The Shattered City (10 page)

Ashiol sat on the fabric cupboard, his feet on the table where her sewing machine rested. For once she didn't tell him to put them down. Macready and Crane stood by the cold fireplace. ‘Not so bad?' Macready asked with a false lightness to his voice.

‘If she was really a sentinel she could be dead,' said Velody. Her hands were shaking. Delayed shock?

‘Aye, maybe. Or she'd have died already, saving your life. Or she'd have been with us, and safe. “What if” never led to anything of any worth. Just ask our Seer.'

‘People do get hurt, though,' Velody said, staring at her fingers. She could see that dark web of shadows again, flickering over her skin, and she made fists to hide it. ‘Not everything can be fixed. The Silent Sleep …'

How awful was it that she had never considered the consequences of that until she saw the wreckage of her own home, and thought Rhian and Delphine might have been victims?

Would Velody's friends be safer if they were a part of the Court? Should they be setting up home in the Arches? Was living alongside Livilla and Poet less of a risk than living on the surface?

‘Not everything,' Ashiol agreed. ‘You were lucky.'

‘I should have done a better job of defending the house.'

‘You have a city to think of,' he said sharply. ‘One house shouldn't matter. It can't matter.'

‘And that's why you live underground, so you care about nothing?' Velody flared. ‘How would you feel if it was the Palazzo that fell to the skybolts? If the Duchessa didn't wake up one morning, and you knew exactly why? How many cups of wine would it take to drown that one out?'

Ashiol's face darkened. ‘I would be angry. Wounded. Lost. But you haven't lost anything.'

‘Not this nox,' said Velody.

She went out into the street, performed the ceremonies for the Lords of the Court perfunctorily, conscious all the while of Ashiol watching her, disapproving of how upset she was. How dare he? Of all people, considering his recent antics, he was the last who should judge her for how she felt.

When she had finally sent them all on their way to sleep through the morning, even Macready, Velody returned to her house. She found herself staring at every detail — every ornament or stray scrap of fabric, every wall and piece of furniture. She went into the kitchen and examined the spice jars. All was as it should be. All was back to normal.

The darkness overwhelmed her. Her animor roiled within her body, dark and awful and twisted. It had never felt this bad before. She stumbled from the kitchen, barely able to make out the familiar shapes of things in the workroom, they were so drenched in shadows. Something was wrong, really wrong with her.

She should have told Ashiol about the web pattern on her hands, about the dark thoughts she had been having. She should have told Macready. Somebody. She had been too embarrassed to admit, even to herself, that since she had saved the city from Dhynar's tainted shade, she had felt as if her own power was dirty, polluted, stained. The only times she felt altogether sane were when she was fighting the sky, and when she was sewing.

Velody stumbled now towards the silk gown hanging ready for the Duchessa's courier. Every stitch had kept
the darkness at bay. She laid her hands on the silk, inhaling a long breath, and felt calmness descend around her shoulders. That answered the question of whether she should stay on as a dressmaker as well as being Power and Majesty of the Creature Court. Obviously, it was the only thing that would keep her in one piece.

 

After the courier had taken the dress to the Palazzo, Velody went to fetch fresh bread from the bakery. She felt a new lightness to her body. Her animor felt cleaner than it had for many days, and she was hopeful that she could make it work. She could balance the daylight and the nox. She didn't have to give either up. All would be well.

She had seen the bakery shattered only a few hours ago, but every brick and stone were exactly where they should be. The scent of early baking still lingered, but there was none of the usual warmth and chatter pouring out from the double doors. As Velody came nearer, she saw that the doors were barred, with a brief sigil pinned up to warn customers away.

Velody stood there for a moment, not sure what to make of it. She glanced around, and saw the fruit-sellers waving to her from the stall they ran on the far side of the road. She had last seen them deep into their cups with the flirtatious Warlord at the street party, laughing and dancing. They weren't laughing now.

‘They say it was his boy Giuno,' said one of the dames, as Velody approached. ‘Taken in the nox. The Silent Sleep. Poor lamb. The family's broken up.'

‘The baker's on Havingale is open,' added the other. ‘Get in fast, though; they'll sell out before noon, with the extra business.'

Giuno, who had taken his man's robe on the Nones, who had danced with Delphine with a wide grin as if he was the luckiest boy alive.

Velody just stood there for a long time, unable to move. Finally, she walked back to her house, numb all over. She made it back to the house before she started crying, but only just.

She expected the shadow of her animor to fall over her again, but it did not. She cried, she dried her eyes, and she continued with her day. Perhaps she was getting better at controlling it.

I
sangell was tired. There was so much to be done, so many different ceremonies to prepare for, so many rituals to be learned. It had all seemed so easy when she was a child, when her grandpapa the Old Duc was sane and strong, when her grandmama took charge of every festival, smooth as a waterclock, always knowing what had to be done and what was to be done next.

The last few years had been a mess, all about hiding how badly Grandpapa's mind had degenerated, and then how ill Grandmama was. Keeping up the bare minimum had been all they were required to do.

Isangell's first year of rule had been in mourning, with no need for public appearances, just private meetings with the City Fathers and the Proctors. She had had whole hours of peace to herself, to learn how the city worked, and who were the important people to please.

But now she must restore the traditions, every one of them, and for every meeting on political issues, she had three with priests.

Isangell knew that it was important, that every ritual they performed contributed to the city's wellbeing, and yet it was hard to remember that halfway through an interminable season of Sacred Games when she was required to clap appreciatively every time some over-muscled gladiator did something grotesque to a gattopardo or tigris.

Isangell really would rather not watch anything that involved the spraying of blood. Women were not permitted to commit acts of blood sacrifice, something for which she had always been grateful when the men of her family were called upon to perform their priestly duties. Women sacrificed wreaths and locks of hair, baked cakes with blood and swept the temples after sacrifice, but they did not hold a knife.

The Duc who ruled the city, however, was expected to slice open all manner of beasts in the name of auguries and sacrifice. It had been quite a dilemma, discussed by representatives of the many temples and churches around the city for that whole first year of mourning. Eventually it was decided that the Duchessa could select a man to act as her hand, drawing the necessary blood on her behalf.

A trap, of course. Almost before the priests had delivered their verdict, the Duchessa was overwhelmed by a sea of letters of recommendation, offers and veiled threats from the various eligible menfolk of the Great Families. She had hoped that her public declaration that she would not marry for two years, and that each Family could present a single suitor to rotate the duties of her
consort would calm them all down again, but it seemed to have made things worse. The relevance and social significance of every festival was weighed against the others, and various Family secretaries had worn their pens down to the nub debating as to whether the Lesser Quinquinatrus was worth more or less than the Matralia, and whether it was fair to allow Jordan Leorgette to accompany the Duchessa for both days of the Ludi Taurei when Darius Camellie had only been allowed to stand at her side for two hours during the interminable rituals of the Lares Vialibus.

It was enough to make Isangell scream. The only way to make them stop was to choose a Duc Consort once and for all. She wasn't ready for that, not yet.

She was allowing each of the potential consorts from the Great Families to accompany her for one day of either the Ludi Sacris or the Ludi Victoriae, but that meant days left over, and certain days were obviously more important than the others … saints, she was even starting to think like those scorekeeping secretaries.

This, of course, was why she needed Ashiol. To his credit, he had done well, turning up when he should, standing at her side, making the more important sacrifices, and not showing any obvious signs of being either drunk or mad. Either her mother was wrong, or he was exceptionally good at hiding his weaknesses.

No wonder Isangell was tired. Thank the saints for the nettlebane that the dottore was now prescribing on a regular basis, to shut the swirling schedules and timetables and rituals out of her mind for a few hours at a time so that she could sleep.

‘High and brightness?' one of the maids called out. ‘It's time to dress.'

The fire dress, adorned with crisp black tumbling leaves, was the finest yet that Velody of the Vittorine had made for her. It would only be worn once. Isangell might as well burn her gowns in the sacrificial grate. Tradition required that for every festival day, there must be a new baubled sheath for Isangell to wrap herself in for the latest display of decadence.

At least she was keeping the dressmakers employed.

Isangell let her noxgown slide from her skin, her eyes on the silken fire dress. It swayed in the fingers of the maids who held it ready, as if the flames it displayed were real, and it might dissolve into ash and smoke at any moment. She could almost feel the heat seeping out of the fabric into the air of the room.

She allowed the maids to help her into the soft corset first. They tightened the stays, not as narrowly as they would have done in her mother's youth, or her grandmama's. Waistlines were less prized than they once had been. It was all about the fall of the fabric.

Thank goodness she had been blessed with narrow hips.

Isangell breathed in as the fire dress was slipped over her shoulders. It felt like a heated embrace. Should silk be this warm? One of the maids brought a looking glass to her, and she found herself gazing at the shimmer of orange and black silk. She looked taller, older, in this gown. She turned slowly, noting how low the dress dipped in the back. Daring, but not too scandalous.

For a moment, the thought of wielding the sacrificial knife herself flashed through Isangell's mind. She had no idea where it came from, but she could almost smell the blood …

The familiar rustling sound of maids brought her back to herself and she stood straight-backed as they began fussing around her with sandals and hair pins and cosmetick.

It was just a dress. She was obviously imagining that the room was full of shadows that had not been there before.

 

Velody was not sure how it had started, but Delphine and Macready were arguing about her. ‘It's a tradition now,' said Delphine.

‘Do you have any idea how many people turn out to see the sacrifices?' Macready countered. ‘It's a riot waiting to happen, with melon slices on the side.'

‘You would have to be there as sentinels anyway, with Ashiol on stage,' said Delphine. ‘If Velody is there too, it makes it easier to keep an eye on them both.'

Macready's eyes narrowed. ‘It's a fine turn of argument you have there, lass. We'd need all our sentinels there on full alert for the two of them, and that's a lot of trouble just to catch sight of a frock we've all seen every day for the last month.'

‘This is Velody's last chance to see that gown she worked her fingers to the bone to finish, as the city will see it, before it is torn off the Duchessa's body and discarded into the rag heap,' Delphine snapped.

Velody, who had been amused at first by the two of them bickering over her plans for the day, thought it was perhaps the appropriate time to assert her own wishes. ‘If any of the Creature Court wishes to challenge me, I suspect they will be able to find a better time and place than a public sacrifice. If nothing else, there will be an audience of thousands ready to pelt any miscreants with honey cakes.'

‘You don't take this seriously enough,' Macready warned.

‘Crane and Kelpie can watch over Ashiol,' Velody told him. ‘You and Delphine can stand with me. It will be your chance to teach her what it means to be a sentinel.'

‘That's not funny,' said Delphine, her expression turning flat.

‘Speaking as the person who has just been reminded that her life's work is to fill a rag bag, I find it hilarious.'

Delphine stood up with great dignity and flounced towards the staircase. ‘I am not a sentinel!' she declared. Macready and Velody exchanged a look.

A few minutes later, Delphine's voice floated down from her room. ‘I am going to the sacrifice, though. Don't you dare leave before I'm dressed.'

 

It was rare that one of these Palazzo farces allowed Ashiol to wear a costume he considered anything other than eye-scratchingly embarrassing. To ensure he did not eclipse the Duchessa's finery, he had been allowed out in all black today, with only a few embroidered threads of orange and gold. He wore a chunk of honey-amber at his throat that matched the long trail of beads that fell from his cousin's headdress to wind around her neck.

The shoes provided for him were ridiculous concoctions: too tight, soles so thick you couldn't feel the cobbles beneath. Ashiol had swapped them for his favourite soft leather boots the second the tailor's back was turned.

Luckily few people paid attention to what the consort was wearing. Isangell was useful like that. All eyes went straight to her.

The Circus Verdigris was packed, racks and rows of people pressed into benches and scaffolding around the wide grassy arena. They were hungry for the show — for the Sacred Games that would fill the long hot day — but the performances of animals, gladiators, wrestlers and dancers would not begin until after the Duchessa's sacrifice had been made.

For the good of the city.

It always felt alien, being out in the daylight, let alone blazing sunshine. Ashiol, used to dangers falling down on him from the sky, could not help but feel oppressed by the brightness. Or maybe he had miscalculated how much imperium he needed to drink, to stay on his feet. He stood behind the Duchessa as she led the chanting song of summer and sacrifices, and wished he had brought a flask.

A sturdy lamb was caged beside Ashiol, its eyes already dull from the philtre it had been given by the priests. Ashiol knew by rote the cuts he would have to make to bare the lamb's innards to the air. At least he was allowed to slash the throat first, one long cut to let its life's breath out before the real mutilation began.

No different to what he had done to Poet, and the others, more than once.

The sun was making him dizzy, and a vision overtook Ashiol for a moment. He imagined himself forming a long chimaera claw and carving the lamb up that way. The blood really would spurt. He would probably do a better job.

Isangell's hymn came to an end. The priest brought out the lamb, managing to make it look somewhat energetic as they spread it on the altar. Isangell lifted her knife, letting the entire stadium see the sunlight
glint from the blade, then turned and passed it to her cousin.

Rituals. Always controlling women, limiting how strong they could be. Ashiol had never even thought about such things before Velody took her place over him.

He stood before the lamb, knife poised to strike. ‘Next time, gosling,' he said conversationally in a tone low enough that only Isangell and the nearby servants and priests could hear, ‘you should spill your own blood. New traditions. Why the frig not? Give them a real show.'

Isangell gave him an odd smile, as if she was contemplating the idea.

Ashiol brought the knife down in a killing stroke, letting the blood spray forward over the altar. Then the cuts, deep and swift, though light enough not to pierce the vital entrails beneath.

Ashiol slid his hands inside the corpse of the lamb, feeling the heat of it infuse his skin. He drew out the entrails as he had been taught, letting them web and hang between his fingers. No obvious augurs of doom here — no maggots or blight.

He walked the bounds of the Circus Verdigris once, looping around the central altar and letting the blood drip from the entrails on to the grass, sanctifying it. When he returned, he handed the gory mess to the Duchessa, who had acquired a pale clay bowl in which to receive them. Ashiol painted a long stripe of blood on her face as the sacrificial ‘kiss', and she returned the favour, dipping her finger into the squishy contents of the bowl once and daubing his forehead before taking the bowl to the fire to burn the entrails. There was
that smile again. Perhaps the sunshine was affecting her too? He had never seen Isangell so relaxed around a blood ritual, like a cat waiting her turn to lick out the bowl.

The ashes were supposed to be baked into some kind of ceremonial cake, but Ashiol had little interest in that. He had done his part.

There were more hymns as he stood there, sun baking the blood dry on his skin. He could feel Velody in the crowd, her heartbeat strong and her scent drawing him in. Macready was at her side, and the blonde demme, Delphine. Her scent was stronger than ever before — was it true Macready was trying to turn the wench into a sentinel? Stranger things had happened.

Crane and Kelpie were further away, but Ashiol could sense them too.

Isangell came forward again, her fingers black with wet ashes, and drew a new smudge down between Ashiol's eyes, lingering over the touch. Around them, the priests sang their interminable song.

Bring on the fucking gladiators
, Ashiol thought.
This is torture, and I should know
…

When the next chorus of voices raised in song, he heard the first scream. It was not here, not anywhere near the Circus Verdigris, but he felt the sound tear up from under the city as if it were directly connected to his veins.
Livilla. Livilla. Livilla.
He knew her voice before he even recognised the sound.

He searched the crowd for that familiar pulse and found one figure standing very still, her pale face standing out beneath dark hair. Velody met his eyes and nodded slightly. She felt it too. He saw her turn and vanish into the crowd.

Ashiol touched Isangell's arm. ‘I have to go.'

She stared at him, her disbelief evident. ‘Now?'

‘I'm sorry,' and he almost was, but his mind was underground, racing after Velody, wanting to know what the hell those otherworldly screams meant. ‘Is the ritual done?'

‘Would you care if it was?' Isangell said impatiently. ‘Oh,
go
.'

Ashiol took the bowl from her hand, marked her forehead with ashes in return, then bowed formally and withdrew from the altar. The crowd did not react until he reached the edge and they realised that he was actually leaving. Isangell threw up her hands and cried something to them. Something diplomatic, he expected.