He was winning them over. Venera had one last hand to play, and it was her weakest. She stood up.

  “Then who am I?” She strode up to the table and leaned across it to look Sarto in the eye. “If I’m a fraud I must have come from somewhere. Was I manufactured by one of the other nations, then? If so, which one? Spyre is secretive, but not so much so that we don’t all keep tabs on one another’s genealogies. Nobody’s missing from the rosters, are they?

  “And yet!” She turned to address the rest of the council. “Gaze upon me and tell me to my face that you don’t believe I am noble born.” She sneered at Sarto. “It’s evident in my every gesture, in how I speak, how I address the servants. Jacoby Sarto says that he knows I am a fraud. Yet you know I am a peer!

  “So then where did I come from?” She turned to Sarto again. “If Jacoby Sarto believes I did not come from Buridan Tower, then he must have some idea of where I did. What do you know, Sir Sarto, that you’re not telling the rest of us? Do you have some proof that you’re not sharing? A name, perhaps?”

  He opened his mouth—and hesitated.

  They locked eyes and she saw him realize what she was willing to do. The key to Candesce was almost visible in the air between them; it was the real subject of tonight’s deliberations.

  “Sacrus has many secrets, as we’ve seen tonight,” she said quietly. “Is there some further secret you have, Sir Sarto, that you wish to share with the council? A name, perhaps? One that might be recognized by the others present? A name that could be tied to recent events, to rumors and legends that have percolated through the principalities in recent weeks?” She saw puzzled frowns on several faces—and Sarto’s eyes widened as he heard her tread the edge of the one revelation Sacrus did not want made public.

  He looked down. “Perhaps I went too far in my accusations,” he said almost inaudibly. “I retract my statements.”

  Duke Ennersin leaned back in his chair, open-mouthed. And Jacoby Sarto meekly sat down.

  Venera returned to her seat. If I lose, everyone learns that you have the key, she thought as she settled herself on the velvet cushion. She took a sip of wine and kept her expression neutral as Pamela Anseratte stood again.

  “Well,” said the lady in a cautious tone, “if there are no more outbursts . . . let us put it to a vote.”

  Venera couldn’t help but lean forward a bit.

  “All those who favor this young lady’s claim, and who wish to recognize the return of Buridan to Spyre and to this council, raise your right hand.”

  Guinevera’s hand shot up. Beside him, August Virilio languidly pushed his into the air. Pamela Anseratte raised her own hand.

  Oxorn’s hand went up. Then, Garrat’s ambassador raised his.

  That made five. Venera let out the breath she’d been keeping. It was over. She had failed—

  Jacoby Sarto raised his hand.

  His expression was exquisite—a mixture of distaste and resignation that you might see in a man who’s just volunteered to dig up a grave. Duke Ennersin was staring at him in total disbelief and slowly turning purple.

  Lady Anseratte’s only show of surprise was a minute frown. “All those opposed?” she said.

  Ennersin threw his hand in the air. Five others went up.

  “And no abstentions,” said Anseratte. “We appear to have a tie.”

  Jacoby Sarto slumped back in his chair. “Well, then,” he said quietly. “I move we take the matter to the council investigative team. Let them visit the tower and conduct a thorough—”

  “Don’t I get a vote?”

  They all turned to stare at Venera. She sat up straighter, clearing her throat. “Well, it seems to me . . .” She shrugged. “It’s just that this meeting was called to confirm my identity and claim to being head of Buridan. Confirmation implies a presumption that I am who I say I am. I am Buridan unless proven otherwise. And Buridan is a member of the council. So I should have a vote.”

  “This is outrageous!” Duke Ennersin had had enough. He threw back his chair and stalked around the table. “You have the temerity to suggest that you—”

  “She’s right.”

  The voice was quiet and languid, almost indifferent—but it stopped Ennersin in his tracks. His head ratcheted around slowly, as if pulled by unwilling forces to look at the man who had spoken.

  August Virilio was lounging back in his chair, his hands steepled in front of him. “Article five, section twelve, paragraph two of the charter,” he said in a reasonable tone. “Identity is presumptive if there is no other proven heir. And Buridan is a member of the council. Its title was never suspended.”

  “A mere formality! A courtesy!” But Ennersin’s voice had lost its certainty. He appealed to Pamela Anseratte, but she simply spread her hands and smiled.

  Then, looking around him at Venera, she said, “It appears you are right, dear. You do get a vote. Would you care to . . . ?”

  Venera smiled and raised her right hand. “I vote in favor,” she said.

  SHE WAS SURE you could hear Ennersin outside and down the street. Venera smiled as she shepherded her guests to the door. She was delirious with relief and was sure it showed in her ridiculous grin. Her soiree was winding down, though naturally the doors and lounges would be open all night for any stragglers. But the council members were tired; no one would criticize them for leaving early.

  Ennersin was yelling at Jacoby Sarto. It was music to Venera’s ears.

  She looked for Garth but couldn’t see him at first. Then—there he was, sidling in the entrance. He’d changed to inconspicuous street clothes. Had he been preparing to sneak away? Venera pictured him leaving through the wine cellar exit to avoid the council’s troops. Then he could have circled around to stand with the street rabble who were waiting to hear the results of the vote. She smiled; it was what she might have done.

  There went Ennersin, sweeping by Garth without noticing him. Diamandis watched him go in distaste, then turned and saw Venera watching him. He spread his hands and shrugged. She made a dismissive gesture and smiled back.

  Time to mingle; the party wasn’t over yet and her head felt fine. It felt good to reinforce her win with a gracious turn about the room. For a while everything was a blur of smiling faces and congratulations. Then she found herself shaking someone’s hand (the hundredth, it must have been) and looked up to find it was Jacoby Sarto’s.

  “Well played, Ms. Fanning,” he said. There was no irony in his voice.

  She glanced around. They were miraculously alone for the moment. Probably a single glance from under Sarto’s wiry brows had been enough to clear a circle.

  All she could think of to say was, “Thank you.” It struck her as hopelessly inadequate for the situation, but all her strategies had been played out. To her surprise, Sarto smiled.

  “I’ve lost Ennersin’s confidence,” he said. “It’s going to take me years to regain some allies I abandoned today.”

  “Oh?” The mystery of his reversal during the vote deepened. Not one to prevaricate, Venera said, “Why?”

  He appeared puzzled. “Why did I vote for you?”

  “No—I know why.” The key was again unspoken-of between them. “I mean,” she said, “why did you come out so publicly against me in the first place, if you knew I had that to hang over you?”

  “Ah.” It was his turn to look around them. Satisfied that no one was within earshot, he said, “I was entrusted with the safety of Sacrus’s assets. You’re considered one of them. If I could acquire you, I was to do that. If not, and you threatened to reveal . . . certain details . . . well, I was to contrive a murderous rage.” He opened his jacket slightly and she saw the large pistol he had holstered there. “You would not have had a chance to say what you know,” he said with a slight smile.

  “So why didn’t you . . .”

  “It is useful to have an acknowledged heir of Buridan controlling that estate. This way we avoid a nasty succession conflict, which Sacrus would view as an unnecessary . . . distraction, right now. Besides.” Sarto shrugged. “There are few moments in a man’s life when he has the opportunity to make a choice on his own. I simply did not want to shoot you.”

  “And why tell me this now?”

  His mouth didn’t change from its accustomed frown, but the lines around Sarto’s eyes might have crinkled a little bit—an almost-smile.

  “It will be easy for me to tell my masters that the pistol was taken from me at your door,” he said. “Without an opportunity to acquire or silence you, letting you win was the expedient option. My masters know that.” He turned away, then looked back with a scowl. “I hope you won’t give me reason to regret my decision.”

  “Surely not. And my apologies for inconveniencing you.”

  He laughed at the edge in her voice.

  “You may think you’re free,” he said as the crowd parted to let him through, “but Sacrus still owns you. Never forget that.”

  Venera kept her smile bright, but his parting words worried at her for the rest of the evening.

  11

  MUSCLES ACHING, VENERA swung down from the saddle of her horse. It was two weeks since the confirmation and she had lost no time in establishing her rule over Buridan—which, she had decided, had to include becoming a master rider.

  She’d knocked down two walls and sealed up the ends of one of the high-ceilinged cellar corridors, forming one long narrow room where her steed could trot. There were stalls at one end of this, and two workmen were industriously scattering straw and sand over the flagstones. “Deeper,” Venera told them. “We need several inches of it everywhere.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The men seemed unusually enthusiastic and focused on their task. Maybe they had heard that the new foals were to arrive later today. Probably it was just being in proximity with the one horse now residing here. Venera hadn’t yet met anyone who didn’t share that strange, apparently ancient love for horses that seemed inbuilt in humans.

  Venera herself wasn’t immune to it. She patted Domenico and walked down the length of the long room, trailing one hand along the low fence that bisected it lengthwise. Her horse master stood at the far end, a clipboard clutched in his hand; he was arguing quietly with someone. “Is everything all right, gentlemen?” Venera asked.

  The other man turned, lamplight slanting across his gnomish features, and Venera said “Oh!” before she could stop herself.

  Samson Odess screwed his fishlike face up into a smile and practically lunged over to shake her hand.

  “I’m honored to meet you, Lady Amandera Thrace-Guiles!” His eyes betrayed no recognition, and Venera realized that she was standing in heavy shadow. “Liris is honored to offer you some land to stable your horses. You see, we’re diversifying and—”

  She grinned weakly. It was too soon for this! She had hoped that the men and women of Liris would be consumed by their own internal matters, at least long enough for her new identity to become fixed. If Odess recognized her the news would be bound to percolate through the Fair. She didn’t believe in its vaunted secrecy any more than she believed that good always triumphed.

  She let go of Odess’s hand before he could get entirely into his sales pitch, and turned away. “Charmed I’m sure. Flance! Can you deal with this?”

  “Oh, but Master Flance was unable to resolve one little matter,” said the horse master, stepping around Odess.

  “Deal with it!” she snarled. She glimpsed a startled look in Odess’s eye before she swept by the two men and into the outer hallway.

  Well, that had been an unexpected surge of adrenaline! She laughed at herself as she strode quickly through the vaulted, whitewashed spaces. In the half-minute it took her to slow down to a stroll, Venera took several turns and ended up in an area of the cellars she didn’t know.

  Someone cleared their throat. Venera turned to find a man in servant’s livery approaching. He looked only vaguely familiar but that was hardly surprising, considering the number of people she’d hired recently.

  “Ma’am, this area hasn’t been cleaned up yet. Are you looking for something in particular?”

  “No. I’m lost. Where did you just come from?”

  “This way.” The man walked back the way they had both come. He was right about the state of the cellars; this passage hadn’t been reconstructed and was only minimally cleaned. Black portraits still hung on the walls, here and there an eye glaring out from behind centuries of dust and soot. The lanterns were widely spaced and a few men visible down a side way were reduced to silhouettes, their backdrop some bright distant doors.

  “Down this way.” Her guide indicated a black stairwell Venera hadn’t seen before. Narrow and unlit, it plummeted steeply down.

  Venera stopped. “What the—” Then she saw the pistol in his hand.

  “Move,” grated the man. “Now.”

  She almost called his bluff. One of those quick sidesteps Chaison had taught her, then a foot sweep . . . he would be on the floor before he knew it. But she hesitated just long enough for him to step out of reach. Caught unprepared for once, Venera stumbled into the blackness with him behind her.

  “YOU’RE IN A lot of trouble,” she said.

  “We’re not afraid of the authorities.” said her kidnapper contemptuously.

  “I’m not talking about the authorities. I’m talking about me.” The stairs had ended on a narrow shelf above an indistinct, dark body of water. It was dank and cold down here; looking left and right she saw that she was standing on the edge of a large tank—a cistern, no doubt.

  “We’ve been watching you,” said the shadowy figure behind her. “I assure you we know what you’re capable of.” The pistol was in her back again and he was pushing her hard enough that she had trouble keeping her feet. Angrily she hurried ahead and emerged onto the flagstones next to the water. “I didn’t know I had this,” she commented as she turned right, toward the source of the light.

  “It’s not yours. This is part of the municipal water supply,” said a half-familiar voice up ahead.

  She eyed the black depths. Jump in? There might be a culvert she could swim through, the way heroes did in romance novels. Those heroes never drowned in the dark, though, and besides, even if she made it out of here her appearance, soaking wet, in the streets of the city was bound to cause a scandal. She did not need that right now.

  There was an open area at the far end of the tank. The same tables and crates she’d seen in the wine cellar were set up here, and the same young revolutionaries were sitting on them. Standing next to a lantern-lit desk was the youth with straight black hair and oval eyes. He was dressed in the long coat and tails she’d seen fashionable men wearing on the streets of the wheel; with his arms crossed the coat belled out enough for her to see the two pistols holstered at his waist. She was suddenly reminded of Garth’s apparel, which was like a down-at-heel version of the same costume.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” she snapped, even as she counted people and exits (there was one of the latter, a closed iron door). “You’re not being very neighborly,” she added more softly.

  “Sit her down and tie her up,” said the black-haired youth. He had a high tenor voice, not unmanly but refined, his words very precise. His eyes were gray and cold.

  “Yes, Bryce.” The man who’d led her here sat her down on a stout wooden chair next to the table and, pulling her arms back, proceeded to tie a clumsy knot around her wrists.

  Venera craned her neck to look back. “You obviously don’t do this much,” she said. Then, spearing this Bryce fellow with a sharp eye, she added, “Kidnapping is precision work. You people don’t strike me as being organized enough to pull it off.”

  Bryce’s eyebrows shot up, that same look of surprise he’d shown in the cellar. “If you’d been following our escapades you’d know what we’re capable of.”

  “Bombing innocent crowds, yes,” she said acidly. “Hero’s work, that.”

  He shrugged, but looked uncomfortable. “That one was meant for the committee members,” he admitted. “It fell back and killed the man who threw it. That was a soldier’s death.”

  She nodded. “Like most soldiers’ deaths, painfully unnecessary. What do you want?”

  Bryce spun another chair around and sat down in it, folding his arms over its back. “We intend to bring down the great nations,” he said simply.

  Venera considered how to reply. After a moment she said, “How can kidnapping me get you any closer to doing that? I’m an outsider; I’m sure nobody cares much whether I live or die. And nobody will ransom me.”

  “True,” he agreed with a shrug. “But if you go missing, you’ll soon be declared a fraud and the title to Buridan will go up for grabs. It’ll be a free-for-all, and we intend to make sure that it starts a civil war.”

  As plans went, it struck Venera as eminently practical—but this was not a good time to be smiling and nodding.

  She thought for a while. All she could hear was the slow drip, drip of water from rusted ceiling pipes; doubtless no one would hear any cries for help. “I suppose you’ve been following my story,” she said eventually. “Do you believe that I’m Amandera Thrace-Guiles, heir of Buridan?”

  He waved a hand negligently. “Couldn’t care less. Actually, I think you are an imposter, but why does it matter? You’ll soon be out of the picture.”

  “But what if I am an imposter?” She watched his face closely as she spoke. “Where do you suppose I came from?”

  Now he looked puzzled. “Here . . . but your accent is foreign. Are you from outside Spyre?”

  She nodded. “Outside Spyre, and consequently I have no loyalty for any of the factions here. But I do have one thing—I’ve come into a great deal of money and influence, using my own wits.”

  He leaned back, laughing. “So what are you saying?” he asked. “That you’re a sympathizer? More like an opportunist; so why should I have anything but contempt for that?”

  “Because this power . . . is only a means to an end,” she said. “I’m not interested in who governs or even who ends up with the money I’ve gained. I have my own agenda.”

 

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