Mistress of Bones by Maria Z. Medina - IX. The Count, Again

IX
THE COUNT, AGAIN

A YEAR AND A HALF EARLIER
Count de Anví studied the two toddlers playing on the plush rug. They whined and squealed and made their presence annoyingly obvious in the big white-and-blue room deep inside the Heart. A nurse attended them while two fellow golden tabards stood guard by the double doors: one with a pike, the other with a rapier and a pistol. Another set of guards waited on the other side of the door behind the count and the Faceless Witch.
He spared her a glance. Damn the Witch to the Void. She was wearing Bard Celeste in full visiting regalia: embroidered breeches, embroidered deep red doublet, chestnut hair swept into a beautiful arrangement supported by silver hairpins ending in small blooming flowers. A lace mask matching the doublet covered the upper half of her face, but it didn’t hide the twinkle in the honey-brown irises ringed in gray.
“So,” said the Witch, “can you tell which child is the king and which one is the decoy?”
“I’m not their nurse, how would I know?”
“They do look awfully alike, don’t you think? Looking at them like this, you can understand how someone thought they might be able to swap them long enough to steal the king.”
The count returned his attention to the children. “You trust your source?”
“Yes, she enjoys her dreams too much to mislead me.”
De Anví wanted to ask what that had to do with anything, but he would rather not know. These dreams the Witch procured left him wary, just as the Witch herself did.
“Should we tell Captain de Aria of this plot unveiling under the root vegetable he calls his nose?” the Witch asked.
De Anví ignored her. The Witch was simply using his dislike for the head of the Royal Guard to provoke him. For all that De Anví didn’t know the Witch so well—except for the fact that she was a witch—the Witch knew him too well. How? That, he was still trying to figure out. His servants were paid well, he didn’t attract undue gossip, and he kept no romantic entanglements.
“Surely, whoever is planning on kidnapping the king can’t have that many people willing to help,” he whispered. There were no other toddlers residing in the palace. “Taking one of the toddlers outside will be too obvious unless supported by a larger plot.”
“It doesn’t take that many if you have people on the inside,” the Witch agreed in a jovial tone that made him wonder if she’d had a hand in helping come up with this scheme.
It didn’t matter. He was nearly done with the Royal Guard; it was not his problem.
“Once the swap is revealed and news gets out that the king is gone, possibly murdered, the court will fall into disarray,” the Witch continued. “Regent de Fernán will be a joke—how can a regent be allowed to speak policy when there is no king to regent for? The court will freeze while they search for the king, then search the bloodline when they fail to find him. They will look for another heir. And you can be assured whoever is behind the plot already knows whom they’ll find: some wonderful puppet ready to do as they need.”
Not unlike the Witch’s bodies, De Anví thought wryly. “Will these traitors assassinate the actual king once they have left the decoy behind?”
“No, they will keep the child alive, along with any proof that he is the true king, and raise him to do their bidding. It’s useful to have an alternative plan in case things go awry and their puppet decides to grow a will of his own.” The Witch licked her lips. “Schemes, so very enjoyable.”
And the one thing De Anví wanted no part of. “I assume you paid your informant well enough that this tale will not spread further.”
“Of course I did. My dreams aren’t cheap.”
“We’ll need to find out who the leader of the plot is and take them into custody.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure that’s the correct way to proceed.”
De Anví was scared to ask, yet couldn’t help himself. “How else?”
“You take out only one person, another will take their place. It’s so much better to catch everyone in the act, don’t you think?”
“Captain de Aria will never allow the king to be used as bait.”
The Witch smiled knowingly. “That’s why we’re not going to tell him.”
“If not him, then who?” De Anví had no real power to speak of, his position too low in the Royal Guard ranks. The only reason he was allowed in the king’s presence at all was the strength of his family name. Accusing someone on the basis of hearsay would get him nothing but ridicule, and he had a feeling the Witch would not provide any solid proof unless he played this game according to her rules.
The Witch appeared to ponder his question, although he was certain she’d long settled on someone to spearhead the foiling of this kidnapping. The only thing he didn’t know was why she was involving him.
“De Losa, I think,” she finally said. “She is hungry for power, and won’t mind going behind De Aria’s back.”
De Anví nodded in agreement. The Countess de Losa was known for having her sights on eventually commanding the Golden Dogs. “The proof of parentage shall need to be secured, so there is no doubt the child being saved from the kidnapping is the true king and not the decoy. There can be no doubt when the traitors fail and are apprehended that we have the correct child. The queen’s blood will be needed to ascertain the child is from her lineage.”
“No doubt about it.”
“Without anyone knowing we’re securing it. We must not give the traitors cause for concern and allow them to cover their tracks.”
“Indeed.” The Witch’s gaze switched to his face. “How will you manage that feat? The Royal Crypt is well guarded.”
This was the point where he ought to step back, now that he’d given his opinion.
But now De Anví could not pretend he had never heard of a possible plot against the king. He might not want the Witch’s dreamy wares, but De Anví had his own dreams for the future. While a kidnapping might cause an uproar, it would be nothing compared with another king appearing later. The scandal would upend all of Sancia—and his life, by association. Cienpuentes had enough troubles as it was.
No, he must see this through or be shackled with the worry about others’ incompetence. He had spent nights waking up with his heart in his throat and his skin covered in sweat for less important matters.
As for how to find out things without anyone knowing, he knew just the man: Miguel Esparza, his favorite city rat.
THE PRESENT
Two days after his attempted ambush, De Anví donned darker, simpler clothes than he usually wore. It felt strange not to be swallowed by whites, creams, and gold. He welcomed the change, though, the spark of excitement and adventure that the need to dress this way had awakened inside his soul. Of course, different clothes could only do so much as he strode through the more disreputable streets of Cienpuentes, and since he was unwilling to use a mask, people could tell something was off about him—if they didn’t outright recognize him—and it rendered them reluctant to talk.
Ah, how he missed being simply a count. How he longed for his life before his “advancement” into the second-in-command of the Golden Dogs, when not many outside court paid him attention unless he showed some coin.
“Like the old times!” exclaimed the Faceless Witch with what sounded to De Anví like all the delight in the world, still wearing her favorite man. “When we scoured the town looking for stolen royal blood!”
Gods, would there be a time when he could finally be rid of her? When he no longer needed to keep track of her deeds? Every day, the river grew more appealing. Slipping into the Lord Death’s embrace would take no great effort—he had long set his affairs in order, just as he had long accepted his path in life was set and would offer no deviations.
Which was why, when he had been confronted by three masked strangers in a dark alleyway and curiosity bloomed in his chest, he’d found himself unable to resist trying to track them down.
“Be silent, Witch,” said Esparza. “Your thoughts aren’t needed.”
No love lost between Miguel Esparza and the Faceless Witch.
The Witch chuckled. “Do not lie, you can feel it too. It’s been too long since we last had an outing like this.”
And it would never be long enough, Esparza’s expression told them. De Anví commiserated. He had considered ending the Witch in the past, but alas, not knowing her real identity or the location of her true body—not for a lack of Esparza and him trying to figure it out—would’ve meant killing the man being used as her body, while she simply moved on to inhabit someone else.
“Stay,” he told them both curtly, stopping any further bickering. He crossed the busy street and approached a woman selling murky drinks by an intersection. Freshly boiled tea, she told him. He very much doubted it, but bought a cup anyway and asked her if she had seen three masked men rushing away two evenings earlier.
He got nothing, just as he had gotten nothing from the other people he had already asked. Turned out, a trio of hurried masked men was not a rare occurrence in Cienpé.
“We should talk with De Gracia,” the Witch suggested once De Anví re-joined them. “It’s no coincidence, this timing of his sire’s murder and your encounter. And he might have discovered something new about his father’s death.”
The Witch’s increasing obsession with De Gracia was unwelcome news. As much as De Anví resented the Witch’s fixation on him, to have her fixated on someone outside his oversight would be worse.
“We might as well,” he said, and to Esparza, “You will come?”
A roll of eyes. “Indeed.”
So, to the Marquess de Gracia’s house they went. It was quite a walk, and by the end of it, De Anví was glad to be in simple shirtsleeves instead of the elaborate doublet and half cape befitting his station. They didn’t have to wait for His Grace, since he was already home, and they were soon shown into a beautiful, airy parlor, where Sergado de Gracia welcomed them and introduced his companion, the artist Isile Manzar.
De Gracia was in his mid-twenties, with dark brown hair that defied custom and was shorn short enough to fall in waves around his face rather than to his shoulders or chest. His friend wore his black hair gathered into a tail by his nape, his skin a richer golden tone than the lighter tan common in these parts of Sancia. He was about the same age as De Gracia, and the ease in his movements and conversation spoke of the young man’s friendship with His Grace as well as his talent—here was someone whose art had made him equal to a marquess.
Perhaps, De Anví thought fleetingly as they made use of the two settees in the room, he could ask him how a few blurred strokes could change shape so dramatically depending on the distance from a painting.
Esparza chose to remain by the door, too much of a guard and too aware of his station to join them.
“Tell me,” the Witch said, angling toward Manzar, “do you ever wear masks?”
Manzar’s surprise was evident. “If I must.”
“Do you gain inspiration from your dreams?”
This, he mulled for a few moments. “Occasionally, but I prefer to study my subjects with my eyes open.”
“A dream will show what sight cannot.”
Manzar shook his head. “The Lady Dream tends to steal them as soon as I wake, I’m afraid.”
“There are ways around that,” the Witch replied. Then, with a secretive smile, “Seek me later, Isile Manzar, and I will help you.”
The young man smiled in response, polite but wary.
“Losing your touch,” murmured Esparza.
Something flickered in the Witch’s eyes, but her face was too hard to read beneath her mask.
“Your Grace,” De Anví said, addressing the marquess, “I’m afraid we are here to raise some bad memories.”
De Gracia’s easy smile faded into a straight line. “Then you are here about my father.”
“Yes.” De Anví inclined his head toward Manzar. “Perhaps this would be a conversation better kept private.”
“Nothing about my father’s death was kept a secret. I don’t see why we should start now.”
“As you wish. I need to ask if you’ve done any inquiries about his demise.”
“Murder, you mean,” De Gracia said, steel backing his voice. “And, yes, but why do you ask?”
“Forgive me, Your Honor,” Manzar said, “but wouldn’t you be in a better position to know about it?”
“It’s a matter of the City Guard, not the palace,” De Anví answered. “And I’m sure His Grace trusts their usefulness as much as I do.” He spared a glance at Esparza and found his mocking salute.
De Gracia nodded again. “Indeed. But again, what is your interest? If I may be blunt, we have barely exchanged words before today, and now you ask?”
De Anví considered how to best approach the matter. Being second-in-command of the Golden Dogs, if only for a year and a half, had accustomed him to awe, respect, and a certain eagerness to please—even if the outward deference was covering disdain. He’d forgotten there were others who didn’t share the sentiment.
“I was ambushed two evenings ago by masked men seeking to take me to someone.” By the men’s expressions, he could tell the tale hadn’t yet reached them. “This one,” he continued, motioning toward the Witch, “insists my unsuccessful abduction and your sire’s successful murder have something in common.”
“The summer court is upon us,” the Witch said. “It’s been two years since it last convened, and we all know what’s on everyone’s mind.”
“Anchor,” De Anví stated.
De Gracia frowned at this. Manzar stood and got them each a drink from a nearby decanter.
De Anví enjoyed the hit of fruity fire running down his throat, but partook of no more than one sip. Placing the cup on the low table between them, he avoided looking at the marquetry swirls on its surface lest he feel forced to spend the rest of the day aligning the cup with the pattern.
“My father believed in the ban,” the marquess said, looking at his own cup but not drinking. “Our family had some interests in Girende that went down with the rest of the city. It’s a well-known fact.” He raised his eyes to meet everyone else’s. “Was this why he was murdered? Would the mining proponents be so blatant?”
“You are young—your views can be molded, cajoled, or scared into what they want,” De Anví said. “But, yes, these have been bold strokes. Desperation, perhaps?” Did De Fernán lack enough support to lift the ban and had turned to extremes to get it? He looked at Esparza for confirmation. The man simply shrugged.
“Sergado doesn’t care about politics,” Manzar said. “Everyone knows this too.”
“What do you care about?” the Witch asked, too eagerly for De Anví’s taste.
“Art, science, and the like,” De Gracia answered.
“Matters that move us forward,” Manzar added.
“And the court moves us backward?” De Anví asked dryly.
“No offense meant, Your Honor,” Manzar said with haste. “But from what we hear, they do seem to walk in circles.”
“Father warned me of the court’s pettiness,” De Gracia agreed. “And although he had little liking for it, he was raising me to take his place eventually. I have—had—been helping him since I was a child. I don’t care if they mine Anchor or not. My interests lie elsewhere. If Girende’s cave-in was meant to be a warning, I’ll let scientists and philosophers tell me how I should feel.”
“And this is a known view?” De Anví asked.
“We all hold similar views in our circle.”
“Then your sire’s death was certainly about the Anchor ban. A muddled view like yours is easier to direct than a strict one like your father’s,” De Anví said. And, damn her soul, perhaps the Witch was right and his ambush was about the ban as well—his views on the ban weren’t far from De Gracia’s. “Hire personal guards, pay them well, and watch your back. Whoever is behind this plot might not be so lenient if you go against their wishes. Esparza over there can help you arrange for it.”
“I’ve had a personal guard since I was a child. I am well aware of the risks in my position, no matter how inconvenient I might find them.” De Gracia pointed toward a pistol lying on the windowsill.
De Anví had yet to be impressed by such weapons. “Those are as likely to explode and take your hand than expel the bullet. Your point, however, stands. I can see you are aware of the dangers.”
“It would be foolish not to be,” De Gracia added with a wry curve of his lips.
Here was someone who thought his own intellect a step above everyone else’s, De Anví thought. They might as well take their leave.
“What shall we do now?” the Witch asked with unashamed eagerness once they were outside the marquess’s large home.
“Nothing,” De Anví said curtly. “We have no leads on the three strangers, and we learned nothing we didn’t already suspect from De Gracia.”
“We’ll have to wait and see if you get corralled again,” Esparza said, though De Anví had no doubt he’d nose into both his confrontation and the elder De Gracia’s murder. “Until then, I have my City Guard duties to conduct.”
With a tip of his hat, Esparza went on his way. The Witch abandoned De Anví’s side as well, thank the gods, likely in pursuit of more information about De Gracia’s artist friend.
As De Anví returned to his own house, the familiar blanket of bleak tiredness embraced him. The excitement was gone. All the things he must do—must keep doing—now that this escapade was done pressed on his shoulders.
If only he had someone to share in the pointlessness of it all.
But all he had were dreams.