“I saw the rash.”
“A rash can be a symptom of any number of things.”
“It was the plague,” I said, a bit too harshly, continuing in a softer tone. “I saw it often enough to be sure. Could the Crane’s wards be weakening?”
“That’s not possible.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve taken over running them,” she said, raising her teacup to her mouth as she dropped an artillery shell in my lap.
“You didn’t tell me that,” I said.
“The people of the city sleep at night because they know the Master is watching over them. It’s better not to do anything to shake that certainty. Only a few people at the top of the Bureau of Magical Affairs know of the switch. It’s why I was raised to First Sorcerer, so I’d be ready when the Master can no longer perform his duties.” That was a hell of a euphemism for the death of a parent, but it was good to see Celia handling this so dispassionately, given that the future of Rigus apparently sat on her slim shoulders. “I’d know if the wards were failing, and they aren’t.”
“You’re saying it’s impossible that Caristiona could have had the plague?”
“No, I’m not saying that at all. There’s no way the plague could occur naturally, but it could be spread deliberately. If someone were to introduce it into the population, spread it to enough people… the protections the Master created aren’t impermeable. It could be broken by sheer weight of numbers.”
“You think the Blade is infecting children with the plague? To what end? What does he gain from it?”
“Who has any idea of the bargains the duke must have struck to receive assistance from the void? Somehow I don’t imagine the creature you saw would act without compensation. Perhaps Beaconfield’s part lies in spreading the fever.”
“You think this is some sort of a… diabolical exchange? How can you be sure?”
“I’m not fucking sure,” she snapped. The profanity sat uneasily on her tongue, evidence of how frightened she was. “I can’t read the man’s mind, I don’t know every detail of his sick plot. What I do know is that if he continues, it’ll only be a matter of time before the wards fail. While you sniff around in circles, Low Town flirts with death.”
I could feel myself getting hot. “I’ll handle it.”
“How many more children are going to die before you take care of your responsibilities?”
“I’ll handle it,” I said again, angry at being pushed but knowing deep down that Celia was right, that I shouldn’t have let this sprawl on so long. The stakes were too high to delay-Beaconfield was my man. He’d find out what that meant soon enough.
“We can’t let the Master’s work have been in vain.”
“That won’t happen,” I said. “By the Firstborn, I’ll make sure of it.”
That seemed to calm her down some. She set one soft hand atop mine, and we sat like that for a long moment.
It was getting late, and the walk home wasn’t getting any shorter. “There was something else I wanted to ask you. I spoke to the mother of the last child. She said that he knew secrets without being told them-it reminded me of some of the things that let the Crane know you could be trained to the Art.”
Celia answered without looking at me. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Every child is special, to a parent.”
True enough. I gave her a last farewell and slipped out. It was early evening, and the chill winds that had oppressed my earlier travels had faded, leaving behind the thick blanket of gray fog. There was more I had wanted to do, business I needed to take care of, leads to follow. But in my weakened state it was all I could do to make it back to the Earl, swallow some burnt chuck, and pass out in my bed-which, I noted sourly, was far less comfortable than Celia’s.
I awoke the next morning with a bruise on my shoulder the size of an egg, but little else to show that I had come a fingernail from death not twenty-four hours prior. I had experienced curative magic before, but nothing that could compete with this. The Crane had taught Celia well.
Shaking off the last strands of sleep I opened the bottom drawer of my bureau and sprung the hidden latch, revealing the niche below. I took a few dozen vials of pixie’s breath out of my business stash, along with a handful of other chemicals, then sat down at my table and went to work. It was slow going, and forty-five minutes had passed before I could pull on my clothes and stow my weapons. I would need to hustle to make my meeting with the Blade.
Wren sat at a table below, listening to Adolphus bullshit about his youth. It was nice to walk downstairs without being subject to the news of some horrible tragedy, for a change.
“It’s true-I once ate an entire side of ham in a single sitting.”
“He did, I was there. It was as impressive as it was grotesque. He reeked of pig for the next month and a half. The Dren took to calling him the Varken van de duivel, and fainted at the smell of cooked bacon.” Adolphus bellowed a laugh and even Wren cracked a smile.
The “devil pig” stood and brushed off his pants. “You want me to tell Adeline to cook up some breakfast?”
“Afraid not. I’m late as it is.”
“I’ll get my coat,” Wren said.
“No need. It’s plenty warm in here.”
His eyes slanted angrily. “I’m coming along.”
“Interestingly, you aren’t-you’re staying here and keeping Adolphus company. Though it’s nice to see you have such an active imagination.” The scowl he shot me was wasted effort-I had too many people trying to kill me to worry much over the fury of an adolescent.
The previous day’s mist had evaporated, leaving in its wake the kind of crystal clear morning that prefaces snowfall. I turned north up Pritt Street and headed toward the Old City. I’d be a few minutes late for my requested audience with Beaconfield, but I could live with that-a little rudeness is good when dealing with blue bloods, reminds them you aren’t as interested in them as they are. Halfway there it started to snow, the flurries signaling a storm soon to come. I picked up my pace and tried to plot out the next hour in my head.
Seton Gardens is a lovely little park toward the outskirts of the city, near the old walls and just north of the Asher enclave. Stone avenues lead through a wooded preserve, a dollop of verdant green in a gray landscape, far enough from the slums to keep out the riffraff. In the center is a lovely granite fountain, and next to it a curiously tailored green-an awkward addition to the topography, and one that would have no meaning to the average picnicker. On most mornings it’s virtually empty, too far from the interior to see much use.
But on rare occasions the peaceful solitude of the gardens is interrupted by the flash of blades and the piercing of silk shirts. By long tradition the park has been designated the arena in which the city’s upper crust thin out their herd, and the short stretch of manicured turf had soaked up near as much blood as the plains of Gallia. Dueling is technically illegal in the Empire, though in practice the Crown is generally happy enough to overlook the occasional murder-in this way at least, the law treats the very high and low equally.
That was the main reason I didn’t want Wren following along. The Duke of Beaconfield hadn’t called me out for a morning stroll-he’d invited me to watch him kill someone. By my count it would be his fourth this week.
I entered the park and was soon engulfed by its beech trees. A few hundred yards along a smoothly cultivated path and the city’s noise was lost in the stillness of the morning. Farther in and that quiet was broken by the low commotion of a crowd. Apparently I wasn’t to be the only audience to the proceedings.
A small group had gathered in front of the dueling grounds, twenty or thirty men-friends or acquaintances of the participants, these things aren’t exactly advertised. I took shelter beneath an outlying tree and sucked at my teeth. I was in the presence of some old names. It had been a long time since I’d needed to be familiar with the court, but my tattered memory was sufficient to recognize two earls and a marquess who used to pass Black House information. Probably still did, come to think of it.
Opposite the audience were the combatants and their coteries, separated from each other by about twenty feet of lawn. Beaconfield sat on a small bench, lounging comfortably in a multihued tunic and a long black coat. He was surrounded by a half dozen of his usual crowd, dressed less extravagantly than at the ball but, by my own aesthetic, still in attire inappropriate to the business before us. They were enjoying themselves thoroughly, cavorting for the benefit of their captain, who smirked but didn’t laugh.
Across the way the atmosphere was quite different. The Blade’s opponent was alone save his second, and the pair showed little in the way of gaiety. The duelist sat on the bench, staring off into the distance, his eyes unfocused but hard. He was more middle-aged than young, not old but too old to be involved in this kind of nonsense. His man stood next to him, the bulge of his paunch stretching his overcoat, hands frittering nervously.
I never did find out what they were fighting over. Some fracture in etiquette, the kind of nebulous bullshit the upper classes love to spill red over. I suspected it was Beaconfield’s fault-people like to display what makes them exceptional, and the Smiling Blade’s forte rested on his hip.
The duke noticed me and gave a little half wave. Did he do this so often that he could work it in as an exclamation point to our own engagement? Sick motherfucker.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Beaconfield’s butler detach himself from the crowd. “Do you have the merchandise?” he asked, by way of greeting.
“I didn’t walk this far for my health,” I said, handing him a nondescript package containing a few ochres’ worth of dreamvine and pixie’s breath.
He slipped it into his waistband, then handed me a pouch that felt heavier than it ought to. Nobles love to throw money around, though if Mairi was right, Beaconfield didn’t have it to lose. Tucket seemed to think I was going to say something further. When he realized I wasn’t, he said, “I hope you appreciate what a privilege this is. You’ve been invited to witness an extraordinary spectacle.”
“I hate to break this to you, Tucket-but death isn’t that rare an occurrence. Nor murder, leastways not where I come from.”
He sniffed and walked back to the crowd. I rolled a smoke and watched snowflakes melt on my coat. A few minutes passed. The judge stepped to the center of the grounds and waved for the two seconds, who approached the battleground.