“Thanks,” I said, meaning it. Celia nodded, then poured herself another cup of tea, spooning a pair of sugar cubes in after it.
“I had a meeting the other day with one of Black House’s scryers,” I said.
She twirled a stretch of black hair around her index finger. “I’m surprised to hear that Black House would allow you access to their resources.”
“You mean given that one of its operatives just tried to kill me? Funny thing about these clandestine organizations, one hand tends to be ignorant of its partner’s activities, even when they include murder.”
“Were they able to pick up any signs from the body?”
“Nothing on the killer. But the scryer saw signs that the girl had been sacrificed.”
“I suppose it’s what we feared. We knew the duke was dabbling in the shade. It makes sense he would go the whole way.”
“Assuming it is the Blade.”
She waved dismissively. For her it was already a settled issue.
I’d rather have left it at that-Celia’s was too kind a heart to involve in such a dirty business. But there were things I needed to know, and no one else to ask. “What can you tell me about it?”
“About human sacrifice? I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell-they didn’t teach that sort of thing at the academy.”
Why not? They’d taught Adelweid to summon fiends from the outer darkness, draw horrors into the world, and set them upon his fellows. “I’m not trying to re-create the mechanics of it, I’m just trying to suss out motive. What would be to gain from such an act?”
Celia paused before answering. “Most workings are powered by the innate strength of the practitioner, filtered and directed by his will. For larger workings, energy can be tapped from places of power or from items crafted for that purpose. In extreme cases, a practitioner might even cull the essence of a lower life-form and use that to form a spell. In theory the sacrifice of a human would offer the same opportunity, though on a much greater scale.”
I rolled that over in my head, trying to settle it into a coherent equilibrium. “I can’t work the sums. The Blade’s broke, fine-for a man like Beaconfield that’s a powerful motive, he loses his money and he loses everything, his status, his name even. Not like he can go out and get a real job. But still-he throws in with Brightfellow, starts summoning monsters from the ether and slaughtering children, for what? To refill his bank account? It’s slim.”
“You’re thinking too small,” she said. “If they’ve sacrificed the children, the energy they have to draw on would be virtually limitless. He could turn a mound of dirt into gold. He could rework the fundamental fabric of existence. Is that the sort of power you want in the hands of a man like the Blade?”
I rubbed my fingers in little circles against my temple. Whatever Celia had done to me was fading, and I could feel the beginnings of a headache brewing. “There’s something else the scryer showed me. Even if Caristiona hadn’t been murdered she wasn’t long for the world. She had the plague.”
“That’s… unlikely,” Celia said.
“I saw the rash.”
“A rash can be a symptom of any number of things.”
“It was the plague,” I said, a bit too harshly, continuing in a softer tone. “I saw it often enough to be sure. Could the Crane’s wards be weakening?”
“That’s not possible.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve taken over running them,” she said, raising her teacup to her mouth as she dropped an artillery shell in my lap.
“You didn’t tell me that,” I said.
“The people of the city sleep at night because they know the Master is watching over them. It’s better not to do anything to shake that certainty. Only a few people at the top of the Bureau of Magical Affairs know of the switch. It’s why I was raised to First Sorcerer, so I’d be ready when the Master can no longer perform his duties.” That was a hell of a euphemism for the death of a parent, but it was good to see Celia handling this so dispassionately, given that the future of Rigus apparently sat on her slim shoulders. “I’d know if the wards were failing, and they aren’t.”
“You’re saying it’s impossible that Caristiona could have had the plague?”
“No, I’m not saying that at all. There’s no way the plague could occur naturally, but it could be spread deliberately. If someone were to introduce it into the population, spread it to enough people… the protections the Master created aren’t impermeable. It could be broken by sheer weight of numbers.”
“You think the Blade is infecting children with the plague? To what end? What does he gain from it?”
“Who has any idea of the bargains the duke must have struck to receive assistance from the void? Somehow I don’t imagine the creature you saw would act without compensation. Perhaps Beaconfield’s part lies in spreading the fever.”
“You think this is some sort of a… diabolical exchange? How can you be sure?”
“I’m not fucking sure,” she snapped. The profanity sat uneasily on her tongue, evidence of how frightened she was. “I can’t read the man’s mind, I don’t know every detail of his sick plot. What I do know is that if he continues, it’ll only be a matter of time before the wards fail. While you sniff around in circles, Low Town flirts with death.”
I could feel myself getting hot. “I’ll handle it.”
“How many more children are going to die before you take care of your responsibilities?”
“I’ll handle it,” I said again, angry at being pushed but knowing deep down that Celia was right, that I shouldn’t have let this sprawl on so long. The stakes were too high to delay-Beaconfield was my man. He’d find out what that meant soon enough.
“We can’t let the Master’s work have been in vain.”
“That won’t happen,” I said. “By the Firstborn, I’ll make sure of it.”
That seemed to calm her down some. She set one soft hand atop mine, and we sat like that for a long moment.
It was getting late, and the walk home wasn’t getting any shorter. “There was something else I wanted to ask you. I spoke to the mother of the last child. She said that he knew secrets without being told them-it reminded me of some of the things that let the Crane know you could be trained to the Art.”
Celia answered without looking at me. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Every child is special, to a parent.”
True enough. I gave her a last farewell and slipped out. It was early evening, and the chill winds that had oppressed my earlier travels had faded, leaving behind the thick blanket of gray fog. There was more I had wanted to do, business I needed to take care of, leads to follow. But in my weakened state it was all I could do to make it back to the Earl, swallow some burnt chuck, and pass out in my bed-which, I noted sourly, was far less comfortable than Celia’s.
I awoke the next morning with a bruise on my shoulder the size of an egg, but little else to show that I had come a fingernail from death not twenty-four hours prior. I had experienced curative magic before, but nothing that could compete with this. The Crane had taught Celia well.
Shaking off the last strands of sleep I opened the bottom drawer of my bureau and sprung the hidden latch, revealing the niche below. I took a few dozen vials of pixie’s breath out of my business stash, along with a handful of other chemicals, then sat down at my table and went to work. It was slow going, and forty-five minutes had passed before I could pull on my clothes and stow my weapons. I would need to hustle to make my meeting with the Blade.
Wren sat at a table below, listening to Adolphus bullshit about his youth. It was nice to walk downstairs without being subject to the news of some horrible tragedy, for a change.
“It’s true-I once ate an entire side of ham in a single sitting.”
“He did, I was there. It was as impressive as it was grotesque. He reeked of pig for the next month and a half. The Dren took to calling him the Varken van de duivel, and fainted at the smell of cooked bacon.” Adolphus bellowed a laugh and even Wren cracked a smile.
The “devil pig” stood and brushed off his pants. “You want me to tell Adeline to cook up some breakfast?”
“Afraid not. I’m late as it is.”
