48
Delphine and Crane had been on their feet all nox and most of the day, building an army. The skysilver was doing the work that it was supposed to do, turning daylight folk into sentinels through repeated exposure. It would not have had permanent effect if she had brought them anywhere else, but this was the Killing Ground. Skysilver was different here, more powerful. Delphine marched up and down the sands of the Killing Ground, observing the troops. Possibly she’d gone a little nuts, but she wasn’t going to admit that to anyone.
The bright skysilver frock felt warm on her skin, warm like the artificial sun that beat down on them as they worked. Crane led the fops and flappers in a drill and they copied him perfectly.
There was a light in their eyes that did not belong to any world Delphine recognised, and it made her uncomfortable if she thought too deeply about what she had done. Best not to think about it. After all, she had a city to save. Whatever happened this nox, whatever fate they all met, they would not suffer from a lack of sentinels.
The Smith had not returned to his work. He leaned against the wall of his forge watching the army of new sentinels. Could he see the flickers of ghosts that filled the sands, the ghosts of fallen warriors?
‘Are you joining us?’ she asked him, striding up to him and staring into his large face. ‘Will you fight with us?’
‘I do not fight,’ he grunted. ‘I build.’
Well, it was worth a try.
This close to midwinter, nox came early. The traditional ball held at the Palazzo on the first day of the Saturnalia had begun in the middle of the afternoon and it felt already as if it had been going on forever. The great hall was a mess of masks, men dressed as demoiselles and ladies dressed as serving maids. Isangell had drunk too much, quite by accident, and had the taste of violet punch on her tongue as she danced, passed from hand to hand under the boisterous music. She remembered, as a child, sitting under one of the tables with a bowl of sugared almonds, watching the dancing and the costumes and the merriment. She wished she was there now. Everything had made sense when she was eight years old.
Saturnalia had always been her most beloved festival. There was something delicious about the topsy-turviness of it all, of celebrating the wrong and the upside down and the strange.
Her favourite Saturnalia game was to dress herself as a servant in clean, tidy linens and serve breakfast rolls to her mama, or dress her grandmama’s hair. She would insist on eating brown bread and plain cheese instead of her usual favourite pastries or candied fruits. Saints, she must have been an insufferable child, playing at peasantry, surrounded by hardworking servants who had to pretend amusement for her delight.
This year, she had embraced some more adult aspects of the festival. There was something extraordinarily freeing about wearing breeches, even breeches made of embroidered gold satin, and a shirt of the finest cobweb silk. Isangell was sure she did not look remotely like a boy, but realism was hardly the point of Saturnalia.
On impulse, moments before she made her entrance, she had demanded that her maids bob her hair and, oh, the look on her mother’s face had been worth it.
Bazeppe was gone, and that meant Isangell’s last attempt at rebellion was over as well. It was time to choose one of the sweaty-handed, glazed-eyed boys of the Great Families of Aufleur.
Many of them had not turned up to the ball and Isangell assumed that her recent attempts to find a husband from Bazeppe had insulted them enough to stay away. Except, of course, that none of them remembered Bazeppe … Saints, it made her head hurt.
Some of the Families may have snubbed her, but there were still plenty of eligible men here. Why not just choose one now? Not one of them would make a Duc she wanted to unleash on the city; not one of them was anything close to the Princel Isangell had imagined for herself as a child. The more time she spent allowing them to court her, the more irritating they seemed. Why not just let the dance do its work for her? She could reach out blindly into a sea of costumed noblemen and marry the one who took her hand.
The music rose and fell and Isangell spun deeper into the circle of gaudy courtiers, letting the madness of the dance swallow her whole.
Cool fingers slid into hers and drew her out again. She followed, allowing herself to be brought clear of the chaos and even out of the room. Only in the corridor outside did she realise who had rescued her. It was the demme, one of Ashiol’s precious ‘sentinels’, the ones who served as lictor to him and his wretched creatures. This one played the man far better than Isangell in her costume breeches — her clothes were dark and worn, and she wore swords on her back.
‘High and brightness,’ she said politely, her hand still firmly holding Isangell’s.
‘Kelpie,’ said the Duchessa, remembering the demme’s name after a moment’s thought. ‘Is it Ashiol?’
‘Isn’t it always,’ said Kelpie with a cynicism that Isangell could well identify with.
They hurried along the corridor and into Isangell’s rooms. There, she looked around for her cousin, but there was no sign of him.
Kelpie busied herself by drawing her daggers and making firm incisions on the door. Isangell opened her mouth to complain about the scratches in the paintwork, but held back the words. The demme was so intent on what she was doing, she barely seemed aware that she was not alone.
As a child, Isangell had learnt much more by sitting quietly in a corner while the adults went about their business than she had when she made a fuss. So she sat, drawing her knees up on the couch (so strange not to have to fuss about skirts — she wondered if her mother would throw a fit if she regularly chose to wear breeches around the Palazzo), and watched Kelpie work.
The sentinel finished with the door and began to circle the room, her knives marking the wall at regular intervals. She made no distinction between wall and furnishings — her blades bit into plaster and tapestry curtain and a portrait of Isangell’s grandmama. It was rather fascinating to watch. Isangell shivered once, and it seemed as if the window darkened a little in that moment.
Finally Kelpie tore her eyes from her work and acknowledged Isangell’s existence again. ‘I need to seal it,’ she said, kneeling beside her on the couch.
Isangell did not get a chance to ask what and why before Kelpie put her hands on either side of her face and kissed her. It was warm and sudden, and Isangell felt jolted awake, as if she had been in a daze all this time.
‘Oh,’ she said faintly, when they came apart.
‘It works better with kissing,’ Kelpie said with an apologetic shrug. ‘Not sure why. It’s probably a Creature Court thing. Anything to get laid, that lot.’
She was up again, bouncing on her booted feet, fingers smoothing over the door that … was not there any more.
‘What have you done with my door?’ Isangell asked in surprise.
‘I’m keeping you safe.’
‘Trapped,’ Isangell said sharply.
Kelpie blew out an impatient breath. ‘Safe,’ she repeated. ‘You can leave any time you like. But you’re important right now, and not because of the Duchessa thing. Ashiol needs you safe and guarded while the shit goes down, and frankly I’d rather be at his side than in here with you. Don’t give me a hard time about it, aye?’
‘Is the city in danger?’ Isangell asked. ‘Is Ashiol in danger?’
‘Do you really have to ask?’
‘What about everyone else? The Palazzo is full of people. Would they be safer in here than out there?’
‘This is a nest, not a ballroom,’ said Kelpie flatly. ‘We’re not bringing anyone else in.’
‘I am the Duchessa. I can’t hide away in some nest while everyone else suffers.’
Isangell hurried over to the blank wall where her door had been. She felt for the crack, the doorknob, for any way out.
‘When I said you could leave anytime you like,’ said Kelpie, holding one of Isangell’s hands tight in a fist. ‘I lied.’
In the Forum, Velody watched the sky turn grey and then dark with the coming nox. She watched as the everyday people of the city, going about their business, began not noticing things — like the several wild animals that strutted back and forth on the grey cobbles, waiting for the battle. She could taste it on the air. War was coming.
The salamanders had won their battle. They had Garnet pinned above the great altar, bound to the statue of Iustitia with skysilver chains. Delphine was there, too, with the Smith, obviously the source of the chains. They all looked ridiculously pleased with themselves even as Garnet howled and roared at them.
‘We have to stop them,’ Velody said in a low voice.
Ashiol was near, but she was so far past his presence being a comfort to her.
‘Stop who?’ he asked. ‘Delphine, Poet, the salamanders? I thought you wanted everyone working together. Isn’t that what you were trying for all along?’
It was true, absolutely, but there was something wrong about all this.
‘We’re wasting too much energy going in so many different directions,’ she said in frustration. ‘We have to be a strong, united front to beat the sky.’
‘This is about as united as you’ll ever get us,’ Ashiol said. ‘With Garnet bound and out from under our feet.’
Velody shook her head, but said nothing else. Beating Garnet was not the point. It couldn’t be. They had a war to win.
Ashiol shaped himself into chimaera and flew forth, scattering salamanders this way and that. ‘Stand down,’ he roared at them. ‘Garnet will not die from your bites and scratches. He will fight me.’
Garnet turned chimaera with a fierce roar, shaking the chains they had used to hold him in place.
One of the salamanders shifted into rats and hurled themselves at Ashiol, shaping finally into Poet. ‘Fight?’ he repeated. ‘We’ve only just captured him. Do you expect us to let him go so you can playact your honour and revenge?’
‘Traitors,’ Garnet growled at them both.
‘Shut up and consider the fact that everyone who loves you most wants you locked up or dead,’ Poet snapped.
‘Those are my chains,’ Delphine said, crossing her arms as she stepped forward to stand at Poet’s side. ‘And I’m not taking them off. This isn’t about pawing the ground, Ashiol. Behave yourself or I’ll smack you on the nose.’
Ash returned to male form, recoiling from her. ‘What are you wearing?’
Velody had been so caught up in the fate of Garnet to notice, but yes: Delphine was wearing a tailored tunic of chainmail that gleamed with skysilver. She stank of it, the animor of the metal hitting the back of Velody’s throat harshly enough to make her gag.
‘Delphine,’ she said. ‘What have you done?’
There were rumblings from the sky. Delphine glanced up, then darted a smile at Velody. ‘I’ve been getting prepared, of course. Want to see?’
She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled fiercely, and suddenly the stench of skysilver was everywhere, surrounding them, and Velody could hardly breathe.
An army marched into the Forum. Dozens and dozens of men and women, dressed for a fancy party, armed with skysilver swords and daggers. A very specific feeling rolled off them all. Sentinels. Somehow, Delphine had created dozens of sentinels all at once.
Ashiol started to laugh, gleeful and utterly genuine.
Warlord and Lennoc flew overhead, shining in Lord form and surrounded by their courtesi. Everyone was ready for the battle.
They were, in fact, united against their enemy. All of them except Velody.
‘It’s all right,’ Rhian said calmly. She reached out and gave Velody’s hand a reassuring pat. ‘It will all make sense soon.’
Light blazed from the sky, fierce and hot, drawn into a single powerful thread that shot over their heads and burst through the roof of the Basilica, blasting into the ground some way past it. Velody leaped into the air, flew over the heads of Delphine and her army, and skidded roughly on the paving stones of the avenue just beyond them.
The light from the sky was channelling ferociously into the Lake of Follies. The water boiled and frothed under the heat and gave off huge waves of steam.
Shapes formed in the steam. Great winged shapes, and there was no way to know what they were, except that they were not friends. Shape after shape clambered out of the lake and lurched in the direction of Delphine’s army.
Saints and angels.
For one shocked and quiet moment, Velody had a strong memory all over again of her brother telling her about seeing angels in the steam. Devils made of dust. Saints made of clockwork. What on earth made me think that the angels might be on our side?
More light poured from the sky and the last water of the Lake of Follies gave up the ghost into one huge cloud of steam. It formed several distinct shapes and, yes, angels. There was no other word for them. Except, possibly, death.