The Bone Palace (33 page)

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The Black Phoenix was a fashionable shop in an equally fashionable block of the alchemists’ street. The Arcanost frequently bemoaned the baseness of commercial alchemy, but it clearly paid better than academia. Vials of ivory and colored glass gleamed in the rising light, and the rugs and hangings were Iskari, and costly. Even so early in the day shoppers drifted through the shop, young and well dressed, likely scions of the Eight, twittering like mourning doves as they browsed.

The air was surprisingly clear, considering the hundreds of bottles and vials and jars of ingredients Isyllt counted, but as she or the other shoppers moved she caught whiffs of scent: herbs and spices, flowers and resins and a dozen other notes she couldn’t identify. Delicate scents and harsh ones, cloying and tangy, some that made her mouth water and some that made her fight a sneeze.

A clerk followed the mourning doves, opening vials and dabbing scent on proffered wrists. He cast a solicitous glance at Isyllt but she shook her head; he wasn’t the one who could help her. After several moments, a curtain stirred in the back and the proprietress emerged.

Kebechet—the name of an Assari saint, and unlikely her true one—was a tall woman with a fierce hooked nose. Her hair was a black storm down her back, shot through with the glitter of jeweled pins and combs. Despite the chill, her shawl slipped off her shoulders, baring an ample corseted bosom. Rumor held that she was a bastard Severoi who had taken the family device for her own. Isyllt had never heard a member of the house confirm or deny it.

She exchanged pleasantries with the doves, and commended or corrected their choice of scents. When they departed, her black eyes trained immediately on Isyllt.

“Good morning, necromancer. Looking for a scent? Or perhaps a healing oil—something to help you sleep?”

“Is it that obvious? No,” she amended, “don’t answer that. I’m following a scent and it’s led me here.”

“Then I hope it was a pleasant one, and not some of that trash they peddle down the street.”

“Quite pleasant. Neroli and almond and cinnamon, I think.”

“Ah.” Kohl-lined eyes gleamed. “Yes, neroli is a popular note this year.”

“Do you remember this particular scent?”

“It isn’t one of my standards. I make a lot of personal blends.” She shrugged one bronze shoulder and her shawl slipped another inch.

“And I’m sure you remember all of them,” Isyllt said with a smile, “or have notes. I need to know who you made it for.”

Kebechet stilled, flawless and poised as a statue. “That would be a breach of trust. Not all of my customers come to me publicly.”

“I respect that, but this is a murder investigation.”

“Ah.” She turned to the clerk, who was polishing a counter with great concentration. “Kadri, would you be a dear and fetch us some tea, and maybe some cardamom cakes? There’s no hurry.”

The boy left, a flush darkening his copper-brown cheeks, and Kebechet latched the door behind him. “You think one of my customers is a murderer?”

“Someone wearing one of your blends slit a woman’s throat for blood magic. Most likely more than one woman’s.”

The perfumist swallowed. “All right.” She flipped the
sign in the window. “I’ll help you if I can. We can sit down in the back.” She led Isyllt through the curtain, past a cluttered workroom and into a cramped but pleasant sitting room beside an equally cramped kitchen.

“Do you remember who you made that perfume for?” Isyllt asked as she sat. Her shoulders wanted to slump with fatigue, but Kebechet’s perfect corseted posture kept her back straight.

“Neroli and almond and cinnamon? Varis Severos. But,” she added quickly, “I’m hard pressed to imagine Varis killing anyone, especially for magic. He won’t even bind spirits.”

“He may have had nothing to do with it,” Isyllt lied calmly, “but the perfume passed from him to the person who did. Did he say if it was for someone?”

“It must have been—he could never have worn something like that. He often gives perfume to his… friends, nearly always personal blends. He has a wonderful nose for combining scents. I remember that one because he brought me a sample, an old bottle with only a few drops left, and asked me to recreate it. Not my work originally, but still quite nice. The cinnamon was much stronger than is popular now—it burns the skin, you know, and no one wants welts on their cleavage.”

“Did he say who it was for?”

The perfumist shook her head. “No. Not even an oblique sort of hint—I hear a lot of those.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your assistance.” She started to rise, and froze with her hands braced on the arms of the chair. “Do you still have the old perfume bottle?”

Kebechet blinked. “I may.” She led Isyllt into the work room, and sorted through the clutter scattered across
tables and piled into cabinets. “Here.” She pulled a cut glass bottle from the back of a shelf and held it out. A thin skin of oil rolled across the bottom. “Will this help you?”

“It might.” Isyllt wrapped the bottle carefully in a silk handkerchief before stowing it in her coat pocket. In any proper investigation, she would have enough evidence to go to Varis and demand answers, with the weight of Kiril’s and the Crown’s authority behind her. She clenched her teeth in frustration with Kiril and his secrets. “Thank you.”

Kebechet shrugged gracefully. “Anything to help the Crown. Can I interest you in a perfume, while you’re here?”

Isyllt was hardly in the mood to shop, but she knew the value of a healthy bribe. “I do have a ball to attend….”

Isyllt did know how many dead bodies turned up in the river each decad, at least on average. Part of her job was keeping track of the number and natures of deaths in Erisín, so she would recognize oddities.

That knowledge couldn’t prepare her for the line of corpses waiting for them in the Sepulcher.

The smell rose from the stairwell: putrescence, rich and layered, more than any incense could drown. Neither sweet nor sour and both at once, choking and viscid. It rolled over Isyllt’s skin, coiled in her nostrils and pressed against her tightened lips. And beneath the stages of rot, a fainter metallic bitterness that she associated with the Dis. Her right hand clenched against the burning chill of her ring.

Dahlia, whom Isyllt had collected from the Briar Patch, pressed a hand over her mouth and turned grey.

“Can you stand it?” Isyllt asked, breathing shallowly. Opening her mouth was a mistake. She had probably smelled worse at some point, but she couldn’t remember when.

The girl shot her a glance of pure vitriol. “This is why no one likes necromancers.”

“One of many reasons. Come on.”

Fifteen bodies lay on slabs in the vaulted chamber, swollen, mottled flesh illuminated with the brutal efficiency of witchlight. The oldest was at the limit of its preservation spells, no more than a day from deliquescence. The freshest was still damp. The river cared for no one’s vanity, but from the ribbons tangled in the corpse’s long ash-brown hair, Isyllt imagined the bloated, peeling shape on the table had once been a pretty girl. The body of a small bronze-black crab clung to the hair above one ear like a ghastly fascinator. The tiny necrophages clustered on the bars of the corpse-gates, where food was plentiful. More than one of the corpses here had likely been eaten hollow before the Vigils pulled it out.

Several of the bodies Isyllt was able to dismiss quickly. Two had traces of white foam in their mouths and nostrils, evidence that they’d been alive when they went into the water. The third had been stabbed multiple times in the chest and stomach—angry, vicious wounds, but not meant to exsanguinate. Swelling stretched the gashes, baring layers of skin and flesh and white-marbled fat. The macerated skin had begun to slough from the corpse’s hands. The oldest was so far gone that even Isyllt wasn’t willing to inspect it closely.

Of the remainders, four bore slit throats, and three of those carried telltale traces of cinnamon. Isyllt wondered if she would ever enjoy pastries or spiced tea again.

Three women dead since Forsythia, and saints only knew how many others they hadn’t found.

They left the Sepulcher by the afternoon bells, as the light began to thicken and slant.

“We can search for more tomorrow.” Isyllt said, scrubbing a hand over her face. She regretted it as soon as she did—the smell of corpses clung to her. Dahlia and Khelséa were still ashen, and she doubted she looked any better; no one suggested food.

The bells began to ring only a moment after she spoke. Not the stately melody of the hour, but a wild and enthusiastic tintinnabulation. All down the street people paused mid-stride, stuck their heads out of shop doors, turned to their neighbors for confirmation. Isyllt knew they wouldn’t be doing much investigating tomorrow: The army was coming home.

A young man burst from a doorway and bolted down the sidewalk, nearly trampling them. Isyllt swore as she tugged Dahlia out of the way. The rough plaster wall gouged her shoulder blades, and paper crinkled and tore. The parchment fluttered free when she moved and Isyllt caught it absently. An advertisement for the latest opera, or whatever had been the latest a decad ago; the paper was warped with moisture, the ink faded and smeared.

“Looks like I’ll be containing crowds tomorrow,” Khelséa said with a grimace. “Maybe I’ll claim another ear infection. What will you do?”

“I don’t know.” The paper crumpled in her fist. “More importantly, what will
she
do?”

An idea welled in the back of her mind, and her frown eased. She opened her fingers and smoothed the flier.

“Expensive perfumes are meant to be worn,” she said slowly, tumbling the idea end over end. “Especially ones from the most fashionable perfumery in the city. This witch of ours may hide her face, but she also buys scent and has dresses fitted. Where can a veiled woman go and attract the right sort of attention?”

She dangled the paper in front of the others’ faces and watched their eyes widen.

Khelséa argued, but it was Ciaran whom Isyllt asked to accompany her. Being seen with a Vigil wasn’t the sort of attention she wanted tonight—not to mention the opera would be wasted on someone deaf in one ear.

He arrived at her door at Evensong, resplendent in black velvet and crimson silk, his hair loose and shining over his shoulders. Finer clothes than she’d thought he owned, but what Ciaran didn’t have he always knew how to acquire. Not a perfect complement to her dove grey and opals, but hardly an eyesore.

“I didn’t think you liked the opera,” he said, leaning against the doorway while she pinned up her hair. Her shoulder was still mottled yellow and green, but at least the weather let her wear a scarf.

“I don’t, particularly, but this is business.” She much preferred spoken theater, or even the musicals that flourished in the demimonde orpheums. Hours of constant song wore on her.

Ciaran sighed. “Of course it is. You couldn’t simply want to go out for the joy of it.”

She almost made a joke about the joy of expense accounts and bit her tongue. Her hand tightened on a hair stick and she took a deep breath. A crease formed
between her reflection’s eyebrows. She still looked tired and wan, and hadn’t the skill with cosmetics to hide it. No powder could conceal the stark shadows below her collarbones—flesh she could ill afford to lose had melted away while she was bedridden. The iridescent fire of the opals at her throat and ears cheered her, though, and no one expected a necromancer to be plump and rosy with health. She forced a smile, held it in place till it fit, then pulled the black silk covering over the mirror and turned to find her gloves.

“What’s playing tonight, anyway?”

Ciaran gave a sigh for her ignorance. “
Astrophel and Satis
. Thierselis’s version.”

“Damn. I prefer the Kharybdea.”

“Of course you do. It’s one of the reasons I’m so fond of you.” He crossed the room to stand behind her, dropping a light kiss just below her ear. “Is that a new perfume?”

The Orpheum Tharymis rose above the rooftops of Lyre, its marble columns and domes gilded by hundreds of lanterns. Musicians and dancers chased each other through elaborate friezes, and owl-winged gargoyles brooded dramatically over the doorways; golden light glazed the rain-damp street below. Vendors thronged the pavement beneath the broad steps, offering flowers and refreshments and forged programs for cheaper than one could find inside. Ribbons of scent twisted with the breeze—wine and cider, garlic and sugar and bruising blossoms.

The Tharymis was the oldest and grandest orpheum in the city, though many would argue that the Magdalen—or the Garden’s Rhodon—had the better productions. Had it been an opening night, even Isyllt’s diamond
wouldn’t have been enough to secure tickets. As it was, most of the other attendees looked through her and Ciaran without the aid of an obfuscation charm.

Witchlights blazed in crystal chandeliers overhead, gleaming on brass and marble and polished wood, burnished the blue velvet seats and curtains. The tiny bowls that lined the aisles were witchlit as well. Beeswax candles burned in wall sconces—easier to light and douse, and less likely to catch someone’s cloak or skirts alight.

Isyllt had managed mediocre seats on the ground floor—good enough if one truly wanted to watch the performance, but beneath the notice of the balconies and private boxes. She sent Ciaran for refreshments and tried to watch the Severos box without getting a crick in her neck. Eventually a page rapped at the door with drinks for two, but of the occupants she saw nothing but a pale hand emerging to take the tray. If Varis was there, perhaps his mysterious companion was as well.