Quartz, page 24
Sorry, everyone, he thought, and, with steady clicks, he began switching off power and deactivating machinery. On a display next to the panel, power lines dimmed and moving dots paused. Rafe mentally overlaid the display with his own memory of the palace’s layout. He hesitated, then walked over to the corner and reached through a tangle of metal to lay a hand on the cool glass of the column.
Machine?
Yes? Faint, but still audible, and no longer shooting nausea-inducing sparks into him.
Can I take that courier wagon there—Rafe nodded to a metal flap behind which waited the small machine that brought Roland his meals and messages—to the outside?
For an answer, images blazed in Rafe’s brain—movement along a map with the relevant controls interposed upon it—a perspective that nearly turned his brain inside out. Maps, these are all maps, thought Rafe. He’d worked with maps before. Rafe broke contact and stumbled back to the console where he began tapping out his instructions.
When he was mostly sure that he’d not end up dumped into a coal furnace somewhere, Rafe unbolted the little door behind which the wagon waited. The Machine’s attention followed him, tinged with… what? Wistfulness?
“Machine,” he said, out loud.
Yes? Disturbing. He could hear it without touching the gloves or console. “Can you keep Roland out for another stage? Please?”
It wasn’t until he’d already folded himself into the trolley, after winding up the mechanism that would provide the necessary push, that he heard its response.
Yes.
Rafe leaned back and unhitched the trolley. He whipped his hand back just in time as the trolley, winched tight and drawn up to the top of a peak in the narrow tunnel, plummeted down its track, heading for the palace kitchens.
Rafe jumped off his ride before it came to a stop at the kitchens, and wiggled out into the dark laundry room, still steamy, smelling of harsh soap and wet towels. He stumbled his way between the tubs and out the door, keeping himself small and hunched as he ducked into the kitchen gardens.
Tiers rose from the center of the room, bearing ceramic pots and raised beds. Rafe grabbed a gardening smock from a row of hooks. With that and “Gregor’s” clothes, he should pass for a palace servant. He rubbed dirt on his cheeks and hands for good effect, slouched his shoulders, let his face fall into surly lines (Tristan made a good model), and pulled out a few beets.
The smell of earth pierced Rafe with a strong desire to be back at Grenfeld, to be a farmer rather than a framed fugitive, and his thoughts circled from home to family.
With a jolt, he thought, Bryony!
They knew the affection he felt for his sister; they might use her to flush him out into the open. Rafe pressed past walls of fungus, carelessly squishing several delicacies like ladycaps and swirlstars, and towards the one door he’d left unlocked.
It opened to the underground tunnels. Rafe climbed into an empty storage container and waited tensely until machines came to life all around him. One of these, a forklift whose instructions he had reprogrammed, lifted the container up and hummed away. Exhausted and aching, lulled by the movement, Rafe fell into an uneasy doze.
She was not there.
Rafe stood in Bryony’s dark and empty apartment, lingering violence slick against his skin. The door had swung open at a light touch from his hand. The bolt had barely fit into its shattered socket in the door frame. Bryony’s few items of furniture—graceful wicker chairs and round bamboo tables—lay overturned. A coat and scarf pooled together on the floor, papers lay scattered next to them. The other rooms—Bryony’s neat bedroom and small bathroom—were untouched by the struggle. Rafe tightened his lips against the surge of emotion at the sight of Bryony’s hairbrush on her dresser, a few dark hairs still caught in it.
They’d already come for her, then, and stages ago. Had Wil ordered her arrest even as Rafe fled Roland’s receiving room? He’d circled Bryony’s building for most of a stage, and he was sure there were no watchers now, but his tension ratcheted up yet another notch.
There was nothing else to be gotten here. Ashes lay in Rafe’s mouth as he turned to leave. Paper crunched under his foot. Without thinking, Rafe bent to pick it up, smoothed it out, and squinted at the note written on top of a playbill for a production Rafe had never heard of. Scrawled across the illustration of an overheated swooning woman in the arms of a masked cavalier was a note in flourishes, Bryony, darling, are you coming to the party at Leonard’s right after the show? Do say you will since he is your neighbor! The performance was tonight and Rafe recognized the name of the eccentric playwright and director who was, apparently, giving a party on Belle’s Row. He crumpled up the poster. Bryony would attend neither the performance nor the party.
But… he stilled, hand poised to toss the wadded paper onto the floor. He checked the cast list on the poster and nodded to himself. He knew someone who would likely be at that party. Someone who might be willing to help him. For a price.
Chapter Twenty Four
Oakhaven
RAFE SAT UPON A bench in Belle’s Row, pretending to read a news sheet in the light of a gas lamp turned low for the night. For the past quarter stage, sedans and chairs had deposited visitors to a downstairs apartment four houses from Bryony’s place. Voices, laughter, and music drifted out upon tendrils of sickly-sweet smoke from the open doors. The visitors were a mixed bunch; Rafe caught sight of some gentlemen of quality, distinguished by the cut of their coats, as well as theater folk in flamboyant costumes. A gaggle of giggling women hurried past him, the wide sleeves of their crazy-patterned quilted smocks visible under the cuffs of their coats. One of them still wore greasepaint, another’s eyes were outlined in kohl and glitter.
With all this bustle, it would’ve been easy to slip among the party-goers, to step up to the doorway with a smile for anyone whose eyes he met. A tap on a shoulder, a touch on an arm, and he could’ve slid through the crowd, instead of sitting here feeling exposed.
Yet here he was outside in the cold, reading the same headline over and over again—ANARCHISTS DESTROY COMPRESSOR STATION; PALACE ENRAGED—and not moving, waiting for the person he’d never expected to ask for help. He tried not to think of his shattered reputation, of Bryony in the ungentle custody of the Guarda Royal, of Uncle Leo’s face all worn and shocked, of foreign meddlers who’d wormed so deeply into Oakhaven that they could fund the antimachinists and set Rafe up to take the blame for it.
And now Rafe had made the decision to throw himself at the mercy of one who might be as deeply mired in all this muck as anyone else.
Rafe twitched his tense shoulders. He was bruised and sore everywhere. His mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton wool, and his exhausted sleep in the storage container and his subsequent hiding place near the canals had done little to remove his tiredness. His eyes felt as if they had been sandpapered. A passerby hurrying into the party house gave him an oblique look before moving on.
Rafe shook his head, and tucked the salvaged newssheet into his coat pocket. Foolish, foolish, to sit here like a crippled scooper. Had he made a daring escape from the palace only to be found lurking like some kind of bedazzled lad outside a party, four doors down from his sister’s?
Get in there fast, Rafe. Move.
He eased himself up, knee joints cracking in protest. Another theater troupe—dancers, he guessed, from the fish net stockings beneath the hems of their short flared red coats—swept past him. Several gave him appraising looks from under impossibly-long lashes.
He tipped his hat, part of the attire he’d bought from a no-questions-asked pawnshop. “Evening, ladies.”
One of them stopped. “Hiya, handsome.” Her plump painted lips pursed into a smile. “Going to Leonard’s?”
Rafe smiled back. “Alas, I have not been invited. I’ve been hanging out here all evening, hoping for a glimpse of some theater notables, but so far everyone is wearing their hats low and their coats close. Can’t see enough to accost my favorite actors, which is probably what they intended.” He hoped he projected enough adoration.
The actress smiled more widely and tugged at her coat to reveal more of the dress underneath, bodice barely holding her bosom in. Her companions tittered from a few feet away.
“Consider yourself invited, handsome. I’m Dulinea Darling, by the way.” Her look was both arch and expectant.
Rafe did a quick mental search of the name. A smalltime star, always a sister or a best friend, never the lead. “Charmed, madam. I’d offer you my arm, but I’ve heard you denounce from the stage such antiquated gestures as unbecoming to the modern liberated era. I meekly admit to not having the least desire to bring your wrath and eloquence down on my head.”
Dulinea’s eyes twinkled. “You are well-versed in the ways of the theater. Most unusual and most amusing. So many of the lovestruck swains have more notion of their idols’ waist sizes than of the parts they play.”
“I confess to having applied myself to the study of the theater. Being made to look ignorant in such company as this—provided I garnered an invitation—is not something I would’ve enjoyed.”
“Who would?” Dulinea held out her arm. “Come, let me offer you my arm, so that we may both get what we want, without appearing the least to compromise our principles. For you, no doubt, were brought up to be polite to women, and I do not balk at being so bold as to instigate it.”
Rafe linked his arm through hers. Female flesh, warm and smelling of perfume, makeup, and some kind of lightly-spiced liquor, pressed close to him. Dulinea’s eyes were large and green and bright, simultaneously laughing and mocking. They followed the rest of her companions to the broad steps leading up to Leonard’s, past a series of chairs waiting to disgorge their more elegant and less mobile passengers.
“Good even Dulinea, Rosmerta.” A woman called to them from beside a chair.
The women stopped, exclaiming.
“Why, Sable! How long has it been since we last saw you?”
“Are you coming to the party? Firenze will be here.”
“Then she should leave quickly, because he will surely not rest until she agrees to play Princess Padmeria.”
Dulinea dropped Rafe’s arm. She didn’t exactly shoulder her way through the others, but there she was at the front, facing the other somberly-clad woman, one hand resting on her hip, coat falling open to reveal more of her costume. She half-turned her head, as if on stage, so that everyone could hear her.
“Why, Sable,” she cooed. “Has the Marquis given you time off for good behavior?”
Sable Monarique replied coolly, “He lets me out of my cage for two stages every Sixthday and every Girdlesday. It’s a hard life, but someone has to wear Rocquespur’s collection of silk costumes and drink Shimmer tea, Dulinea.”
The other girls tittered. Dulinea’s smile didn’t change, though her eyes became harder. “We can’t all have your good luck, Sable. Not all of us have wealthy patrons vying to buy our freedom with bonbons and trinkets.”
Unlike Dulinea, who stood in the light, glitter sparkling in her hair, showing off the bold colors of her attire, Sable was in the shadows. Perhaps she smiled under her hat, but he could make out nothing other than her rich voice.
“We all value different things, Dulinea. Let’s leave it at that.” Sable lifted a gloved hand, a cigar holder between two fingers. “Care for a companionable smoke?”
Dulinea tossed her head. “It’s a filthy habit, Sable. Isn’t it, girls?” She glared so ferociously at the others that they all nodded their heads. “And it’s cold out. Let’s go inside.” She turned on her heel, and the other girls called weak goodbyes to Sable as they, too, turned. “Coming, handsome?”
Rafe shot her a smile. “In a moment. Lighter, ma’am?” He produced one from his pocket and moved closer, so she could see his face.
Sable’s eyebrows rose. “Thank you, young man.”
Dulinea snorted and went inside, trailed by her friends.
Sable leaned the end of her cigar into the small flame, placed it against her lips, and inhaled deeply. “This is an unexpected meeting, Grenfeld.” She blew smoke through her lips. “Though only on my part, I gather.”
“I have a proposal for Rocquespur,” said Rafe bluntly. “Information in exchange for his influence. Are you interested?”
Sable dragged in another breath of smoke. Her eyes were half-closed, full lips pursed and thoughtful. The conventional cut of her coat and the sober colors of her garments only highlighted how striking she was. From her dark skin to her dramatic beauty to her name, chosen to emphasize her foreignness, she was immediately fascinating. Rafe, watching her, understood why Rocquespur might desire such a woman.
From what else he’d heard, she was formidable in areas other than the theater.
Sable’s exhalation ended on a cough. She examined her lit cigar. “Dulinea is right. It is a filthy habit.” She flicked ash on to the street, and ground it under her boot.
“I hate to rush you to a decision, but as you probably know, I have authorities to evade.” Rafe smiled at her and kept his posture relaxed for the benefit of any watchers. He stepped in closer, like a man interested in an attractive woman—and she was attractive—and dropped his voice to a flirtatious murmur. “I can offer Rocquespur the opportunity to finally overturn the Dewfleur government.”
“I doubt he needs help from you.” Sable flashed him a mischievous smile and an arch look. “The Dewfleur government, with the help of the Bloodoaks and their harsh policies, is doing an admirable job of undermining itself. Rocquespur is patient enough to let matters run their course and pick up the pieces afterwards.”
“There may not be anything left by that time.” Rafe opened the newssheet in a casual gesture, as if looking for the social calendar. “Foreign-funded anarchist groups. Food-related riots. It’s not just the government that’s in danger; it’s the whole state that’s going to fall apart. Does Rocquespur want to be king of a carcass?”
Sable deftly slid the newssheet out of Rafe’s hand and tapped him playfully on the arm with it. Her eyes still laughed, her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “And you plan to prevent this how?”
“By finding the Tors Lumena.”
Sable’s mask slipped for an infinitesimal moment, but she covered it with an airy gesture. “Impossible. No such thing.”
Rafe shrugged, and put his hands in his pockets. “That entire Blackstone mission was about the Tors Lumena. I’ve learned that the six Renat Keys together can point the way to it. Blackstone believes it, too—they’ve been looking for the Keys.”
“Of which your uncle has three,” supplied Sable.
“Four, actually.” Rafe turned a smile on her that he hoped looked charming. He certainly didn’t feel charming.
“So you want to find the Tors Lumena, do you? What does Rocquespur get out of this?”
“Credit,” returned Rafe promptly. “He gives me whatever I need to find the Tower and when I do, he gets the glory.”
“He is rather resourceful, but he’d have a hard time getting you those last two Keys.”
“He can get me a fast train into Shimmer. They have a Key. I’ll do the rest.”
“And that’s it?”
“No.”
She waited, her look showing she expected this.
“My sister.” Rafe looked out at the starry night sky. “The Guarda Royal have taken her, as hostage. Get Rocquespur to use his influence to set her free. Roland has gone crazy, arresting the kin of dissenters, as if this were Blackstone.”
“Rocquespur to the rescue? Defender of liberties?” Sable said it as if trying the words on for size. She shook her head. “That’s a new role for him.”
“An unlikely one.” Rafe’s fleeting smile was full of black humor. “Do we have a deal or not?”
“I don’t know. I have to…”
Rafe snorted. “Talk it over with Rocquespur? Sel, Sable, this isn’t about deciding whether to upholster the sofa with green brocade, or gold! We have no time. Firenze could be here any moment. You’re Rocquespur’s agent. Make up your mind.”
“And jeopardize my own position?” Sable threw back her head and laughed, in shades of velvet and tones of wildness. “All right, then. I can have you out of here on a train at Seed tomorrow morning.”
“You can be ready quicker,” he told her. “Rocquespur’s private train is just idling at the station. Surely you can manufacture a pressing need to take to the mineral springs of Clearwater by Mold.”
“I suppose. What do you intend to do in the meantime?”
His tone was self-mocking. “Take the other four Renat Keys. From my uncle.”
“That won’t be easy.” Sable eyed him soberly. “He’s been carrying them with him all day. Last I heard, he was at the Assembly building, insisting on looking at moldy old records.”
The mage weapon! Was Uncle Leo desperate enough to…?
A current of ka roiled over Rafe, and he staggered off-balance. Sable steadied him, just as the ground shuddered. “What is it?” she said. “Another attack?”
“No,” said Rafe grimly, as a web of ka crackled against his skin. “A very stupid venture. Be sure that train is ready by Mold,” he called out over his shoulder, as he ran for the Assembly building.
An entire wing of the Assembly building had collapsed by the time Rafe, having caught two trolleys and run the rest of the way, got to it. Several small fires, caused by the destruction of the gas lines, smoldered in the ruins.
Rafe grabbed the shoulder of one of the bystanders. “Has anyone gone in there yet? Or come out?”
“Er… no. They’re waiting for the machines… hey, what are you doing?”
Rafe sprinted towards the building.
Dust and smoke clung to the air, and Rafe, his head full of ka residue, tied his scarf over nose and mouth. He ducked through the main doors, stout oak that had finally broken after centuries of use, ignoring the shouts behind him. The marble inside was covered in plaster dust. Rafe paused, and focused on the Renat Keys, calling to him like beacons.
