Guilty Blood (9 page)

Then it moved. As if detecting the light in its own senseless way, several leaves rising in attention like the heads of alerted serpents. It didn't seem to relish competition for its prey, and suddenly the deadly vine jerked forward, flinging an arm covered with snapping, grasping leaves at my face. I grabbed for it as best I could, and instantly three bloodless grips locked upon my arm, tendrils and underdeveloped sprigs knotting around me like dozens of tiny constrictors.

I heard the greenhouse door screech open, saw the watchman's light fall full upon me, felt the dozens of leafy hands yanking me down, pinning me so the thing might more easily squeeze the life from my body. My frayed composure shattered. Throwing my head back I screamed in the face of the perplexed watchman, "Get it the hell off of me!"

My escort, one of an army of dour black-clad clones that tromped automatically through the Ardis Department of Constables, surprisingly unhanded me a step before reaching the station's heavy front doors. The first thing I'd learned after my utterly dispassionate arrest and processing was that not only did no one here care that I'd committed a crime, no one especially cared about my reasons. Or me at all, in fact. Every patrolman I encountered—a difficult number to guess considering their identical uniforms—went about their duties in the same malaise. It was like the whole department suffered from a reoccurring boil, the habitually lancing of which had changed from a matter of medical care to a boring chore.

Wherever we were going, at least it wasn't the crushingly boring communal cell I'd spent the night in. Soon after arriving I'd quickly confirmed what I'd long suspected: a life behind prison bars was not for me—especially if habitual toot-grinders and sobbing drunks to flank your sleeping pallet were fixtures of all jailhouses. Regardless of the noise, I must confess it was the first night in months I can remember not worrying about having my throat slit in the dark. Still, I'd prefer not to repeat the experience. The clone-constable hadn't seen fit to speak more than my name before rousing me and marching down the hall. I'd followed silently out of bored dread, not expecting any answers out of this solider ant, but also not expecting any real danger. I'd figured wherever we were headed had to be better than a day of listening to the petty tragedies of addicts and failed pickpockets.

I was wrong.

Brass rivets seemed angled to reflect the morning sun's already piercing rays directly into my eyes. The rare contraption of polished wood, shining filigree, and sturdy wheels appeared at once both ingenious and maniacal, descriptions also fitting its occupant.

"Ah, there we are at last," came the bored voice, hiding a hint of a witch's cackle. "I thought they might have lost you wherever they keep you hooligans filed away."

I'd kept Miss Kindler waiting apparently. She sat there grinning in her wheeled chair, a much more compact device than the bath chairs that typically carried swaddled invalid loads from quack to coffin. I resisted the urge to smack the wrinkles from her condescending look.

"Funny how often spirit hunting leads to petty theft," she went on. "You've been up to quite a bit of mischief, my dear. I'd have thought you would have learned your lesson after your last trespass turned out so poorly."

The clattering of my gritting teeth sent a shiver through my sneer. I started down the steps, restraining myself of setting her chair rolling down ahead of me.

"Manners, young Lady Cylphra," she tutted. "Your freedom didn't come cheap. At the very least you can repay me by wheeling an old woman home."

Both my heels and back teeth ground into what were below them. As furious as I was at the woman for sending me into the den of that nightmare at Barttley Manor, and for indirectly contributing to last night's arrest—from a point of view—the chains of my upbringing tightened mercilessly and dragged me back up the steps to my elder's aid. As I took the handles on the back of her chair I took some measure of bitter delight in knowing how many stairs and rough cobbles lay between here and Kindler's home, and the foreknowledge that we'd be hitting every one.

To her credit, Kindler minded her tongue on her backward avalanche down the station stairs and we were soon holding up foot traffic on Willowbank Avenue. Nearly half of our journey passed in silence before she returned to her musing.

"I was awfully surprised to hear you'd been arrested—a clever girl like you."

Her voice needled my patience. "You're awfully well connected for an old lady. Lots of grandkids, or are they just all admirers of your stories?" I shot back.

"Spend your life doing favors for others and they'll do favors for you when you no longer can. It's an arrangement that's played out quite well for me this far." She waited a moment before adding, "And admirers. I'm quite good you know."

The semi-peace of our silent stroll broken, I had to know. "Did you know about Barttley?"

"Yes," she responded flatly, unapologetically.

"And you sent me there anyway?!" I accused, speeding the chair over a particularly deep pothole and taking a moment's bitter pleasure in her gasp of surprise.

"Don't fuss," she said, readjusting her dark sun hat. "You obviously came through it. Barttley's mostly molded away and sometimes it's useful to have firsthand accounts of old news—even if the worms have gotten at most of his sanity. He's dangerous to all the right people out there in his rot."

"He tried to rip me apart!" I protested.

"You're the one who went chasing after corpses and you're upset you found one? If Bartley upset you so then why are you here? Why didn't you just go home?"

Their validity made her questions all the more frustrating, and good answers didn't leap to mind. "I'm no coward," was all I could come up with, and it sounded weak and hollow even as I said it—especially knowing how often the urge to flee had gripped me in the past days.

"No your not, are you." Her candid response surprised me and we wheeled on in silence for several minutes. I could tell something was percolating under the bonnet bobbing in front of me and I eyed it suspiciously, increasingly unsure of what to make of its wearer.

"So you obviously turned up something in your visit with Mr. Barttley. What did he have to say about your ghost?"

I told Ms. Kindler of my encounter at Barttley Manor, of the patchwork dog-thing, my discussion with Mr. Barttley, how he tried to attack me, and how I inexplicably wound up face down in the mud outside—ignoring her chuckle. I went on, telling her how I tried to warn Lord Halboncrant and was thrown out, only to encounter Prince Lieralt outside. Finally I explained meeting with Rarentz Troidais, how he'd come by the dagger that had once imprisoned the prince's soul but had since pawned it, and how I'd been trying to recover it when I was arrested.

Ms. Kindler listened but didn't remain quiet as I told my story, interjecting that Lord Halboncrant hadn't been found dead, as I'd expected, but had vanished entirely, the same with both Lord and Lady Geirais. She also frequently interrupted to ask questions or further explain details as I went on, not only about what I'd discovered, but about what I thought of certain things or how I felt in situations. At some point during the discussion I started to feel as though I were being interviewed for a job—one I was relatively sure I didn't want.

By the time everything was said I was dragging the wheeled chair up the steps of Ms. Kindler's earwig-infested porch. As she unlocked her door I mumbled something by way of thanks and turned to take my leave.

"Where do you think you're off to?" Kindler said as she wheeled herself inside. The condescension that had vanished midway through our walk had crept back into her voice. My look back and half shrug were apparently all the comment she needed, as she didn't wait for more of a response. "Come in Ms. Cylphra, you have some studying to do."

"Excuse me? What for?" I was thoroughly perplexed, and didn't really have the time to visit with the old woman any longer—not that I had any clue as to how I might get the prince's dagger after last night's debacle.

"There's work to be done before tonight," she said, rising shakily to her feet. "It's funny how often spirit hunting leads to petty theft."

∗ ∗ ∗

Having seen it from both sides, I have to admit I find Omberbain's Auctioneers much more welcoming from the front. The lobby was abuzz with conversations and laughter, and while men doffed their coats and gave stern instructions to courteous valets, ladies cooed over ones another's gowns and coiffures. Over it all hung a chandelier the size of a modest sailing ship, it pearl fixtures and glass prisms scattering miniature rainbows across the wood paneled floors and walls, the colors playing like sprites over portraits of dour strangers and displays of heavily polished but entirely virginal armaments. Servants in the black and orange livery of Omberbain's circled the assembled nobles with trays of refreshments and programs detailing the highlight's of the evening's auction.

Were it not for the reserve prices fixed near so many of the fine items on display one might have mistook the scene for a gallery opening or reception amid some noble's private showroom. In truth, though, those assembled weren't revelers, they were vultures. The objects on the block this evening weren't pieces of art, after all, they were heirlooms and antiques, family treasures carted in from the collections and lives of those who had committed the greatest sin a member of the Ardis aristocracy could: they'd gone broke. Now came the scavengers to gape at the corpses of whole houses laid bare, pecking and mocking the most intimate parts now that the innards had spilled into the open. Many of these gawkers were less than a half step away from the same fate themselves, come not to buy but to mingle with the rest, all sharing in the communal lie of their worthiness and privilege.

All my reasons for forsaking this rose anew, leaving a fresh taste of bile in my mouth. Of course, now that we were there, the crowd wasn't entirely made up of vultures—now there were vultures and thieves. I much preferred being in that latter camp.

No sooner had I pushed Ms. Kindler's wheeled chair through the door than did a tick detach from a circle of vultures. A greasy man wearing an orange and black sash like a royal commendation, he flung his arms wide in greeting as he came toward us, the few hairs on his oily pate clinging desperately to their places. "Lady Kindler, as I breathe, what an unexpected pleasure! Let me be the first to welcome you to Omberbain's."

I halted the chair abruptly, trying not to bowl the man over as he rushed forward. Ms. Kindler cursed and knew it wasn't for my awkward handling. Around us, several of the nearer conversations had quickly paused and renewed with a new topic. Although Ailson Kindler might not be widely known by appearance, she was surely known by reputation, and extra attention would not make our task this evening any easier.

"Farbass Omberbain, my word, so flattering of you to remember an old woman," Kindler said as our host came to a halt just before us. I must admit I was impressed. There was a shaking wistfulness in Kindler's voice I'd never heard before, the exact tremble one would expect from a dowager with a foot in the grave. Even more impressive was how it came through the gritted teeth of an utterly false smile.

"My lady, how could I forget. Omberbain's wouldn't be here if it weren't for you. You will always have a seat of honor in our hall—though I dare say, not a discount." He chortled breathily at the obviously well-used joke. Ms. Kindler affected a mindless coo in response.

"Will we have the honor of you calling tonight's auction Mr. Omberbain?" she asked. "You inherited your father's skill if I recall, and I'm sure you've improved upon his technique in the years since he passed on."

"Oh, you flatter me your ladyship. I don't know how much of an honor it is, but yes, I'll be overseeing the evening's bidding. With Mr. Baldermol as my ringman," he said, nodding vaguely to a stiff gentleman standing by the doors leading into the auction hall, an unfortunate figure with a face that appeared to be mostly chin.

"Those assembled weren't revelers. They were vultures."