39
The Nones of Saturnalis
Ashiol resisted their attempts to heal him. He flat out refused to drink Kelpie’s blood, and turned his face away from Velody. All he knew was pain right now. He didn’t know how to keep going without it.
Celeste, still clinging to her daughter, was more ruthless than the demmes who loved him. She cut at the pulse line in her throat with a fallen fragment of skysilver and stood over him, blood welling at the wound.
‘Don’t make me owe you for what you did this nox,’ she said roughly. ‘I couldn’t take that.’
So he drank, and took strength from her. She wasn’t a King, but she was Power and Majesty, and even with Bazeppe’s stupid democratic system, the blood meant something to his animor. The pain ebbed, and he dozed a little while the rescue efforts continued around him.
Every time he woke, Velody was not far away, and that was fine, it was good.
He needed to think. Velody had broken the illusion for him, and the Emporium was gone and the Clockwork Court that had seemed so seductive only a day ago lay in ruins. Nothing made sense.
Everything made sense, if you saw the world a different way. If you assumed that no one could be trusted. Velody said that Garnet was conspiring with the creatures beyond the sky. Whom else might they have on their side?
It was getting dark, and Ashiol was finally capable of sitting up under his own strength. Not enough. He had to do better than this, recover faster. He needed time to think, but there was no time.
He surveyed the scene. There were the dead and injured. Velody and Kelpie were consulting with Lysandor and Celeste. No one was watching him; no one but a small child with bright fair hair. She smiled, and it wasn’t a nice smile. A moment later, Ashiol realised that she wasn’t looking at him. He followed her gaze.
A small cluster of falcons stood at the highest point of the river bank, staring with hungry yellow eyes straight at Ashiol. They turned, flew a little way and then landed again, waiting.
Ashiol shaped himself into cats and followed. The cats allowed this, as there was no more skysilver, and no more roof, and he was heading as far away from the dust and death-stench as possible.
He knew where he was headed, of course he did, but that didn’t stop him from keeping the birds clearly in vision as he tracked them across the city. Snow started to fall, a light patterning of cold over Ashiol’s fur and the concrete pavements under his feet, but it didn’t matter.
By the time he reached the Palazzo, the snow was thick enough that he could see the scratchy falcon’s claw prints beneath a particular window. Ashiol could have gone after them directly, but the lantern light streaming out of the Palazzo reminded him of all the other things this place had to offer. Clean skin. Clothes. Boots. A chance to save the city. All good things.
Cat by cat, he climbed the walls and scrambled over the balcony and into the suite he had been given as his own. There, he collapsed into a shaking pile of fur until he was able to shape himself back into a man.
There was no time to bathe, though he caught sight of himself in the looking glass above the water basin and was mildly horrified. His skin and hair were grey with dust and he looked ten years older than he should. His wounds had scabbed over but not healed as well as he was used to.
He washed quickly, and found clothes for himself — a suit in the Bazeppe fashion: grape-coloured velvet with sage-green silk trim. It was hard not to think about Velody removing his last suit, piece by piece.
The soles of every pair of boots he had were too thick. It clouded his judgement not to be able to feel the shape of the ground under his soles. He went barefoot, along the corridor. He should eat while he had the opportunity, but his stomach roiled and rebelled when he considered that option.
Some work was best done on an empty stomach.
He had never been inside Troyes’ rooms but he knew they were in the same corridor as his own. For convenience, the young man had said with a wink. Ashiol could smell him on the other side of the door — falcon, man, hurt, blood, fear, panic, dust. So many scents.
Ashiol didn’t knock but allowed his animor — angry, hurt, burning animor — to blast the door open.
‘What was that for?’ Troyes yelled at him, picking himself up off the floor. He was still naked, and covered in bruises. Several long, ragged cuts were half-healed on his legs.
‘You left the Emporium in a hurry,’ Ashiol said, not bothering to couch his words in diplomacy. He wanted answers, and now that Bazeppe had lost its odd dampening effect on his animor, he had run out of patience.
‘I have a job to do,’ his secretary said sullenly. ‘A life to maintain. I couldn’t —’ he swallowed nervously, his whole body radiating shame — ‘I couldn’t take it any more. The Court is broken, so many dead. The smell of it was making me sick.’
Ashiol had no way of knowing how far he could trust Troyes. But trust was not needed right now. ‘Get dressed. You’re right. We have a job to do.’
‘What did you have in mind?’ Troyes asked warily.
‘What else? We have to reveal the Clockwork Court and the skywar to Duc-Elected Henri and save the city.’
Only when he heard the words coming from his mouth did Ashiol realise that this was what he had always had in mind. It was why his paws had led him here.
‘You’re mad,’ Troyes said finally.
Ashiol grinned fiercely. ‘That’s what they say.’
Duc-Elected Henri and his family were in the crimson parlour watching a show of mummers and gilded marionettes. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and laughter. The Palazzo was going on as it always did. Servants handed around delicate glasses of imperium and hazelnut wine, all performing their routines like an awful kind of clockwork, oblivious that there was something terribly wrong with their city.
They wore scarlet, all of them, the Duc-Elected, his family and their guests, velvets and brocades that matched the decor of the damned room. One more elaborate and empty performance. Why did aristocrats of the daylight go to such trouble? It wasn’t as if their actions had meaning.
Ashiol’s stomach gnawed at him with hunger, but there were only cheese and tapenade and pickled fruits on every platter. How did these people stay alive?
‘High and brightness,’ he said, his voice harsh and hurting with dust and blood and his own screams of pain. He pressed all that down. No time for weakness. ‘I need to speak to you.’
‘Seigneur Ducomte!’ cried the Duc-Elected in delight, tugging at Ashiol’s sleeve. ‘We have missed you. There was crab for luncheon, a fine repast, with honeyed carrots. Do you see our new performers? They are such a delight. I should send them to entertain my new daughter, your cousin the Duchessa d’Aufleur. Do they have such marvels in Aufleur?’
Ashiol looked despite himself. There were prancing creatures on the stage, working without strings. Their clanking, uneven gait was familiar. Clockwork beasts. He couldn’t restrain a shiver at the sight of them.
‘Please, high and brightness, it is most urgent.’
‘Have a glass of imperium, my lad, and tell me all about it,’ the Duc-Elected said effusively.
The smell of the imperium hit Ashiol hard. He had been drinking little the whole time he had been here, away from the harsh memories and pressures of Aufleur. Now it was all he could do not to bury his head in the carafe and never surface again. He jerked his hand back from the proffered glass.
‘It is a matter of grave importance, high and brightness. The safety of this city relies upon it.’ Surely the man could see how serious he was about this.
The Duc-Elected’s face changed slightly as he took in Ashiol’s desperation. ‘Indeed?’ he said, giving away little.
Ashiol kept his voice low, not wanting it to carry to the other guests. ‘If you do not listen to me now, high and brightness, Bazeppe could be destroyed. We may only have hours in which to act.’
‘Excuse me, my friends,’ the Duc-Elected said loudly. ‘I will return to you for the second act.’
He led Ashiol to a quiet antechamber. Troyes joined them, looking nervous and afraid. ‘Wait here a moment,’ the Duc-Elected insisted.
‘He won’t listen to us,’ said Troyes as soon as they were alone. ‘He is daylight. We can change in front of them, buildings can fall around them, and they won’t see what we really are. You’re wasting time.’
‘We can’t afford this any more,’ Ashiol replied forcefully. ‘We can’t fight this war with a handful of soldiers. Those of the daylight must be made to see. Velody was right. It’s not just Bazeppe; there’s something wrong with all of us, with the ridiculous rules we live by. None of it makes sense as soon as you try to explain it to an outsider who isn’t twelve years old.’
He paced the floor, back and forth. His cats were yowling to get out of his skin. It would be dark soon, and if the sky fell again this nox, there was nowhere to hide, nowhere that was safe. So little time.
‘She’s your Power and Majesty,’ Troyes said softly. ‘Isn’t she?’
‘Yes.’ Of course she was. How could she be anything else?
‘She’s the most important person — not just to you. To all of you. The Court of Aufleur.’
‘Yes, stop talking,’ Ashiol said, pacing another lap of the room. ‘We’re wasting time.’
The doors opened, finally, and the Duc-Elected returned, alone. Ignoring Ashiol’s impatience, he went to the sideboard and poured three small measures of imperium from the carafe there. Was there one of those on every flat surface in this damned place? There was a time it would have been the first thing Ashiol noticed when he entered a room. He was under no illusion that he had been cured, but he was far too busy to destroy himself right now.
‘Now, my lad,’ said Duc-Elected Henri in a pleasant voice. ‘Tell me what you are about.’
‘My tale is long and I cannot tell you all,’ said Ashiol, taking the glass but resolutely not drinking from it. ‘You must take me on faith. Seigneur Troyes here will support me in this, and my cousin the Duchessa Isangell will confirm my verity once you are safely in Aufleur.’
Safe being perhaps not the most accurate of words.
The Duc-Elected raised his eyebrows. ‘I can see you are disturbed, seigneur, but you surely cannot wish me to decamp to your cousin’s city at a moment’s notice?’
‘Not just you,’ said Ashiol. ‘Everyone. Everyone in Bazeppe will die if they do not leave now, before nox falls.’
‘I see,’ said the Duc-Elected, and took a swallow from his own glass. ‘And you expect me to perform such an elaborate sleight of hand on your word, my friend?’
‘You must. Ask me any question you like, only trust me in this. I am trying to save your people, for the city cannot be saved. The clockwork saints have ensured that.’
The aroma of imperium hit the back of his throat and Ashiol glanced down at the glass. He shouldn’t drink. If he started now, he would never climb out of the bottle. And yet, and yet. It was a small measure, and it might clear his head enough to get his point across. He swallowed it easily.
‘What are we facing, Seigneur Ducomte?’ There was still a level of scepticism in the Duc-Elected’s voice.
Ashiol was getting desperate. What could he say or do prove it to him? ‘All I can do is show you, and then you will have to listen.’
He had never done this deliberately in front of one of the daylight before. Keeping his eyes firmly on the Duc-Elected, he shaped himself into Lord form, glowing brighter than the lamps that hung on the walls.
The Duc-Elected’s expression did not change. He smiled politely, as if waiting for something impressive.
Ashiol went chimaera. His clothes tore, his teeth lengthened and his skin expanded into sinew, muscle, black fur, wide wings. ‘This is the least of the monsters you will face,’ he said, though the words came out only as growls. His tongue tasted thick, coated with more of that f*cking dust.
‘Indeed,’ said the Duc-Elected, and he was still waiting, damn him. Couldn’t he even pretend surprise?
Ashiol stepped forward, unfurling his wings, and fell flat on the floor. He couldn’t feel his wings, nor his claws. Everything was numb and strange and lost.
‘What was in that f*cking drink?’ he muttered.
He looked up, trying to see through suddenly blurred vision. There were no wings, no claws, just his own hands scrabbling against the polished parquet flooring. He saw the clatter of footsteps — a man running away. Troyes had escaped, at least. But escaped what?
Ashiol tried to speak, but his tongue was too thick. He fought unconsciousness. More footsteps, more people. Someone coming to his rescue? He heard voices above him, echoing as if spoken inside a brass vase.
‘It seems the rumours of the Ducomte’s complaint were true, my sons. We were right to prepare for this possibility.’
‘What shall we do with him? Send him back to Aufleur?’
‘My dear boy, that would hardly be civilised. My dottore shall attend on him until he is in a far more respectable state. We do not want to endanger your upcoming marriage by embarrassing your future wife.’
‘She’s the one who left us a madman as her ambassador.’
‘Not intentionally, I am certain. Families are always the last to be aware of our little foibles …’
Ashiol opened his mouth to scream at them, but he managed nothing more than a grunt before the floor swam up to swallow him whole.