Bruce Cordell: Spinner of Lies

Demascus, a vampire? A scary thought! “You’re the vampire expert,” she said.

“Hmm, right.” He thought for a bit, then said, “Well, I’m probably all right. I expect you’d have to be fairly weak-minded to fall under a vampire’s sway with just a single wound.”

“Couldn’t hurt to put some ointment on the bite,” Riltana said, “or take some healing elixir, if you’ve got any.”

He nodded. “Good idea.” Then his shoulders slumped. He let out a long breath. “And before I forget, tomorrow I have something I want to … ask you about. Something unpleasant I remembered right before you and your new friends showed up.”

Morning shrugged off night’s dim embrace. Airspur disgorged a colorful populace across suspended streets and floating plazas. The hooded figure crossing Sapphire Bridge was just one of the many early risers in Airspur. Her stride was confident but not swaggering, determined but not hurried. It wouldn’t do to draw attention, so her hood hid her distinctive features. Her leather armor, scuffed and scarred, looked ordinary enough on casual inspection. She’d furled her cloak and coerced her crystalline spear to the opacity of dull wood. She’d taken one additional step to protect her anonymity. The circle she’d scribed on her forehead with spellbound chalk was enchanted. While it lasted, most simply ignored her, or if they saw her, they soon forgot about it, unless she spoke to them.

No one who saw her would have any reason to suspect she was their ruler.

The hardest part had been getting out of the palace without her royal bodyguard. It wasn’t a trick she could pull often, lest it be discovered. The elite detachment of peacemakers assigned as her protectors took their duties seriously. If they discovered she was out and about without them, the individuals stationed outside her door would be punished by their superiors, no matter her royal decree. As long as she was back in her palace rooms before anyone gathered the temerity to check on Queen Arathane, it would be all right. She had some time.

The home she sought was in a neighborhood high along the cliffs, which meant it was upscale by most standards. It even had a small, attached courtyard shielded from the street by a stone wall and a gate. The gate was not latched. She pushed through and walked the short flagstone path to the front door. The courtyard was littered with pots containing all manner of plants, only a few of which seemed distressed. Someone had a green thumb.

“Who’re you?” came a soft voice.

Arathane whirled. The courtyard had been vacant when she entered. Yet a human woman stood there in swirling green finery with eyes as stormy as any genasi’s. She gave off a scent akin to citrus and cedar.

Arathane said, “I apologize; I hope I haven’t mistaken the address. I’d heard a man named Demascus had taken residence here. I need to speak with him. Are you the householder?”

The stranger looked Arathane up and down, suggesting with a curl of her lip that she didn’t much care for what she saw. Arathane was unused to such insolent behavior. She was halftempted to pull her hood down to see what this odd woman thought of her then. Of course, compromising her anonymity to put the woman in her place wouldn’t be wise.

Instead she said, “It doesn’t matter whether you’re the householder or the gardener. If he’s here, please let Demascus know that an envoy of the Crown has a message for him.”

The woman laughed, and shook her head as if in wonderment. She said, “I’m not a messenger-or anything-any longer, and certainly not for the likes of you.”

Arathane frowned, wondering if the woman had pierced her disguise, and if so, what the woman hoped to gain by provoking her. The queen decided not to give the stranger the satisfaction of a response. She turned back to the door, grabbing the brass knocker, and rapped on the plate. When she glanced back to see the woman’s reaction, the stranger was gone.

Demascus finished sweeping up the last shards of skylight glass. With the broken furniture removed, the living room only looked halfwrecked. The wood floor was still damp, and only two chairs and a coffee table remained intact. Not to mention the gaping hole in the ceiling. He’d have to get someone to fix that before the next storm. Much as he’d enjoyed the extra light from the skylight, maybe the fixture was the wrong choice, given Riltana’s proclivities. He studied the windsoul, the artist of his misfortune. She was wringing towels into a bucket. Riltana’s high-flying style was usually something Demascus appreciated without remorse. But she’d never let vampires into his home before.

“Riltana, we need to deal with this. Maybe we should visit House Norjah and try to make nice,” he said. “I’d rather not find surprise visitors with fangs in my home again.”

She nodded glumly and gave her cloth another twist, forcing out a last trickle of water. “Yeah. I just wish they’d had the damn painting I was looking for.”

His mouth quirked. That was the only apology he was likely to get. Ah, well. He said, “Did they have any paintings?”

“Yeah. Interesting ones, too …” She glanced at him sidelong, as if she was hiding something. Before he could tell her to spill it, she said, “Listen. What’d you want to tell me last night? You said you’d remembered something?Something you wanted to ask me about?”

Oh, right. He wished he hadn’t said anything at all. He’d awoken that morning resolved to put the horrendous vision out of his mind. The best thing he could do was to treat the image as just one more of a thousand crazy memory fragments with no bearing on his new life in Akanul. Plus, the windsoul had tried to change the topic.

“I’ll tell you about it after we get this mess straightened out. Let’s concentrate on House Norjah. Starting with who gave you this hot lead about a painting?”

Riltana looked at him with a stubborn set to her jaw. She recognized the brush-off. But he didn’t feel like explaining to Riltana how one of his former selves had taken out a contract on his lover. It was too appalling.

Riltana said, “All right. Awhile ago I asked Chant to put out the word I was looking to purchase the painting of Cyndra, no questions asked, of any art collector who’d lately ‘happened’ upon the canvas. A couple of days ago, a human showed up with a tip.”

“A human? There’re only so many in Airspur. What was your contact’s name?”

Someone knocked on the door before she could answer. Demascus yelled, “Who is it?”

“An envoy of the Crown, here to speak with Demascus on royal business,” came the muffled reply.

“The Crown?”

“Yes-the queendom has an appeal.”

“Open the door!” hissed Riltana. “Remember how much we got paid last time?”

He hushed the windsoul and went to the entrance. Chant’s cat Fable had appeared at the knock and now loitered near the exit. She pretended no interest in the situation. Demascus wasn’t fooled. Fable was boarding while Chant’s pawnshop was closed. Though the cat had proved a reasonable houseguest, she usually tried to bolt outside at the least opportunity. Lucky for Fable she hadn’t gotten underfoot last night.

Demascus opened the door. A tall woman in a hood stood in the opening. She gazed around the room, then looked up. “What’s wrong with your roof?”

Without the door to muffle it, Demascus was struck by how familiar the voice was. “Do I know-”

The figure drew her hood back. Demascus’s jaw dropped. The person outlined in the golden light of the rising sun was Queen Arathane. He’d recalled their first meeting more than once. The queen’s magnificent white gown had left her lavender-hued arms and shoulders bare and showed off the silvery lines that traced her arms and throat and spiraled her cheeks. She’d worn her hair as a bundle of crystalline braids on which rested a white circlet of rulership. The memory was indelibly inked into his brain.