The Shattered City (22 page)

‘Apparently so. A little cat came to visit me, said that he needed to raid the wardrobe room of my theatre.
I have no idea what he's on, but I'm prepared to enjoy the show.'

A show. Was Ashiol planning to recreate the missing festivals himself? The thought would be comical, if Heliora were not numbed with grief and guilt. ‘What do you want?' she asked.

Poet drew a watch on a chain out from his pocket and looked at it exaggeratedly, then flicked it back and forth between his fingers. The face was cracked, and it was bloodstained, but he looked at it as if it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. ‘Retribution. True love. Cherry tart for tea.'

She closed her eyes, and wished him away. Instead, she felt him swoop closer, and smelled the wool of his coat as he sat beside her on the step. ‘Go away, Poet.'

‘Not yet. I want something from you.'

Heliora remembered the feel of him hard and urgent in her mouth, of the memories and thoughts she had stolen from him, just to prove a point. She remembered how gutted he was, and squeezed her eyes tighter shut, because that wasn't something she ever wanted to think about again. ‘I'm not going to tell anyone about what I saw.'

He was silent, and she risked a look at him. His face was oddly serious. ‘It's not the world's most shocking secret, you know. A lot of people loved Garnet. But I would prefer to be considered unique.'

‘I shouldn't have taken it.'

‘No.' Poet's mouth curved into a soft smile. ‘You shouldn't. Isn't it sad? You were looking for blackmail material, and instead you found an old hurt, long dead, of no relevance to anyone. Though I did well enough at hiding it when Garnet was alive, I would hate to slip
now.' He flipped the watch back and forth again. He seemed casual and relaxed, but then he had always been an excellent actor. There was a light in his eyes that seemed unfamiliar, a tense excitement.

‘Why are you so stupidly cheerful?' Heliora asked.

‘Because you gave me something, when you stole a peek at my memories. Did you know, O Seer, that you can give your visions to other people?'

She stared at him. ‘I'm not dead yet.'

‘I don't mean your whole job, dear heart. But you did give me a vision of the future, when you swallowed me down. It's quite a party trick you have there.'

‘Apparently you are unique,' she said finally.

‘I suppose if you could transfer visions by sucking a fellow off, Ashiol would have his eyes permanently crossed by now,' Poet smirked.

‘What did you see?'

His face closed over. ‘That's for me to know. But it's a lovely future I glimpsed.'

‘Just the once?' This had never happened before. She wanted to wring the details out of him.

Poet's eyes shone behind his spectacles, and he was no longer playing the fool. ‘I saw something, when you were taking my memories. Then again in the Basilica, when that fucked-up sky devil was inside Priest, and Ashiol's blood was everywhere and the world was ending. I heard a voice, and saw a flash of the future. A good future.' He tucked his watch away carefully. ‘How do I get to see it again?'

‘I don't know,' she said. ‘I don't know how you got it in the first place.' First Ashiol, and now Poet. Was everyone a Seer now? She wanted to say something useful. She owed him, after all — though from the look
on his face, she had repaid him already in some way she couldn't fathom. Whatever he had seen, it had made him happier than she had ever known him. ‘The other fortune-tellers I met — I never knew how much they really saw truth in the cards or the crystal, but I think some of them did.'

‘Cards don't interest me,' Poet said dismissively. ‘I want
my
vision, not some old haddock in a spotted veil telling me what she thinks I want to hear.'

‘Some of them used drugs to see visions,' Hel said. It was the kind of gossip she had ignored, because her issue was holding off the damn visions, not pulling them closer. ‘Others swore by particular types of music, or dance rituals, to fall into a trance.'

‘That sounds more the sort of thing,' Poet said, gazing intently at her. ‘Music. I can do music. What else?'

‘Mirrors,' she told him. ‘There's something about mirrors. Some people think they can be a window between worlds — if you look long enough, and take the right kind of potions.' She was starting to suspect this was not the best advice she could be giving him. ‘I'm not recommending the practice …'

Poet leaned forward suddenly and kissed her. Not the usual sort of kiss between a man and a woman. A sudden, dry brush of the lips, like a mark of honour. ‘Don't die yet,' he said when he drew back. ‘I have so few friends left.'

She felt breathless again. ‘Is that what we are? Friends?'

‘Silly fish. What did you think we were?' And then he was up, practically capering, swinging his sack of masks over his shoulder. ‘Take care of yourself, Hel. The future's going to be fine, no reason to fear it.'

Hel sat on the steps for some time after he was gone. Had Poet finally cracked, or was there actually something to look forward to?

She still had nowhere to go, but eventually she picked up her swag and started walking. Her long skirts swished around her as she left the Forum, heading south towards the lower Vittorine. There was no reason why Velody should take her in, but there was a demme there with kind eyes who had fed Hel soup and asked no questions. Heliora thought of roses whenever she saw her, and it made her oddly calm. A house with a roof and stout walls, and perhaps there might be a corner she could sleep in.

Naturally, the door was not opened by the rose demme at all, nor Velody, but by the sulky blonde who had clearly disliked Heliora from the start. ‘May I speak to Rhian?' Hel asked.

The blonde snorted, but allowed her inside.

 

One thing I am grateful for — I stopped being a sentinel before Garnet became a King. Serving Ortheus and Argentin was an honour and a privilege. Serving Garnet would have been seven hells. He used the sentinels as his private playthings, and there was nothing any of them could do to stop him. He couldn't go too far, though, not with Ortheus still Power and Majesty. Ashiol and Lysandor became Kings too — it was better, somehow, the two of them curbing his excesses. Then Ortheus died, and Argentin, in the same battle. Garnet quenched them both. Seers swear no oaths. That's part of why they treat us well — baby us and give us anything we need. We have no obligation to serve the Power and Majesty. But there is an expectation that we shall. I never looked into the futures
for Garnet, not once. I didn't trust him. Didn't trust whom he might thrust up my skirt while I was vulnerable. After he exiled Ash, there was nothing left for me in the Court. Reading fortunes for shallow courtesans and dames was far less degrading than unpicking the seams of my brain to please the ego of a madman.

If the sky is trying to send Ashiol mad with visions of Garnet, then he's not the only one. They know he is the thing that scares us most — all of us. It scares me that they know us so well.

V
elody dressed herself in a long peacock-coloured gown that a client had refused to pay for, months ago. She couldn't remember why — perhaps the cut was not daring enough. It was unfashionably modest for the current season, falling past Velody's knees and covering her up to the neck, though the arms at least were bare.

It sent a message, or was intended to do so. She was not going to play the Court's games on their terms any more. If it took dressing like a musette matrona to do it, then she would.

Ashiol wanted Velody to hold Court in the Haymarket. Poet pressed for the Shambles square. She was not happy with either option, not least because they had suggested them. She eventually chose the Gallery, between Mayor's Bridge and the tunnels leading to the mouth of the Arches.

The Creature Court came as summoned, a little after dusk, primped and arranged in their usual finery. Warlord stood with his five courtesi; Poet with the two who
remained to him, Shade and the boy Zero. Priest's three demmes stood nearer to him than to any other Lord, but there was a distance there, too. None of them was close enough to touch, or be touched. Velody did not blame them for being wary. All had been damaged by the noxcrawl's attack on them; one limped, and another stood uncomfortably, as if there were something wrong with her arm. The third looked simply miserable. All three were painfully thin.

Livilla and Lennoc stood apart from the other Lords, their lack of courtesi quite evident.

Ashiol was waiting near the bridge when Velody arrived with the sentinels at her back. Heliora had been invited to join them, but preferred to stay with Rhian, who had made up a bed for her in the corner of the workroom. Delphine reacted with an incredulous laugh to Macready's suggestion that she come along to the Court, and refused to budge.

‘You swore an oath to me,' Velody said now, to the Lords and Court. There would be no pontificating or booming voice amplification. If they wanted to hear her, they would have to make the effort. ‘Because you were willing for the Creature Court to change. You hoped for something more than what you already had. This is what you chose. We face a crisis you have never seen before. The city is not healing itself. The buildings destroyed in skybattle stay as rubble. The corpses stay dead. We won't survive many more skybattles. There is little time in which to act, to prevent us following the fate of Tierce.'

‘I'm bored,' Livilla said out of nowhere. ‘When are you going to punish bright-hair over there for pretending to be a courteso? When do we see Priest crawl? We're only here for the blood sport.'

‘There will be no punishment, and no blood,' Velody said simply.

Livilla was furious. ‘We were attacked from within. My boys were slaughtered. Where is my justice?'

‘The attack did not come from within,' said Velody.

‘Like hells it didn't.' Livilla took two steps towards Priest, teetering on her spiky black heels. ‘He has Janvier and Seonard's blood on his hands. My
boys
.'

‘The threat came from the sky, as it always does,' Velody insisted. ‘Priest was a victim too. We cannot afford to lose more strength by squabbling and punishing each other.'

‘Speak for yourself,' Livilla sneered. ‘I demand recompense.'

‘That is not —' Velody started to say, but Priest interrupted with a lift of his hand.

‘Dear Majesty, my fellow Lord has a point. I may not have willingly sinned against you all, but my hands were indeed responsible for cruelties visited upon others. If there is any way I can make recompense, I wish to do so.'

‘Are you going to compensate all of us for the inconvenience of being attacked, threatened, tortured?' Poet said dryly. ‘Not sure you have enough blood to give, old man.'

Livilla folded her arms. ‘You took my courtesi from me. I want yours.'

‘Ridiculous,' said Warlord. ‘No Lord has ever been asked to give a courteso to another, like borrowing a pair of boots. Loyalty does not work like that, Livilla.'

‘Don't be so quick to dismiss it,' said Poet. ‘How many Lords had a courteso killed in front of him to prove a point? This is a far less monstrous suggestion.' He seemed in an odd mood, fidgety and bright-eyed.

Ashiol was silent. Velody looked at him out of the corner of her eye, willing him to react in some way, to give her some clue of what she should do or say in response to all this. He gave her nothing.

One of Priest's demmes, the sparrow courtesa with a damaged arm, stepped forward. ‘I would go, Power and Majesty.'

Priest looked wounded, but said nothing.

‘You are under no obligation,' Velody said gently, not entirely sure if that was true.

‘I —' and the courtesa glanced back at Priest, not meeting his eyes. ‘It is for the best, Majesty. I should like to serve Livilla, Lord Wolf, if she will have me.'

Priest bowed his head, accepting the loss.

‘What is your name?' Velody asked the demme.

‘Bree, Lady Majesty.'

‘Livilla, Lord Wolf, will you take Bree as a willing servant under your oath, to compensate for your loss, and agree to speak no more of the matter?'

Livilla seemed confused by the sheer reasonableness of the offer. Perhaps she had been expecting more of a fight? ‘I lost two,' she said, regaining some of her usual edge.

‘Accept the gift freely given,' Velody snapped. ‘It is the only one you shall be offered this nox.'

Livilla hesitated, then held her hand out to draw Bree towards her. They stood there as if they had no idea what to do with each other.

‘Does anyone else feel they have been wronged?' Velody asked.

‘Why, do we all get demmes?' Poet sniped. He held up his hands in his own defence as Velody glared at him. ‘As ever, I want only to serve, Power and Majesty. My motives are as clear as ice.'

‘I remain weak,' said Warlord unexpectedly. ‘In the Creature Court we have never spoken of weakness except in insult. But I have not recovered fully from the attack upon my person, and the recent battles with the sky were further drains upon me. I am tired, and my dreams … It will be a long time before I feel the usual strength in my bones and flesh. Assuming I ever regain that strength.'

‘What would you ask of me, dear fellow?' Priest asked, sounding genuinely regretful.

Warlord lifted one hand to indicate he had no real idea what to ask for. ‘Under ordinary circumstances I would ask for blood, but you understand why I hesitate to do so on this occasion.' They would all suspect that Priest was still polluted. Velody did not blame them for that, especially after what had happened with her hands and the garments she had made.

‘Indeed,' Priest said with a weak smile. ‘Would you settle for the offer of a favour to be repaid at a time of your choosing?'

Warlord considered it slowly, and then nodded. ‘Aye, that would be sufficient. Your offer is generous, old friend.'

‘As is your forgiveness,' replied Priest.

They bowed to each other. It was all faintly surreal to Velody. She had to bite her lip to stop herself grinning like a loon. ‘Priest, Lord Pigeon,' she said. ‘I would ask your courtesi if they wish to continue in your service. Given what happened during your time under control by the noxcrawl, I would not blame them for choosing to step away from your service, regardless of past oaths. I would ask you to release them of all obligation.'

Priest breathed out slowly and then nodded his head. ‘My demoiselles, I free you from —'

‘No,' said the gull courtesa, Damson. She looked wan and walked with a limp, but there was anger in her voice. ‘I will stay with you, my Lord. I am loyal.'

Priest glanced to the other courtesa, a very thin demme. ‘And you, Fionella? I would not blame you for walking away after what my hands did against you.'

Velody winced, remembering the bursting sound as Priest attacked the birds, one by one.

‘I will stay,' said the courtesa of plovers. ‘My Lord.'

Priest bowed his head to Velody, relief evidence across his face.

‘There will be no further punishment, Priest, Lord Pigeon,' said Velody. ‘Continue to serve as you always have, and all will be well.' She glanced across the gallery to where Lennoc stood alone ‘Likewise, Lennoc, Lord Brighthound, there will be no punishment for your actions. Assuming this will be the last time you tell a lie to this Court, in thought, word or deed.'

Lennoc bowed low. ‘Aye, Lady Majesty. I vow to serve as Lord to the best of my ability.'

‘Come then, and take the oath,' she invited.

Lennoc came and knelt before her, speaking the words of the official oath to serve Velody as Power and Majesty. He had given it once as a courteso, but he was a Lord now, with far greater responsibility to the Court.

Poet's face was flat in a false smile as the man who had lied to him gave the Lord's oath. Velody did not think she had to warn Lennoc to watch his back. Instead, she thanked him for his oath, and then turned her attention to the rest of the Court. ‘I have to ask you all to trust me, and to fulfil those vows you made. We have a city to save, and I need all of you. Even if it means putting aside your ideas about what it is the Court is supposed to do. The
only way we can win against the coming invasion is to open our mind to new ways to fight the sky.'

She had their attention, at least.

‘Ritual,' Ashiol spoke up. ‘Ritual is important, Majesty. We have our rituals … and the daylight folk have theirs. We have always been so disparaging of their honey cakes and ribbons. The game of saints and songs. But it was all a lot more important than we imagined.'

Delphine should most definitely have come to this Court, if only to hear Ashiol admitting she had been right all along.

‘The noxcrawl chose Priest to cause havoc and pain amongst the Creature Court,' Ashiol continued. ‘To hurt us from within. But it chose Isangell because only she had the power to cancel the festivals. To call off the Sacred Games. As soon as she did that, the city stopped healing itself.'

‘Easily solved,' said Poet lightly. ‘You can ask the Duchessa nicely to bring them back. Problem solved, let's have tea.' He was doing a good job of pretending he had not already been brought in on the plan Velody and Ashiol had devised. He had provided the costumes and masks, and was now doing a good job of feeding her straight lines. It was probably best not to wonder why he was being so obliging.

‘I can do that,' said Ashiol. ‘But we've already missed most of the Sacred Games.' He looked at Velody. ‘We can't get those days back.'

‘No,' she said. ‘But maybe we can still give the city what it needs.'

There was silence, and then Poet struck a pose. ‘Are you saying, Lady Power, that it's time for us to put on a show?'

‘Yes,' said Velody. ‘I thought you'd like that part.'

 

The sight of morning daylight streaming in through Isangell's bedroom window was not something to be celebrated. She had been up half the nox conferring with her ministers and proctors, not to mention the various priestly representatives who had managed to talk Armand into giving them an appointment.

Ritual was important. Variations of that sentiment had been drilled into her head, over and over again. She must never again do such a foolish thing as cancel the Sacred Games for her own amusement.

Assuming that was why she had done it. She had no recollection of the action, nor the motive.

The morning light felt hot on her skin, and she rubbed uncomfortably at her neck. If only she had some idea of what had happened. Her mother and Armand were no help at all, and Ashiol, whom they both claimed should be able to supply some if not all the answers, had not been seen for more than a day.

Apparently she had hired a new secretary during the time she had no memory of, though no one seemed to know where the demoiselle in question was now.

The more Isangell pushed for answers, the more worried Mama and Armand appeared to be. Did they fear as much as she did that she might have fallen victim to the family complaint? If there was even the slightest possibility that she was going mad, then the question of her heir had become so much more urgent.

No more holding the sons of the Great Families at bay. She would have to marry, damn it all to the seven hells and back.

Isangell stepped into her sitting room and was about
to ring for her maids when she saw a curtain fluttering. ‘Ash?' she said suspiciously. ‘Come out here where I can kill you.'

‘That's a popular desire,' drawled her cousin. His foot appeared from behind her sofa, waving to let her know where he was. ‘I thought it was best to catch you before your day started.'

‘Don't even pretend you've been trying to get in touch,' she accused. ‘Every lictor and servant in the Palazzo have orders to detain you on sight.'

‘Eglantine took back the reins of power, did she? I thought she was unlikely to stay cowed for long.'

Isangell crossed the room with as much dignity as she could muster while wearing a short and fluffy silk noxgown. She firmly lifted one of his booted feet from the side of the sofa, letting it drop to the floor. ‘Those were my orders, not my mother's,' she said crisply. ‘I want to know what happened to me. If I am to believe Mama and Armand, I hired an army of strange women, had three nervous breakdowns and besieged myself in my rooms. Why don't I remember anything since the Chief Day of Sacrifice?'

‘Believe me,' Ashiol said, holding her eyes with an intense gaze, ‘you don't want to know.'

‘Not good enough. I'm not just your baby cousin, I am the Duchessa d'Aufleur, and I need to know anything that might affect my rule.' She stared him down, determined that her lip would not quiver, not even a little, though it took great courage to ask her next question. ‘Am I going mad?'

Ashiol's face changed in an instant, reflecting surprise and then horror. Oh. He hadn't even considered the possibility. Why was that so comforting where her
mother's platitudes had been insufficient? ‘No,' he said, seizing her hands firmly in his own. ‘You're not going mad. I'm sorry you thought it, but no one else can ever know the truth.'