Page 147 of Play of Shadows

‘We were rather busy trying to stop a hundred-year-old conspiracy, your Grace. I’m afraid the subject of your disreputable parentage never came up.’ I peered deeper into the duke’s eyes. ‘How do you manage it, anyway? The book suggested there might be a way to repair the condition, but warned that it would be—’

The duke removed his heavy silver bracelet and held it up so that I could see the tiny blue glass vials inside the silver tubes decorating it. When I’d first seen Monsegino drink from one of them, I’d assumed he’d been imbibing a narcotic.

‘Bloody unpleasant,’ he said, staring at it as if he would rather grind the vial beneath his boot heel. ‘It burns the throat before giving you a blistering headache for hours afterwards.’ He slid the tiny bottle back into the bracelet. ‘But it kept me alive, and it kept her secret.’

Her secret. Ajelaine’s.

‘So you knew all along that Pierzi had allowed her sons to marry into his line after she died? That you are, in fact, a descendant of Corbier as well as Pierzi?’

He shook his head. ‘‘Only once you and I were on stage and I finally took hold of Pierzi’s memories. When I was seven, I thought the red appearing in my eyes was some devilish curse. The effect wasn’t nearly so pronounced as the histories claim Corbier’s was, but it was enough that my parents were forced to pay outrageous sums to keep my nannies from exposing me as some sort of demon-spawn. Later, I understood the underlying illness to be relatively benign.’ He held up his hand. ‘I get tremors sometimes, and of course everything I see is tinged with red.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

The duke smiled. ‘Oh, it’s not so bad. What I see reminds me that the world can be a dangerous place. Perhaps it’s a gift, in a way; I don’t think you can be a good ruler if you don’t understand what it is to suffer, at least a little– and to have to hide who you are.’

‘But surely that’s over now? Now the people know the truth about Corbier, I’d think they would accept you as Ajelaine’s heir, wouldn’t they?’

Monsegino refilled the goblet and handed it to me. It was a dismissal, of sorts, although it was the duke who rose and went to the door. ‘I’ll go and find your friends,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to convince them to return to their own homes now? Hosting two dozen endlessly drunk and eternally ravenous actors for an entire week might have been marginally better than having our city’s heroes camped outside my walls day and night, but I’d really like my palace back now.’

I stared at the pewter goblet in my hand. The sight of the mottled grey metal so like iron brought a bitter taste to my tongue. ‘It’s not over,’ I said. ‘The Court of Flowers– the IronOrchids– those who set this in motion aren’t done with us.’

Monsegino stopped at the door. ‘No doubt you’re correct,’ he said, opening it wide to let the light from the outer hall banish the shadows inside the bedchamber. ‘So for the sake of our people, I hope you’re not done with them, either.’

Chapter 76

The Archer

Three days later, my recovery had progressed enough that I was able to slump in a chair in the corner of a tavern, annoyed beyond words that Rhyleis– the person who had insisted I meet her here on a matter ofvitalimportance– was late.Two hourslate.

The last time I’d been in the Busted Scales, I’d been a boy, accompanying my grandmother, at her insistence. Back then, before the dukes had beheaded King Paelis for the capital crime of insisting his travelling magistrates be allowed to bring some semblance of justice to their lands, there had been taverns like this in just about every city in Tristia. The Busted Scales was named and modelled after the legendary Greatcoats tavern in Aramor, where members of that ill-fated order would meet, drink and share tales of their trials and tribulations. It was a place to celebrate when justice had prevailed, and– no doubt more often– commiserate when ignominy and venality once again won the day.

I wasn’t in the mood for either.

The duke had rooted out a number of the conspirators among his court, trials were beginning and the common folk of Jereste were rejoicing at this new piece of theatre in which the rich werebeing held to account for their crimes. The entertainment was almost–almost– enough for them to forgive the Violet Duke’s ban on a number of pleasurable but peculiarly addictive drugs. They were still deciding how they felt about the prohibition on underage prostitution.

Cynicism is its own sort of vice and I tried to take heart in the proposed new housing for the homeless and refugees in Pertine. It probably wouldn’t make much of a dent in the suffering of the poor, but it was a statement of intent. The duke had also decreed the Belleza would be rebuilt, with no expense spared to restore it to its former magnificence.

I hoped they would at least fix the leaks.

All this promise of renewed vitality was perceived as a great victory by the people of Jereste– a veritabletriumph, Beretto would have said. . . except that it hadn’t been long before the body of a foreigner was found hanging from a lantern-post in the tanners’ district. Iron spikes had been driven into his skull to form a crown around his head. Those who discovered the body wept at his death and raged against those who had committed the atrocity.

At least the Iron Orchids no longer openly paraded the streets; no emblems adorned the collars of bully-boys and bravos. They would operate in the shadows for now, as no doubt they had done before, waiting until the day when the good citizens of Jereste tired of all this civility and decency, until the sight of their victims drew gleeful scorn instead of tears.

How do you disassemble a conspiracy so ingenious that it requires no leaders to keep itself running?

‘That’s a long face for an actor,’ said a voice, rousing me from my bitter thoughts.

The man seated at the next table was hidden in the shadows. Balanced on the chair opposite him was a wooden case some two feet by three feet and perhaps six inches high. Resting on his lapwas a well-worn shortbow and quiver.

I had seen enough lately to recognise those versed in the arts of violence.

‘Go to Hells,’ I said politely.

The soldier or mercenary or assassin or whatever he was chuckled and took another sip from his mug. ‘Aren’t actors supposed to be charming?’

I leaned forward until I could make out the man’s reddish-blond hair and features. He’d have been devilishly handsome, if not for the self-satisfied grin, which confirmed this was no chance encounter.

‘Hear me now,’ I said, conjuring as much of Corbier’s aristocratic smugness as I could muster. ‘If you’re one of the Iron Orchids or some secret leader of the Court of Flowers come here to kill me, then kindly get on with it or fuck off. I’m unimpressed by thugs and murderers who amuse themselves by chatting up their prospective victims.’

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