‘Dust, dust, dust,’ she murmured under her breath. She wiped her hands absently down her front, knowing that the feeling of grime would never quite go away. She wore a padded silk gown, a deep ochre embroidered with pale blue-and-white birds, and slippers with blue silk feathers, and these, at least, she did take care of. At the end of every day she would go to her own suite of rooms and brush the gown with the special brushes she had for the task – they were coated with a sort of powder that freshened the silk – and carefully put the gown back into her wardrobe with all the others. They were works of art, made years ago by Eboran men and women who had spent decades learning their craft, and she couldn’t quite let them go to ruin along with everything else.
Following the corridors without needing to think about it, Hestillion made her way gradually to the centre of the complex. The palace was a warren, sprawling out from its heart like a knot of tangled roots – it had grown organically over the centuries, like the great god that sat in the midst of it. Halls intersected each other apparently at random; enormous rooms appeared suddenly with no warning, small chambers sprouted at corners, tiny courtyards appeared here and there, jewels in the midst of the confusion. Back when Ebora had been alive, there had never been any question of people becoming lost in this labyrinth – live anywhere for a hundred years and you will know its every nook and cranny.
There were other Eborans here, dotted throughout the palace, or out in the wider city. Little more than a handful now, and almost all of them were dying from the crimson flux, but they kept themselves to themselves, as though they had all made a joint decision that to watch each other die was too painful. Hestillion would see them sometimes; a hunched figure walking down an empty street, or a gaunt face at a window. A few of them, she knew, paid humans to come into the city and give them their blood. It made her cold to think of it. The sheer desperation of knowing that drinking human blood would only give the disease more strength, and then doing it anyway, because it made you feel better for a time. She thought of the humans, the disgust and the triumph that must move across their faces to see their old enemy so fallen, even as coins were pressed into their palms for their services.
She passed a room where a young man sat at a dining table. Spread in front of him were hundreds of paper cards, each about the size of the palm of his hand, each illustrated in bright inks. They were tarla cards. There was the Broken Moon, its yellow surface split like an egg; there the Just Warrior, depicted as a woman in shining silver armour; next to it was the Wise Woman, a smiling crone, her face half hidden within her hood. Tarla cards could be used for simple games of skill and chance, or they could be used to divine the future. Or so it was said; Hestillion had had a great aunt who had devoted decades of her life to studying the tarla, and she had foreseen nothing about Ebora’s doom.
‘Aldasair? What are you doing?’
The young man looked up, his eyes wide. His brown hair hung shaggy and unkempt over his shoulders, and his ruffled silk shirt had seen better days, but his deep-blue waistcoat still had its bright golden chain-watch at its pocket. It was etched with the image of a griffin.
‘Hest. I’m reading the tarla, Hest.’
‘Well, you have too many cards, then.’ She came into the room. A good handful of the cards were scattered on the floor. ‘How many decks do you have here? Three? You only need a dozen cards to read the tarla, cousin.’
Aldasair looked back at the cards spread before him, his brow creasing. ‘No, I’m trying to read the whole future, Hest. I need to see all of it.’
Hestillion cleared her throat. ‘So what have you seen?’
Aldasair sighed. ‘Cards, mostly.’ He had avoided the crimson flux so far – he was of an age with her, and had been too young to participate in the Carrion Wars – but that wasn’t to say that he was well. ‘Will I see Tormalin at dinner?’
There was a dead spider in the middle of the table, its legs curled up around itself. It looked quite dry. Hestillion wondered how long Aldasair had been sitting in here, trawling through his cards. Did she walk past this room yesterday? The day before? She couldn’t remember.
‘We’ve talked about this, Aldasair. Tormalin left years ago. Decades ago. He packed up all his things, and his fancy sword,’ Hestillion reached across and flicked the dead spider off the table, ‘and he took himself off beyond the Wall, and beyond the mountains. And now, no doubt, he spends his time getting drunk and keeping his bed warm. He was always very good at those things.’
Aldasair was nodding slowly, as though he didn’t quite believe her but was trying to convince himself. ‘Tormalin took the sword with him?’
‘Why not? We hardly need it here any more, do we? The Ninth Rain will never happen, because Ygseril is dead.’ She brushed her fingers over the cards, making them whisper across each other. ‘I will be having dinner in the blue room tonight, if you want to join me, Aldasair.’
The young man nodded, but he was looking down at the cards again. ‘Last night, I woke up in here, in the dark. I could hear wolves howling outside. Do you ever hear the wolves, Hest?’
‘Oh yes, I hear them all the time.’
‘In the dark I took cards from the pile. Four cards. And when it was light enough I looked at them. The Poisoned Chalice – a bad decision. The Falling Star – something approaches that bears us ill. And the Bower Couple – a new path is uncovered.’
She had thought her lips too cold to smile, but she did anyway. ‘Bad decisions and ill will. The tarla has never been so accurate.’
‘And the fourth I was to give to you.’ Aldasair held out a dusty card. On it, twisted green shapes like wizened fingers fumbled in the dark. The Roots. ‘It was important you have it.’
Hestillion looked up at him sharply. ‘Who told you that? Who told you to give this card to me?’
But Aldasair had gone back to the cards, spreading them out under his fingertips as though he were looking for something underneath.
‘The blue room,’ she reminded him, ‘if you’re hungry.’
Hestillion slid the dusty and creased card into the neck of her padded gown and left him to his confusion.
8
‘Please come in, Agent Lin.’
Lin paused at the doorway to adjust her gloves. They were fine, calf-skin leather, soft and flexible, and they annoyed her. Outside of the Winnowry she didn’t wear gloves at all, but these clucking hens would go spare if she didn’t. At least, if she must wear gloves, they could be fine ones.
She looked up into the flat metallic face of the sister who had been sent to usher her in. Her tone was polite, but it was clear she was also trying to keep out of arm’s reach. The trust between agents and the Winnowry was sometimes a very fragile thing.