Bloodforged (43 page)

Ulrika frowned unhappily at him. ‘Stefan, I vowed not to conspire against her. I must tell her what I know.’

‘You can’t,’ he said. ‘Tell her after the cult is stopped, if you must, but not now. Please, Ulrika, I don’t say this because I fear her. I say it because, as underhanded and disastrous as it was, my plan succeeded. Evgena hates the cult now. She works to stop them as we speak. If you tell her of it, what will happen? She will cry conspiracy again and turn all her fury upon me. The cult will be forgotten. Will you make Raiza’s death pointless? Do you want everything we have just gone through to be for nothing?’

Ulrika blinked as what he said sank in. He was right. Evgena would go mad if she learned he had brought the cult down upon her. She would claim it was all a trick to kill her. There was no help for it. Though it went against her vow, for the safety of Praag – and Evgena’s safety as well – Ulrika would have to keep silent.

‘Very well,’ she said at last. ‘I will not speak.’

‘Again, I am sorry,’ he said, lowering his head. ‘I have abused your trust and strained your honour. I will not ask forgiveness, for what I did should not be forgiven. I only hope we succeed in the end because of it, and you have an opportunity to avenge yourself on Kiraly for Raiza’s death.’

Ulrika looked at him. ‘I thought you had reserved that for yourself.’

Stefan nodded, curt, then turned away. ‘He had hurt no one but me before. That is no longer true.’

She swallowed. It was a great gesture. ‘You are generous,’ she said.

He shrugged. ‘As long as he is dead and my master’s essence recovered, I am content.’

Ulrika looked at his profile, sharp and sad and lost in thought, then trailed her eyes down the rest of his body, and the wounds which had not yet healed.

She took his hand. ‘I… I came in here to offer you… healing,’ she said. ‘I see you still need it.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘You would share blood with me, now? Knowing what I have done?’

Ulrika licked her lips. The hunger within her howled that she would share blood with him even if he were Kiraly himself, but she only said, ‘You must be strong and ready for the battle ahead.’

‘Aye,’ said Stefan, smiling. ‘And you as well.’

She pulled him to her, and turned her neck. ‘Drink, and be strong.’

Ulrika woke to the turning of a key in a lock. She raised her head blearily. She was lying naked next to Stefan on the cellar floor. The flagstones were spattered with dried blood, as were she and Stefan.

At the top of the stone stairs, the heavy oak door was swinging open, and lantern glow spilled in from the corridor. Boyarina Evgena’s tall frame ducked into the cellar, followed by Galiana’s shorter one, and then four men-at-arms behind them. One held a lamp as they started down the stairs.

Ulrika shook Stefan. He grunted and looked around, then cursed and sat up. Ulrika did the same, fumbling for her bloody shirt to cover herself.

The boyarina seemed to have regained her strength, but Ulrika thought her shoulders had lost much of their proud bearing. She looked sad and tired as she approached them, and barely raised an eyebrow to find them lying together.

‘You,’ she said, looking down at them. ‘You have ruined us.’

Ulrika and Stefan exchanged a glance. Did she already know Stefan had led the cultists to her house?

‘What do you mean, mistress?’ asked Ulrika.

‘You dragged us into your little war and now we are done. We will have to begin again from scratch.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Ulrika.

Evgena sighed deeply. ‘The battle fought at our house did not go unnoticed. The watch came. The chekist came. Things were found that could not be explained.’ She waved her fan with a limp hand. ‘The state of my pets might have been dismissed as vandalism, but there were other things – grimoires and artefacts of mine no one without witch sight could have found, and yet they were strewn about the house for anyone to discover.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘We sought to stymie the cult. They have stymied us.’

‘So, you were not able to warn anyone?’ asked Stefan. ‘The concert goes on, then?’

Evgena’s eyes blazed at him. ‘Have you not listened? I have been branded a witch! There is a warrant for my arrest! I can do nothing. I can stop nothing. None of my associates dare speak to me, even through intermediaries. Ha! I have no intermediaries any more! My web is cut!’ She groaned. ‘I will have to retrench – new faces, new names, new houses. It will be decades before I am in a position to influence the court again.’

Ulrika stared at her, guilt gnawing at her insides. It was what had happened to Gabriella and the Lahmians of Nuln all over again. They too had been ruined and forced to start anew, but where, in Nuln, it had been the mad Strigoi, Murnau, that had brought about the Lahmians’ destruction, here it had been her. She and Stefan had involved Evgena, Galiana and Raiza in a conflict they wanted nothing to do with, and it had shattered their lives irreparably.

She rose to one knee and bowed her head. ‘Forgive me, mistress. I wish now I could take it all back. I should never have asked you for help in this. It was all done with the best of intentions, but–’

Evgena laughed, harsh, cutting her off. ‘Was it? By the Queen, then I would hate to see what you might have done had you set out to ruin me!’ She turned away, and all the fire went out of her again, as if it had never been. She looked as old and broken as a Nehekharan ruin. ‘Get dressed. We leave for Kislev within the hour.’

Ulrika’s head snapped up. ‘You – you’re leaving? But what about your vengeance on the cult? You swore to hunt them down and kill them.’

‘And I will,’ said Evgena. ‘When we are strong again we will return. In ten years, perhaps. Or twenty.’

Ulrika stood. ‘Mistress, you can’t leave. You must fight them now or there will be no Praag to return to. We must go to the opera and stop the cultists ourselves.’

‘Yes,’ said Stefan, standing as well. ‘Yes, we must.’

Galiana laughed, then stifled it with a hand.

Evgena looked at them as if they had grown horns and hooves. ‘You’re mad. Go to the opera? And then what? Do you suggest we brawl with these daemon-lovers? In public? Did I not say there was a warrant for my arrest?’ She snapped open her fan then slapped it shut again. ‘No no no. We must vanish. We must regroup, rebuild.’

‘Mistress,’ said Ulrika, stepping to her. ‘How will you rebuild when Praag has fallen? Will you seek influence in the court of Sirena Amberhair? Will you become a follower of Slaanesh?’ She raised her chin, glaring. ‘If we do not stop them tonight, you will have no position to reclaim. Praag will be gone. The Lahmians will have no power and no eyes in the north. Will our Queen thank you for that?’

‘You dare tell me my duty?’ snarled Evgena.

‘I tell you nothing,’ said Ulrika. ‘I only show you what will happen if you fail in it.’

Evgena hissed and struck her across the cheek with her fan. Ulrika stepped back and went on guard, shooting out her claws and growling, but the boyarina had turned away and was sobbing against the wall, her head in her arms.

‘Sister!’ said Galiana, and went to her, stroking her.

Evgena shrugged her off and remained turned away from them, her back shaking and her fists clenched. Then, after a long silent moment when no one dared speak or move, she lifted her head and straightened her shoulders, and turned back to them, her face white, and cold as snow.

‘Come upstairs,’ she said. ‘We will find you clothes and masks suitable for the opera.’

Ulrika blinked, then stepped forwards, making to speak, but the boyarina held up her hand.

‘You are not forgiven for bringing this crisis upon us,’ she said. ‘But as you have thrust it in my lap, and as all now depends on me, I will not falter. But do not expect my goodwill when all is done.’

And with that, she turned on her heel and led them all upstairs.

CHAPTER THIRTY

THE CONCERT

An hour later, with night falling, Ulrika, Stefan, Galiana and Evgena left the safe house – a modest townhouse in a quiet cul-de-sac in the Merchant Quarter – and travelled in chilly silence within a black coach through the Noble Quarter to Windlass Square, Praag’s greatest plaza, upon the southern edge of which sat the duke’s palace, and upon its east flank, the Opera House.

Ulrika and Stefan were dressed now in the height of Praag fashion – Ulrika in doublet and breeches of dark green and black with a cloak to match, and her cropped white hair hidden beneath a Kossar’s fur hat, and Stefan in deep blue and white with a short cloak that draped over one shoulder. To complete their costumes, Evgena had given them masks. Ulrika was certain there was some petty spite behind her selections, for she had chosen for Stefan the traditional black, full-faced mask of comedy, and for Ulrika, comedy’s ancient counterpart, tragedy, complete with a diamond tear, and lugubrious, down-turned mouth.

Evgena and Galiana had dressed up as well, Evgena in a forest-green gown with black trim to match Ulrika’s colours, and Galiana in midnight-blue over white silk to match Stefan, though
their
masks were beautiful, glittering works of art, plumed with iridescent feathers, rather than ugly jokes. In addition to these disguises, the boyarina and her sister had donned new wigs, chestnut-brown waves for Evgena, and a spill of blonde curls for Galiana – but the true transformations were those of the women themselves.

Through darkest Lahmian magic, the boyarina had cast an illusion of youth and beauty upon them that was stunning to behold. Evgena, who had looked like a skinned and mummified cat since Ulrika had first met her, now appeared to be a dignified beauty of perhaps forty years, with an imposing bosom and alluring eyes, while Galiana, who had seemed a wizened doll with a wig too big for her head, now looked a fresh-faced young girl, with pink cheeks and plump, parted lips. It made Ulrika wonder when they had given up the effort to maintain the illusion, and why. It also made her wonder if she had ever seen Countess Gabriella’s true face.

Windlass Square was a jostling confusion of coaches and carriages when they arrived, all debouching beautifully clad men and women who drifted in slow, swirling clusters across it like jewelled leaves stirred by a lazy wind. At the edges of the square, a wall of guardsmen held back crowds of hollow-cheeked refugees and beggars, who watched the glittering creatures within in glassy-eyed wonder, as if the masked and painted things were specimens from some strange zoo.

On the south side of the square, the palace, underlit by a thousand lanterns, loomed like some bizarre red and gold rock formation, with crenellated walls and towering onion-domed spires covered in mosaics of garnet cabochon and hammered leaf. The Opera House was hardly more sedate, with a baroque façade of blue and red tile, marble statues and a turreted roof of verdigrised copper – and amongst this ornate decor, the scars it had received in the Great War against Chaos. Repairs had not been made, for Praag was proud of its war-torn history, and shattered columns and black-edged pockmarks showed the prosaic brick behind the beauty of the fantastical walls and roof.

In the midst of this madness, Ulrika alighted from Evgena’s coach with the boyarina on her arm, and Galiana and Stefan following likewise linked, to stride through the laughing hordes.

Men in rich clothes or military uniform paraded by, wearing hats and capes made from the fur of fox and bear and snow cat. Women flirted in ermine-trimmed bodices of every colour, and layered, petticoated dresses that swept the ground. And both sexes wore masks of all varieties, from simple dominos that covered only the eyes, to wild, leather and lacquer creations that hid the whole face behind stylised depictions of gods and heroes, animals and birds, daemons and monsters. Even the most august and noble ministers and members of the priesthood had got into the spirit of the night, and wore bright colours and shining baubles as well as their chains and sigils of office.

Just as they reached the marble steps that led to the Opera House’s forecourt, a liveried page with a bugle stepped out and blew the tantara signalling that everyone should come and take their seats. There followed a great migration towards the doors, and Evgena, Ulrika, Stefan and Galiana joined the crush. All around them as they inched forwards was the buzz of conversation – the usual gossip of who wore what and who accompanied whom, but intermingled with that, Ulrika began to hear a familiar name, and listened closer.