The Bone Palace (17 page)

The flash of jewels as Ginevra shifted her weight drew Savedra from her brooding. The wine in her glass was nearly gone. “You don’t wear the hijra mark.”

She snapped her fan again; let watchers think they quarreled. But no one had asked her this in months, and she supposed it was due. Tactless, perhaps, but Ginevra was tipsy and curious. And, she realized with a flash of empathy, lonely. She kept her free hand from rising to her forehead, to the spot Nikos had touched, the place where the mark would be.

“Despite popular opinion, I am not precisely a whore.”

“I never—” Ginevra’s eyebrows rose. “Is that really what it means?”

“To bear the mark means accepting the rules of the hijra, and the hijra have joined with the Rose Council. They are their own faction within the Garden, and sell other services, but most sell themselves as well. I’m told this wasn’t always so, but in recent history they have found it expedient.” She let scorn flavor her voice. “So many are curious, after all, why not make them pay for it?”

She’d received her share of propositions since she came to court, and nearly all of were based on curiosity instead of honest desire, or hopes of the fabled hijra luck. She spurned them all, until Nikos.

“What do they think of you, unmarked?”

It was her turn to shrug. “Proud, I suppose, that I have a prince on my string. And annoyed that I won’t join them. Disappointed.” It was more than supposition, but her conversations with the Black Orchid weren’t ones she liked to recollect. “Some think I’m no better than a peacock in gaudy drag, since I shun the hijra mysticism.” She was always careful to keep her wardrobe subtle enough to deflect the worst of the barbs, though she envied the peacocks their stunning colors and their seeming comfort in their own skins.

“Did you ever think of joining them? Before Nikos.”

“I never had to.” Not precisely a lie—she smothered memories of the Black Orchid and the stifling incense-and-opium heat of the hijras’ temple, and blessed the darkness that hid her burning cheeks. “My family accepted me. Most androgynes have nowhere to turn when they discover the truth of themselves.” Her hand rose before she could stop it, one fingernail tracing the crease in her brow.

Ginevra made another soft sound, this one unhappy. Whether it was for the fate of the third sex or for her empty glass, Savedra wasn’t sure.

Her neck prickled—not just the itch of hair and feathers, but of eyes on her back. She turned away from Ginevra as if annoyed, snapping her fan as she risked a backward glance. Only Captain Denaris, lingering in the shadows of a fig tree, and she relaxed again. But the Captain looked
unhappy, more so than even Thea Jsutien’s careless laughter might warrant.

The dancing continued for at least an hour. Savedra chose not to join, but Ginevra did, flouncing away with such perfect disdain that it was all Savedra could do not to laugh. The woman was a better actress than many she’d seen in an Orpheum. Natural talent, or a product of growing up under Thea’s ruthless gaze?

She wanted to like Ginevra. Wanted to believe her, but she knew that was foolishness. Instead she watched her charm Nikos into a dance and didn’t quite hide her glower behind her fan. Tomorrow’s gossip would be entertaining. After the dance, a knot of laughing young nobles swallowed Ginevra, leaving Savedra to wonder if the loneliness she thought she’d glimpsed was only a ruse.

The dancing ended with an eruption of giggles in a lull between songs. A Konstantin girl whose name Savedra could never remember slapped Ginevra on the arm with a shriek and cried “Hart!” The other girl shrieked in turn, then gathered her skirts in her hands and fled into the black mouth of the hedge maze. The rest of the crowd laughed and clapped and began counting loudly.

Amidst the clamor, Captain Denaris materialized at Savedra’s elbow. Her dark clothing and matte-painted steel were meant for skulking—the silver streaks in her tight-plaited hair were the brightest thing about her.

“I don’t like this,” she murmured, face creasing. “We haven’t found anything, but something isn’t right.”

Savedra frowned in turn and nodded. Perhaps she’d been too quick to dissuade Ashlin from bearing steel. Her hair sticks were sharp enough to serve in a fight, and she carried a small blade in a garter around one calf, but
neither were practical enough to reassure her. “I’ll keep my eyes open,” she said, all she could ever do, and moved to join the hounds.

The Isle of Cormorants’ maze was nothing compared to the one at the heart of the palace grounds, but still large and winding enough to swallow the twenty-five people in attendance tonight. Some hunters snatched lanterns from their poles, and light swayed and rippled along the tops of the hedges as they ran. Which only served to make them easier to avoid, of course. Savedra kept to the shadows, pulling her skirts close to keep them from snagging on briars.

She leapt when a hand reached out of the darkness and caught her arm, taut-strung nerves singing. She had one sharpened stick out of her hair before she recognized Nikos. He froze with the tip inches from his throat.

“This would be an embarrassing way to die,” he said after a heartbeat’s pause.

“And an embarrassing reason to be executed.” The words rasped hoarse and breathless; the pulse in her throat left little room for air. She let him lean in to kiss her, but couldn’t relax into his embrace. Sticky warmth trickled down her scalp—she’d scratched herself. Good thing she hadn’t poisoned the sticks.

“What’s the matter?” Nikos whispered. His mouth tasted of wine. Her lip rouge wouldn’t survive this kiss.

“Kat thinks something is wrong. I’m inclined to agree. I’d rather know exactly where you and Ashlin are until we leave the island.”

He sighed. “I don’t remember appointing you to my guard. Or Ashlin’s either.” But he drew back and straightened his coat. Her arms tingled where he had held her. A
trio of laughing hunters staggered past them, oblivious. “Let’s find our princess, then,” he said when they passed, “if it will make you feel better.”

She twined grateful fingers through his and drew comfort in the steady throb of his pulse. “Thank you.”

She tried to return the hair stick to its proper place, but already curls pulled loose from their pins. Jewels and feathers snagged and fluttered free as they ran deeper into the maze.

They wound their way to the heart of the maze, where a marble statue of Zavarian, saint of hunters, stood amid a wide circle of hedges. A colored lantern hung beside the saint, washing the stone blue and shining on Ashlin’s bright hair. Savedra’s growing worry burst into sharp relief, until she saw the glitter of topazes and shimmer of blue silk beside the princess.

Savedra lunged forward, catching Ashlin’s arm and hauling her away.

“Too late,” the princess said with a startled laugh. “I’ve already won.”

Ginevra’s eyes narrowed. “You really think I’m a murderer, don’t you?” The words were nearly lost beneath the shouts of the approaching hunters. For an instant they stood still as stone themselves beneath the saint’s blind eyes. Nikos lingered at the end of the path.

“What’s going on?” Ashlin asked, the flush of the chase fading from her cheeks.

It was all Savedra could do not to flinch from Ginevra’s gaze. “Captain Denaris thinks something is wrong. I thought it prudent to find you.”

“I outgrew my nursemaid years ago, Vedra—”

Savedra was so busy watching Ginevra that she nearly
missed the rustle of leaves and glint of metal from the far wall of the hedge. Nikos shouted, but she was already turning, knocking Ashlin to the ground.

The shot shattered the stillness before they struck the grass.

Ashlin cursed, then grunted as Savedra landed on top of her. Ginevra yelped, high and startled. Someone shrieked nearby. Savedra rolled, tangling her and Ashlin in her skirts, trying not to lose her bearings. She looked up in time to see Nikos dash for the shaking hedge, but before she could draw breath to curse his stupidity Captain Denaris had pushed him aside and lunged into the shrubbery herself, shouting for her guards.

Ashlin swore breathlessly in Celanoran, struggling out from under Savedra.

“Stay down,” she hissed, elbowing the princess in the ribs. They crawled into the narrow shelter of the statue’s plinth, where Ginevra crouched shaking. Blood trickled black down the girl’s cheek, spotting the bodice of her gown.

“Are you hurt?” Savedra asked, fumbling with her skirts till she could reach her knife. The dagger would be no use against pistols, but it was warm and solid in her hand.

“Not badly.” Ginevra touched her cheek, throat working as she swallowed. “This was flying shards, I think. The statue took the bullet for me.” She smiled shakily. “I suppose this doesn’t make you any more inclined to trust me.”

Nikos crouched beside them, while guards circled the four of them and kept the crowd of courtiers at bay.

“He wasn’t aiming at Ashlin,” he said quietly. “Not even if he was an abysmally poor shot.”

Savedra and Ginevra exchanged a glance. Their skirts puddled together, blue silk and blue velvet, flecked with grass and stray feathers.

“Well,” Ginevra said, pulling her smile on firmly once more. “I’ll let you know what colors I’m wearing before the next party.”

D
espite her insistence on continuing, Isyllt knew she was slowing the others down. Her head swam, a slow nauseous spiral inside her skull, and every so often she had to pause to lean on the nearest wall or arm. She could ease pain, but her magic was useless to repair damage.

No one complained, but Khelséa and Spider exchanged frequent glances. Nothing like someone else’s insanity to draw people together.

It was madness, but it was also the best of her options. If she retreated now the vrykoloi would move their hiding place, and that would cost too much time.

The way back up was less perilous, if slow and painstaking. By the time they returned to the lowest level of sewers she was caked with sweat and grime, and the ache in her legs nearly dwarfed the sharp throb in her head.

Isyllt wasn’t sure when the feeling began. At first it was lost beneath the nausea and tinnitus, one more tiny unpleasantness amid the aches and bruises. If the lantern
bled painful colored halos and sounds echoed queerly, that was only to be expected after a blow to the head. Then her ring began to itch—not the chill that bespoke death, but a greasy crawling sensation like she’d dipped her hand in oil. Soon after a tingle spread across her scalp and nape. Then she saw the first of the sigils traced on the walls, glowing softly to her
otherwise
sight: wards and warnings, designed to contain the twisted magic and caution intruders.

She wasn’t the only one discomfited: Spider’s eyes flickered back and forth and his shoulders drew up like a vulture’s. Azarné’s delicate jaw clenched and she fretted with her tattered skirts. Was mortal magic as alien to them as their glamourie was to her?

She’d felt this before—all students at the Arcanost were taken to the ruined palace early in their studies as an abject lesson of magic gone awry, and she’d helped set the yearly wards once or twice. You could still catch traces of it in the inner city if the wind shifted the right way. But it was milder above, faded by decades of sun and rain and clean air. Here the
wrongness
echoed from the stones.

Khelséa didn’t twitch like the others, but her frown grew the farther they went, till finally she set the lantern down and crouched to consult the map. Isyllt knelt beside her and leaned close, but the ink writhed and blurred across the page and wedged splinters behind her eye sockets. She closed her eyes for an instant and would have fallen if not for her death grip on Khelséa’s shoulder.

“Do you know where we are?” She didn’t have to shout here; the water pipes had been diverted, lest the presence of the palace taint them.

“Near the center of Elysia.” From the inspector’s
pinched expression, she could have given a more precise answer.

“Can you feel it?” Isyllt asked.

“The palace?” The unhappy lines around her eyes deepened. “No. But knowing it’s there is bad enough. Can you?”

She nodded. “The stones are steeped with it. Old, sour magic.”

Khelséa’s lips thinned. “Lovely. Is it dangerous?”

“We won’t run mad or fall over dead. Probably. The wards seem to be working. But stagnant magic breeds things the way stagnant water does, and attracts little nasty spirits. And vampires, apparently.” She stood carefully and pried her fingers free of the other woman’s jacket.

Khelséa shook her head as she rose. “And they just kept building the city around it. Like it was a tree no one wanted to cut down.”

“Even dead trees have deep roots,” Azarné said. “And I can’t imagine this attracting anything sane, even demons. I would chew my own limbs off to escape this feeling.” She glanced at Spider and he nodded sharply in agreement. “I can only imagine that Myca and his accomplices hide here to avoid being found. Or because they have already gone mad.”

“Well,” Isyllt muttered, leaning against the wall. “That’s something to look forward to.” Her left hand scraped stone, feeling the sour magic through her glove. And the quiet strength of centuries, as well. Erisín had endured, and continued to endure. It would outlast the blight. Affection for the city warmed her, and she closed her eyes against a sudden prickling in her sinuses.