The Bone Palace (12 page)

It had taken more than rumor control and royal unconcern to keep Phaedra Severos quietly obscure. She had been a prominent fixture at the Arcanost, famed for her beauty and brilliance and mercurial temper. Her death, and that of her foreign noble husband, would have meant not scandal but ruin for the young Mathiros had the truth of them ever been found out. Preventing that had taken all of Kiril’s resources, and the greatest magic he had ever wrought. He had been paying off the debt of it for three years now, but it had worked: no one outside this room remembered Phaedra, or had any concern about her if they did.

The way no one would remember him. History cared for kings and princes and their scandals, but spymasters were brushed quietly away with dust and pen shavings. The most effective were never known at all. As it ought to be.

“Speaking of care,” Varis said, distracting Kiril from the bitter spiral of his thoughts, “we can’t let you wander around dressed like that.” A wave of his hand encompassed Phaedra’s gown and shed veils. “You’re years out of style, and unseasonal besides.”

“We can’t let her wander around at all,” Kiril said, even as Phaedra plucked at her dress—sleeveless gauzy silk belted below her breasts—with a frown. The shade of orange should have flattered, but her brown skin was unhealthily pale, like tea with too much milk. Or dead flesh through which no blood flowed.

“Things happen,” Varis replied, “as your story so clearly illustrates. It’s impossible that she won’t be seen
eventually—we need to make sure that when she is she doesn’t look like a mad vengeful ghost from one of Kolkhis’s tragedies.”

Kiril opened his mouth to argue—
And never mind,
he thought,
that that’s exactly what she is
—but Phaedra’s eyes had already widened, shining with manic light. He remembered her wild moods from her first life; death had done nothing to settle them. Some physicians thought that her particular combination of mania, black despair, and violent temper was an illness, an imbalance of humors or aethers. But if it were a physical malady, shouldn’t it have died with her first body? A defect of the soul, perhaps? Or was she simply so used to being mad that it had become habit?

He set the problem aside—he had no time to write a dissertation about her, however fascinating it would be. By now she and Varis were deep in a conversation about fashion and milliners, and how one could be properly fitted without showing one’s face. This was an argument he wouldn’t win, and he had no strength to waste on it. He rose, wincing as his joints popped, and left them to their folly. The demon might have finished his wine, but hopefully she’d left the whiskey in the study intact.

Isyllt woke to a fire dying in the hearth and warm light edging the curtains. Ciaran’s spiced-smoke scent clung to her sheets, but the bed was cold and the house echoed empty to her outstretched senses. Gone back to the Briar Patch to sing for his supper.

Supper seemed a sensible plan—rat’s teeth of hunger gnawed her stomach, and her mouth was parched and aching, but inspection of her pantry found nothing but a
bunch of shriveling grapes and a heel of bread gone green around the edges. She’d neglected the market again. If the landlady’s daughter didn’t occasionally offer to go for her, Isyllt suspected she’d starve.

Uncovering her bathroom mirror did nothing to cheer her; her hair hung in rattails around her face and dried tears crusted her lashes. Her eyes were bruised and sunken and her shoulder throbbed. Her bones felt scraped hollow. After running another bath and combing her hair with poppy oil to banish the phantom sewer-stink, she removed the bandage from her shoulder and examined the wound.

A double crescent of teeth-marks, bruised and seeping. More savage than a human could inflict, but not quite animal in shape. Her neck and shoulder were swollen, and the flesh and muscle around the bite ached more furiously than the punctures. Her cheeks were already mottling with fever as her magic fought infection. When it healed, it would be nearly identical to the scar Spider had given her.

Staring at the twin bites, an idea sparked bright enough to make her swear. She swore again as she threw the silk cover back over the mirror, and several times more as she struggled into her clothes. By the time she was dressed, the pain in her shoulder dizzied her and sunset painted low clouds gilt and cinnabar. Not enough daylight to brave the sewers, but early enough that she might still catch Khelséa at her cohort’s headquarters.

Two hours later, she and the inspector sat in the Sepulcher once more. Isyllt sat, at least, perched on the table next to Forsythia while Khelséa measured both bite wounds. The dead woman was holding up well with the chill and a light preservation spell, but someone else in
the racks had started to go off; Isyllt wondered if anyone who worked here could enjoy the smell of roses again.

“This is how you tread lightly?” Khelséa said, angling for better light.

Isyllt winced as calipers pressed tender flesh. “It’s progress. I found the bastards, didn’t I?”

“Next time try holding on.” Khelséa turned away, scribbling measurements and rough sketches on a scrap of paper. “These two are definitely different. Your old scar and Forsythia’s don’t match, either.”

“What about the new one?”

Her dark face creased in a frown. “The distension from the swelling”—at this she poked the swelling in question hard enough to make Isyllt yelp—“makes it difficult to get a clear comparison.” She tapped her stick of charcoal against the paper. “But the canines seem to be the same distance apart, and the shape of the jaw is similar. I can’t be certain until you’ve healed a bit, but they may well be from the same vampire.”

“So I found Forsythia’s lover. Charming.” Isyllt let Khelséa replace the dressing, then tugged her shirt up again. “Which explains how she came by the ring, but not how or why—or where—she died.” Her stomach growled as she slid off the table.

“No question how you’ll die,” Khelséa said. “If stupidity doesn’t get you, starvation will.”

“Misadventure, darling, misadventure. So you’re buying dinner, then?”

Most of Inkstone closed at night, but a few taverns and kiosks stayed open for late-working bureaucrats. Isyllt and Khelséa sat beneath a vendor’s awning with plates of
olives, bread, and cheese. The air was sluggish with haze, blurring the edges of buildings and bleeding golden halos from the streetlamps.

“What next?” the inspector asked, neatly sucking the flesh off an olive.

Isyllt frowned at her food. Even chewing made her shoulder hurt. “Back to the sewers, I suppose. I have to find the bastard who bit me, and the rest of the stolen jewels.”

“I hope you’re taking more than a minstrel with you this time.”

“Are you volunteering?”

Khelséa’s eyebrows rose. “Can you think of anyone else you trust?”

Maybe Kiril was right. Maybe it was time she took an apprentice. She ripped off a piece of bread and chewed, ignoring the pain. Relishing it.

A shadow fell across the table before she had to answer. She looked up at a tall cloaked figure, face lost beneath a cowl. A stripe of light kissed one pale cheekbone as he tilted his head, and the rich taste of goat cheese turned metallic as blood on Isyllt’s tongue. Her right hand clenched around the diamond’s chill.

“Good evening.” Spider nodded to Khelséa before turning his attention to Isyllt. “I’ve missed the chance to ask you to dinner, but perhaps I can buy you a drink.”

Khelséa tensed, one hand vanishing beneath the table. She might not be a mage, but she had a good nose for danger. Isyllt caught her arm, feeling muscles flex as the inspector reached for her pistol. “It’s all right.”

The woman’s dark eyes flickered from Spider to Isyllt and back again, shining with skepticism in the lamplight. “Misadventure?”

“Exactly.” Isyllt stood, reaching for her purse. “I’ll talk to you before I do anything stupid.”

Khelséa’s hand caught hers, forcing coins back into the bag. “I’m buying, remember. Next time.”

Isyllt nodded, and regretted it quickly. She followed Spider down the dark and misty street, feeling Khelséa’s eyes on her back until they turned a corner.

“What kind of drink did you have in mind?” she asked. She walked slowly, leisurely, but her nerves thrummed with his nearness. Their first altercation had been a misunderstanding, but he made no secret of his appetites. The truce forbade killing, but there were always people who disappeared in a city as large as Erisín. And those like Forsythia, willing to bleed for love or money.

His chuckle made her shiver. “How’s your shoulder?”

“I’ll live.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “He didn’t bite as hard as you.”

He laughed again and took her arm, covering her hand with his. Grey gloves hid his claws, supple as snakeskin and as cold. But only as cold as the night, not the aching chill of death. She touched his arm; it might almost have been living flesh.

“You’re warm. Who did you kill tonight?”

He arched an eyebrow. “There are always willing donors. You should try it.”

She rolled her eyes toward her wounded shoulder. “No thank you.”

“It doesn’t have to be unpleasant.”

She ignored him, and felt his shoulders shake with amusement. They managed to walk comfortably together despite his gangling height. The vrykolos’ magic was a subtle thing compared to human sorcery: instinctual,
blood-born instead of studied. It crawled over her skin, wrapping her in his glamour. Alien, but not—as he said—unpleasant. She tried to push the thought aside. She’d slept with a demon once, but she didn’t need to make a habit of it. The Arcanost didn’t look fondly on those who did.

The vrykoloi were unusual among demons. Among the Arcanost’s countless classifications of spirits they were
katechontoi
—possessors—and more specifically
moriens
—the possessors of the dead. But they were nothing like the shambling monstrosities that came of unburied corpses. They hungered, but with wit and intellect instead of mindless drive and animal cunning; they lived together in societies instead of warrens, and they had their own secrets and rituals that no living scholar had learned. It was nearly curiosity enough to let Isyllt forget how dangerous Spider was.

Streets wound and twisted like dark ribbons through the city’s core. Elaborate stonework decorated the quarter—gargoyles crouched on roofs, their snarling faces smoothed by years of wind and rain, and lichen-skinned nymphs danced in fountains. Here and there ancient graveyards nestled snug between buildings, tombs worn nameless with time; they had stood before the city sprawled so far, and the builders had simply wrapped the streets around them. Autumn leaves dripped from trees, skittering in the breeze and piling in the gutters till feet and hooves crushed them against the stones.

They left Inkstone, winding deeper and deeper into the city’s heart, where the streets were still busy so late. No one spared them a glance. Spider made no sound as he walked; if not for the strength of his arm in hers, she would have thought him no more substantial than a shadow.

She recognized the path he followed just before they turned into a dark alley mouth. Even so, her shoulder throbbed a warning as they stepped into the shadows. Spider felt her hesitation and smiled, a flash of ivory teeth.

The alley ended at an iron door set in a rough stone wall. Rust traced twisting spirals across the metal, dripped down the frame like dry blood. But for all its age, the door opened soundlessly beneath Spider’s hand. A narrow stair led down, lit at the bottom by dim red light. Smoky air wafted up, redolent of poppies and wine and warm human skin. Spider stood aside, gesturing Isyllt ahead of him.

Kiril had brought her here years before on an investigation. As much to entertain her, she thought later, as for the information they found. The place had been hallowed ground once, a section of catacombs, before a demon infestation led to the burning of the temple and the tombs below. Shops had been built aboveground, but the charred tunnels below remained. Old spells whispered to her as she descended, traces of long-broken magic lingering in the stones.

The patrons called it Sanctuary now, only half joking. It was known for the quality of its wine and opium, and for the darkness of its tables. It was a haven for well-off criminals and those who played at spies. And maybe those who did more than play. Interesting things could be overheard there, if one listened carefully enough.

She stepped out of the stairwell into a long, low room. Music drifted through the air, haunting pipes and low throbbing drums, the musicians hidden behind carved sandalwood screens. Red and violet lanterns stained the smoky haze that shrouded the ceiling. Isyllt stifled a sneeze.

Spider steered her through the foyer to a velvet-curtained alcove. His hooded cloak was standard attire for this place—Isyllt’s bare face and hair felt much too exposed. She kept her hands in her coat pockets, concealing the telltale stone and equally telling injury.

Dark wood paneled the booth, and the light of the single candle slid like water across its well-oiled surface. Spider shrugged back his cloak, revealing a coat of worn grey brocade. By candlelight his face was the color of yellowed bone.

A young woman appeared to take their order. If she noticed that Spider wasn’t human, she gave no sign. An abundance of tact, Isyllt wondered, or were demons really so common in the city? It would have bothered her to think so once, but for the past two and a half years she’d held a steady correspondence with a demon. He sent her presents every summer.