City of Keys, page 44
“We cannot even see it,” she said cautiously.
“And you remain loyal to Clavis?”
She stiffened. “Have I done something to displease you, Nuncio?”
“Not at all. In fact, I’m hoping the answer is yes.”
She crossed her arms. “What are you after?”
Malach glanced along the passage. Chars hurried to and from the dining hall, but none were within earshot.
“Luk is dead,” he said. “So is Maria Karolo.”
The Mistress’s eyes widened.
“We both know Balaur is a monster,” he continued. “But I am not. Do you understand?”
She drew a sharp breath. “Yes.”
“I plan to kill him. Will you help me?”
A startled blink. “Help you what exactly?”
Malach told her. The Mistress considered it in silence. He saw no fear in her eyes, just calculation. An intelligent woman running through different scenarios to assess the viability of the plan. He’d remembered what Nikola said about Unmarked. The Probatio labelled them sociopaths. Not a mental illness, but they shared certain traits. One was a willingness to take risks others would not.
The Curia had underestimated Nikola. Malach felt sure the other chars were equally resourceful. Either way, he knew she wouldn’t betray him. All those years in Novostopol sniffing out candidates to take his Mark had honed his instincts for a person’s character. Lucie Moss still carried a small painted icon of Clavis hidden in her stocking. He’d seen her take it out and kiss it through the crack of his door while she was in there cleaning. He’d retreated, then approached the door again with loud footsteps. By the time he entered, she was dusting and whistling a little tune. But there was a bulge at her ankle where she’d replaced it.
“What if the prisoners at the stadium aren’t freed?” she asked at last. “What then?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “We’ll think of something. Assuming we aren’t all dead.”
She laughed. “At least you’re honest, Nuncio.”
“But if we succeed, you’ll have your city back.”
A hard look. “And you have no designs to seize power yourself?”
“How would I accomplish that, Mistress?” he asked. “The mages number barely two dozen. I have no army. But you do.”
She nodded slowly. “That’s true enough. Why this sudden change of heart?”
He held her skeptical gaze. “I learned things about Balaur that I could not stomach.”
A sniff. “The Beast of Bal Agnar. And you expected different?”
“I lied to myself because he made promises to me. Whether he would actually keep them is immaterial now. I am a father, twice over, and I know the sort of world I want my children to live in. Men like Balaur have no part of it.”
“I have children, too,” she said. “Five of them.” Her face softened. “They are devils, but I love them dearly.” She gave a brisk nod. “We will play our part.”
“The others will go along?”
“They despise the Kvens.” Her face darkened. “They despise Balaur even more.”
“Then stand ready.” Malach turned to go.
“Nuncio?”
“Yes?”
She gazed at him for a moment. “The ley bless you.”
“And you, Mistress.” Malach spun on his heel and strode off, heading for the Villa of Saint Margit.
He gave the agreed knock, five short raps. Falke opened the door and stepped back.
Rachel stood at an easel, paintbrush in hand. She looked quite a bit taller and Malach wondered if the child had grown three inches in the last hour. Then he realized she was wearing shiny high-heeled boots about six sizes too big.
Kasia had suggested they use Natalya Anderle’s old room to hide her. It was a mess, clothes strewn everywhere, but Rachel’s eyes had lit up when she saw all the art supplies. So had Malach’s. He knew how bored and cranky children got when they were confined.
The Villa was an ideal choice. Off in a distant corner of the grounds, nowhere near the barracks or the palace. No one else was staying there now. The front door had a stout lock for which Lucie Moss had given him the only key.
Malach studied Rachel’s picture with a familiar ache of guilt. Little stick figures ran in every direction. Lightning sizzled down from a red sky. She’d drawn long yellow tails on the meteorites. Black for the shattered buildings of the Arx.
Rachel glanced over, but didn’t acknowledge him.
“It’s all in place,” he said to Falke.
The old pontifex sat down on the edge of the bed. Malach lifted his robes and took out the dagger he’d offered to Morvana Ziegler. He flipped it around and held the hilt out to Falke.
“Take it,” he said.
Falke’s gaze fixed briefly on the white scar at Malach’s wrist. Was that a hint of remorse for trying to sever him? If so, it would be the first Malach had ever seen.
Falke took the dagger and set it on a low table.
“You don’t know a thing about kids, do you?” Malach muttered. He moved the dagger to the top of a high wardrobe. Out of Rachel’s reach—even with the boots.
“I can’t stay long,” he said.
Falke clasped his hands together. “Malach,” he said slowly. “I’ve been thinking. You might not come back.” He glanced at Rachel. She was adding the blood now. Thick splotches of red on the stick figures, her mouth tight with concentration.
“Then take her out of here. Somewhere safe,” Malach said. “Valdrian is at the postern gate. It’s not far.”
Falke looked startled. “That’s not what I meant. But . . . you would entrust her to my care?”
“I already have, haven’t I?” Malach snapped. He fished in his pocket and gave Falke the keys. “As much as it pains me, you’re the best choice.”
An uncertain nod, as if he’d expected this but still found it hard to reconcile. “Rachel,” Falke said sharply.
She turned. “Yes, papa?”
“Come here.”
She brushed a hand across her cheek, leaving a scarlet smear, and clomped over in her high-heeled boots.
Falke drew a deep breath. “I’m not your father, Rachel. He is.”
Her features froze. Malach’s heart thudded hard in his chest.
“The truth is that I stole you from him.” Falke lifted his chin, voice firm. “I held your mother prisoner until she gave birth. Then I took you away from her. I believed it was best for you.” A long pause. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “But that’s not why I did it. I wanted you for the Church. So you might grow up and have children of your own to continue the Sanctified Marks.”
Rachel twisted the paintbrush, picking at the bristles, tearing them out one by one, though her face was still blank.
“It is my fault that your father was forced to come and take you as he did.” Falke bowed his head. “I ask your forgiveness.”
Not mine, Malach thought. But he didn’t care. His breath caught as she turned to him.
“Is it true?”
Malach nodded.
Her lip trembled. “Why did you pretend?”
“I was afraid.” He glanced at the painting. “Because of what I did to you.”
Her face crumpled in confusion. He felt terribly sorry for her. Malach crouched down.
“I know you don’t love me. But I am your father. And I will be a better man for you, Rachel. I promise. You mean everything to me. Everything.”
The paintbrush fell from red-stained fingers. She stared at him with brimming eyes. Then she flung herself into his arms, sobbing. Malach held her tight, burying his face in her hair. He heard Falke move away to the window. Everything faded. There was only the warm child pressed to his chest and an overwhelming grief mingled with happiness.
Malach let Rachel cry herself out, saying nothing more. The sobbing finally subsided to soft hiccups. Her small body went limp and he realized she had sought refuge in sleep. That was often the way.
His own eyes had dried by the time he carried her to the bed and lay her down, drawing the covers to her chin. She didn’t stir when he kissed her forehead. One of the boots had fallen off. He slid the other from her foot, marveling at the perfect brown toes.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
Falke still stood at the window, staring out at the rain. He nodded without turning around.
Malach could think of nothing more to say. He waited in the corridor until he heard the key turn in the lock. Then he set off through driving rain for the Pontifex’s Palace.
Balaur raised his glass in a toast. “To the Black Sun!”
“To the Black Sun!” his dining companions echoed.
Malach took a small sip of wine. Only Kasia didn’t lift her goblet. She was staring hard at Jule Danziger. He suppressed a smile. His sister was truly a gifted actress.
She hated Jule, of course. That much was real. It would have been suspicious if she didn’t. But she struck just the right balance of uncertainty towards Balaur, casting him appraising glances from beneath her lashes as if she were weighing her options.
Balaur’s weakness was that he believed what the Via Sancta said about the nihilim. He could not conceive of one of his own kin acting out of any impulse but self-interest. The string of victories had made him feel invincible. Why wouldn’t she throw her lot in with him? Especially when Clavis had denied her the ley.
Jule Danziger met Kasia’s glare with the satisfied smirk of a cat curled up on a sunny windowsill. He, too, thought he was untouchable.
Jamila al-Jabban sat at Balaur’s right hand. She had not spoken once, but he occasionally leaned over to whisper in her ear. It was pierced with seven rings that glinted in the candlelight. Malach had the impression she was ill at ease. She picked at her food and barely touched her wine. Jamila was one who preferred to pull strings from the shadows, he thought. He wished he knew what they were plotting together.
Besides the mages, the rest of their table companions were all senior members of the Order of the Black Sun. Balaur’s winged cardinals loomed like black specters behind his chair. Not even the Order cared to meet their soulless gaze.
“I have been thinking about the problem of the Kvens,” Balaur said, twirling the glass between his fingers.
Conversation ceased.
“Most of them are at the stadium guarding the prisoners. A foolish waste of resources. What use do we have for prisoners?”
“None, certainly, Reverend Father,” piped up a woman in a long, glittering gown.
He stared at her until she buried her face in her wine.
“Therefore, I issued an order for the prisoners to be disposed of. We might as well get some use out of the Kvens before they die.”
Kasia’s hand tightened around her goblet. “Can’t we show mercy?”
Balaur gave her a kind smile. “The Kvens are beyond mercy now. As for the prisoners, you know little of warfare, my dear. I know it seems harsh, but we cannot have them making some pathetic attempt to take back the Arx, can we? No, it is cleaner this way. We will put the unpleasantness behind us and move forward. Nuncio, do you agree?”
“Seems sound to me,” Malach said with a smile, forking a potato into his mouth.
“There, your own brother agrees with this plan. Do not trouble yourself, Kasia. It is the expedient solution.”
She gave a reluctant nod.
Malach eyed her from the corner of his eye. He still couldn’t quite believe it. He’d carried the burden his entire life; that he had run away and left her to die. Proof, he reflected, that he did care about someone other than himself, though he’d never recognized the emotion for what it was. Guilt.
Instead, it had manifested as hatred for Falke and the Via Sancta, which was easier to cope with. Shame had no solution. It simply ate away at you like a slow drip of water boring through stone. But hatred! One could do something with that.
He no longer knew what he truly believed. Only that the bastard sitting at the head of the table had to be put out of everyone’s misery.
The Mistress of Chars was serving Balaur herself. She refilled his goblet and withdrew with a deep curtsy. Malach watched him lift the wine to his lips.
Would he taste the sleeping draught? If there was even a hint of bitterness . . . .
Balaur drank deeply and set the cup down. He wiped his mouth and turned to Jamila, saying something that made her smile.
Malach let out a long exhale.
He listened to the alchemists talking about the high positions they would hold in Nantwich, about Balaur’s promise to send reinforcements from Bal Agnar to hold the city when the Kvens were dead. The idiots had no clue how demented Balaur’s contingent of ex-knights were. They made the Wolves seem like tame little bunnies.
On his left, Valdrian drank and joked with Jessiel and Caralexa. Only those three knew what Malach planned. They’d agreed with him whole-heartedly. He expected the rest would, too, but it was too much of a risk to tell them ahead of time.
Besides the mages who had been assigned to guard duty, all were present. It was critical that none of them were missing from the dinner. None except for . . . .
“Where are your young cousins, Malach?” Balaur asked. “Sydonie and Tristhus? I hoped they would join us at table. Children are precious, indeed. They must be guided properly.”
“Oh, they’re somewhere,” Malach said casually. “You know kids. Always getting into trouble.”
There were a few polite titters.
Balaur frowned. “You must take a firmer hand with them, Malach.”
“That’s what my aunt used to say. I do try, Reverend Father.” He slid a hand into his pocket. “I have a gift for you. I was waiting for the proper occasion.”
Balaur arched a brow. “Well, what is it?”
Malach strode over, heart beating hard. He set it on the tablecloth.
“I took it from Bishop Karolo,” he said.
Balaur picked it up and held it to the candlelight. He let out a startled laugh. “This is Dmitry Falke’s ring!”
“It seems certain he is dead,” Malach said.
“I still want my own back,” Balaur said wryly, “but I will add this to the growing collection.”
“You once told me symbols mean little, Reverend Father. Yet the Black Sun has given us all hope these many years. One day, you’ll have all four rings to melt down and forge into something new. A crown with twelve jagged rays, perhaps.” He bowed his head. “But I leave their disposition to you.”
Balaur was silent and Malach wondered if he’d laid it on too thick. Then he felt a gnarled hand grasp his own.
“A fine sentiment, my son. The rest of you would do well to heed his example.” He covered a yawn. “The hour grows late. By morning, we will have a fair amount of mopping up to do. The stadium would be an ideal location to give Nightmarks to the populace, but it’s better they’re not wading through corpses, yes?” A chuckle as he turned to Danziger. “Jule, you’ll see to that?”
“It would be my pleasure, Reverend Father,” Jule said smoothly.
Everyone jumped to their feet as Balaur rose from the table. He paused in front of Kasia. Jamila al-Jabban and the winged cardinals hovered behind, their red robes gleaming like open wounds.
“We will speak more. I never had a chance to show you those books.” Another yawn. “Ah, for the vigor of youth again. But it is past an old man’s bedtime!”
She nodded, looking both eager and wary. “I await your summons.”
Balaur patted her shoulder. “Sweet dreams, my dear.”
Chapter Forty
“It’s nearly time.”
The knight from Nantwich turned. Rain coursed down his light brown skin, eyes gleaming in the darkness. “Once the signal goes around, we all take our gloves off and work the ley in concert,” he whispered. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll manage to call down lightning on those bastards.”
Alexei nodded. Patryk and Natalya shared a quick look. She rocked on her toes, hardly able to contain her eagerness.
After two days of captivity with almost no food or water, they’d reached a collective decision to escape or die. No one needed persuading. Several dozen prisoners were already gone, taken by fever and festering wounds. At first, the Kvens had removed the bodies. But they no longer cared about even that semblance of human decency. A corpse lay not five meters away, open eyes staring into the rain.
Alexei had no idea if Misha was still alive. Rademacher had forced him to watch as they gave his brother a massive dose of Sublimin, then questioned him for hours. This produced nothing but rambling dissertations on the Meliora. In a fury, Rademacher had doubled the dosage.
The drug dissolved the barrier between the conscious and unconscious mind. It’s only approved use was to give Marks; interrogation was definitely off-label. Sublimin did work, though. Alexei had seen mages give up everything they knew under a much smaller quantity.
But Mikhail’s mind was like the nesting dolls the war widows sold at Verskaya Square. Each layer showed a different face. Instead of breaking him, the second injection only made him lucid again.
“Fuck you, Radish,” he said coldly. “Fuck your mother and fuck your sisters. Fuck Luk, twice over. Fuck your dog. If you have a wife, fuck her, too—”
That’s when the physical torture began. Electric current through the soles of his feet.
Alexei had been about to tell them everything he knew, to hell with Jalghuth’s defenses, when Misha caught his eye. Sweat plastered dark hair to his forehead. He looked ghastly.
Rademacher was fiddling with the car battery. They’d rigged it with wires that ran to a clava, a wand with a bronze tip and insulated rubber handle that delivered the current. Just the sight of it made Alexei’s stomach clench. He’d never used one himself, but he suspected his brother might have.
Misha’s torturer was a plump little woman with graying hair in a bun. Her back turned as she dumped a bucket of water over Misha’s head. Wet skin conducted electricity better.
His brother spluttered and coughed. He blinked away the beads, gaze seeking out Alexei. Neither of the Kvens saw Misha wink at him. Alexei could still see that single blue eye. The twisted smile, exactly like the Mark on his chest.
