Issue #238 • Nov. 9, 2017

“The ^iret Mask,” by Marie Brennan

“His Wife and Serpent Mistress,” by Gillian Daniels

For more stories and Audio Fiction Podcasts, visit

http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/

THE ^IRET MASK

by Marie Brennan

(The 500th story to appear in BCS!)

         Dangling from a rope two hundred feet above the rooftops of Râu Tare, I find myself questioning the decisions that have led me to this point.

         It is abundantly clear to me—far too late to be of any use—that the whole affair is a joke. What makes the ^iret Mask so valuable? Not the gems and precious metals that decorate it; lovely as they are, they pale in comparison to the Ceresc Mask of Lezaur, much less the Zeic Mask of the queen, and would not be worth a tenth so much outside of their setting. Not the craftsmanship, either—the mask has been repaired several times, where inferior joins have given way. No one recalls the name of the artisan who made it, so little was she famed; and even the design is unremarkable, being very similar to that used in a hundred other festival masks.

         No, what makes the ^iret Mask so valuable is this: that fools like me have dangled two hundred feet above their possible deaths, just for the glory of saying we once had it in our possession.

         I’m sure the joke will be very funny later. If I survive the final line.

* * *

         The chain of decisions that culminated in my acquaintance with that rope is so long that it would be foolish to attempt to recount it all from the beginning. Let us choose as our point of departure a certain afternoon in the parlor of my dear friend Oana, shortly before her brother Codruc stormed in to interrupt our conversation.

         Oana had been an acquaintance of mine in our school days, and I had renewed the connection when I came to Râu Tare the year before. She had helped me find my place in Taral society, and in exchange, I served as her confidante in the matter of her secret lover, the dashing Conte Vântul.

         Of course the conte was not her lover in a physical sense. Oana was not so foolish as to throw her future away on a man of such mysterious origins, no matter how much he charmed her. But she assured me that they had pledged their love to one another countless times in the six weeks she had known him, and that he was unquestionably the finest of gentlemen. “You simply must meet him yourself,” Oana said earnestly one day in her salon, clasping my hands and gazing into my eyes. “During the Festival of Changes. I trust your judgment, Viorica. If you think well of him, then I will introduce him to Codruc, and persuade my brother we simply must be wed.”

         I did not share her optimism. Codruc was an arrogant and grasping man; he did not let go of his possessions easily, and he counted his sister among that inventory. Had their father still lived, by now Oana would have been married to her sweetheart Nicu, who had adored her since they were children. But Nicu lacked enough money to satisfy Codruc, and while undoubtedly Oana’s conte had the wealth to please him, a mysterious nobleman would threaten Codruc’s sense of control.

         On that particular afternoon, however, I had no chance to try and convince Oana of this. Before I had done more than draw breath to speak, the door banged open hard enough to strike the wall. Codruc stormed through the gap. “It is an outrage!” he announced to the room at large.

         Oana and I shot to our feet. “Dear brother, calm down,” Oana stammered.

         “What is an outrage?” I asked.

         In response, Codruc flung a sheet of paper on the floor in front of me, badly crumpled from being clutched in his fist. I retrieved it, smoothed it out, and held it where Oana and I could both read.

         Before the Festival of Changes is over, the ^iret Mask will be mine.

         No signature identified this terse message. Only a stamp in vermilion ink: the swirling winds of that infamous master criminal, Laperi.

         “He’s going to steal the mask?” Oana gasped.

         “Over my dead body,” Codruc snarled.

         I passed my hand over my face to ward off ill luck. “Of course it will not come to that. Were you not intending to wear the Iavol Mask this year? Your vault is impregnable; with the ^iret Mask safely inside, Laperi’s plans will come to nothing.”

         Codruc stopped dead in the middle of his pacing. “Leave it in the vault? Absurd!”

         “But you cannot possibly risk it!” Oana said. “You spent so much money acquiring the mask—”

         He cut her off with a swift chop of his hand. “I would make myself the laughingstock of Râu Tare if I cowered in fear of this criminal Laperi. No, dear sister—I will wear the mask. With a score of my finest guards around me. Let him try for it; I will leave him bleeding in the street.”

         “You do recall he has an airship full of minions,” I reminded Codruc. Everyone knew of it: the Vulpea Cerului, with its black-painted balloon, like a piece of the night sky itself. “He will swoop down on you from above, and his minions will overpower your guards.”

         “Then I will hire a wizard, too!” Codruc had the bit in his teeth. “I went to great lengths to acquire the mask, and I will no more hide it away than I will let that bastard take it from me.”

         This is a sample of the behavior the mask engenders in those who come within its orbit. People have whispered from time to time that the mask itself is enchanted—or perhaps cursed—because they can think of no rational reason why people would go to such lengths to acquire it. They fail to understand that the reason is not rational. Men and women of a certain character are bound to crave prestige. The ^iret Mask is a prestigious item; therefore they desire it, and will not let anyone else have it. Human nature, not magic, is the explanation.

         Rationality does assert itself in other places, though. Codruc could not hope to hire a wizard, not for such a venial purpose as guarding his trinket. He was determined to try, though, and soon stormed off to do precisely that. In his wake, Oana sank back into her chair. “Gods of the change! It will serve Codruc right if he loses that mask. Such a silly thing—he only wanted it because he didn’t have it.”

         I remained where I was, looking at the door Codruc had slammed behind him. “Oana—darling—”

         “Yes, Viorica?”

         I bit my lip, then turned and crouched at her feet. “About your Conte Vântul. I... have a terrible suspicion.”

         She blinked down at me. “Whatever do you mean?”

         “Don’t you think it’s just a little too convenient? He shows up in Râu Tare, and not long after, we have Laperi announcing his plans to steal the mask. The mask your brother is so proud of owning. And you yourself have become so very dear to him in such a short time.”

         One infinitesimal movement at a time, Oana’s look of confusion transformed into disbelief. “You—you cannot be suggesting that he works for Laperi.” Another moment passed. “That he is Laperi?”

         “I am not certain,” I hastened to reassure her. “Only... cautious. The Conte Vântul was in Malspre last year, was he not? And so was Laperi, when he filched the Star Sapphire of Avere. Tell me—has your conte ever been to Riaznoapte?”

         Her silence was answer enough. And in Riaznoapte, of course, Laperi had stolen the famed Book of Ceannanas.

         I took her hands and squeezed them. “It could be coincidence. Or your conte might be hunting Laperi, trying to bring him to justice! But... be careful.”

         “How can I be careful?” Oana whispered. “You—please, Viorica, you must see him for yourself. You will know he cannot possibly be such a man. Or if he is, you will be able to tell, I’m sure of it. And then I will wash my hands of him forever.”

         Myself and the Conte Vântul, both at the Festival of Changes. Laughing, I said, “It will be a very interesting night.”

* * *

         Word got out, of course. Laperi had announced his plan to steal the mask, and Codruc made no secret of his refusal to keep it hidden away for safety; there was no better fodder for gossip. Half the street plays I passed in the following days were hastily written pieces about the history of the ^iret Mask: how it was buried in a field to protect it when the Keleti invaded and found years later by a farmer with his plow; how a priest had pronounced the mask cursed, as a way of tricking Domn Avutins into surrendering it to his care; how the infamous thief Rsu_a had stolen the mask just to prevent her rival from acquiring it; how Doamn Paniu took a drunken bet to place it on her horse and lost it when the horse bolted. The puppeteers for the horse were quite impressive.

         The other half of the street plays were tales of the thief Laperi, and those did not have to be written in haste, for they had been scripted over the years of his infamous career. Singers and actors on every other corner told of his exploits, the treasures he’d stolen and the traps he’d outwitted. In the right parts of the city, I was sure, one could place bets on the outcome of this duel. I wondered how many were betting on Codruc, and doubted the odds favored him... especially after the Vulpea Cerului was indeed sighted in the mountains outside the city.

         All of this simply added to the chaos that accompanied any Festival of Changes. The celebrations were each person’s chance to shed their bad luck, donning a mask so that the gods would lose sight of them. For the city it marked the start of the new year; for the citizens, it was the chance of a new life, even if only for a few hours. Nobles could cast off their responsibilities and commoners speak their minds. The brave and the desperate could even go to a wizard and ask to be changed—to wake up tomorrow a different person entirely.

         My own plans were not so ambitious. “Here,” I said to Nicu, under the shadow of the Skewed Arch near the river. I pressed a lover’s token into his hand. They were a common symbol of the festival; exchanging them was a sign that the two parties had exchanged hearts. “She’ll be at the foot of the Estic Bridge at midnight. Don’t be late.”

         Nicu curled his fingers around the token, an intricate knot of thread. “Are you sure?” he said anxiously. “This Conte Vântul—”

         “Will be out of the running long before then,” I assured him. “But Oana will need you tonight, Nicu. Don’t fail her.”

         “I won’t,” he said fervently.

         The river was on fire with the light of the setting sun, the Gagiu Bridge stretching its shadow along the water. The Festival would officially begin at sundown, but revelers already crowded the river walk and the bridge itself, and when a figure appeared atop the bridge’s central market, one might have thought it simply a drunken fool out to impress his lady-love.

         Except that the figure was garbed all in black, his flowing cloak and wide-brimmed hat instantly recognizable. We had seen a dozen actors impersonating him on the streets of Râu Tare.

         “Laperi!” Nicu gasped.

         The master thief’s laugh carried across the sudden hush that fell. “I have thrown down a gauntlet, and Codruc Deleanu has taken it up! Let him hide behind his guards in the Plaza of Gems; it makes no difference. The ^iret Mask will be mine!”

         City guards were already scrambling after Laperi, but they made only slow progress through the crowd. Too many people were shouting and clapping, rather than stepping aside. What did the common Taral citizen care for Codruc and his mask? They wanted only to be entertained—and Laperi was nothing if not skilled at entertaining his audience. With a swirl of his cloak, he leapt down into the market. I had no doubt that he would be long gone by the time the guards arrived.

         “Maybe if I help Codruc—” Nicu began.

         “Help him?” I said with a sniff. “If he loses the mask, it will be no more than he deserves. Help Oana, Nicu. The Estic Bridge at midnight—don’t forget.”

         He touched his fist to his heart. With a pat on his shoulder, I left him and went to find Oana.

* * *

         Had I not seen Oana’s costume before the Festival, I might never have found her in the mass of people that thronged the Plaza of Gold. She was resplendent in costume as a lady of ancient Sarazdat, with a mask in the filigree style that was more a nod in the direction of concealment than an effective shield. There are advantages to being a tall lady looking for another lady of considerable height; I was able to spot her and wend my way to her side.

         “Did you see Laperi?” I asked.

         Oana fluttered her fan nervously. “I did. But I have not seen the conte.”

         Her tone made her suspicions more than clear. “I am sure he will be here at any moment,” I soothed her. “Shall I fetch you some iced pomegranate wine while we wait? I think I see a vendor over there, and I am parched.”

         She nodded, distracted, and I slipped away into the crowd.

         On an ordinary night, fetching two cups of wine would have been the work of a moment. In the teeming masses of the Festival, one might as well try to fetch the ^iret Mask itself. I returned to Oana’s side a good deal later with my hands empty. “I am so sorry,” I told her. “I think I chased him halfway across the city, but by the time I caught him, his barrel was empty.”

         “It does not matter,” she said. “The conte was here, and full of apologies for his tardiness. I do not know whether to believe him or not. He could not possibly have been atop the bridge, could he? I cannot imagine that he could have switched from that dreadful black outfit into his costume so rapidly.”

         “Where is the conte?” I asked, craning my neck. Dancers filled the center of the plaza, close-packed enough that it was a wonder more of them didn’t step on trailing hems or snag their jeweled embroidery against someone else’s cloak.

         Oana scowled. “That shrew Cosmina claimed him for a dance. I haven’t seen him since.”

         “I am sure he has better taste than to favor Cosmina over you,” I said, laughing. “But I will go remove her claws from him, if you like.”

         “Would you?” Oana said. “I told the conte you would be back soon, but I fear he thinks I’ve made you up.”

         “Then I shall teach him otherwise,” I said, folding my fan with a decisive snap. “Wish me luck. And if you see the conte before I return, then both of you stay right here, or I may never find you again.” With that, I dove once more into the crowd.

* * *

         What transpired next was less than ideal.

         While Oana waited for me to return, hopefully with the Conte Vântul in tow, she kept an eye on the crowd, hoping to see him swirling by in the dance—or better yet, returning to her side of his own free will. And indeed she saw him... but neither dancing with Cosmina or some other lady, nor on his way back to her. Instead he was at the nearby edge of the plaza, slipping into a narrow alley.

         I had, of course, told her to stay put. But when her back is up, Oana is no more tractable than Codruc. And so she followed him.

         Two men stood a little way down, their backs to her. One was the conte, in the costume she had seen before: the knee-length cloak of the Cuvântat age on one shoulder, with the curving, crescent-moon horns of his mask rising above his head. The other was a man much more plainly dressed, with a simple cloth domino mask. As Oana crept closer, she heard the conte’s familiar tenor—but cold and brisk as she had never heard it before.

         “In the Strad Martescu,” the conte said. “Your men are in position and ready?”

         “We outnumber him two to one,” the man in the domino mask said. “He won’t stand a chance. The mask will be yours before midnight.”

         “Good man,” the conte said, and coins winked in the scattered lamplight as they changed hands.

         Now, a sensible girl would have crept away and gone to warn her brother. But Oana’s passions were up, and she had drunk a little wine; furthermore, she was built like the statue of a Sarazdat goddess, and had often gotten into trouble for brawling when we were in school.

         “You cur!” she shrieked. The man in the domino mask fled; the conte turned to look. He was just in time to receive Oana’s fist to his jaw.

         It was an exceedingly stupid way to hit him. His mask protected his entire face; had she struck it any harder, she would have broken her own hand. But she followed this up with a much more effective punch to his gut that sent him staggering back a step, before her inflamed sentiments got the better of her tactics for good. The remainder of her attacks were more flailing than fighting, and he easily caught her wrists to immobilize them.

         “I hate you!” she screamed in his face. “You have been manipulating me from the start. I’m done with it! You’ll never have the mask. And you’ll never have me!” With a swift raise of her knee that tore her skirt, she delivered her final blow, then fled back out into the plaza.

* * *

         This was the point at which my evening began to spin off its intended path and into the wilds of chance. All I can say is that the gods of the change have their own peculiar senses of humor, and I should have known better than to bait them thus.

         I found an archway shadowed enough to shelter me and took off my mask. Oana’s blow had cracked it; I would have a bruise underneath, and my other mask covered only the upper part of my face.

         The mannerisms of Vântul drained away from me like water, for I had no need of him any longer. Rubbing my jaw and cursing under my breath, I set to work transforming myself once more.

         First I yanked off my long cloak and held it temporarily between my knees while I unlaced my other half-mask from my shoulder, where the cloak had concealed it. Then I shrugged out of my jacket and turned it inside out before slipping it back on. The flamboyant cuffs of the conte’s outfit went into one concealed pocket designed to enhance the profile of my otherwise flattened bosom; the other I filled with the cloth undermask that had protected my face against the pressure of the conte’s formal festival mask. With those in place, I settled the crescent horns around my hips, then let the mask itself hang down as substitute for the bustle I was not wearing. Finally I spun the cloak so its former lining faced outward and tied it around my waist, transmuting it into a skirt covering the horns, the mask, and the boots of the Conte Vântul.

         That left me with the light half-mask of Oana’s good friend Viorica, and a mark on my jaw it would not cover. I donned it anyway and went back out into the crowd. There were plenty of women out there in the fluttering silk veils of piandel dancers; with a small knife concealed in my hand, it was trivial to snip a suitably colored veil off one of them and drape it from the edges of my mask. Not ideal, but it was the best I could do on short notice, and I could not spare the time for more.

         When I was done with this, I saw Oana.

         She shouldn’t have been there. She should have gone straight to her brother at the Plaza of Gems and told him about the ambush. Instead she was standing alone, a scrap of fabric wrapped about her injured hand, staring into the distance.

         When you must hide something, give the observer something else to think about. I rushed up to Oana, veil fluttering. “You have to hide me!”

         It jarred her from her thoughts. “What?”

         “I heard that Dnuc Vidraru is going to offer me a lover’s token. I’ve put on this veil so he won’t recognize me, but I must get out of—why, Oana, whatever is the matter?”

         Sniffling, she told me of the conte’s perfidy. “That’s dreadful!” I exclaimed. “You must go and tell your brother at once!”

         “No,” Oana said, flaring up. “He will only mock me for being so silly. I hate them both—and that stupid mask! I wish Codruc had never bought it!”

         If Oana did not warn him, then Codruc would have no provocation to go to the Strad Martescu and get into a fight. If he did not get into a fight, then the rest of my plan would swiftly come apart.

         I thought rapidly. Could I invite him to dance? No, Codruc never danced. An ambush elsewhere—but anywhere else would be too public.

         I would simply have to improvise.

         “Oh, my darling, I am so sorry,” I said, hugging her close. My right hand slipped a folded piece of paper into one of the deep pleats around her shoulders. She was forever straightening them; she would find the paper soon enough. “Come with me. I think you need something stronger than pomegranate wine.”

         Beneath those comforting words, my mind was whirling. I would need a pipe. Some ngimri leaves. A new costume.

         And I needed Laperi to keep on distracting everyone.

* * *

         The order of ceremonies in the Festival of Changes was well-known.

         From sundown until shortly before midnight, everyone was free to dance and carouse, to enjoy the liberties of the night. In that final hour, the members of the Consiliu—of which Codruc was one—would visit a fortune-teller in the small hut constructed at the base of the steps that led to the Temple of Transformation. Everyone visited fortune-tellers during the Festival, but this woman was specially chosen to perform this duty; the fates of such important men could not be left to chance. Codruc, being the most junior member of the Consiliu, would have his fortune told last.

         It was the one point during the festival when he would be alone.

         And no one in their right mind would attempt to steal the mask from him during that time. There could be no escape: his guards would ring the hut, and if Codruc did not emerge with the mask, they would descend with blades drawn. If the Vulpea Cerului tried to swoop in, a city airship would catch it before it could rise again. Codruc was perfectly safe. After that he would be in the temple, and then he would return home, to lock the mask into his vault.

         Laperi and his men burst out of a dragon puppet when Codruc was nearly to the Temple Plaza. There was never any chance of success; there were too many witnesses, too many people who saw a chance to curry favor by capturing so notorious a criminal. It was only by the narrowest of margins that the would-be thieves eluded their hunters and vanished into the night. Codruc never even had to raise a hand to defend himself. He shouted obscenities at Laperi’s fleeing back, and likely would have pursued him were it not for the pressing matter of his duties. His companions recalled him to his task, and they continued onward.

         Robed and hooded, I sat in the little hut and did my best for the other members of the Consiliu, as if the real fortune-teller were not in a drugged sleep under the table. I’ve been a fortune-teller in my time, as need arose, and can be quite good at it when I have cause.

         But when Codruc entered the hut, I was determined not to divine his fate... but to change it.

         The sinuous curve of the ^iret Mask gleamed in the candlelight, gold and darkness intertwined. Up close, though, it was less impressive. I could see where the upper part of the curve had been welded back onto the base, and someone had tried to restore the paint on the cheek, but hadn’t quite matched the precise shade of midnight blue. It was an ordinary mask, really.

         Yet it was also one of the most coveted objects in the world—and tonight it would be mine.

         Codruc’s step weaved back and forth as he approached my table. I had gone to a great deal of trouble the night before to break into his household shrine and get access to the cloth undermasks stored there. Had Codruc and his men brawled in the Strad Martescu as I intended, their sweat and the increased heat of their skin would have activated the chemical mixture soaked into the fabric. After breathing in the result, they would have collapsed in delirium, making them easy to rob. But the night was only warm enough for Codruc to work up a mild sheen of sweat—not enough to do more than put him off-balance.

         So I drew a mouthful of ngimri smoke from my borrowed pipe and breathed it into his face.

         It worked on him just as it had on the fortune-teller. I caught him before he could fall over and lowered him gently to the floor. Off came my stolen robe, which covered the reversible costume of Viorica Mare_oiu and Conte Vântul. Shed of the skirt and masks, I stripped Codruc of his own garb and put it on. His jacket was much too big for me, even with my own jacket inside; wincing at the waste of fine embroidery, I cut apart my own skirt-cloak and used it to stuff the gaps. I was nearly tall enough; with his cloak over me and the ^iret Mask proclaiming my identity, I should be able to pass muster. The deception only needed to last a short time.

         I made sure to wipe down the inside of the mask before I donned it, with Vântul’s clean undermask to protect me. The last thing I needed was to lose my own balance along the way.

         Then I squared my padded shoulders and went out to join the Consiliu.

* * *

         There was never any chance that I could make it through the entire ceremony that marked the Festival of Changes. Only members of the Consiliu, a few select clergy, and the temple guards ever attended; I did not know where to stand, what to say, or anything else that might preserve my masquerade. Had I planned this moment well in advance, I might have been able to gather the necessary information... but this was all a last-minute gamble, thrown together when the Strad Martescu ambush failed. Entering the main chamber, I devoted only a little attention to following the Consiliu members. The rest was on the archway that led to the temple spire.

         I had to choose my moment with care. Not too late; if they discovered my ruse, I would find myself with a great many new problems and no solution up my borrowed sleeve. But not too soon, either, or—

         Shouting came from behind us.

         The question of timing suddenly became very simple. As Codruc burst into the temple sanctuary, wild-eyed and stripped to his smallclothes, I bolted for the archway.

         In a night full of abysmal luck, I could at least thank the gods that everyone was looking toward Codruc, which gave me a head start. I tore off my stolen cloak as I went and hurled it in the faces of the first guards to follow me up the stairs. The heavy fabric tangled them, and they went down in a painful-sounding heap. I did not stay to watch. Instead I flung myself up the spiraling stairs two or three at a time, cursing the insufficient efficacy of ngimri smoke on men of Codruc’s size.

         The bells of the city tolled midnight as I burst out into the open air of the lower gallery. The heavy door would hold off a hundred pursuers, but only if I could find something to block it with, and the walkway around the spire’s base was bare stone. With footsteps approaching at speed, I had no choice but to continue fleeing, up the second staircase to the top of the spire itself.

         Behind me I heard Codruc bellow, “You’re running out of places to run, bitch!”

         He was right. The stairs were so narrow that the padded shoulders of his jacket scraped as I forced myself through the last door, and the lintel nearly knocked the ^iret Mask from my head. Here at least I had no need of anything to wedge it shut; the top gallery was so narrow I could brace my back against the door, planting my feet at the base of the railing that kept me from plummeting to my death.

         A moment later something thudded against the panels at my back. It did not trouble me. Codruc, or whoever was trying to bash the door down, was at a disadvantage: the narrow passage afforded him no good angle of approach or way to build up speed.

         He knew it, too. The thudding stopped after a moment, and a voice began speaking. I couldn’t make the words out clearly—they were too muffled by the wood and drowned out by the wind—but I could guess. He thought he had only to wait there until I tired of holding him out, or a city airship came to pluck me from my perch. I could hear a whistle in the plaza below, calling for such an airship even now; that gleam off to my left was one approaching. It would be here soon.

         But not soon enough.

         The bells of the city began to strike the midnight hour. If anything tonight had gone according to plan, then Oana and Nicu were at the Estic Bridge, exchanging lover’s tokens. If the gods of the change had any sense of charity, she at least should come out of this happy.

         I took a deep breath. A second. A third.

         Then I unbraced myself from the door, climbed up onto the railing, and—just as Codruc threw the door open and lunged to grab my ankle—leapt into the air.

* * *

         If I die because Codruc’s gloves are too big for me, I will be very, very upset.

         My grip is slipping. I’m clutching the rope with everything I’ve got, but I’m sliding out of the gloves, and I don’t dare trust my weight to a single hand for long enough to shake the other one free. Especially not when I’m barely three handspans from the rope’s bottom end—I almost missed it entirely. There isn’t enough of a tail left for me to catch it between my knees.

         I wonder if they’ll be able to repair the ^iret Mask after I fall to my death. I suppose it depends on whether I land facedown. The thought shouldn’t make me want to giggle, but it does.

         The rope starts moving upward. My right hand skins out of the glove, and only a desperate flail renews my acquaintance with the rope before the same thing happens to the left. Now there’s only one handspan between me and a swift introduction to the city rooftops passing far underneath my feet. The gloves tumble away into the patchwork of darkness and light below.

         But at least my grip is more secure now. I begin climbing as the rope itself drags me upward. Soon I reach the railing, and climb over it onto the deck of the Vulpea Cerului.

         The ^iret Mask has slipped askew. I untie it from my head, letting the cloth undermask fall to the deck and blow overboard. It can go join the gloves.

         My first mate and lover Cserjén claps me on the shoulder. “You made it! Lykos laid a wager that you wouldn’t, what with all the last-minute changes to the plan.”

         “I hope you threw him overboard,” I say, catching my breath. “He should know better than to wager against Laperi.”

         Cserjén tugs off the black cloak and swirls it around my shoulders, where it settles into place like an old friend. More softly, he says, “We almost didn’t make it in time. It was a hell of a scramble, getting from the Temple Plaza to the ship, and then up to that spire.”

         “I knew I could trust you.” I lean into his warmth. Being Laperi has gotten easier since Cserjén joined me. He’s good at taking people’s eyes off me, so I can do things like drug innocent fortune-tellers and take their place.

         As Râu Tare recedes in the wake of my airship, I study my prize. Welded and repainted and battered by the years, the ^iret Mask gazes up at me with blank eyes.

         Cserjén says quietly, “Was it worth it?”

         My layers of masquerade, months of preparation, my final, desperate gamble: all for this. An unremarkable mask, whose only true value lies in the stories told about it.

         Stories to which I have just added my own chapter.

         I smile at Cserjén. “Absolutely.”

Copyright © 2017 Marie Brennan

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Marie Brennan is a former anthropologist and folklorist who shamelessly pillages her academic fields for material. She most recently misapplied her professors’ hard work to the Victorian adventure series The Memoirs of Lady Trent; the first book of that series, A Natural History of Dragons, was a finalist for the for a World Fantasy Award and won the Prix Imaginales for Best Translated Novel. She is also the author of the Doppelanger duology of Warrior and Witch, the urban fantasies Lies and Prophecy and Chains and Memory, the Onyx Court historical fantasy series, the Varekai novellas, and more than forty short stories, nine in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, including two set in the world of the Onyx Court series and three set in her Driftwood world. For more information, visit www.swantower.com.

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HIS WIFE AND SERPENT MISTRESS

by Gillian Daniels

         The Marquis of A--- reluctantly acquired a fiancée in the spring after an exchange of brief but formal letters. Miss B--- had come highly recommended by his awful uncle, who described her as a charming woman on the brink of spinster-dom. She was rich due to her merchant father but without title due, again, to her merchant father. The Marquis had a title worth only its connections and prominence but little else due to the debt attached to it. He suspected Miss B--- would like to be a marquise. He, himself, could happily continue to go into further debt for the room his mistress, Arla, kept in town overlooking the White Hill Beast.

         “Your library could be larger,” Miss B--- drawled when she met the Marquis in person. Most of her face was occupied by a nose that protruded with all the subtlety of a hawk’s. Her eyes were small and deeply set. “There’s a bookstore in town. Why don’t you buy some leather-bound editions for us?”

         The Marquis smiled. “Of what?” He had read so much more in his youth, stacks of books beside his bed. The only thing he read now involved unusually lithe agreeable young nuns and priests with no interest in keeping their vows.

         “It doesn’t matter. You buy, I’ll sort. Fiction, memoir, and histories, please.”

         This, then, would be the pattern to their marriage. His uncle had always found insolence disquieting, but the Marquis, who had grown to dislike his uncle since he had been forced to live with him at the age of six, knew better. Insolence was a badge of honor. He adored those who cultivated it well. “I read as a boy.”

         Her smile was tight. Was her chin weak or did her hatchet-nose make it seem like it was? “What did you read?”

         “Books about the sea. I was convinced I would be a sailor and needed to know how to conduct myself.”

         “I liked stories of pirates, myself.” Miss B--- took her drawstring purse from her side and put it in his hands. His mistress kept her purse between her breasts, but his new fiancée had very little of that, as the flat bodice of her dress showed. “I still like stories of sea creatures. Whales and serpents, mostly.”

         He frowned at the purse. “What is this?”

         “Your uncle explained your situation to me at length. It’s for the books.”

         The Marquis related the story to Arla, who was less entertained than he was. As he spoke, she frowned out the window at the bones of the White Hill Beast, slain three hundred years ago this summer. Its bones were perhaps a little less tough than diamond and far denser, much too heavy to move. On the main thoroughfare, Our Lady of the Hill had been constructed inside its skull. The Marquis’s mistress was a religious woman and went to light a candle there each day. She would make one of her ilk a pious wife one day.

         “Miss B--- sounds foolish with her money,” she said. “What if you were the sort to gamble it all away?”

         “I suspect it’s a test, then.” He weighed the purse. “Do you think she wants the books right away?”

         Arla laughed. “I won’t give any guidance on that.”

         His mistress was part serpent, likely a descendant of the White Hill Beast who had copulated widely and with unexpected success before his death. When she went to light candles in its skull, she did so with great solemnity. She was covered in beautiful jade scales and in possession of sharp, pretty teeth. When he came to visit, she kept her long dark hair down, but he liked to sweep it back to see the ridges along her ears and down her neck. When they first met during a downpour under an awning, he complimented her on those ears. She communicated her thanks and smiled demurely. Concubines had extensively good breeding from mothers and aunts who had tutored them so.

         In a moment of thoughtlessness, the Marquis extended to her an invitation to his wedding. He kissed her sharp cheekbones and then down her throat. “I will have no one else there to speak to who is half as kind as you.”

         Arla’s smile was gentle. “I doubt I’ll be welcomed.”

         He had not considered this. The Marquis had taught himself to be pleasing to those he wished to stay by his side until his uncle drove them away. He had failed, however, to teach himself propriety or sense. “I’m sorry,” he said with feeling. Do not send me away, he wished to add.

         She kissed him back. Forgiveness. He was intensely relieved.

         They were very productive at doing little for the rest of their visit except that which pleased them both.

         The Marquis of A--- took his leave soon afterward to buy the books. He chose volumes regarding the unexpected nautical discoveries of pirates and kidnapped explorers. He both wished to please Miss B--- and found the covers themselves terribly interesting, all embossed gold waves and horned deep-sea serpents. What he sent back to his home had a note to his future wife. Otherwise, his uncle would see the delivery and have it returned without thought. His uncle had done similarly with the Marquis’s other purchases, knowing full well who had bought them.

         After, there was money still left in the purse, and he wanted to apologize further to Arla. He preferred to over-apologize as extravagantly as possible, always. She had never asked him to provide her gifts, but he insisted on it.

         He took her to a show at the Bleached Rib, a theater where she had never been. The show that evening was secretly but very clearly about the Marquis’s uncle and the time, many years ago, when the family estate in the country had been robbed by the Masked Vandal. The actor they chose for the famous thief was tall; wore a red scarf over his mouth and chin and a wide-brimmed hat that cast an impressive shadow. His ward, the Child Robber Baron, was a boy with a domino mask who said his lines stiffly.

         Arla spent much of the first act excitedly looking between stage and program. It was a single piece of paper, listing the players and the writer. “Why do you think they always use the first initial? ‘The Lady D---’ or ‘Sir F---?’ We know who they are.”

         “They don’t wish to be accused of libel. Why, there’s my uncle, now!”

         Arla looked around in a panic. Then she saw he meant the actor on the stage. She stifled her laughter with her handkerchief, attracting the glares of several men in the gallery, all starch-collared lawyers who seemed far too serious about their entertainment. The Marquis smiled back at them, and his mistress pretended to have a coughing fit.

         The actor meant to be the Marquis’s uncle was shorter than the one who played the Masked Vandal. Like the Marquis’s uncle, he wore a powdered wig several decades out of fashion and an enormous coiled serpent ring on his thumb. This was the family coat of arms, after all, as the Marquis’s ancestor had been the one to kill the White Hill Beast in the center of town and earn his title. This ancestor, Sir A--- of M---, as the Marquis understood from family histories, was a humble, honorable son; morally superior in every way to his descendents, according to local papers. This was a convient claim to make, as the ancestor was dead. Both the Marquis’s true uncle and the uncle on stage laughed broadly and told everyone of his importance.

         “Surely your uncle must have some redeeming qualities?” Arla asked. “I suppose those would make him too human.”

         “The real one has a delightful singing voice, which I’m sure the players would embrace readily,” said the Marquis. It was the only compliment he had ever paid his guardian that wasn’t greeted with a doubting sneer. This had been a shame, as the child Marquis had, for a very long time, hoped only to gain his uncle’s approval. In many ways, he had never given up. Maybe this year would be the one where he received a kind word from the man.

         She laughed. “Did he sing at Edmund Fremont when he and the child came to rob the house?”

         “My uncle wasn’t there. No one was. Just a watchman, the gardener, and the housekeepers. The estate used to get terribly hot during the summer. Everyone vacationed North.”

         “Did anything in this play happen, then?”

         “The Masked Vandal did rob it.”

         This Masked Vandal swung from one end of the stage to the other on a chandelier, and the Child Robber Baron threw him his foil.

         “I suspect there was no swordfight, then.” Arla looked a little disappointed. “As a girl, I used to hope there was.” How long had she known the story? He had thought she was new to the city.

         In the gallery, the lawyers turned and hushed his mistress at once. Both Arla and the Marquis had been speaking, yes, but of the two of them, she was the one with scales. The lawyers regarded those scales with disdain.

         He stopped smiling at once. The lawyers’ behavior was not a new reaction to Arla, true, but the Marquis had the privilege to forget about the insults she suffered. Remembering them annoyed him afresh.

         His mistress said it was all right, she was fine, but at intermission, she suggested they leave to enjoy some chocolate at a cafe. The Marquis agreed.

         Over chocolate, he confirmed that, to his knowledge, there had never been a sword fight at his family’s estate, despite her girlhood fancies. “It’s ours no longer, of course. After the Masked Vandal took everything, my uncle issued a lawsuit against my father for ‘severe negligence in protecting the family wealth.’ He hadn’t been there, either.”

         His mistress then ordered a smoked lamb jelly. She paused to pick it from her sharp teeth. “That case must have been thrown out of court immediately.”

         The Marquis laughed. “It wasn’t! The judge attended school with my uncle. Not only did the case go to court, my father had to fight it for years. By the end of it, his lawyers had been paid with his remaining money. He and my mother couldn’t even provide for me! I had to live with the very man who—who—!” He was laughing too hard to continue; if he didn’t laugh at this, he would start to cry. His eyes were already wet.

         “But you don’t blame the Masked Vandal?”

         He stopped laughing, clearing his throat. “The Vandal is a kinder figure than my uncle.”

         On their way back to her apartment, they passed by the Bleached Rib Theatre again. The chief of police shouted as he ushered the audience outside.

         “The play couldn’t be over yet,” said Arla.

         The Marquis knew what was happening at once. “My uncle doesn’t go out of his way to shut down every performance of the Masked Vandal, but he doesn’t hesitate.”

         “I hope they don’t think you’re the one who requested it be closed! We left in the middle, as it were,” she said, sounding doubtful. “People know who you are.”

         They did, and unless they were interested in his status, they did not like the Marquis much and feared him only a little less than his uncle.

         He and Arla watched the actor who played the Child Baron dragged out of the front doors. His domino mask hung at his chin and one of his arms hung badly from his shoulder.

         The Marquis felt ill. “Once, my friends and I went to a bawdy play at the Wicked Shin. It was a retelling of Sir A--- and the White Hill Beast, but the beast was dressed as a woman who lost her clothes during the course of the night. My uncle came down to close it himself.”

         “What did your friends say? Perhaps you all had a good laugh?”

         “They were not my friends afterward.”

         The Marquis saw his mistress home but did not stay. Instead, he went back to the house of his uncle and became very drunk, the wine cellar smelling of mold. He slept through the next morning and woke up alone.

* * *

         The Marquis’s fiancée declared she was wholly satisfied with the books. She was not surprised when he said he had spent the rest of the money. “Gambling?”

         “No! Theatre.”

         “Better than cards, I suppose, but I could never stomach theatre.”

         “Too gaudy?”

         “Too boring! I always fall asleep. The fights are awkward and strange and none of the swords look real. Are we meeting your uncle today?”

         “Sorry?”

         “I would like to see him again. It’s been ages since Lady C---’s ball!”

         The Marquis was horrified at her enthusiasm.

         His uncle, unfortunately, not only accepted their request to see him but smiled when they entered his rooms. “Miss B---! How well a young woman takes to the city.”

         Miss B--- curtsied. “My father and I lived in urban climes much of my life. I’m at home here.”

         “Even among the ghastly dragon kin?” His uncle laughed. “Those green children run far thinner in the country, thank the Gods. We put them to work here, I suppose, but what’s the use? None of them ever get any better for it. Too much serpent blood. Too stupid.” He tapped his temple.

         His fiancée continued to smile. The Marquis could not do the same. He had fought with his uncle over Arla when they last spoke. He suspected that was why “dragon kin” were brought up now.

         “How are you two getting on?” His uncle sat in his chair and leaned too close.

         His fiancée sat down, too. She happily described the Marquis’s kindness as if he were not standing at attention.

         His uncle interrupted her to turn and say, “Slouching again?”

         The Marquis’s face reddened. “No.”

         “I see it. You’re slouching. Stand up straighter. Your mother slouched since she was a child. Your father encouraged it in her as he did so, himself.” He turned to whisper loudly and conspiratorially to the Marquis’s fiancée. “He’s probably slouching in debtors’ prison right now. I’ve heard he’s acquired a paunch in recent years from nothing but gruel. Nice and fat.” He blew his cheeks out wide and put his arms out an then burst out laughing.

         The Marquis’s fiancée had the decency to look uncomfortable. She changed the subject. “What a wonderful ring!”

         “Oh, this?” His uncle was very pleased. “Older than this house. The ruby in its mouth is the last drop of the White Hill Beast’s blood.”

         The Marquis liked this story. “The blood rolled down Sir A---’s sword and became as hard as the bones of the animal—”

         “Obviously untrue, of course. Rubies aren’t made in such a fashion.”

         “But it might have a bit of truth in it,” said the Marquis.

         “It doesn’t. Shut up.” His uncle then smiled at Miss B--- and asked her to sit at the pianoforte.

         She was an accomplished musician, it seemed. His uncle loved this and burst into a rousing “The King’s Great Man” and “How the White Hill Beast Was Slain,” the ruby on his thumb catching the light as he waved his hand. He ordered his nephew not to join him.

         “This boy sings like a back alley tomcat,” his uncle said with a labored sigh. “Tin ear. I could have been a performer, an auteur—I’m not titled the way he is and can do as I please—but my father said that a descendent of a dragon slayer should never be allowed to pen an aria.” He put on a tragic face, sincerely torn.

         Deep in his chest, the Marquis felt for his uncle. It was unfair to be kept from the things you felt passion for. He thought of Arla. Also, if his uncle wrote operettas, he would be terrorizing the theaters in an entirely different way.

         His uncle reached to turn a page of the sheet music at the very same time Miss B--- leaned forward to squint at it. Both pulled back quickly. The Marquis was amused to see his uncle’s ring catch on the front of Miss B---’s muslin gown in the process. When he jerked back further, her dress tore.

         The Marquis saw nothing so terribly scandalous besides a flash of pink skin. Not much bosom was there to fall out in the first place. He saw his fiancée frown briefly before meeting his gaze. She raised an eyebrow as she hid herself.

         Meanwhile, his uncle was pale and shocked. He looked as scandalized as a priest at the Wicked Shin. He had a wife, yes, who had been on holiday for the past few years on a far off island country, but he seemed always embarrassed around women. He either feared contaminating them or being contaminated by them.

         The Marquis laughed. He couldn’t help himself. Neither could Miss B---.

         His uncle responded by turning very red and demanding both leave.

         In the hall, the valet gave Miss B--- a shawl. She swept it around her neck heroically, like a soldier recently decorated in war. “That was harrowing.”

         “You are a talented pianist.”

         “I’m excellent,” she agreed. “I never thought it would be a useful skill. I endured lessons under protest. Your admiration is appreciated, of course.”

         “Wives and husbands ought to be friends,” he said.

         She beamed.

         The Marquis once again found himself wishing he could introduce her to Arla.

         He communicated the entirety of the exchange to Arla when he went to visit her that evening. Their lovemaking progressed slowly, interrupted by conversation. The Marquis was a firm believer that intercourse shouldn’t be treated with the gravity of prayer. He joked and talked often, disarming more lovers with jokes than acts that proved athletically challenging.

         “Wives and husbands who are friends? It’s a wise sentiment, I suppose.” Arla’s green cheek lay on his bare shoulder. Something about the way her eyelashes cast shadows across his cheek made her seem sad. She always looked sad when they were together too long.

         “You don’t think I’ll love her more than you, I hope?”

         She pressed her lips into a line. “I enjoy our time together and have tempered my expectations accordingly. My mother was mistress to a duke. Her mother was mistress to a king.”

         The Marquis had never heard this before. “Which one?”

         “The one who was my grandfather.” His mistress would say no more on the subject, but he called her “princess” for the remainder of the evening. She rewarded him with a shy smile and he pleased her greatly after that. He was not good at many things, but he knew how to make women happy.

         They parted ways in the morning, Arla leaving to attend mass at the skull cathedral. At his uncle’s house, the Marquis was greeted with news that the father of Miss B--- had contracted pneumonia a month ago and died the other day.

         The Marquis assumed his fiancée would take the news in stride. She was so utterly stoic. Instead, she greeted him with red-rimmed eyes and a dress like coal. Without feeling, she told him they could be married in a few days. She was no longer an heiress but a rich woman. “Your uncle has been gracious enough to offer to give me away.”

         She then retired to her rooms and did not leave them.

* * *

         The only part of the wedding the Marquis looked forward to was retiring with his wife to bed. Even then, it was because he wished to see if she had any particularly shrewd thoughts during the ceremony. His bride remained pale and quiet in company, only nodding when Lady C--- and other guests gave her their congratulations.

         When the Marquis and his wife were alone together, all she said was, “Your uncle gave me this.”

         He saw the giant ring in her hand. The serpent glowered with the small ruby in his mouth. “Did he? He never gives anything away.”

         She was silent.

         He pushed on, feeling awkward. “Its scales look like they used to be painted.”

         “Rust. The ring has been kept very poorly in the face of your, well, our family’s diminishing fortunes.”

         He nodded. “Under my uncle’s thumb isn’t a healthy place to be.”

         She turned away from him to undress.

         He wondered for the first time if she was afraid. “Sharing a house with him is easy if you know where and when to stay away.”

         “Of course. I’m happy to gain his confidence. I flirted with him, a little, at the ball when we first met, but he was not receptive.”

         The Marquis burst out laughing at the image. “Perhaps you’re afraid of living with me?” He began to undress, as well. Under his jacket he unlaced his shirt. “You won’t join his wife on permanent tour, will you?”

         “I didn’t realize how little I had to work for your trust.”

         He laughed less. “You remind me of a cat I had as a child.”

         “I’m afraid I’m no one’s cat.” Beneath her wedding dress were not the lacey undergarments Arla would wear. No, she wore trousers and boots. They stretched tight over her legs as she crouched and reached for something under their bed.

         Something was wrong. As his heart sounded in his ears, all he could manage to say was, “Those must have been awfully hot under your dress.”

         “Oh yes.” She stood. In her hand was a foil, the tip pointed at him.

         It seemed she had every desire to be widowed. Everyone always seemed bent on getting rid of his company, eventually.

         The former Miss B--- appeared to be waiting for him to pull out a sword himself.

         He seized the candlestick at the bedside, the flame guttering. Wax dripped and slapped the floor. “I’ve seen many plays with sword fighting, but I’ve never been in one myself.”

         “Theater is a poor home for facts. Playwrights never get the sex of the Child Baron right, certainly. But you knew that.”

         “I did?”

         “Of course you did! It wouldn’t make any sense if you didn’t.” The former Miss B--- did not drop her sword but her brow wrinkled. “My father and I were the ones who burgled the rich in the countryside. You and your uncle of course figured this out long ago. That’s why my father—who’s hurt no one and nothing for a decade—now lies dead.” She said this too stiffly to be play acting.

         “But he died of pneumonia!”

         “Regardless of his illness, I doubt the sword in his stomach helped very much.” She thrust forward.

         He stopped the sword with the the candlestick, the flame leaping up hotly. Melted wax splashed his knuckles and it hurt. Letting go meant his life, however, and he would at least fight for that. “Have you gone mad?”

         The former Miss B--- steadied herself, pressing her blade down more firmly on the candlestick. “At your rotten family? Mad enough to kill.”

         “He doesn’t know!” said a reedy voice from the window.

         The Marquis turned to see Arla pry open the shutters and climb in. Her voluminous ripped skirts were too much for the sill, causing her to trip over herself and land on the floor.

         He set down the candlestick and ran to help her. “Good lord! What are you doing here? How did you get up here?”

         “I climbed.” She held him off. With dignity, she got back up again.

         The former Miss B--- at last put down her sword. “You said you were staying in the country!”

         “Once we figured out their family had the ring, I had to come and see for myself!” she said.

         Miss B--- was upset. “What do you mean ‘He doesn’t know?’”

         He saw between Arla and his wife not simply share a look of recognition but friendship. “A world of things, it seems!” he said.

         The former Miss B--- glared at him. “You and your uncle have been toying with me these last weeks! I only realized when my father turned up dead.”

         Arla looked sad. “I only heard just now. I’m so sorry. He had nothing to do with it. His uncle has withheld all he has done. The Marquis is not just well in hand but well in the dark.”

         “But we’ve been parrying! He must have known.” Miss B--- was beside herself.

         “I know, my dear,” said Arla.

         “How long have you known each other?” he demanded.

         “Since she attempted to rob my house when I was a child,” said Arla.

         “You rob courtesans?” said the Marquis.

         “Only when they are granddaughters of kings with secret fortunes,” said Miss B--- as Arla looked away. “Her mother caught my father, and instead of jail we were invited to dinner. We created an alliance.”

         “To do what?” he asked.

         “To find the blood of Arla’s ancestor.” Miss B--- held up the ring.

         Arla was baffled. “You got it? At last?”

         Miss B--- presented it to her with a sweeping half bow.

         He looked at Arla. “You thought I had it. Is that why we met in the rain all those months ago?”

         “I meant only to take stock of who you are.” Arla looked as if she were about to weep. “I did not mean to seduce you. Or discover you were a good lover. We cannot bury our forefather’s bones, though I may pay them my respects, but I will bring back his blood, for myself, my mother, and my people.”

         “I would have gotten the ring for you,” he said. “I wouldn’t have asked questions. Whether or not you loved me, I would have gotten it.”

         Arla shook her head with doubt, but he nodded, yes, yes, he would have. “I wouldn’t have asked. I have already taken advantage of you. I have gone to mass to beg forgiveness from the Gods every day.”

         Miss B--- laughed. “I would not have moved forward with marrying anyone if your uncle hadn’t come to town, looking desperately for a rich, brown-nosing fool girl to marry his nephew. I knew of Arla’s great hesitance and shyness.”

         “So it was marriage in exchange for that?” He looked at the ruby. It was worth more to the world than he was.

         “It was only going to be an engagement,” she said. “I just needed to be in your uncle’s presence and slip the ring off his hand while he was distracted. My last attempt ended in my dress getting caught.”

         “And you stole it just now?”

         “No. He gave it to me, like I said.”

         Arla examined it. “It looks real. What do you think?” She held out her hand to the Marquis.

         Miss B--- started.

         The Marquis knew an invitation for alliance when he saw one. He took Arla’s hand and it felt like a more meaningful ceremony than the one uniting him to Miss B---.

         “It’s the one he’s always worn,” said the Marquis. “We have too much debt to buy a new jewel.”

         “You don’t have too much debt to buy chocolate at a cafe,” said Arla.

         “That is debt I’ve never minded,” he said with absolute honesty.

         Miss B--- was flummoxed. “He gave me the ring and said that I am now family. I have never felt more disgusted.”

         The Marquis had to think. He knew his uncle’s mind better than anyone, he was sad to say. In all his years, he had been the man’s most steadfast companion. Valets had left speedily, and he had never known his uncle to entertain any lovers, women or men. “Giving away the ring was two things at once,” he said slowly. “My uncle both fears company and wants it desperately, like myself.”

         He did not miss the look Arla and Miss B--- shared.

         “If he knew your father was killed, if he was the one to ask an assassin to do it, then the ring was a brag,” said the Marquis. “It was a sign that he knew who you were. But it must also have been exactly what he said it was. A tie to our family. He wants to have and hate you as much as he does me.”

         Miss B--- no longer looked at him angrily. “If he hates you, why have you never left your uncle’s side?”

         He was surprised. No one had ever asked. “My father is in prison. My mother joined a nunnery. My friends always leave in the end. There was no one to leave with. I tried to run off at the docks to be a sailor when I was fifteen, but they knew who I was and knew my uncle’s power extended beyond shutting erratically down theaters.”

         “What you need, then,” said Miss B---, “is to be kidnapped.”

         The Marquis choked. “What?”

         Miss B--- was excited. “You need to be kidnapped by the Child Baron, who has now taken up the mantle from her father, the Masked Vandal, and brought to all sorts of wonderful adventures on the high seas. And Arla, the secret Bastard Princess of D---, will be our financier.”

         The Marquis’s spirits lifted. “Are you sure?”

         “Only if those are good terms for you!” Arla looked deeply pleased with Miss B---’s idea. “I may pay you back for all your gifts then, I hope.”

         The Marquis nodded quickly. “My uncle will never find us.”

         “Get dressed,” said Miss B---. “We must take care of him to ensure that.”

         The Marquis did not need convincing. He dressed and Arla helped him pack, renewed in enthusiasm. Still, he felt sure the entire arrangement would dry to nothing in the morning like the rain falling outside right now. The thought of escape was too enticing, though, certainly more than his books on thoroughly fictional, lithe, young nuns had ever been.

         “Should we keep this or leave it?” Arla held up one such volume. It fell open and she noted the illustration—a soldier, his bride, and her sisters, all together—with an, “Oh. Didn’t you say your mother was in a nunnery?”

         The Marquis colored. “That has nothing to do with that. And I do not need it, really,” he said. Then he looked Arla up and down and then Miss B---.

         She snorted. “Are you getting ideas?”

         “No! Pardon me. I assumed much. You did call your friend ‘dear.’”

         “I call many people ‘dear.’” Arla smirked. “Even those who do not justify their own ensnarement by their charms in the bedroom.”

         The Marquis flushed pleasantly. “I’m very willing to please. It’s how I am.”

         “I will not be a part of plans that I do not, myself, help make.” Miss B--- handed the Marquis a dagger that had been strapped to her thigh. “Do you know if your uncle is in his study or bedroom?”

         The Marquis suggested the study, first. He was fine with dispatching his uncle, he told himself, but the dagger was heavy in his hand.

         His uncle was not only there; his chair was facing the door when all three of them came in. He made a note on a piece of paper. Without looking up, he held up a finger for silence. There was no valet in attendance, but the Marquis stopped immediately out of habit.

         But Miss B--- strode forward. “You’re wondering why we’re here, of course.”

         “One moment,” said his uncle. “Let me finish. Yes. All right.” He blew on the ink so it would dry. Then he folded up the paper and put it in his coat. “There. No, Marquise, I am not wondering. Your father is dead because I sent an assassin. I’ve been told your father, the Masked Vandal, was too weak to struggle.”

         The former Miss B---, now the Marquise of A---, the New Masked Vandal—the woman who was all these things—gritted her teeth. “You are a coward.”

         “And yet I face my death bravely. Cowardice, itself, is a family trait. Sir A---, it is said, became friends with the White Hill Beast before feeding the monster poison and taking his land.” He looked at the Marquis. “And look at my nephew, who has a dagger trained on my face because his wife and serpent mistress have seduced him away. They will milk all you can give them, boy, all the opportunities you present, and leave you by the wayside.”

         In that moment, the Marquis felt better about being bundled off by these women more than anything else. “I am too much an idle waste to be worth anything to my wife but a title. If she had killed me a moment ago, she would have had it.”

         “Ah, but they could still do it, couldn’t they?” His uncle laughed at him. “You would prefer the company of women who might kill you to your own independence?”

         “I would prefer their company to the moldering house of a man who has decided to commit suicide in the most complex way possible.”

         His uncle visibly deflated. “Just have the dragon woman sink her teeth into me. Or have your wife spear my guts. Do it.”

         “I will not kill you.” The Marquise sighed as she put away her sword. “Your misery is your own. My father died because he got the best of you in life. You found us, but your vengeance meant nothing, means nothing. Taking away your nephew, the only person who ever stayed, is enough. Arla? Do you wish to kill him?”

         Arla shook her head quickly. “I have my ring and a man who treats me sweetly.”

         It took the Marquis a moment to realize she meant him. It took him another moment to realize that now his uncle, wife, and mistress all looked for his reply.

         “Hubert,” said his uncle, using his given name. “What ever will you do?”

         “Show me the paper you tucked into your jacket,” he said.

         Without hesitance, his uncle drew it out.

         The Marquis unfolded it. It was sheet music. The notes were grand and sweeping. “You wrote your own finale.”

         His uncle gave a brittle smile. What a treasure it must be to be understood by someone in the world.

         “I’m taking this with me.” The Marquis gave the dagger back to his wife. “I am also leaving, though I have nothing in my name. Then I will free my father, send news to my mother, and never see you again.”

         His uncle rose and struck him in the eye. It hurt. “No! Kill me! Do it! Give me my damn ending! Give me my tragedy! My wife no longer loves me and you, who I wanted to adore, I only hurt. Do this for me!”

         The Marquis pushed him back, and his uncle landed heavily on the chair.

         When he turned, he found his mistress offering her arm. His wife looked content. What a difficulty and a relief to leave one’s own vengeance behind.

         His uncle did not yell after them, but he thought he heard him weep.

         The trunk with his things—including a few books, his own and the Masked Vandal’s—was difficult to carry to the docks. It was far easier for his wife to buy passage on the ship for three. They shared one room, but the Marquis found, newly married, kidnapped, and empty of despair, he was far too tired to think of anything but sleep.

         He woke to the smell of the ocean. He had never been on a ship before, and the way it rocked was new.

         Arla combed her hair and plaited it in the mirror, seeming far more comfortable. His wife laughed as she swept grandly into the cabin, proud and at home here. Like his uncle, he wept, too, but with relief at being at last unmoored.

Copyright © 2017 Gillian Daniels

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Gillian Daniels attended the 2011 Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Workshop. Afterward, her poetry and short fiction started to get published by Strange Horizons, Apex, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, and Flash Fiction Online, among many others. She currently reviews local theater for The New England Theatre Geek. She can be found at your house party, petting your cat. You can visit her online to read her other work at gilliandaniels.com or say hi over at @gilldaniels on Twitter.

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COVER ART

“Riverhome,” by Veli Nyström

Veli Nyström is an illustrator and concept artist mostly in the games industry. He currently works as a freelancer and resides in Tampere, Finland. View more of his art online at www.artstation.com/vablo and velinystrom.com.

Beneath Ceaseless Skies

ISSN: 1946-1076

Published by Firkin Press,

a 501(c)3 Non-Profit Literary Organization

Compilation Copyright © 2017 Firkin Press

This file is distributed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 3.0 U.S. license. You may copy the file so long as you retain the attribution to the authors, but you may not sell it and you may not alter it or partition it or transcribe it.