Dust and Light (40 page)

“However”—Perryn’s abrupt continuation brought every head up—“Palinur is under siege, or soon will be. In the hour before I came here, I received word that my traitorous brother and his legions will be camped at Palinur’s gates within days. Every hand, every sword, and every cadre will be needed in service to Ardra and Navronne. Therefore all civil judgments are suspended indefinitely, this to be proclaimed throughout Palinur by dawn tomorrow. So say I, Perryn, Duc of Ardra, Prince of Navronne.”

As if in a flash of magefire, hope was transformed to ash. Rightness to jarring corruption. Appalling, despicable . . .

Both Tremayne and his kneeling son gawped at the prince, who preened at his cleverness.

Fallon moved first and dropped his gaze, arms crossed on his breast, fists clenched, as if to collect and contain the fragments of his beliefs.

The duc’s stormy countenance began to glow. Perryn would be king, perhaps this very night. No one who stood with him would suffer the inconvenience of a murder judgment. Tremayne dropped to his knees and bent his back. “I am, as ever, your devoted ally.”

Perryn wagged a finger, his mistress already distracting him. And so when Tremayne rose again, the duc’s gimlet gaze and twisted smile was all for Bastien and me.
Kings
could pardon capital crimes.
Kings
could even
forgive acts of vengeance against upstart coroners or arrogant purebloods. Perryn’s promise to protect Bastien held no more worth than the Registry’s vow to heal my “madness.”

The power to do and to undo.
A knowing smile teased the ducessa’s generous lips, as she drew the prince close. He plunged his fingers into her red-gold hair and stroked her jaw and neck with his thumbs. Not gently, but she didn’t seem to mind. She held his wine to his lips.

What a fool! Perryn believed he ruled her . . . all of us. He believed himself handsome and clever. He believed his parentage made him kingly. But even an inexperienced pureblood could see the truth. He had deceived everyone in Palinur, himself not least.

Tremayne laid a heavy hand on his kneeling son’s shoulder. Forgiveness, reconciliation . . . or another warning? Were I Fallon de Tremayne, I would make sure to keep out of range of my father’s archers, lest one of them mistake me for the enemy.

“No, no, no . . .” The snarling denial resonated in my soul, but it was given voice in a whisper behind me . . . and then beside . . . as Bastien moved forward. “You lily-livered wastrel. You sniveling, mindless, murdering moron. You poisonous excrement of greater men. You—”

Before anyone could hear, I wrapped my arms around the coroner from behind and dragged him deep into the shadows. Clamping a hand over his mouth, I hissed into his ear, “Your life is worthy. Your death will not bring back the dead. Or justice.”

He growled and wrestled inside his skin, but not with me; he could have burst my hold with one harsh thrust. He wanted to. Gods’ grace, how he wanted to.

“Listen to me,” I said. “We must get out before Tremayne turns on us. Before Hugh de Orrin or Varouna runs to the Registry with reports of a mad pureblood, or Irinyi sends her temple guards to put knives in our backs. We have a bargain. I’ve a mystery to solve tomorrow, and I need your help. Now bow and thank him, or I’ll conjure your prick into a dog’s tail.”

Though breathing as hard as if we’d battled, his muscles stilled and I let go.

“
You
speak,” he said, through gritted teeth. “I dare not.”

And so we approached the would-be king, and when he could unlatch his attention from his fawning mistress and his wine, I offered a modest deference. Bastien dropped to one knee, eyes down.

“Our duty is done, lord prince,” I said in my chilliest hauteur. “The law is satisfied. Final justice shall await the day of Navronne’s safety, for which we all petition our gods. Accept our gratitude for your forbearance. My master is yet speechless at your generous appointment and will strive to be worthy of it as he seeks justice for the dead.”

“A toast to the balance of justice and those who serve it.” Perryn raised his cup, tottering a bit. How many had he downed? “We visit the Registry tomorrow, Remeni. I’ll sing your praises to the curators.”

My throat clotted. “Unnecessary, my good lord. Tomorrow is the day to honor my grandsire. I’d not distract attention from his memory.”

“Perhaps I’ll tell old Gramphier I want you. I’d wager I could wrest your contract from this worthy coroner. Then I’d install you here to dispose of this flotsam and send you off to find me barbarian treasures.”

Perryn did not wait for my appalled response. He and his ducessa were already tittering at some private jest as they strolled toward the bronze doors where a smug Tremayne awaited them.

Fallon had sat back on his heels, hands resting on his thighs, a sculpture of cold steel, not warm bronze. As Bastien fetched our rucksack, I approached the young lord, halting at a respectful distance, feeling the necessity to speak though I’d no idea what to say.

“Did she suffer overmuch?” he said, before I could begin.

“It happened very quickly from his arrival to her death. But she was her grandsire’s worthy descendant. She fought bravely and with all her strength. Yet she was dead before he threw her down the rampart. I hope that is some comfort.”

“None.” He did not look up. “She was a merry sprite. I knew early on she wasn’t Father’s. But I never suspected . . . I should have seen it. I could have shielded her.”

“Would you like to have her portrait? I could copy it for you, as true as the first. I could make it small, easy to carry.”

He glanced up, his eyes lance points. “Not the first. I will ever recall her well enough as I knew her. But I’d like a copy of the other one, the one with the bloody shift. For now, I’ve no choice but to forget everything you’ve said of this matter. But when the time is right, I’ll pull out that drawing and release what I must bury tonight. If the gods have not wrought justice by that day, I will.”

“Good enough,” I said. “After tomorrow, find Constance at Necropolis
Caton. She’ll have the portrait for you, and she can show you where the child is laid.”

He nodded and looked away. “Beware. My father, as you’ve seen, bows to neither sentiment nor the law.”

I left Fallon to bury his sister and his hatred. So unlikely an encounter. I’d not forget him.

Bastien fidgeted beside the door, his sword already in hand. “There’s arguing just outside. Hope you’ve magics to scare off some angry partisans.”

The Xancheiran spindle remained tucked inside my doublet. I would have to leave the painted chest and the rest of its secrets here for the time. One more regret among many.

“Better we use the back door.”

B
astien and I crept from the rear of the Antiquities Repository and scuttered through the hedge garden like startled hinds, keeping as far as we could from Perryn’s lancers . . . and the four men in black and white arguing with them. Black and white, the Duc de Tremayne’s personal colors. A chill, foggy night, and I was already sweating.

Once away from the Repository, we slowed to a steady—unremarkable—pace. People stepped aside to let me pass. Bastien kept a few paces back so none would guess we were together.

There were far too many people and too much torchlight for the quiet departure we’d planned. Eights and tens of servants and courtiers choked every nook and colonnade. The excitement was yet spoken in whispers.
I’ve heard . . . It’s said . . . Rumor is . . . Closeted in the chancellor’s chambers . . . The Ardran son always favored . . . The Smith’s bound to give up the claim . . . No more war . . . The gods will be appeased.

They were wrong. Even if my suspicions about the newfound will proved incorrect, villeins would still face fields of frozen mud at sowing time and plagues at hearth and sheepfold. The decline of the world had begun before Eodward’s death.

A blast of damp wind swirled the smoke of torches and roasting meat. I shivered.

A skeletal young man, leaning heavily on a stick instead of a right leg, stood gossiping with two grizzled veterans at the apex of an arched bridge. If the conflict ended, at least the bloodshed and maiming might stop.

Just past the bridge and a columned arch, a steep stair led down to the inner bailey. I stepped into a niche between the arch and a wall to wait for Bastien. We had a new problem.

“Holy gods, do you smell that smoke? I’m going to drown in my own slobber,” he said, slipping in beside me. “I didn’t think there was meat to be had in the city.”

He abruptly shoved me deeper into the niche. A quartet of men in temple livery hurried past in the direction of the Repository. My own stomach ground with nausea more than hunger.

“You need to get out of that cloak and mask,” said Bastien. “Tremayne’s livery is everywhere, and now the priestess’s, too.”

“Not just them, I’m afraid,” I said. “Look down at the wicket gate. The Registry’s here as well.”

Our position offered a good view of the brightly lit courtyard below. Vielles and hurdy-gurdies sawed raucous tunes for a dancing, eating, laughing mob. Two pureblood servitors flanked the narrow gate we had to traverse from the inner to the outer bailey. They were deathly sober.

“We could make our way round to the postern. Might be fewer people between.”

“Masked, disguised, naked, west gate, postern—it doesn’t matter,” I said. “If they’ve come for me, they’ll recognize me—and you—and they’ll be watching every gate.”

“So we need a distraction. As you didn’t blast the royal snake and his murdering friend into Magrog’s hells, you’ve magic to use, right?”

“The problem is what to do with it.” I didn’t like what I was thinking. “I suppose I could lead them off while you get through. I could circle around, get back, release my fog enchantment, and run through the wicket before they catch me up.”

His skeptical grimace reflected my own opinion. “Constance could come up with a better plan! You’d never get back in time. And what if there are more of them waiting in the outer bailey? I think one of those void holes would do us better.” Bastien had yearned to see a void hole since I’d told him of my grand enchantment in the temple.

“No. Firstly, I’d have to lay it down right under their noses. And secondly, if it’s too big or too deep, it’s going to kill someone when the ground caves. Thirdly, if it’s close enough to snag the guards, we’d not be
able to get past it to get out the gate, while smaller and farther away is useless, as they’ll never leave their post just to gawk, unless . . .”

I
truly
didn’t like what I was thinking. Timing would be everything.

“Back by the parapet was a young man with a walking stick,” I said abruptly. “Buy it from him before he gets away. Just do it. And leave me the rucksack.”

He grumbled but didn’t question, which marked a level of trust I hoped would prove out.

While he bulled his way back the way we’d come, I squeezed deeper into the dark space between column and wall. From the rucksack I dragged the ugly brown cape. From under my doublet I pulled out the small canvas-wound spindle I’d snatched from the Xancheiran chest. No time to unlock its stinging enchantments just now. The spindle went into the bottom of the sack. The brown cape I draped over the wine-hued wool I wore, tucking the pureblood cloak out of sight. Then I yanked off my mask.

The common penalty for being caught
out of dress
in the presence of ordinaries was a caning before representatives of ten pureblood families. I’d heard the punishment was sufficiently painful to ensure no repetition of the offense, and certainly did not wish to test what the
uncommon
version of it might be. But that was my least worry just now.

I needed something that would not only hold a linked spell, like the iron grave marker or my silver bracelets had done, but a great deal of pure magic. The number of objects that could do that was small—gemstones, pearls, the black glassy stone found near volcanoes, and such rarities. Fortunately my father’s ruby would serve, though to taint his ring with violence scarred my conscience. Patronn had been such a gentle man, his talent fine but narrow compared to my grandsire’s—or mine. Generous, too. I’d never considered how much. Not once had he chided me for spending my youth so eagerly with his own father instead of him.

Believing he would appreciate his ring’s saving my neck, I shaped a voiding spell and linked it to the gold ring. Then, eyes closed, I laid three fingers on the ruby itself and let my magic flow. The fire in my blood erased the chill and damp.
Such sweet fire . . .

“Got it. You owe me— What the devil are you doing?”

“Wait . . .”

I couldn’t stop, not until I’d stored enough power to ensure the
enchantment worked. There’d be no recourse if we failed. Keeping only a little in reserve, I lifted my fingers. “Done.”

“Didn’t think you dared undress yourself.” His eyes were on the ruby ring that gleamed with an unnatural fire. “A ruby and a cripple’s stick and an unmasked pureblood. I hope this plan isn’t crazier than the last.”

“I take the stick; you take the ring. It won’t burn you or anything . . . unless you were to run off with it.”

My attempt at humor didn’t help. He glanced from the ring to my face three times before touching it.

When it didn’t explode or scorch him, his shoulders relaxed. Slightly. “You and your steel spine,” he mumbled. “Make a man do things he knows he oughtn’t, just to keep up.”

He was wrong about the steel. My spine felt like soggy bread. “Whatever you do, keep this safe as well,” I said, opening the rucksack and showing him the spindle tucked inside. “I’ve no idea what it is, but if anything happens to me, bury it in your graveyard and never speak of it. Doesn’t matter how important it might be or how useless; it’s naught but trouble should any ordinary be caught with it.”

He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“Now I’m going to walk a very particular loop down in the bailey. Watch me and mark the placement and dimensions exactly. If you’re off a finger’s breadth, this isn’t going to work.” Actually, there would be a slight overspill on either side of the line, but he had to get it right. “Be ready by the time I get back to the place I started, and when the Registry men cross the boundary nearest them—you can judge the timing—touch the ruby to any spot on my path.
Exactly
on the path. Farther from where I’m standing would likely be better, but be sure.” I tugged the brown hood lower and the flapping, stinking wool about my chin. “Keep trying until it works, and, whatever you do, stay on the
outside
of the loop.”

Bastien’s grin blossomed hugely. “So I get to see one, eh?”

“If I do it right. Elsewise I’ll see you in Idrium.”

“Won’t come to that,” he said, quickly sobered. “I’ve got my sword. Besides, you’re mine for most of four years to come, bought and paid for. We may have sucked a dry tit today, but I’ll be damned if I let you loose till I know what’s in those accursed portraits and what’s this Path of the White Hand and if that was truly a Dané that talked to you about it. Would hate to think you’re a loony after all.”

“I must be,” I said, lifting my eyebrows at him for a change. “I’m thinking . . . we partner well.”

A
knight caught in battle unarmored
must feel this way,
I thought, as I limped down the stair and across the yard without pureblood cloak and mask. I couldn’t shake the sense the two Registry men could see straight through the wretched brown cape.

Begin at a spot straight out from the wicket gate no more than thirty paces.
I didn’t want to leave us too far to run.
Five paces straight toward the man sawing on the vielle . . .

I limped as fast as I dared through the crowded bailey, bobbing my head to the music while dragging the stick to create the enclosing loop. Inside my head, I held the spell of the ring, weaving its edges to the line I walked. Not the easiest way to work a void, but it should do.

Left at the hurdy-gurdy man; now past the knot of singers toward the soldier turning the spit
 . . . I made the perimeter as nearly rectangular as I could estimate. Easier for me to get it right. Easier, I hoped, for Bastien to find a place to trigger the spell. My stick left a line in the dirt as well as the thread of enchantment, but jigging dancers, messengers, mule carts, and dogs quickly erased most of the visible boundary.

More rumors pattered on my back like rain. Maybe Perryn started the rumors even before meeting me at the Repository, when he first realized I’d come to provide him an unimpeachable witness to the finding of his father’s will.

Concentrate, fool. Six . . . seven . . . weave boundary and spell . . . eight, turn . . . Ten steps this direction to keep the proportion . . .
I walked the gate side of the small rectangle, the Registry servitors so close I could smell what they had eaten last. Their faces were alert, scanning the shifting crowd.

I ducked my head. Mumbled. Dragged the stick. Wove the spell.
A slow collapse. Just deep enough it would take time to climb out.
I waved my hand at those standing in my path and muttered, “Get out the way. This be a cursed spot. I can smell it.”

Back at the beginning, midway along the boundary farthest from the gate, I closed the loop with a dollop of magic.

One of the purebloods jerked his head in my direction.

Heart dancing its own jig, I ducked my head and shuffled a few paces
backward—enough I wouldn’t get caught in the void and tumble into the hole.
Be quick, Bastien.

The pureblood on the left edged forward a little. Called softly to the other. Waved a finger in a loop. As long as he didn’t figure out what spell I’d laid . . .

Come on, Bastien, come on!
The fleeting notion that the coroner had taken the ring and escaped on his own shamed me. But truly it seemed a month already.

Bastien strolled into view. He bought a pocket loaf from a bread seller, and stopped beside the boundary to munch on it, nodding his head in time with a rattling tabor.

Taking that as my signal, I ducked my head, slipped on my mask, and offered a heartfelt invocation. I crouched down, grabbed a handful of dirt, and in one grand gesture, lunged upward, threw off the brown cloak, and enchanted the flying cloud of filth and dust into a whirlwind of colored light.

Horrified dancers scrambled away, shoving, pushing, yelling in panic. But cries turned quickly to laughing wonder as the drifting sparks tickled and did not burn. None stepped closer, though. I stood alone and exposed in the center of the bailey. Unfortunately, the purebloods, too, hung back, peering into the mottled light behind me . . . beckoning urgently.

I spun around. Two men in masks and wine-hued cloaks shoved through the crowd on the stair.
No, no!
I needed the gate watchers inside the void perimeter.

“Fire!” Bastien’s shout whipped my head around. He was pointing at me. “That madman’s firing the palace!”

Taking his cue, I grabbed more dirt and sent up another burst of sparks, along with gouts of flame and a roar. Then I backed away a few more steps as if poised to retreat.

That was enough. The two at the gate bolted toward me. And Bastien touched the ground and the earth collapsed inward, almost floating, carrying the two purebloods and perhaps three others along with it. The bailey erupted in panic.

I released the spell of fog and noises into the melee, then sped around the small pit toward the wicket gate, happy I’d imprinted its position so firmly in my head. I kept my head down, tried not to get tangled with panicked ordinaries. . . .

A missile slammed into my back, jolting me forward. My limbs seized, heated enchantment spreading through spine and sinew like cracks in shattered ice. Strength fled. No one around me seemed to notice.

Stay on your feet, fool.
I was so close. The dancing gleam on my right would be the soldier’s roasting fire.

Invisible lightning crackled through the fog on my left and thudded into my side. The impact staggered me. Threads of spellfire ripped through lungs and heart. One hand touched earth, as I stumbled forward, my feet like clubs. Pain threatened to shatter my bones.

The wall loomed through the wisps of enchanted fog, a handsbreadth from my nose. Bastien, sword drawn, manned the wicket gate, encouraging people to pass through in an orderly fashion. When he glimpsed me, he stopped the flow, holding the frenzied crowd back with his blade. “Let him pass! Registry business. Godspeed, chosen!”

I lurched toward the gate.

Another crackling from behind me and the wicket gate exploded, battering all with shards of wood and iron and billowing black smoke. My right temple burned. My eyelids sagged.