Power & Majesty (13 page)

A
shiol left the soft grass of the park, his bare feet hitting cobbles again. He walked towards the maze of spring pavilions that had been erected around the Lake of Follies. The area was already packed with vendors and merchants, all hoping to catch the trade of passers-by on their way to the Sweetheart Saints further up the Alexandrine hill. Crowds trickled across from the Forum and the Duchessa’s Avenue. Most folk cheerfully sported their wilted garlands from the day before, and many of them carried offerings for the saints.

Ashiol, halfway now between the Lake of Follies and the arch that marked the entrance to the Forum, was suddenly tempted to just start for the Aurian Gate Station and keep going. It might be hours before Kelpie looked for him, and by then he could be on a train going south. Forget Heliora, forget Isangell, forget the sentinels. Never look back.

He wheeled abruptly at the arch and headed up the Alexandrine, avoiding the well-trodden path of the pilgrims. He pushed through thick trees and shrubs until he found what he was looking for: a broken and overgrown set of stone steps leading up to a garden that
had once been the pride of one of the Great Families, but had been abandoned and closed off after the death of a beloved daughter. It was one of many forgotten places scattered around Aufleur—places that none of the daylight folk knew or cared about.

The garden, tangled and unkempt, smelled as sweet as ever. Ashiol climbed the steps to a stone balcony overlooking the Forum. Strange to be alone and hidden so near to the bustle and chaos of the market centre of the city. You could see everything from up here; not only the Forum and Basilica and the gleaming Lake of Follies surrounded by pink and white pavilions, but all the curves and lines of the city. Ashiol sat on a wall in front of a hidden grotto and stared out at Aufleur.
When did this stop being my home?

He wasn’t alone, of course. That was the trouble with the forgotten places—everyone in the Creature Court knew about them.

The first warning was a playful hum that tickled the back of his neck. Ashiol tilted his head back and listened. The tune was familiar, but only just. He couldn’t quite remember where he had heard it before. The one thing he could be certain of was that the melodic humming was getting closer with every muffled note.

A perfect male voice broke into song, just overhead.

She was the sweetest flower demme

And—oh!—I loved her well.

I cut her flesh to pieces, son

And buried her bones in the dell.

La la la la la la la la…

‘Charming,’ said Ashiol. He tilted his head up and saw two slender legs sticking out from the overhang of greenery that swamped what had once been another tier of the forgotten garden.

‘Don’t you just love those old country folk songs?’ laughed the perfect voice.

‘How are you, Poet?’

A head swung into view, haloed by a short blond fuzz of hair. Sunlight gleamed from wire-rimmed spectacles. ‘Welcome home, kitten. How are those claws of yours?’

‘Sharp,’ said Ashiol, hoping it was at least partly true.

‘Glad to hear it.’

There was a movement in the tangled bushes nearby. Ashiol looked hard in that direction, making out a large, steady figure among the leaves and vines. The skysilver axe on his back was what gave him away. A second, childlike figure was crouched further back, attempting to conceal the shine of his small knife.

Ashiol turned his eyes back up to Poet. ‘Times have changed.’

‘They tend to do that,’ said Poet with a smile. ‘I’d introduce you to my boys, but they’re ever so shy.’

‘I remember a time when you refused to take courtesi into your service. What was it you said? “Nothing more pathetic than a Creature Lord who needs toadying slaves to primp his ego and fetch his slippers.” What happened to those high ideals of yours?’

‘You’ve been gone a long time, kitten. If you’re here to stay, better catch up fast.’

‘I don’t know if I am here to stay,’ said Ashiol.

The mocking smile vanished from Poet’s face. ‘Don’t even hint that to anyone else, Ash,’ he said firmly. ‘They’ll tear you apart.’

‘And you’re on my side, are you?’

The foolish grin was back, complete with vacant eyes and swinging feet. ‘Of course not, kitten. I’m on
my
side. Always have been.’

‘I suppose loyalty was too much to hope for.’

‘Around here? Breathing in and out is too much to hope for.’ Poet waved a careless gesture at the two courtesi in the
shadows and they melted back out of sight. ‘A word of advice for you, Your Kingliness.’

‘I’m listening.’

It was no good trying to bully Poet. He had a history of enjoying pain. Better to hear his advice and judge later whether it was anything more than word games.

‘Dhynar’s the one to watch out for.’

Ashiol laughed at that. ‘Too late for that warning. I left him and his pets in a bleeding heap a few minutes ago. I wouldn’t call him a threat—just a boy with big ideas.’

Poet wasn’t laughing. ‘Careful, old man. Your prejudice is showing. Remember me as a boy? Remember Garnet? I even heard a rumour that you were a boy once, a right little sweetheart by all accounts. Dhynar is the worst of us right now. He’s been sucking up power left, right and centre, and he’s ambitious enough to stick a blade in your back if you let him. He doesn’t know any better. That’s what makes him dangerous.’

‘Thanks,’ Ashiol said.

What had Dhynar done to Poet to make him so keen to mark him out?
Don’t get involved. You don’t care about these people. You’re going to find your escape route and leave them all to their petty duels and grand heroics.

‘Don’t thank me, kitten,’ said Poet. ‘Just don’t leave us. We need a strong King right now.’

‘If not a good one?’

Poet’s smile widened and he drew up his feet. ‘Can’t have everything.’

Ashiol shook his head and headed back to the broken stone steps.
The sooner I hear the truth from Heliora, the sooner I can get out of this crazy place.

Behind him, Poet started singing again, the cheerful tune following Ashiol as he left the forgotten garden.

She was the prettiest shepherdess

And oh, her kiss was sweet
.

I bruised her mouth and tore her dress

And ravished her there in the sleet.

La la la la la la la la…

The Forum was the same as it had been for three hundred years: a space of majestic public buildings and stately temples, surrounded by a shambles of ramshackle stalls and tents belonging to merchants, food vendors and public hecklers. Ashiol cut across the Forum, heading up to the Basilica.

The Alexandrine Basilica had once been the largest church in the known world, a tremendous work constructed by the fourth Duc d’Aufleur, mad old Ilexandros. His successor, Duc Giulio Gauget, declared the Basilica to be an unholy abomination and stripped its rich furnishings to ornament his own decadent Palazzo. Aufleur was not the kind of city to let such valuable public space go to waste. Hollowed out and falling down, the Basilica had been converted into a marketplace. A merchant’s lot here was worth a small fortune—people had died in the riots fought over square inches of this valuable property. Heliora had never told anyone how she acquired her coveted space in the very centre of the Basilica, but Ashiol had no doubt that ‘being friendly’ to council officials had a lot to do with it.

There was the usual gang of lovelorn females outside Heliora’s tent, waiting their turn to have their fortune told by the exotic and romantic figure within. Madama Fortuna’s Pavilion of Mystery was a gorgeous piece of work. It had started out as a basic carnivale tent, but had been primped and prettied up with so much purple satin, gold voile and beaded gauze that you would swear it had been imported directly from one of the glamorous Zafiran cities that featured heavily in the djinn-and-princessa cabaret shows that were popular this year.

The demmes in the queue entertained themselves by
swapping snatches of gossip they had heard about the woman inside the pavilion, who called herself Madama Fortuna. Most of them believed that she was a genuine Ultana, thrown out of her harem when her husband discovered her mystical powers. She had then nearly been burned as a witch in Zafir, but was spirited to the western lands by helpful spirits, or, in an alternative version of the story, handsome grain pirates.

Ashiol couldn’t help smirking as he listened to the chatter. The snot-nosed kid pickpocket who had stumbled into the world of the Creature Court fifteen years ago had been a born-and-bred Aufleur brat, a street baby with the ability to reinvent herself at any opportunity. Hel had never even been as far east as Diamagne. Last time he saw her, her tent had been Gipsetta’s Grotto, bright with scarlet cotton, sprigs of heather, painted flowers and iron luck-charms. The rumours then had been of a carnivale queen kidnapped from her tribe and sold into slavery. That was the year that gipsy musettes were the theatrical fashion. Before that, she had been an Islandser princessa with waist-length red hair and seventeen dead warrior brothers who told her secrets from the spirit world.

Ashiol circled around the tent and unpegged a silky back panel, letting himself inside.

As with all decent carnivale tents, there was a compartment at the back, veiled from the customer, where the merchant could hide all of their possessions that didn’t fit in with the image they wished to present. Heliora’s storage space was crammed with costumes of all kinds, an assortment of wigs, and bundles of the coloured candles and incense sticks she used to set the mood for her clients. There was also a narrow pallet made up as a bed and a few sturdy trunks stacked beside it. Saints and devils, was she living here? Ashiol didn’t blame her for keeping her distance from the Creature Court, but it seemed a little excessive to set up house in the back of a fortune-telling tent.

Incense was burning in the main pavilion. Sandalwood and cinnamon scratched at his throat, making him want to cough and splutter. He hated scented smoke.

‘You have been lost,’ said a throaty female voice, so calm and familiar that the hairs stood up on Ashiol’s arms. ‘But you are finding your way now, and you are on the right path to the future you should have had.’

He touched the shimmering curtain of dyed blue gauze. On the other side, which glowed with the light of far too many candles, two women sat at a small round table. A large domed crystal lay on the table between them.

‘But is there love in that future?’ asked the client. She was a painfully thin demoiselle in an expensive festival gown. Even through the veil of coloured gauze, Ashiol could read desperation in her eyes.

‘When you least expect it,’ said the fortune-teller. ‘A stranger will show you the way.’

Ashiol pushed the curtain aside. ‘I hope he’s going to be tall, dark and handsome.’

The client turned, her prim face wavering between embarrassment and outrage at the interruption.

Heliora tilted her head to gaze at Ashiol for a long moment. ‘I’m sorry, demoiselle,’ she said finally. ‘I will have to end this session.’

‘I paid for the full hour,’ protested the client.

Heliora produced a shining gold coin and moved the demoiselle to the tent flap with practised poise. ‘Sadly, even one such as I, in touch with all the Spirits of Fortune, cannot always know where the day will take me.’

She secured a ‘Closed for Religious Observances’ sign to the outside of her silken door. A chorus of disappointed moans rose up from the waiting women as Heliora ducked back inside the tent, breathless.

Despite the ridiculous outfit of purple satin, beaded breast-cups and jangling bells, not to mention the shiny black wig and gilded cosmetick lines on her eyes and mouth, this was still his Hel. For the first time since he
had returned to this saints-forsaken city, Ashiol truly felt like smiling.

‘How
dare
you be back for two days and not come and see me until now!’ she said in a rush, her bright eyes roaming over him as if she had to check that every inch was intact.

‘Word travels fast.’

‘It does when you attend public parades.’ There was an edge to Hel’s voice.

How bad had it been for her, these last five years? Ashiol wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

‘You never did have much patience,’ he said, trying to lighten the tone of their banter.
The longer I stay here, the more people I’ll have to fight, Hel. Don’t make me fight you.

Heliora pulled off the shiny black wig, revealing a shaven scalp. She strolled to the back of her tent, playing the hostess. ‘Something to drink? Tea’s too expensive this season what with the river raids, and I can’t heat water very well in here, but I’ve a cool lemon posset that’s very refreshing.’

Ashiol reached out and touched her arm as she passed him. ‘Brat.’

She turned and hugged him quickly. She smelled of smoke and rose oils. ‘You’re here because you need something, not because you missed me,’ she said, the words muffled against his chest.

‘I missed you,’ said Ashiol. He rubbed the stubble of her hair under his thumb, remembering the texture. ‘But this isn’t a holiday. I don’t have time to run around catching up with old friends for the sake of it.’

‘I know that.’ Heliora pulled away and sat at her table, motioning for him to do the same. She calmly wiped emotion from her face. ‘Business, then. You don’t want to be the Power and Majesty.’

Ashiol sat opposite her and pinched out the stem of incense that was sending out curls of pungent smoke. ‘Not if I can help it. What have you seen lately?’

Heliora raised one knee and rested her chin on it. ‘I didn’t see Garnet fall until the sky swallowed him. There
were no warnings he was going to be lost. I don’t think it was supposed to happen.’

‘Then how do you explain me happening to be in the city within a day of his death?’ Ashiol challenged.

She grinned like a kid at him. ‘Are you asking me if you’re destined to take his place? That’s not the Ash I know.’

‘Me neither. To be honest, I want you to
guarantee
me that I’m not destined for the top spot.’