The Bone Palace (8 page)

It would pass. He’d endured worse.

When the last corner of parchment blackened and fell to ash, Kiril wiped the soot from his hands and rose, leaning against his chair. He didn’t need strength or magic to deal with tomb-robbing vampires, only wits and caution.

He snuffed the lamp and prepared to lie to someone he loved.

Rain hissed and tapped against the rooftops of Calderon Court, streaming past the warped panes of the great octagonal window in Isyllt’s living room and rinsing the city into a grey blur. The streetlights weren’t lit till true dusk, but lamps and candles flickered in other windows, bleeding pale and gold through the gloom. Isyllt’s stomach felt as cold and watery as the glass.

Her left palm ached against her teacup. During the chaos in Symir a would-be assassin had put a knife through her hand to steal her ring. She’d reclaimed the diamond, but all the skill of the Arcanostoi surgeons hadn’t been enough to save her hand. Foretelling the weather was a paltry compensation. She swirled her tea, watching leaves twist and spiral through the dregs. A pity she couldn’t foretell anything else.

Hours remained till sunset—only a formality, with the sky the color of old pewter, but one to be observed nonetheless. She set the teacup aside and wished for something stronger. The thought of the catacombs sent a not entirely
unpleasant chill up her back, and she rubbed the scar on her shoulder. She had known of the vrykoloi since she first became an investigator, but only met one two years ago, after she’d come home from Symir. The meeting hadn’t begun well, but they had sorted things out since.

Her wards shivered a moment before a soft knock fell on her door. Her magic recognized the man outside and rubbed against him in friendly greeting, even as she tensed. Isyllt forced her hands to relax as she opened the door and smiled up at her master.

Once he would have kissed her cheek; once she would have kissed his mouth. Now they settled for a brief clasp of hands, and she felt the starkness of bone through skin. His short beard was finally more white than dark auburn, his hair even paler. Students had called him “the Old Man” since his thirties, but it had never seemed like the truth before. Shadowed black eyes met hers and he smiled wryly.

“I know,” Kiril said, shrugging out of his dripping oilcloak and hanging it on a peg. “Any day now I’ll be leaning on a stick and complaining about the stairs.”

“Don’t be silly.” Beneath the clinging scent of rain, he smelled of incense and herbs, orris and olibanum and resinous dragon’s blood, and under that the lightning tang of magic. Sharp and sweet and comforting—she still wanted to lean into it whenever he was near.

She also wanted to shake him; it shouldn’t take tomb-robbing demons to bring him to her door. It had been more than a decad since she’d spoken to him, and all their visits in the past several months had been strained and brief. After fifteen years, she wanted to tell him, she could tell the difference between honest distraction and willful avoidance.

Instead she ushered him in and moved to stir the fire and pour wine. After fifteen years she also knew how impossible it was to pry things from him that he didn’t want to share. His footsteps creaked unevenly across the floorboards; she wondered when he’d begun to limp. Fabric rustled as he sank into a chair near the great window.

Isyllt handed him a glass—a cunningly wrought cage cup, one of a pair he’d given her for a long-ago saint day—and sat down in the other worn and much-mended chair. Her apartments had been new and richly furnished fifty years ago, but nicks and scuffs had accumulated over a succession of government employees, and Isyllt was more apt to spend her salary on clothes and expensive wine than new furniture. Decades of pacing feet had worn the patterns from the rugs, and the smoke of lamps and candles darkened the high beams.

“What do you think of this?” Kiril asked, his voice carefully bland.

“I don’t know.” Leather creaked as she crossed her legs. “I don’t know what the girl had to do with the robbery, or why she was killed, or who even amongst demons would be mad or foolish enough to do something like this.” She sipped her wine, rolling tannin and warm spices across her tongue. “If Mathiros hears of this…”

Kiril’s mouth hooked down. “He’ll storm the catacombs with flame and silver and hang the charred bones from the walls. Yes.” He tasted the wine and nodded approval. “Which would be madness in its turn—the vrykoloi would certainly retaliate. But he isn’t rational where Lychandra is concerned.”

He stared out the window; the light died by inches and thunder growled in the distance. The gloom washed his
face grey, filled the hollows of his cheeks and eyes with shadows. Isyllt couldn’t remember the first time her breath had caught when she looked at him too long, but it had never stopped since. Her hand tightened on her cup till the filigreed silver cage bit her palm.

The ache of memory wasn’t enough to distract her from his frown, or the faint movement of his fingers against the arm of the chair. “What is it?” she asked. “You know something.”

“It’s nothing,” he said after a pause. At least he had the grace to look rueful when he lied to her. She pushed the fleeting sting aside—there had always been things he couldn’t tell her. A hazard of their work. “Investigate as you see fit. If we can find those responsible and return what was stolen, perhaps Mathiros need never learn of this.” His frown deepened. Did it pain him to hide things from the king he’d served so long? Isyllt didn’t think he would have kept secrets three years ago. Three years ago he could have swayed the king from any foolish vengeance. But maybe there had always been secrets between Kiril and Mathiros too. “Perhaps Aphra and Tenebris know something.”

She nearly smiled. Many in Erisín avoided even the word
vrykoloi
, for fear of attracting unwanted attention—Kiril named their elders as he might old friends.

He turned back to her and the firelight picked out glints of garnet in his hair, lined the weary creases on his face. “You’re not going alone, are you?”

“I’m taking Ciaran. He knows his way around the sewers.” The musician’s days of fencing and sneak-thievery might be over, but he hadn’t forgotten them any more than she’d forgotten hers. Elysia branded its children deep.

Kiril’s eyebrows rose. “You and he are still close, then?”

She chuckled. She’d had other relationships over the years, before and after Kiril, but of all her lovers in Erisín, she only spoke to him and Ciaran. “I’m not made of rosewood and strings—it will never be serious. I trust him at my back.”
But not like I trust you
. She washed the thought away with a swallow of wine.

He nodded and raised his own cup. “That’s good. You need more people you can trust around you. Perhaps you should consider taking an apprentice of your own.”

Her smile felt brittle. “I don’t need to worry about that yet, do I?” Was his health the secret he was keeping? He had never truly recovered from the attack he suffered after the queen’s death, but she hadn’t imagined things had worsened so much.

He stared into the ruby-black depths of his glass and the spiderweb lines around his eyes deepened. Isyllt wanted to soothe them away, along with the bruised shadows on his eyelids and the weariness that showed in every line of his lean frame. But all her magic was useless for that. No healing for either of them, only death.

Kiril looked up and smiled, and lied again. “You’re right. Let’s solve this mystery first. We have plenty of time to worry about other things.”

She smiled back, and tried to make herself believe it.

As the sun sank behind its vault of clouds, Isyllt sat on the foot of Ciaran’s narrow bed and waited for him to finish fussing with his clothes. The little room—practically compact was the kindest description—smelled of baking and spices from the kitchens below and all the familiar scents that clung in his clothes and hair: orange-and-clove wood polish, pine oil, and the rich musk of his skin. Charms
hung in the windows, cords of dried leaves and shining beads; she didn’t recognize the foreign magics, and Ciaran never told the same story twice when she asked.

He wore dark colors tonight, snug lines that wouldn’t trip him up in narrow places, none of his usual flamboyance. Isyllt was dressed much the same—plain leather trousers and a short jacket—but chains of opals and amethysts clattered faintly when she moved, a wealth of gems wrapped around her throat. A peace gift for the vrykoloi, who valued beauty and things of the earth.

Ciaran gave his boots a final stamp and pulled on his coat, double-checking all the weapons secreted about him. Isyllt stood, rolling her shoulders to settle the bone-and-silver kukri knife sheathed down her back, and tugged on her other glove.

“Will the Crown reimburse me for my time?” Ciaran asked as he braided his long dark hair.

“I’ll add it to my expense account.”

He leaned in to kiss her; his mouth tasted of mint and cumin. “For luck,” he said with a wink.

Ciaran might never swear devotion to her, but he was warm and pleasant company. Friends for sixteen years, lovers on and off for many of those—sometimes his company was almost pleasant enough to make her forget the loneliness of the last three years.

“In that case—” She pulled him back and kissed him again.

They entered the city’s cloacae through an old service door built into the Garden’s wall, rain splashing the cobbles around them and running cold fingers through Isyllt’s upswept hair. Rust clogged the lock, but the key Khelséa
had given her finally clicked. Hinges shrieked as the metal door swung open and the effluvium of the tunnels wafted around them. Ciaran’s long nose wrinkled.

“Are you certain this is wise?”

She grinned. “No. That’s why you came with me.”

Darkness swallowed them as the door swung shut. Isyllt’s witchlight glistened on damp walls and slime-slick stairs leading under the city. The roar of water echoed through the stairwell as they descended. Sewage ran in open channels, while cleaner water sluiced through great pipes on its way to taps and fountains.

They followed the narrow walkway beside the canal, breathing shallowly against the stench. The rain helped, pouring down from gutters, sweeping the city’s waste toward the river Dis. The ledges on either side were perhaps a man’s height across, and the canal thrice that width, spanned by narrow stone arches every few dozen yards. Water churned black and frothing an armspan from their feet. Its noise was deafening—they would never hear anyone approaching.

Not that the vrykoloi would make a sound if they didn’t want to. But for all that some Erisinians hung charms against vampires and told bloody and improbable stories, there had been no real trouble between the humans and the underdwellers for generations. The ancient Severoi kings—generally thought of as sorcerous and too tolerant of demons—had brokered a truce, granting the vampires freedom in the undercity in exchange for the safety of the citizens. Or at least only discreet murders. Ghosts and demons and ordinary human killers were much more common a threat in the city.

So why rob a royal crypt? Impossible to imagine it
would go unnoticed, or that the Crown wouldn’t take action. She hoped the vrykoloi’s opinion of the truce hadn’t changed.

They climbed a rusty ladder down to the next level of sewers. Isyllt had no idea how far the tunnels truly sprawled. Generations of kings and city councils had added to them, and most maps conflicted. Every so often a new sewer line or enlarged crypt would open into a strange tunnel that no one could account for. Hopefully the vrykoloi or other mystery diggers knew what they were about, and sections of the city wouldn’t collapse into the ground one day.

The din of water faded as they climbed lower and the tunnel walls roughened. Moisture dripped from the ceilings, splashing in puddles and echoing along low corridors. The air grew heavy with moss and rust and stone, a cloying taste over Isyllt’s tongue. The weight of earth around them was enough to silence even Ciaran, and she strained her ears for any sound of company. The conjured light bobbed at her shoulder, threw their shadows wild and flickering against the walls.

Kiril had showed her this way years ago, while they crawled through the tunnels in search of other quarry. In the days when they worked together, wading through death to the knees. The vrykoloi must surely have heard them coming by now—

She never heard a sound, even as a white shape stepped out of the darkness in front of them. Breath hissed between her teeth and her boots scraped stone as she stumbled back, right hand reaching over her shoulder. Behind her, Ciaran cursed softly.

Witchlight glittered in wide yellow eyes, glistened on
ivory fangs bared in a grin. Animal teeth in a mockery of a human face. Batlike ears hung with gold and silver hoops pricked forward under cobweb hair.

“Spider.” A whisper, but too loud in this place. She dropped her hand. The ring hung quiescent against her sternum and she held her breath against a relieved sigh.

“Hello, little witch.” He straightened, his head nearly brushing the ceiling—a creature of sharp angles and spindle-thin limbs, attenuated to the point of grotesquerie. “I thought I heard your heartbeat.” He bowed with marionette grace. “What brings you to my doorstep?” His eyes flickered briefly over Ciaran and returned to her.

The scars on her left shoulder tingled. Spider still carried silver burns from their first meeting as well. “I need to speak with your elders.”

He cocked one white brow. “Really? Do you come on your own business, necromancer, or your Crown’s?”