Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) (16 page)

III

The instant that she was out of the reeking underground and into the flatulent streets, the skies gurgled with upset and then unloosed buckets of rain. Hastily, less she be smitten with stinkeye, she leaped for cover under the tiny awning of the nearest stoop, and warded off fellow huddlers with her knives and promises to gut them if they came close. The sincerity of Menosian threats was not to be taken lightly, and she was left in peace. She managed to hail a carriage by running into the street and holding her Watcher’s sigil before the coach master, which got him to stop. In typical Menosian gratitude, she ordered the sourpussed master and his concubine from the carriage—leaving them to flail for cover in the sizzling rain—and was soon on her way to her next appointment.

At least this meeting was to be in finer surroundings than the last. To Blackbriar Lane in the Evernight Gardens of Menos she was headed, a neighborhood of prestige and influence. She reclined against the warm leather seating of the carriage, still fresh with the concubine’s vanilla perfume, and watched the city roll by. People scattered in the streets; it was pandemonium whenever the skies decided to weep. One poor fool wasn’t watching his step as he raced across the slick road. He tripped, cracking his head on the cement, only to be trampled by a speeding reborn horse a moment hence. Those nekromantic animals were no better than machines, so they couldn’t be expected to stop—or so Mouse told herself. She didn’t even turn to watch the rain wash the blood away or to say a passing prayer for the man.

She ruminated on the austerity of her city, and to a lesser degree, herself. How unusual it was to live in a city where so much life held no meaning. She knew of other places in Geadhain, nations that promised
freedom
and
equality
, and as an agent of The Watchers, she had been to many of these libertine states. But no matter how prettily they dressed up the virgin for the slaughter, she was still bound to die. There were still unbreakable authorities, clandestine maneuverings, and subterfuges in place that ensured that the strong presided over the weak—that the natural order was preserved. Eod and its eternal king, who only loosely governed and left men to deal with themselves under the Nine Laws as laid out by him and his sages, were the only exception. As if the wickedness of men could be so easily curbed, the desire to overpower, pillage, and harm, by nine small statements. She
recalled hearing one of the Nine Laws once, in a tavern here in Menos, before the drunk shouting it was punched free of his teeth for his unwanted rambling.

No man shall live as a king. All kings shall live as men. To be revered only if their honor demands. Only if their deeds are worthy of worship, which the voices of all who witness them will decide
.

What a faery story you live in, Everfair King. With your noble sages and their laws, your golden queen, and your nation of riches in a land where there should be none. How effortless for you to preach from your ivory palace, you who have lived for thousands of years and would tell us the virtues that we mortals should aspire to have. What would your kind know of mortal suffering? Of what we do or do not need? You, who have never suffered or known fear, scoffed Mouse.

The rest of the Nine Laws sounded just as misguided, and she could not fathom a nation of simpletons that would obey them. Yet King Magnus’s realm prospered, far more gloriously than Menos did. As did Zioch, the Sun King’s wooded domain in the South that bowed to the same Nine Laws. No wonder the people of Menos loathed these pristine princelings, these half-men who declared themselves kings, but lived by rules that mortals did not. For centuries now, the three countries had been engaged in a covert warfare with one another. Well, to be fair, reasoned Mouse, the aggression was mostly on the side of the Menos. Though who could blame the Iron sages and their covetousness toward the stores of wealth, magik, and elemental power that these kings had amassed in their eternal existences. Dangle meat in front of a starving dog and it might bite your hand off to get at it. The diplomatic relations between Menos, Eod, and Zioch were strained and delicate, with Menos ever anxious to bite the meat, the hand, and the throat of the master, after having been denied it for so long.

No war yet, dear kings. But soon, if the Iron sages have their way
, she reflected.

The Crucible rose over the black peaked roofs of the city, catching her attention. The fortress of the Iron sages never lacked for intimidation, this ebony edifice towering from the heart of Menos as if it were a pillar supporting heaven and earth. Taller than any building in the city, almost as tall as the peaks of Kor’Keth, which Mouse had seen, the Crucible’s majesty was
humbling and unquestionable. And with a smooth, rain-slicked, windowless exterior and the emanation of an insectile hum of the sorcery that could be felt vibrating in Mouse’s groin even this far away, it made one think it was truly an artifact left by giant creators and not of this world. Dark metal sky carriages—Menosian Crowes—buzzed over the Crucible, disappearing into the clouds to docks that could not be seen. She watched their transit, wondering what they ferried, before turning her eyes back to the neighborhood her carriage traveled.

She had reached the Evernight Gardens. Appropriately named, for the carriage fell into the sudden dusk of the Crucible’s shadow. The estates of Evernight Gardens were among the fanciest in Menos: rambling properties and black manses fenced in ornate thorny gates. Real thorns, she knew, which made them even more interesting to stare at; thinking on the magik that grew such plants to monstrous dimensions, sculpted them, and then transmogrified them into metal. There were few people on the streets here, but many carriages, and traffic slowed to a crawl.

She didn’t have far to go, however, and the carriage turned into a gated drive hung in metalized willows, which made steely music on the carriage roof. The carriage stopped outside a peaked iron gate, and two dour guardsmen, unhappy at being pulled out of their cozy booths and into the rain, came knocking on the windows with blunderbusses and scowls. The men backed away as Mouse pressed her signet to the window. A moment later, the coach master was whipping his dead mount forward, through the opened gates.

Quite a master lives here
, thought Mouse, as she eyed the dark splendor of the grounds.

Twisted hedge-mazes, with settees and bush-monsters and shrubberies of blue flowers, rolled by on either side. In the middle of each maze—and she glanced quickly from side to side to catch them—were macabre statues of naked women and men twisted together like wire and vomiting water from their mouths amid slate fountains. “The beauty of Menosian art,” she snidely remarked. But there was more, and her snideness became awe as the carriage trotted into the forbidding shadow of a keep ripped straight from a fireside tale. With its sooty bricks caulked in dark moss, its tall draped windows, its grand belfries, and its sharp parapets, it was easy to imagine that an undying evil presence called this place home. About the roof and corners
of the manse, freakish gargoyles clustered, baring their fangs and claws to those who would approach. A roost of faceless stone men holding downward spears stood atop the arch over the entrance and watched the circular court beyond where the carriage slowed to a halt. Lightning dazzled the gloomy day as Mouse stepped out of the carriage—not paying the coach master—and bolted through the downpour. The inanimate gazes of guardians and gargoyles were more chilling than the weather, and she debated if this haunted castle was indeed more hospitable than the Broker’s rotten lair.

A city of madmen, schemers, and diabolists, each trying to outdo the vileness of the other. Oh, well, let’s make this quick
.

Fleetly, she was up many stairs and under the protection of the stone wardens’ awning. A luxurious set of mahogany doors faced her. They were giant, and no rungs or handles were present to tackle their mass. So she chose to knock. Not long and a churning of gears echoed, and the entrance rattled open.

A reborn manservant greeted her. He was less decayed or patchworked than any of his kind she had seen, and could even have passed as alive; the inkiness of his eyes, the unusual fishy paleness of his skin, or the small surgical scars about his pouty, sad mouth notwithstanding. The rest of him appeared to be a fine, proper gentleman, and he was positioned with poise, clasping his hands and puffing out his broad chest, his three-piece, black satin suit and goose-gray cravat free of wrinkles or dirt. Even the dead man’s hair was immaculate; combed and slicked into a horse tail away from his handsomely hawkish face.
What a queer master to keep his dead things so prim
, thought Mouse. Reborn were incredibly expensive playthings, treated no better than reanimated beasts of burden and certainly not dressed up like serfs to an Iron sage. She talked slowly so as not to confuse the reborn, whose partial brains were so often childlike and whose tongues could not wrestle with the intricacies of language.

“I-am-here-for-a-meeting-with-your-master.”

“I see. Follow me, if you would,” said the dead man, huskily but with complete fluency.

“Gah!” exclaimed Mouse.

“I’m so sorry,” said the dead man. “It was my speaking, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“My master is talented at his craft. He can work miracles with dead flesh. Please, come inside.”

“Talented” at his craft
, contemplated Mouse. The master of the house was certainly a nekromancer, and one of such efficacy that he could achieve what those in the blackest ateliers of Menos could not: a reborn creature with more than an ear for instruction, but a will. She wasn’t of an arcane mind, but knew enough of magik to apprehend that she was witnessing a singularity.

“Dear Voice, please, we should not keep the master waiting,” said the dead man, and beckoned toward a black-and-gray-checkered foyer dominated by a huge branching staircase. Mouse had been standing still like a fool and jumped to motion. While the dead man fiddled and shut the door behind her, she dripped a wandering trail over the clean floor, admiring the velveteen furniture and softly glowing chandeliers of the chamber. An instant later, the dead man caught up to her and led them up padded steps to the right, and down a hallway. Mouse perused the surrounding artwork: depictions of dissection by dark wraithlike figures; images of drawn and quartered men; busts with snakes wriggling through their skull sockets; and a line of masters’ portraits in various centuries of dress—all pale as death, blue of stare, and wickedly inscrutable in manner. Shortly thereafter, she passed an oil painting of a nude woman splayed on a shingled roof, smiling as blackbirds picked at her gaping red chest.
Ravens. The raven flies west
, she thought, and wondered whom she had come to meet. She was drawn to the image, and lingered at it before the dead man roughly ushered her ahead to a vestibule arranged with lavish chairs and an ebony mantel.

“A moment,” said the steward, and he strode to a nearby door and slipped through. As he did, she glimpsed what was beyond: electrical flickers of light, arcane conical shapes charged with currents, swinging meat hooks, and a grim figure twisting his hands on a wet, writhing shape upon a metal table. Hastily she looked away, but the stink of scorched meat and a scream, imagined or not, persisted. A blue fire crackled nearby, and was more inviting than anything in that room was; she went to it, took off her gloves, and warmed her hands while the miniature gargoyles on the mantelpiece spied on her. The color was starting to creep back into her hands when she heard the entrance to the buzzing laboratory open. She turned.

Standing beside the tall, dead man, the strong-featured master of the house could have been his twin but for eyes blue and sparkling with mad wit and the slighter angles to his unshaven face. He wore a bloody rubber apron and black elastic gloves that ran to his elbows, and he held the latter out so that his immaculate attendant could strip the unwanted things from him. The master then lifted his arms and tapped his foot impatiently while the steward removed his apron. When the tasks were done, the master nodded to the dead man, who gathered the items in a pile and made an exit.

“Do excuse the mess,” said the master, not really looking to his guest, as he picked and fluffed at the gentlemanly blouse he wore. A strange shade of midnight-blue it was, the color of the petals on an evening rose, but it suited him well. Mouse might have found him attractive if no other elements had preceded their meeting. The master fished in his pants for a kerchief and began to dab what blood he felt on his face; abruptly, his manner became cross.

“I was interrupted, and I’ll presume it was for a good reason. Don’t hold your tongue, Voice.”

Mouse wasted no time. “I was told to find the master of Blackbriar Lane and deliver a message to him. One of a pair. I apologize, but this message may be out of turn.”

“How so?”

“My first message sent a man to follow the Raven.” She chanced an opinion. “I would guess that you are he?”

The master let out a dry laugh. “Making assumptions is not part of your profession. But yes, for the purposes of this dialogue, you may call me the Raven. If your original message was to a certain bottom-dwelling lunatic, then I wouldn’t worry; the order is correct. Steering the deranged is akin to herding cats on fire. It’s a disaster, trust me, nowhere near as entertaining as it sounds. Not even in the throes of youthful enlightenment. ‘Tis best that he received instruction before I. The man takes woefully long to do the simplest of things.”

Mouse wasn’t confident that the Raven was sane enough to deem anyone mad. She cleared her throat and hurried to finish the meeting. “In any event, this is the second whisper. Make of it what you will.
The skies above the desert are bare, free of the guiding star of the north. In the darkness, the
Raven flies, and the Hound follows. It is hungry and it will feed
.
Weed out the blackbriar root, if you can
.”

“Oh,” said the Raven, smiling, and his perfect teeth and charismatic grin were somehow rictus and horrifying. “Thank you for the message. This was a welcome interruption.” The Raven clapped his hands. “Vortigern!”