Painted Devils, page 19
Before I can speak, she holds up a hand. “Here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to order breakfast. Then we’re going to sit down. And then you’re going to tell me exactly what I was an accomplice to last night, and why, and both of those answers better be damn good, understand? Then, and only then, will we discuss why we both are here. Any questions?”
“Um.” I twist a braid around a finger. “Should I start with the corpse goblet or the cult?”
Joniza closes her eyes. “I know better,” she mutters to herself. “I know better, so why do I keep getting into these situations?”
I adjust my approach. “Orrrr I could start by buying you breakfast.”
It doesn’t take as long as I expected to catch her up over egg pancakes doused with applesauce. (This is almost certainly due to her familiarity with my particular brand of idiocy.) The only thing she seems to find more entertaining than the goblet’s misadventures is the desolation of Dieter Ros.
“If he wants the gig as Prince Ludwig’s bard, he can have it,” she scoffs around a mouthful of pancake. “The only thing that man loves more than himself is the sound of his own voice. Besides, I’m leaving the day after tomorrow, so there’s a job opening.”
“Right, not to be rude, but…” I gesture with my fork. “What are you even doing here?”
Joniza heaves a sigh. “You remember my baba?”
“Meister Bajeri!” In an instant I’m eight again, running around bright painted wagons with a bright paper bird on a wire flapping its wings behind me. Every three years, the Ardîms’ trade caravan would pass through Sovabin on its route, with Joniza’s father and sister at the head. “Is Fatatuma with him?”
“No, and that’s why I’m here.” Joniza sighs. “This was supposed to be her first circuit as caravan leader, but she’s pregnant, and even if her wife wouldn’t worry herself sick, Baba doesn’t want to risk his first grandchild being born up here. He’s too old to do the circuit on his own—don’t tell him I said that—so I told him I had an ugly breakup and wanted to get out of Bóern for a while.”
“Aw. I thought you and Bastiano were cute. You know, for archnemeses.”
“Oh, we are, he’s still waiting for me in Minkja.” Joniza tries to toss her hair over a shoulder, then remembers it’s all bound atop her head and smoothly turns the toss into a shrug. “Don’t tell Baba that either. We’re headed to Rammelbeck on Tuesday, and with any luck, we’ll sell enough there that he can start the return trip and get back before Fatatuma has her baby.”
“We’re going to Rammelbeck next, too, but probably not that soon.” I look up as the chair beside me scrapes back. “All done with your report?”
Emeric drops into the seat with his own plate of pancakes. He’s all but cloaked in a suspiciously self-satisfied air. “Good morning, Miss Ardîm. And yes, I’m done. You’d be amazed at how well Proctor Kirkling gets along with Lady Ambroszia.” He slices into the stack. “Which is good, because she’ll be spending her nights with the proctor from now on.”
“How did you manage that?” I demand. “If anything, I thought Kirkling would find more haunted dolls for our room just to spite us.”
“Exactly.” Emeric spears a bite on his fork with a smirk. “So I told her you and Ambroszia were nearly inseparable already. She insisted on confiscating Ambroszia at the end of each workday so you can’t”—he makes a vague gesture—“something something ‘taint the case,’ you know. It was just an excuse. And credit where credit’s due, Ambroszia’s performance was a triumph. I’m actually starting to get quite attached. But this should buy us at least a few days of privacy before we leave for Rammelbeck.”
Joniza looks from him to me. “Have you reserved a coach already?”
“No,” Emeric says, “I thought if we left on Thursday, we’d make it to the city by … oh no. The Week of Barley starts Saturday, doesn’t it?”
Joniza nods grimly.
“Scheit.” I gnaw on a thumb tip. The Week of Barley is a weeklong holiday for the House of the High, one typically celebrated as a family. “We can double-check with Mathilde, but that sounds right. And it’s going to be even harder to leave with the guild negotiations.”
“At least a fifth of the attendees will leave town no later than Wednesday to make it home in time,” Joniza confirms, “which means the contract negotiations have to wrap up in the next few days, so everyone will clear out anyway, not just the House of the High. On the walk here, I heard a coach service tell a man they’re booked solid until next Saturday.”
“Unfortunate. I wonder if…” Emeric keeps talking, but I miss it. My attention has been poached.
There’s a woman standing near the dining room’s entrance, pretending to read a menu. I know her face; I remember the hunger in her black eyes when she called me “sister.”
Eida sneaks another look my way, only to blanch when our eyes meet. I jump to my feet to try to catch her. I don’t know why—she’s not family, I don’t know what I’d say, only that I’d be a disappointment—
Then, without warning, my vision floods with red.
It’s as if I’m floating in a sea of crimson mist, awareness without form. Something like a distant current roars in my ears, weaving into words.
“My prophet,” the Scarlet Maiden coos. Burning roses bloom all around me in the haze. “I have grave news. The hellhound’s hunger grows more terrible by the hour. If we wait until midsummer for the sacred feast, it will be too late.”
The scarlet handprint pulses in my sight, emitting a spray of embers.
“Bring me my servant, or my sacrifice, before the moon wanes, waxes, and wanes again. Fail and Hagendorn will be damned.”
The full moon was last night; that’s six weeks. And it’s going to take at least three weeks to track down the rest of the Ros brothers and make it back to Hagendorn.
No—four, now that every ride out of Dänwik has been claimed.
I have no mouth to tell this to the Scarlet Maiden, though, and she doesn’t seem to want to listen; the mist yields to dark as abruptly as it took me. New voices pierce through.
“—nja,” Emeric is saying urgently. “Vanja, please—”
“Her eyes.” I hear Helga too. How long have I been out?
Not that long, it seems—the ceiling of the Book and Bell’s dining room is slowly fading back into sight, blurry shadows sharpening into Emeric, Helga, and Joniza as they hover over me. An ache radiates from one side. I don’t see Eida anywhere.
“There you are.” Emeric presses fingers to the pulse in my chin, relief all but bleeding from him. “Are you hurt? What happened?”
I let him help me sit up as I croak out, “We have a problem.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE LANTERN
The first time I met Bajeri Ardîm was in cold Sovabin.
I was four months away from turning nine, and he was passing through as part of his trade route. Or at least, that’s what he said at the time; looking back on it now, I know it hardly made business sense to pass through a minute, half-beggared principality in the southeast corner of the Blessed Empire every three years, coming or going. But in those days, Joniza was only a little older than I am now, and it did not take long for me to understand that Bajeri would have crossed every ocean in the world twice over if she needed him.
That, however, does not make him any less shrewd of a businessman. It’s probably why we got along so well whenever he arrived in Sovabin. And now, as he sits rubbing his chin in the parlor of Dänwik’s prefect outpost, I can tell he’s weighing his options.
Bajeri knows as well as I do that the Order of Prefects of the Godly Courts is hardly suffering from a budget shortfall. He’s seen the impatience in Kirkling’s stare, the jitter of Mathilde’s fingers drumming on her armrest, how Emeric keeps adjusting how he’s sitting. Joniza and I know precisely how this will play out, and we’re both content to watch Bajeri do what he does best.
He takes his time, adjusting how the drape of his vivid blue agbada falls over his broad chest, thoughtfully tugging at the matching brimless damask hat that covers his bald head.
“So,” he says, “you wish for me to take four of you prefects, and two additional passengers, to Rammelbeck with my caravan.”
Mathilde’s brown curls bounce as she shakes her head. “Three prefects, three additional passengers. Same number total.”
Bajeri looks pointedly at Kirkling.
I explain helpfully, “Inspector Kirkling is decommissioned.”
“Proctor,” Kirkling snips.
Bajeri glances up to me, a nigh-imperceptible gleam of amusement in his eyes. His voice rises a hair. “And I am to do this for free, you tell me?”
“No, no, definitely not, sir,” Emeric sputters.
“Because this is no small thing you ask for.” Bajeri sounds mildly affronted. “I must make space in the wagons, so I must sell things here at a cheaper price than what Rammelbeck will offer.”
Emeric nods. “We can cover that loss and pay fare up front, and we are happy to contribute as well to your food and travel supplies.”
Before Bajeri can speak, Kirkling interjects, “And Schmidt will pay her own way.”
Bajeri rubs his chin again, thinking, and shoots another look to me. Then he waves a hand. “I have no need of your coin. The way to Rammelbeck is rotten with bandits. If the three prefects will guard us, that will cover the cost of all six of you riding with the caravan. Have we a deal?”
“More than fair,” Mathilde says quickly. “Thank you. I wasn’t sure I’d get home in time otherwise.”
Emeric nods. “Yes, sir, I’d be happy to help in any way I can. I’m sure we all would.”
“Hmph.” Kirkling is, unsurprisingly, frowning. “Schmidt will still benefit from the work of the prefects. That may be seen as improper.”
Bajeri shuts his eyes. “We have a saying in Sahali: ‘An ant does not concern itself with the weight of a mountain.’”
An awkward pause falls, as neither Mathilde, Emeric, nor Kirkling seem to know how to parse that. I fight down a laugh. This is one of Joniza’s favorite negotiation tactics.
“… Understood,” Kirkling clearly lies, standing. “I will begin arranging for our departure. Please excuse me.”
“We will leave at eight in the morning on Tuesday,” Bajeri calls after her, “with or without you.”
Mathilde leaves to pass word to Vikram as Joniza helps her father get to his feet. I can see why she wouldn’t want him alone on the road; he always huffed and groaned when sitting and standing, but now he moves with a stiffness that wasn’t there years ago.
Emeric clears away a neglected tea service, clearly wrestling with a question. His curiosity finally puts his restraint in a headlock long enough for him to get out: “Excuse me, sir?”
“Eh?” Bajeri squints at him.
“Could … could you explain a little more about that saying?”
Bajeri looks to Joniza. She gives a go ahead nod.
“I already know,” I chime in. “Joniza told me after a bottle of wine.”
Bajeri lets out a belly laugh as Joniza swats my arm. Then he puts a hand on Emeric’s shoulder, his face turning deadly serious.
“Young man,” he intones, “it means, ‘When you want white people to stop arguing with you, make up a proverb.’” He gives Emeric a little shake and lets go, his agbada swishing as he heads for the door. “We will leave at nine sharp.”
“Not eight?” I ask.
“That proctor woman knows if she makes you late, we will leave without you,” he says dryly. “Of course I told her eight.”
* * *
Bajeri’s instincts are spot-on. Kirkling winds up conveniently running behind on Tuesday morning, only to be swiftly escorted to the caravan the moment she emerges from the Book and Bell at a quarter past eight. I would find it funnier if I weren’t already dozing in a wagonful of rolled-up rugs, curled around an ember-filled clay jar bundled in towels. Helga warned me that the root-bind could change my monthly bleeding, but I hadn’t expected it to be early until I woke with cramps.
Even so, as the caravan pulls away from the inn, it’s impossible to miss something that twists my stomach even more. The morning glories all over the façade have unfurled their round bells with the sun, and most blossoms are a plain snowy white. But a stain is spilling through them, dyeing the petals an unnaturally vivid scarlet. And from a distance, it’s easy to see that one upstairs window is at the heart of the spread.
I don’t need a map of the building to know that was our room’s window. It must have happened so slowly, we didn’t even notice.
I get to nap through most of our first day on the road. I need it; even without the drowsiness that usually plagues my first bleeding day, I have to catch up on sleep from the two nights of privacy Emeric and I had. We didn’t get swept up in another rush of passion in the past few days, just took our time getting comfortable with touching like we did in Hagendorn. There was something lovely about it, too—still new enough to steal my breath away, but familiar enough that I didn’t have to worry about being a disappointment.
The Scarlet Maiden’s mark still hasn’t faded from Emeric’s chest, but that’s not a surprise. If touching alone counted as a claim to the Scarlet Maiden, the handprint would have vanished last week.
Still, there’s a little hangnail of worry in the back of my skull now. I probably would have been ready for more by the summer solstice. Six weeks, though … It shouldn’t feel that much sooner, but it does.
The rest of the trip couldn’t be more different from the ride to Dänwik. Emeric, Mathilde, and Vikram divvy the days into a needlessly complex system of guard shifts, but it means that Emeric has a few hours every day to work on the case with Ambroszia’s assistance, and that I get his nights. Once my cramps and bleeding slow, I join Helga in helping Joniza during the days. We tally inventory, inspect the tack for the mule teams pulling the brightly painted wagons, check in with the wagon drivers, make small repairs, and handle a thousand other little rolling bearings that keep the caravan in motion.
Joniza also shows me the caravan’s little histories: Notches on Bajeri’s wagon to mark his children’s heights when he left, then when he returned. Fatatuma’s berth, painted with maps of trading routes, murals of the stars, a city by a green-fringed lake that Joniza tells me is the family home. The jar of spices their mother packs to mix into the dough for the hard, sweet bread that lasts us from breakfast until dinner; it’s a secret blend not even Joniza knows.
It’s strange; the last time I felt this at ease in the company of others was in Minkja, before I left. I know it isn’t the same as a family—I have no weathered notches in my life, and the only person to call me sister was chasing a mistake—but I do wonder, were I ever to find mine, if it might feel something like this.
We make it out of the thick forest by Friday night and camp on the plains under the open sky, the lights of Rammelbeck and Welkenrode on the horizon. After dinner, Emeric and I sit on the back of the wagon we sleep in, sharing a blanket and watching in silence as a streak of ephemeral mist, occasionally pierced by hooves, carves over the otherwise clear sky. Brunne must be leading the Wild Hunt through the stars.
Emeric lets out a soft huff after the Hunt has passed. “I completely forgot,” he says. “I said I’d tell you what the prefect signa are right before we went into the library … and then I never did.”
My brow furrows. “Oh, right. Vikram said he picked … an apothecary? Was that it?”
“The Alembic.” Emeric shrugs off the blanket and, to my utter bewilderment, begins unbuttoning his shirt. “So prefects have two binding marks, right? One to bind us to the Low Gods’ rules, the other to bind us to their power, like a warlock’s bond.”
“Right,” I say, admittedly more than a little distracted.
“But a warlock carries a mark for every entity they’re bound to, and not only are there too many Low Gods for that to be feasible, but that number also changes with region, time—you get the idea. So for the second mark…” He frowns. “To simplify the explanation, instead of us connecting directly to the Low Gods’ powers, we route through a proxy of sorts. Something else innumerable, that changes with time and region. The—”
I make the connection. “The stars.”
He grins, sheepish. “And here I was trying to impress you.”
“I mean, ‘I summon the powers of the gods through the stars’ is pretty impressive on its own.”
“I’ll take it.” Emeric lets the shirt fall to his elbows, then twists so I can see his upper back. Black lines are wrought between his shoulder blades, a complicated work of runes, rings, and strange symbols. I’ve seen it before on a dead man’s skin, sewn into Adalbrecht von Reigenbach’s back. Emeric’s mark has a few conspicuous voids, though. “Do you see the part at the top? A circle with five stars?”
There are five tiny black stars arranged like a lopsided house: four crooked corners and one peak. I lay my fingertips on them and feel him tense. “Here?”
“Y-yes.” This time he’s the one who sounds distracted. “It’s a constellation. Every prefect chooses one to be a part of their second mark, their signum. That becomes their link to the powers of the Low Gods. We only have a hundred constellations to pick from, and only one prefect can use a signum at a time, to keep our numbers in check. Hubert’s was the Oak, and Vikram picked the Alembic.”
“Damn, now I want a mystic code name too.” I trace from star to star, enjoying the hitch in his breath.
“I should think yours obvious.” He reaches over and taps his notebook, where a playing card’s tip juts out. “Queen of Roses.”
I huff a tickled laugh. “I can work with that. What did you choose for yourself?”
“The Lantern.”
My hand goes still. For a moment, all I can see is my mother’s lantern as she left me on that cold winter night thirteen years ago, the last flickers of it stealing into the dark. I choke out, “Why?”
