin, ferret-faced bartender sent a girl around to scrub the tables once an hour or so. Although exquisitely polite, he was even less happy than the cabdriver about admitting he could help with what I wanted. But his eyes kept skittering back to my tattoos, and he finally gave in and bellowed, “Hey, Hob!”

A gangly teenage boy emerged from the back, drying his hands on his pants as he came.

The bartender gave him a sour look. “Run to your
other
boss, and tell her there’s a gentleman here wants to talk to her.”

“Right,” Hob said, and then his eyes reached my face. His jaw dropped, and I thought for a moment he might faint.

“No, I’m not him,” I said. “But go tell Madame Kolkhis I need to see her.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said, then caught sight of my rings and turned even paler. “My lord. I’ll… I’ll be quick, my lord!” He dashed off, all awkward knees and elbows, but moving fast.

I bought a bourbon for myself and a beer for Bernard, overpaying fairly lavishly, and we retired to a corner table to wait. And continued to say nothing to each other.

We waited half an hour, at my best guess, before the gangly boy returned. He gave our table a nervous, sidelong look, and vanished into the back again. Two minutes later, the door opened.

She was tall, slender, lithe. She wore her hair in smooth black coils around the perfect oval of her face, and her eyes were pale gray, the color of fog. She wore the clothes of a lady with neither apology nor discomfort, dark purple poplin trimmed with black lace, high-necked and formfitting with a great swag of bustle behind. She saw us and made her way across the room without hesitation. She sat down, managing her skirts with the absent dexterity of one who did so daily, gave me a flat, level look. “Is it true you’re sleeping with him?”

Bernard choked on his beer.

I had expected some form of attack. I said, “No.”

“How about the obligation d‘âme? Did you cast that on him?” She had made no effort to lose her accent, although her grammar and phrasing, like her clothes, were those of a lady.

“Yes. At his request.”

She said nothing, but I could feel her disbelief. I wanted this conversation to end, wanted to get away from this woman who seemed to represent my past as much as my brother’s. “You said you would help Mildmay if you could,” I said, forcing my eyes to stay steady against hers. “I have found a way that you can.”

“Tell me.”

“I need passage for four people on one of the, er, unofficial caravans that run from here to Lamia.”

“To Lamia?”

“He’s in the Bastion.”

“Wizards,” she said with loathing. “See it in a crystal ball?”