“Very well,” she said.
The Blood Imperial’s hair parted as he nodded in satisfaction, revealing eyes, as bright and steady as a youthful soldier’s, bespeaking an intelligence undimmed by age or frailty. “You’ll need this,” he said, taking a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handing it to her. “Can’t go to prison without a crime.”
Lizanne unfolded the document, finding a formal judgement from the Corvus Magistrate with a long list of charges, each one stamped with the word “guilty” in red ink. “Prostitution?” she asked him, raising an eyebrow.
“And extortion. You are an expensive courtesan who unwisely took to blackmailing a client, a senior official in the Imperial Treasury. Tragically, he’ll be taking his own life about an hour from now, leaving a suitably incriminating suicide note. The Corvus Magistrate will deal with the matter in circumspect fashion to avoid embarrassment to the family. I have an escort standing by to take you directly to Scorazin.” His bony hand disappeared into his pocket once more, coming out with a small vial of product. “Once we have established our connection . . .”
He fell silent as Lizanne slowly ripped the magistrate’s judgement in half and let the pieces fall to the floor. “Understand me,” she said in a low and controlled tone, matching his purposeful gaze with her own. “I do not work for you. I will make my own way to Scorazin and have no part of this amateur farce of a cover story. And if you imagine for one second I would ever trance with you, you’re as mad as your Emperor.”
She rose and moved to the door, making it to the top step before the tip of his stick rang loudly on the flagstones. She paused as the harsh grate of his voice, now sounding far from aged, filled the tomb. “And you imagine I will simply let you loose in this empire?”
She turned to face him, fingers poised over the Spider. “You will if you want the Artisan.”
He was just a dim shape in the gloom now, though she could see his pale hands clenching the walking-stick in barely controlled fury. After a moment he calmed, the hands relaxing, though she knew this to be artifice. I do believe this man intends to kill me when I’m done, she thought, taking perverse comfort in the realisation. With one such as he, the choice was either subservience or deadly antipathy, and she preferred the simplicity of the latter.
“As you wish, love,” he said, voice receding into the same uncultured rasp. He got slowly to his feet and hobbled towards her, the anger stripped from his gaze. “But, before you go, do me the favour of settling an old man’s curiosity.”
She put a hand on the door and pushed it slightly ajar, gazing out at the silent tombs. He would have some of his people out there somewhere, all Blood-blessed and apparently riven with a vengeful impulse. She could only hope they wouldn’t act without his explicit instruction. “What is it?” she asked.
“The expedition Madame Bondersil sent in search of the White. I assume one or both of you were in trance communication with their Blood-blessed, the boy, Torcreek was it? My last intelligence on their whereabouts came from an operative in Edinsmouth, shortly before he had his head blown off. Director Bloskin was kind enough to elucidate on their eventual success in discovering the White, but I do wonder what became of them in the aftermath.”
“They were attacked by Spoiled during the journey south from the mountain. My last trance with Mr. Torcreek indicated his companions were all dead and he had suffered a mortal wound.”
“Ah.” She could tell from the way he averted his gaze that he didn’t believe a word of it. “What a pity. One who had actually met the White face-to-face and lived would have been very valuable.”
Hence my desire to keep him very far away from your pestilent influence. “It’s time I left,” she said, pushing the door fully open and sparing him a final glance. “You’ll hear from me when I have the Artisan.”
“And if you fail?”
“Then you’d best hope your mad Emperor can marshal sufficient force to stop what’s coming.” With that she injected a burst of Green and sprinted off into the gloom.
? ? ?
Escaping the Sanctum took the rest of the night and the sun was climbing over the roof-tops by the time Lizanne made her way into the city proper. Several double-backs and sudden changes of direction revealed no sign that the Blood Imperial’s operatives had managed to track her. Either that, or they were too skilled for her to detect them, which she thought unlikely. Even so she took every precaution before proceeding to her destination. She had changed into her nondescript clothing after scaling the Sanctum’s outer wall and affected the tired, stooped walk of an underpaid worker released from a night-shift in the manufactory or cotton-mill. There were many such folk about in the small hours, providing useful camouflage as she made her way to the tea-shop.
The woman behind the counter was of pleasingly plump proportions and smiled affably as Lizanne said good morning. The woman’s apple-cheeked cheerfulness slipped somewhat when Lizanne asked if she had any Sovereign Black. It was a spicy and expensive blend from northern Dalcia and virtually impossible to find since the Emergency. Meaning very few customers would be likely to ask for it.
“We have none,” the tea seller replied, eyes flicking towards the window and the street outside. She’s not best suited to this, Lizanne judged, seeing how the woman’s hands fidgeted on the counter. “We, ah.” The woman frowned as she struggled to remember the correct response. “We do have Red Drake’s Breath though.”
“That would be very acceptable.”
The woman glanced at the street once more before raising the flap in the counter and beckoning Lizanne through to the store-room. “Wait here,” she said in a whisper before proceeding ahead into the gloomy interior. Lizanne heard the sound of a coded knock, two quick raps then three more, followed by the scrape of wood on wood as something heavy was hauled aside. A brief, quiet exchange of voices and the shop-woman reappeared. “Go on in,” she said, moving past Lizanne and returning to the outer shop.
She found Arberus waiting at the entrance to a hidden room, a small lantern glowing at his back as he stood holding a concealing stack of shelves to one side. “You found it then?” he asked, speaking in Mandinorian and grinning a little.
“Varsal only,” she admonished him, coming closer. “The shop-lady seems a little too nervous for a revolutionary.”
“Nervous or not she’s fully committed to the cause. The Cadre killed her fiancé for owning a printing-press. Her parents own this place but are thankfully too elderly to visit much. Plus, the local constabulary are appreciative of the free tea she provides.”