The Cage of Dark Hours, page 12
A cold chill ran up her spine.
He and Krona had never discussed Melanie’s scar or the young woman’s disappearance. She didn’t know how he felt about her vanishing, or what he presumed happened to the young healer. Krona didn’t even know if he’d ever seen Melanie’s bare forehead, if he knew about the mark seared into her skin.
She had to be careful about what she said.
So many mixed-up secrets. So many jumbled lies.
Fuck.
“Not much to tell,” she said, voice cracking on “tell” in a way it never did. She cleared her throat. “It seems to be a string of similar accidents related to enchantments. There’s no single perpetrator, as far as we’ve been able to ascertain, and no one enchantment source. It’s not a case of fraudulent enchantment practices, I mean. No one bad enchanter running around making bad enchantments. It appears to be a series of mishandlings, though we can’t say how.”
“Does it concern you that the number of these mishandlings is … growing?”
“Of course.”
“It seems unlikely that these are independent accidents.”
“Indeed.”
“Have you isolated the reason why some people die and some people … What would you call it?”
Lose themselves. Seem to become someone else.
“No, we haven’t isolated a reason,” she said, not bothering to conceal her sidestepping.
“I’ve seen the illustrations and the photographs,” he said carefully. “I’m not ignorant; I know what the markings look like. And I need to show you something. I’ve been meaning to summon you about it, but I…” He tugged his glasses off, rubbed at his eyes—brows pinching, as though with pain.
He took a small brass key from his pocket and unlocked a drawer low on his desk, retrieving a weathered envelope that sported signs of water damage and ink smears. Gently, he set it on the desk top between them, treating it with the utmost care, like something that was somehow both a fragile gift and a bomb.
Krona didn’t reach for it, waiting for an explanation before she made a move.
“A few years ago,” he said softly, voice gone rough, “I opened a missing-persons concern. A concern personally important to me.”
He went quiet. Krona put her arms behind her back and held herself at parade rest.
After pursing his lips, he tapped the envelope with a harsh jab of his finger. “A month ago, I received this from a contact in Marrakev.”
Krona’s heart jumped. Had he found her—found Melanie?
Did he know about her missing baby? Perhaps Melanie had reached out to him. Of course, that would make sense. She’d clearly trusted the Chief Magistrate while in his household. If she’d felt comfortable enough contacting Krona, perhaps she’d feel equally comfortable reaching out to her former employer.
“What is it?”
“Proof that they’d found who I was looking for.”
She tried not to let her anticipation show. “What is it?” she asked again, suddenly suspicious. Why had he hesitated? What wasn’t he saying?
He scooped up the envelope and hastily drew out its contents, dropping three sepia-toned pictures—one by one—in front of her.
The first was a blurry picture of a body in the snow. Someone in more feminine Lutadorian dress—skirts rather than trousers. The lighting was such that their skin seemed light and their hair perhaps dark. It was impossible to tell more than that.
As the second photograph fluttered down, Krona immediately noticed that it was of an intricate scar—one like those on her concern.
Before her mind could decide for certain if it was Melanie’s—after all, she’d only seen it the once—the third photograph was already nestled half on top of the second. And its subject was unmistakable.
There she was. Melanie. A close-up of her face, sans ferronnière. Eyes open, lips parted.
Stare empty.
Dead.
The sudden shock of seeing the healer’s face again—and so devoid of life—had Krona reaching out to steady herself. Her hand swiped at the air behind her, looking for a chair that wasn’t there, before she swooned forward and braced herself on the Chief Magistrate’s desk.
“This is why I’d hoped … hoped you had more to go on by now,” he said sadly. “Or a working theory, at least. She escaped Gatwood, but she couldn’t escape … whatever this is.”
“What about her family?” she asked—her voice sounding airy and distant. “Her husband?”
“Didn’t ask,” he said sadly. “I only concerned myself with Mademoise—er, Madame Dupont.”
Krona’s gaze snapped up to meet his, and she did her best to maintain her decorum—to remember who held the authority here. But he’d kept this from her. He’d had this for a month. A month! Which meant any leads she might have been able to track down were long cold. “Why didn’t you bring these to me immediately?”
“I suppose … I was ashamed. I should have protected her while she cared for my granddaughters, and I didn’t. I failed to make sure that even the rooms beneath my own roof were safe. My own roof.” Clearly unable to meet the healer’s dead stare anymore, he flipped the photograph over. “Would it have made a difference if I’d come straight to you?” he asked sadly. “You’ve learned so little from the other victims, the other crime scenes, and this one—”
As Krona’s ire raised, so did her voice. “But I knew—” She bit her tongue and took a deep breath, trying again. “I met Dupont. That might have made the difference. And you know as well as I do that one crime scene is never like another. Why bother to investigate any at all after this, hmm? Since I’ve failed so spectacularly to divine anything of substance so far?”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said evenly. “By the time I received these, there was no crime scene left to speak of. This happened nearly a year ago. Her body had already been returned to the sands.”
“Who returned her? Who claimed responsibility for the corpse?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you at least tell me where in Marrakev these were taken?”
“Konasavi.”
“Well, that’s something.”
He reached for the photographs again, and she placed her palm over them first. “Can I keep these?”
The Chief Magistrate hesitated, but eventually nodded, withdrawing his hand. “I will focus on putting the nobles under house arrest, and leave … Melanie … to you.”
“Thank you.” She swiped the photos from the desk and turned, staring down at them as she left his office and retraced her steps through the building.
The healer’s expression was so … cold.
Oh, Melanie, what happened to you?
10
MANDIP
“Are you sure you won’t tell me more about this very important timepiece of yours?”
The carriage jolted as it passed though the palace’s gilded outer gates, awkwardly jostling Mandip from the striking, brooding pose he’d adopted—with his elbow propped on the frame of the open window, and his head in turn propped on his tight fist.
Across from him, on the opposite bench, a now fully dressed Thibaut leaned forward eagerly, expression open, earnest, and interested.
Mandip tried to keep his gaze locked firmly out the window.
The palace of the Grand Marquises was set atop picturesque bluffs which loomed over the Praan River on one side and sloped swiftly down into Lutador city proper on the other. The road to the palace was winding and well-guarded, and the trees were sparse—which kept the approach clear and allotted anyone leaving the palace a breathtaking, all-encompassing view of the city.
The buildings sparkled in the afternoon sun—their large, stained-glass windows made the city look like it was studded with gems. Various coteries were notable by their high, limed walls, and at this distance, it was easy to spot the way the streets were laid out to pay tribute to the number five.
Five days in a week, and five penalties to tie the citizenry together, and five gods to protect them all.
He let his gaze trail to the high ridges of the Valley’s rim. The sky above them was clear, bright. Only a faint haze hung over the peaks. It was easy to imagine there was simply more beyond—more unnatural beauty to match the god-created beauty of the Valley.
But no. Beyond was wasteland. Beyond was a hellscape. Beyond was a desolate expanse fit to match Mandip’s grim mood.
“Milor?” Thibaut prompted when Mandip didn’t immediately answer.
“You don’t need to know,” he grumbled at Thibaut.
The escort crossed then uncrossed his legs before reclining into a corner, only to right himself again a moment later—all apparently in an attempt to find a casual position that would offset the tension in Mandip’s countenance.
“Need?” Thibaut echoed. “Not in the strictest sense, no. But I didn’t even get a good look at the thing back in the tent. How am I supposed to be of any help if I can’t even provide the Regulators with a corroborating description?”
“It’s not your concern. You won’t have any reason to speak to them.”
“Oh, so you have a plan for keeping the investigation off the record, do you?”
Mandip’s brows pinched together as he turned toward Thibaut. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you and I both know there’s the public-facing work done by the Dayswatch and the Nightswatch and the like, and then there’s the more hush-hush work done to address the crime in your circles. But even if your loss won’t make the papers, it’s still likely to reach the ear of someone you’d rather never heard tell of your … mishap.”
“The whole point of going to the Regulators now is to find my watch posthaste and get ahead of any rumors.”
“Rumors are not reports. The Regulators will make a record, to be sure. And that record may come back to bite you in the arse later. Politically speaking. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“If there’s any way for us to pass it off as my watch, then perhaps the true nature of the item might never go on record. In which case you’ll be protected.”
Mandip let out a deep huff. “It’s not just any timepiece. It stays out of the public eye, like all enchantments tied to state function. But the Regulators know of such things. They will recognize it.”
Thibaut licked his lips, then lifted both of his hands as if to speak sweepingly, but apparently thought better of it. Clearly, he was trying not to appear overeager but was doing a piss-poor job of it. “It sounds,” he said carefully, but with subtle trill of excitement, “like this watch is better suited for a vault than a lordling’s pocket.”
“It sounds,” Mandip mocked, “like you don’t understand the finer points of city-state security, and I don’t really have the energy to explain them to you.”
“I suppose we’ll just ride in silence, then.” Thibaut pouted, crossing his arms and leaning away.
That was fine with Mandip. More than fine. He had half a mind to ask the carriage driver to stop at the first respectable roadside establishment to drop Thibaut off before they ever reached the Regulator den.
Mandip had known this man would be a distraction. Had known, deep down, from the moment he laid eyes on him that he would be trouble. And still, he’d let himself get caught in his orbit.
And now … and now the watch was gone.
He took a shuddering breath, closed his eyes. Anxiety swelled in his chest. He chewed on his lip and tried to reassure himself that everything would turn out all right. The Regulators would find the watch, that was what mattered most, and he could think about the consequences of losing it later. He could think about everyone he’d let down later. He would think about his … his punishment … later.
They would disconnect him from the watch. That wasn’t supposed to happen for another eight years. They would take his link away, and—
And not in the usual manner.
There would be no careful extraction of the metal imbedded on his person. No.
They would simply cut. Chop. As they would if he’d offended Knowledge and needed to suffer feir penalty. And it wouldn’t be just his hand. It would be everything from the elbow down. They’d take his arm. They’d take his fucking arm and—
Later, he told himself. Worry about that later. Later, later, later, he chanted, squeezing his eyes shut all the tighter. Later, later, later.
But no matter how he tried to calm himself—to push the feelings away until later—his sense of impending doom grew and his lungs stuttered.
How had he let this happen? How?
A gentle hand landed on his knee. “Milor?” Thibaut asked softly, sounding genuinely concerned.
He opened his eyes, though they felt too hot and too wet to turn on anyone. He looked to Thibaut anyway, to say something dismissive, but no words came. He pinched his lips together, tightened his jaw.
He was not a child. He would not cry.
“Surely it can’t be as bad as all that,” Thibaut said, swallowing thickly. He looked suddenly emotional himself, though Mandip couldn’t pinpoint why.
“It is. It is as bad as all that; you don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t.”
Mandip dropped his hands into his lap and turned away from Thibaut again, refusing to behave like a watery-eyed child in front of this man. After a moment, he found himself subconsciously rubbing a hand over the underside of his left forearm and abruptly stopped, threading his fingers together instead.
Beneath the sleeve where he’d been rubbing was what looked like a perfectly typical stretch of skin.
It was anything but.
Mandip considered telling Thibaut—blurting it all out and showing him exactly what was at stake, personally and bodily, for him. He’d have to show the Regulators anyhow. The secret would be revealed to Thibaut soon enough if the Regulators insisted he be present.
But, for now, sense made him hold his tongue and keep still.
In a hidden pocket in his jacket lay a special handkerchief—ratty and grayed, as old as the missing watch itself. The fabric was stiff and always smelled oddly—faintly—of salt, as though soaked with fresh tears. It was enchanted in a way that had been lost to time, and Knowledge had not yet seen fit to grant pursuit of its rediscovery, made to temporarily wipe away concealments.
If he were to retrieve said handkerchief and draw it up the length of his arm, he’d reveal a perfectly straight line of what would look like painted silver, running from his wrist to his inner elbow. But it wasn’t paint. Nor was it something like the tattoos of Xyopar. It was an imbedded tongue of silver, thin and flexible.
And enchanted, of course. The third in the five-part enchantment system that allowed him into the inner vaults of Lutador’s time repository, the treasury.
The watch and the silver tongue were kept on his person. The three other corresponding enchantments, which were required to open the locks, were built into the repository.
Mandip, himself, was a Key.
It had been the luck of the draw. Every ten years a new Key was randomly appointed, chosen from the noble twins eligible for the highest offices. Who the Key was at any given time was always secret. Past Keys and potential Keys all held similar watches to the enchanted one, to confuse the trail and thwart anyone clever enough to learn about them and bold enough to think they could pull off a heist at the treasury.
The entire system was a secret held closely among the ruling class. Not even Mandip’s parents—neither being a twin themselves and therefore of lower political standing—knew about the measures, let alone that their son had been chosen for such a responsibility.
The system was, in part, why body modification was illegal. For the masses, of course, not for one such as Mandip. But the masses didn’t need to know that.
He tried to calm himself again, to breathe deeply and cleanly in through his mouth and out through his nose. Still, he continued to feel worse with each passing moment.
Thibaut patted Mandip’s knee. “Don’t fret. It will turn up, milor,” he said firmly. “Soon. Yes, I can feel it.”
* * *
The rest of the journey was spent in companionable silence, and Mandip took the opportunity to recompose himself. It wouldn’t do to show up maroon-faced and blubbering. He’d been trained to present himself as neutrally as possible. To make his expression and body language unreadable when necessary. And it was often necessary in courtly environments. He could pull upon that same rigidity—that same stoicism—now.
By the time they approached the flint wall surrounding the complex, he’d smoothed away all signs of distress. There was no dampness to his eyes or heat on his temples. He was simply a noble calling on the constabulary to do their duty. No need to make a scene.
Visible from the road were the rolling knolls of the den’s living sod roofs. He noted the majority of the compound appeared to be underground. A guard at the gate checked the driver’s credentials before letting them through.
The footman leapt off the rear of the carriage as it drew near the main entrance, running ahead to make sure there were no unexpected potholes or puddles. When the carriage came to a halt, he opened the door for the two passengers, bowing low to Mandip as he alighted. The young lord waved him off with an idle “Thank you” that had Thibaut frowning.
Mandip straightened his jacket and took a deep breath, but before he could make his boots march toward the doors, Thibaut skipped ahead. “Allow me, milor.”
Mandip sighed. “You know you don’t have to end every sentence with ‘milor,’ don’t you?”
As Thibaut put a hand on the door’s clasp, he looked over his shoulder with what was surely a cheeky retort on his tongue but was cut short by the door forcibly swinging outward—bashing into him hard enough to send him to the ground. With an oof he landed on his backside, the cobblestones clearly doing a number on his tailbone if his sudden grimace was anything to go by.
Mandip instantly dropped to a knee at his side—startled, then angry on his companion’s behalf. He turned, a sharp admonishment on his lips. “Why don’t you watch where you’re—”
