The Mirador

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. I had the cold spooked-out horrors crawling up and down my spine now, not over the ghost himself—he wasn’t nothing compared to the dreams I’d been having—but over what he was saying, what Vey Coruscant had been doing.

  “Why did she want Lord Shannon to be the Lord Protector?” Mrs. Fenris asked.

  I could have told him if the ghost hadn’t said it. Because he was malleable. He was but a child, and he was more like his mother than his father. My master could not influence the Lord Protector, save in his weakness for beauty, and she could not touch his heir. She could gain no hold. But the Golden Whelp would have been different.

  Powers and saints, she hadn’t been the only one to think so. It had sure been his mother’s plan, hers and Cotton Verlalius’s, to make Lord Shannon another Puppet King.

  “And the, er, Other Child?”

  A fool, the ghost said. Well, that was Cornell Teverius, all right.

  So now I knew. The thing I’d never wanted to know, and now I knew. Mrs. Fenris was still talking to the ghost, but it was all hocus stuff, and I lost it for a while along of being too busy trying not to puke.

  The Other Child was Cornell Teverius. There wasn’t nobody else it could be. And that meant Vey Coruscant had been the buyer behind the job at St. Kirban’s. I’d killed Cornell Teverius for Vey Coruscant.

  Small fucking world, huh?

  And Kolkhis was the Snake. It was a good name for her. Suited her. And she’d been working with Vey Coruscant for two septads. Maybe longer. Powers and saints, I really didn’t want to know this.

  I concentrated on Mrs. Fenris talking to the ghost. It was better than listening to the inside of my own head. I didn’t understand more than half of what she was talking about—cycles and tides and Kethe knows what all—but I got the part about why she was digging around now, even though Vey Coruscant was dead and you’d think that’d be the end of it. There was a pattern—first indiction, last indiction, like the ghost kept saying. First indiction of the reign of Narcissus, 20.1.1, and the last indiction of the reign of Narcissus, 20.1.7, and then what Mrs. Fenris called a fallow septad, but now it was 20.3.1, and there was a new pontifex, Valentine after Berenger, like it’d been Berenger after Narcissus, and she was afraid the pattern was going to start up again. Or her magic said the pattern was starting up again. I couldn’t tell.

  And I thought of Septimus saying he didn’t want to assassinate Lord Stephen, and I knew, cold as cold, that Mrs. Fenris was right.

  Mehitabel

  Stephen had a formal dinner that evening, the sort at which a light of love’s presence was not at all the thing; he came to my rooms beforehand, and I spread myself out on my bed and tried not to think about Mildmay with only middling success.

  But afterward, sitting propped against the headboard, Stephen said, “I get the feeling I’m not very good at this.”

  “Sorry?” I said.

  He gave me an odd little smile, and I was shocked to see he was embarrassed. “What I mean is, it’s not doing much for you, is it?”

  “My lord, I assure you—”

  “Oh, stop it.”

  Startled, I closed my mouth hard.

  He looked down, pleating a corner of the sheet very carefully. “You’re the second woman I’ve ever had sex with, and Emily didn’t know any more than I did.”

  “But—”

  “I was not going to be my father,” he said flatly. “And being the heir to the Protectorate . . . it’s like being a wolf in a menagerie cage, you know. Everyone watches. I could have gone to Pharaohlight, but I couldn’t have gone without the entire court knowing about it before I even got back. And by the next day, the stud report would be circulating, too. I’m not like Shannon. I couldn’t face it.”

  Silence. Finally, I said, “You trust me not to bear tales.”

  “You said you have your own kind of honor.” A one-shouldered shrug. “I believe you.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Another silence. He said, glaring at me, “What I’m trying to say is, will you teach me?”

  Wonders will never fucking cease. “Yes, my lord,” I said. "C’mere.”

  He rolled to meet me, and he was beginning to smile.

  I dined alone and told Lenore she could have the evening to herself, settling in with a romance called Astraea that Stavis had lent me. But I had barely begun to sort out the characters when there was a knock at the door. I cursed under my breath, took my spectacles off, and answered it. Felix.

  I raised my eyebrows at him; his smile was rueful. “Mildmay has deserted me, and the Mirador is lonely tonight. May I come in?”

  “You could do better than me, sunshine.”

  “You underestimate yourself, Tabby, my love,” he said; I made a face at him, and he laughed. “Please?”

  “How anyone ever says no to you, I can’t fathom,” I said and stood aside.

  “Some people find it quite easy,” he said, but waved aside the bitterness before it had a chance to collect. “Don’t mind me. I don’t seem to have any control over my tongue these days.”

  “That never used to bother you,” I said, sitting down again.

  The blood showed beautifully beneath his pale skin when he blushed. “So I’m trying to do better.”

  “You astound me, sir,” I murmured and made him laugh again. “But really, Felix, why me? When you could—”

  Another knock at the door.

  “If it’s Stephen, I’ll go,” Felix said.

  “It won’t be.”

  It was Vincent. “I’m sorry, Mehitabel, but Ivo wanted privacy to fight with Manfred, and I couldn’t think . . .”

  “Enough of this incessant apologizing,” I said. “I wasn’t busy, and it’s just Felix with me.”

  Vincent hesitated, but then came in and sat down. He asked Felix, “Did you get my message?”

  “About Magnus?” said Felix. “Yes, thank you.”

  The atmosphere was thick, almost choking. There was something between them. There had always been something between them, but this was different. This had edges sharp enough to draw blood.

  “Who’s Magnus?” I said—anything to keep away silence— and poured brandy all around.

  “Magnus was a Cordelian prince. One of Sebastian’s sons, I think.” Felix’s voice was light, brittle. “I tried, two years ago now, to lay him, disperse him, but apparently I failed.”

  “He was very grateful that you’d tried,” Vincent said. “But he was hoping you could try again. He is . . .” Another of Vincent’s graceful gestures, eloquent of frustration. “Not in pain, since he has no body to feel pain with, but—”

  “Something like pain,” Felix finished. “I’ve failed him twice, you know. Can you imagine how horrible that must be? To be trapped and in pain and the person you ask for help—the only person you can ask for help—keeps making all the right noises but never does anything?”

  “He doesn’t blame you,” Vincent said; he sounded anxious, and I was right there with him. “He isn’t angry.”

  “Maybe he should be!” Even Felix seemed startled by that outburst. He blinked, manufactured a smile from somewhere, said, “Well, maybe this time I can get it right for a change. I’ve been combing my notes, all the books I have, trying to find out what went wrong. I need another day or two.”

  “Felix,” Vincent said gently, “you aren’t answerable to me.”

  Felix’s flinch was visible in the sudden agitation of the brandy in his glass. He covered with an airy gesture, said lightly, “Well, tell him if he comes to perch at the foot of your bed tonight. Or whatever it is ghosts do.”

  That was deliberate provocation, but Vincent did not rise to it. After a moment, a nervous swallow of brandy, Felix began to talk about the thaumaturgical theory of laying ghosts to rest, his voice like a frail, brave boat on a heavy sea. Vincent was watching Felix carefully; Felix was . . . not looking at Vincent, and his color was high. He lost the thread of his remarks. Regrouped. Lost it again and
stood up, abrupt and gawky as a colt. “I should go.”

  “You don’t have to,” Vincent said.

  “Yes,” Felix said with a painful smile. “I do. Good night, Tabby.”

  He was gone before I could stand.

  “What the fuck?” I said.

  “My fault,” Vincent said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Vincent, I’ve warned you before . . .”

  “Oh, powers.” A reluctant smile warmed his eyes. “All right, I’ll try to stop. But this is my fault. Felix made me an offer last night, and I turned him down.”

  “Felix made a pass at you?” I said, incredulous.

  “No, actually. He offered me”—his mouth twisted—“his protection.”

  “He . . .”

  “If I left Ivo.”

  I couldn’t read either his face or his voice. “Which isn’t likely?”

  “No.” That sat between us a moment, and then he said, more softly, “Not unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “It’s pure foolishness.” The motion of his hands curling into fists—loosely because of those long nails—caught my eye and I knew.

  “You don’t want to trade one bed for another.”

  His breath released in a sigh that sounded painful. “Yes.”

  “And you think Felix would . . . ?”

  “I don’t think he would intend to. But, yes. Yes, I do.”

  Because Felix was my friend, I wished I could have said Vincent was wrong. But I couldn’t.

  Mildmay

  This time it was me waiting for Septimus, and I didn’t have to fake being eager as fuck to see him, neither.

  I’d got Mrs. Fenris to write the note for me—COME LIGHT A VOTIVE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE—and Jenny’d put it in the drop, and they’d taken me back up the city. I’d had them leave me a couple streets away from the Plaza del’Archimago, along of how it’d be better if the guards didn’t get a look at either Mrs. Fenris or her coach, just in case. I picked Livergate to come back in through, because the guards there wouldn’t ask questions. Livergate was where they put the young guys, and though they’d see me, and know who I was, and tell anybody who was interested all about it, they wouldn’t have the nerve to say nothing to my face. And that was good enough for now.

  And then I went up to the Altanueva and settled in to wait for Septimus. Because I didn’t know what the fuck to do about what the ghost had said, but I knew I had to tell Septimus before I did anything. Because he needed a chance to get clear.

  I didn’t have to wait nearly as long as I’d thought I might. He hadn’t been lying about his system being good. It wasn’t even the fifth hour of the night when the arch behind St. Holofernes shuddered, and Septimus came through.

  “You got something.”

  “Yeah, fuck, I got something,” and I told him about Luther Littleman and the patterns and Gloria Aestia and Cornell Teverius and the Snake and the Rabbit, and he listened, listened hard, and muttered, “fuck,” between his teeth whenever I stopped for breath.

  And when I was done, he paced halfway down the hall and back and said, “Fuck, you’re right. Vey fucking Coruscant. And I know you’re right, because I’ve seen this Rabbit guy. Seen him talking to Keeper. Seen him in the past two months.”

  “Fuck me sideways. You got a name?”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “But what?” I said, when he didn’t go on.

  “What’re you gonna do?”

  “Fuck, do I look like I got a plan?”

  “It’s just . . . are you gonna tell Keeper?”

  “If I was gonna tell Keeper, I should’ve done it, what, three days ago? When you were begging me not to.”

  He winced. “I just meant—”

  “No, I ain’t. If you’ll tell me who the Rabbit is, I’m gonna go shake him until the rest of the story falls out. And if you ain’t, then get the fuck out of my way.”

  “Slow down.” He had both hands up, palms out. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, if you don’t tell Keeper, she won’t tell you who got your gal killed.”

  “Yeah.” And I felt the weight of that, too. But I could carry it. “I’ll cope.”

  “No, I mean, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. It’s the Rabbit. ”

  So there was a slow count of seven where I couldn’t even figure out what the fuck he was saying, and then it, I don’t know, everything suddenly fucking fit. It was like having a tree grow from a seed to a giant in about half a second in my head. “Hugo Chandler. Are you sure?”

  And I’d wondered how Kolkhis knew Hugo.

  “Yeah. Keeper said . . . well, she said some stuff.”

  She always did love to hint.

  “Okay. Thanks. You want to go to ground for a decad or two. Don’t go back to Britomart.”

  “You couldn’t pay me enough.” He gave me a once-over. “You okay? I mean—”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” I said. “Take care of yourself, Septimus.”

  And I left him there to put whatever plan he had into action. Guys like him always have a plan.

  I didn’t. Except for the part where I was going to tear the lights and liver out of a rabbit. Hugo fucking Chandler. I’d never thought about him twice. He looked like a rabbit, and he acted like a rabbit, and I’d never even thought about the possibility that he wasn’t a rabbit inside—or, he wasn’t as much a rabbit as he made himself out to be. He was a weedy little guy I could have taken apart with one hand tied behind my back, and so I’d never even wondered if he might be lying to me. He must have been laughing at me all this fucking time. Him, Hugo Chandler, fooling Mildmay the Fox, and Mildmay the Fox, sitting there taking it, trusting as a fucking lamb.

  Well, I was done with that shit.

  Felix

  I felt filthy—not merely untrustworthy, but rotten with depravity, oozing monstrosity, as if I would contaminate anything I touched.

  I stood at a cross hallway, trying wearily to decide what to do. I could not bear the thought of returning to my rooms, not until I was certain Mildmay would be there; seeking out any of my so-called friends would merely get me more sanctimony and disapproval, and I’d had as much of that as I could stand. There were places I could go in the Arcane, even barred as I was from the Two-Headed Beast, men who would plead with me to hurt them. I’d proved that already.

  But it wasn’t enough. I’d proved that, too. I couldn’t trust myself, and I’d been painfully aware of that the nights I’d tried it. I’d pleased the men picked up in one bar and another in the Sim-tainted depths of the Arcane, but I’d kept remembering that last night in the Two-Headed Beast, and I hadn’t been able to release my cramped control over my own desires.

  It was no wonder Vincent didn’t trust me.

  I repulsed myself, and with Malkar dead, there was really only one place I could go.

  Isaac Garamond was not pleased to see me. He was untidy, flustered, harried, and he tried to tell me he had an appointment elsewhere. But I could see it was a lie, and I could see the desire he hated in himself sparking, catching, starting to burn. He hadn’t got the information his masters wanted from me, but he’d certainly learned a few things about himself.

  I smiled at him as the words caught and crumbled in his throat.

  “All right,” he snarled. “Come in.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and pulled the door gently out of his grip to close it.

  Chapter 17

  Mildmay

  I knocked on Hugo’s door. He was a stupid rabbit and opened it. Two seconds later, he was pinned against his bedroom wall with my knife at his throat, and the door was closed.

  “Mildmay,” he said, gasping because my hold on his collar was choking him. "W-w-what—”

  “That’s what you’re gonna tell me,” I said. “Vey Coruscant, Hugo. You’re going to tell me all about her.”

  “She’s dead!”

  “Yeah, I got that part.” I increased my leverage just a little, tilting his jaw up with the flat of my knife. His
breath was sour. “But before she was dead, you had shit going on with her. You told her how to find Ginevra.”

  “I didn’t!”

  “Don’t fucking lie to me. You did. And you know what the sad part is? I don’t even care. It bit you on the ass, didn’t it?”

  “Austin wasn’t supposed to die,” he said in this horrible watery whimpering voice.

  “Yeah, well, that’s what you get when you fuck around with Vey Coruscant. Even if you are in good with her.” I shook him a little, to be sure he was paying attention. “You used to run messages to her. From the Mirador. And now I understand you’re running messages to Kolkhis. And I wanna know who your boss is.”

  “How’d you find out?” he said in a panicky little whisper.

  “I got my sources. Who is it?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “’Course you can, same way I can cut your throat. Or, you know, pop your eyeball like a cherry tomato.”

  He was a clever rabbit, but he was a rabbit. “Lord Ivo! Him and Lord Robert and some other lords—I don’t know all their names, I swear!”

  “Fuck me sideways ’til I cry,” I said. That sure explained how Robert had known about Cornell Teverius. “Is this the truth? I’m tired of you lying to me.”

  “I swear it! I swear it! Anything you like!”

  And it probably was the truth. I realized, standing there with Hugo’s breath sobbing inches from my face, that this was too big for me. If Lord Ivo’d been tangled up in trying to get Lord Shannon on the throne once, and if he’d been laying low for two septads but he’d come back, and then Lord Stephen hadn’t married his daughter, and Kolkhis was involved again . . . I wasn’t anybody who could handle the trouble this looked like it was going to be. Somebody else needed to be told.