with a casual air. “Thank you, Rajel, that’ll be all,” Mairi said in unaccented Nestriann. Rajel curtsied and left, closing the door behind her. Mairi stood silently, letting me inspect the wares before beginning her pitch.
“Do you speak Nestriann?” she began.
“Never had an ear for it.”
“Really?” She stared into my eyes, then broke out into a full-throated laugh, like the song of a bullfrog. “I think you’re lying.”
She was right-I spoke Nestriann, not like a native but well enough to avoid getting mugged on the way to the Cathedrale Daeva Maletus. The first year and a half of the war my sector of the trenches had run into Nestriann lines. They were a decent bunch of fellows, for mud-rutting serfs. Their captain had broken down and wept when he found out his generals had signed a separate armistice-but then, odium and incompetence on the part of the higher-ups were pretty universal during our unfortunate conflict.
She fluttered her lashes and smiled. “You realize you’ve told me more by lying than you would by answering truthfully.”
“And what did I tell you?”
“That deceit comes more naturally to you than honesty.”
“Maybe I’m just trying to fit in with my surroundings-or was every moan that ever echoed off these walls authentic?”
“Every. Single. One.” She held each word for a long beat. A bar sat in the corner, and from a decanter on top of it she poured smoky liquid into two glasses, then handed one to me. “What shall we drink to?” she asked in a tone just short of lewd.
“To the health of the Queen and the prosperity of her subjects.”
The old blessing was an awkward transition, but she was enough of a professional to roll with it. “To the health of the Queen and the fertility of her land.” I took a taste. It was good, very good.
Mairi perched herself on a red leather couch and motioned me toward the divan across from it. I followed her direction and we sat facing each other, our legs nearly touching. “How do you know Yancey?” she asked.
“How does anyone know anyone? You meet people, in my business.”
“And what business is that exactly?”
“I solicit funds for war widows and orphans. On off days I nurse abandoned puppies.”
“What an astonishing coincidence! That’s the very same line of work we pursue.”
“I suppose your kennels are in the basement.”
“Where do you keep your orphans?”
I chuckled and sipped at my drink.
Her mouth curled upward and she caressed me with soot-black eyes. “I know who you are, of course. I made inquiries after I heard from the Rhymer.”
“Did you now?”
“I had no idea, when Yancey spoke of you, that I’d be given the opportunity to meet such a famed underworld figure.”
I let that one hang in the air between us. She missed the hint and pressed onward, confident I was enjoying her buildup.
“I always wondered what had happened to Mad Edward and the rest of his people. Imagine my surprise to discover that the man who ended syndicate presence in Low Town was coming to pay me an afternoon visit.”
Mairi’s sources were good. There were only a half-dozen people who’d ever known the truth of what had happened to Mad Edward’s mob, and two of them were dead. I’d have to figure out which of the remaining four were running off at the mouth.
The tip of her tongue scanned the lower half of her lip. “Imagine my excitement.”
It is one of the relatively few advantages of being quite physically misshapen that you can generally dismiss honest arousal as a reason for a woman’s advances. In Mairi’s case, I’m not sure there was even a purpose-at bottom I suspect she just didn’t remember how to turn it off. The whole thing felt sour, my witty banter and her clockwork response to it.
“Riveting.” I took another swallow of whiskey, trying to get the taste of being played out of my mouth. “But I didn’t come here for my history. I’m quite familiar with it-comprehensively so, you might say.” She took the slight with less than absolute equanimity, the flushed heat of her face fading to match the weather. From a silver case on the table next to her she took a thin black cigarette and sank it between her blood-red lips, lighting it with one quick pass of a match. “Then what are you here for, exactly?”
“Yancey didn’t mention it?” I asked.
A quick stream of tobacco smoke escaped from her nostrils. “I want you to ask me.”
I’d suffered more galling indignities. “Yancey says you’ve got a sharp ear and a long memory. I’d like to hear what they offer on the Duke of Beaconfield.”
“The Blade?” She did something with her face that conveyed the intent of eye rolling without actually being so uncouth as to roll her eyes. “Apart from the talent that earned his nickname he’s your typical bored aristocrat, cold-blooded, amoral, and cruel.”
“Those are more observations than secrets,” I said.
“And he’s broke,” she finished.
“So the mansion, the parties, the money he paid me…”
“The first is in hock to pay for the second two. The duke was blessed with an old name, a deadly arm, and not much else. And, like most nobles, his pecuniary abilities don’t go beyond spending. He sunk tens of thousands of ochres in the Ostarrichi national loan, and lost everything when they defaulted last fall. Word is, the creditors are baying at the door, and his personal tailor won’t accept his commissions. I’d be surprised if he makes it through the season without declaring bankruptcy.”
“So those diamonds on his crest?”
“Let’s just say the lion is the more pertinent half.”
The threat of poverty could drive a man toward terrible acts-I’d seen plenty of that. But did the thought of losing that gorgeous house of his really push the Smiling Blade to child murder and black magic? “What about his connections to the Prince?”
“Exaggerated. They were chums at Aton, one of those dreary boarding schools choked with tradition and staffed by pedophiles. But dear Henry…” She fluttered her eyes, and I wondered if this offhand reference to the Crown Prince indicated a grain of truth behind the rumors of their liaison, or if she just wanted me to think it did. “Is a bit too button-down for the Blade’s wild ways.”
“Interesting,” I said, as if it wasn’t. “How about his hangers-on-you know anything there? He’s got a cut-rate practitioner running errands for him, goes by the name of Brightfellow?”
She crinkled her nose like I’d dropped a fresh turd on the floor. “I know the man-though I hadn’t heard he’d hooked up with your duke. Brightfellow’s one of that unpleasant breed of artist who flits about the peripheries of court, pimping his talent to whatever nobles are bored or stupid enough to pay for his parlor tricks. I hadn’t thought much of Beaconfield, but I thought enough of him not to expect he’d get mixed up with trash like that. He must really be desperate.”
“What would Brightfellow be doing for the Blade?”
“I really wouldn’t know-but having met the two, I’d guess it doesn’t involve philanthropy.”
I figured she was probably right.
After another moment she cleared her throat, a short sound that made me think of sugar and smoke, and our interview was over. “And that’s it, then-that’s all the information I can provide you as to the secret dealings of the Smiling Blade.” She uncrossed her legs, then crossed them again. “Unless there’s anything else you wanted.”
I stood up abruptly, setting my glass on the table next to my chair. “No, nothing else. You’ve been a help- you’ve got a chit to cash in with me if you need it.”
She stood as well. “I’m tempted to cash it in right now,” she said, her eyes tilting toward the bed.
“No you aren’t. Not even a little.”
Her wanton leer faded, to be replaced with something more closely resembling a genuine smile. “You’re an interesting man. Come back again sometime. I’d like to see you.” She moved close enough for me to smell her perfume, intoxicating, like everything else about her.
“And that I do mean.”
