Mistress of Bones by Maria Z. Medina - V. The Count

V
THE COUNT

The count leaned in to study the masterful brushstrokes, haphazard at close distance, yet inexplicably detailed once the eye took in the whole painting.
Emiré de Anví disliked how something could reshape itself so easily. He enjoyed order in his life, things set in a certain way. At only twenty-six, he was already set in his ways: his black hair, tumbling down in natural curls over his shoulders and upper back; his cheeks, shaved clean every morning without fail; his clothes, always of the same elegant cut, the same materials, the same colors—white and creams and golds. He held a black wide-brimmed hat with a full soft white plume, and he tapped it impatiently against his breeches. This painting in front of him, a portrait of the late Sancian queen, was an abomination of everything he sought in life.
Like the rest of the palace, it was encased in an ornate frame. It hung on a beige wall supporting an ornamental ceiling full of molded waves covered with a dusting of Anchor. This palace, the Heart of Cienpuentes, was the pinnacle of centuries dealing in Anchor.
Fragile, extravagant. Unlivable.
De Anví abandoned his perusal and strode down the long hallway, his dress ankle boots echoing against the polished stone floor with each measured step. The desperate yearning to escape the palace’s confining enclosure he kept locked inside, although it resurfaced from time to time, like when he paid his daily visit to His Majesty.
His Majesty, being five years of age, couldn’t care less about his daily visits. The feeling was reciprocated.
Emiré de Anví hated the little bastard.
It had been just over two years since the queen’s death, and a year and a half since the attempted kidnapping of her child, an affair De Anví had helped unravel and which had earned him his current position in the Royal Guard. A position he hadn’t wanted, hadn’t hoped for, and quite resented, but which had been granted nonetheless.
The guard standing by the end of the hallway bowed his head when he drew near. A muttered “Your Honor” escaped him.
As second-in-command of the Golden Dogs, the Royal Guard, greetings like this were a given and went unnoticed. His position allowed him free roam of the palace and gave him the kind of life the Heart had created for itself: fragile, extravagant. Unlivable.
He came upon another set of guards, who opened the big, heavy wooden door leading outside. Without breaking his stride, he trotted down the stone steps, fitting his hat on his head and pulling his half cape over his right shoulder. It was too warm to bother with one, but De Anví would wear it all the same.
He kept his pace even, avoiding carts, horses, and their manure. Twilight was upon the dozens of islands that made up the Anchor city of Cienpuentes, shadowing the buildings in contrast with the darkening sky—no longer the pink hue of winter, but the beautiful deep blue of early summer. Houses rose two and three stories in height; narrow bridges connected them over his head, and broader ones connected the islands over the flowing water of the River Espasesmo. The wide streets surrounding the Heart gave way to the meandering flagstone paths of the city as he made his way to his favorite tavern.
Now that the official mourning for the queen was over, the silent halls and rooms of the Heart would soon be filled by summer balls and celebrations given by Regent de Fernán in honor of the child king.
What a bleak handful of months, of years, waiting for him, stuck in the palace like a dog on a leash, waiting to see who died first—the master or the pet.
“Count de Anví.”
De Anví, waking from his musings, found himself in a shadowed alleyway running by the river’s edge. The sight was familiar—he took this route every other day. Ahead of him, three men in dark clothing blocked his passage, black masks covering the upper halves of their faces.
One stepped forward. “Your Honor, our employer would like a word with ye.”
De Anví cocked his head. “And who might that be?”
“You’ll find out when you get there.”
“I think not, then. Tell them to schedule an appointment—I am on private business.”
“We must insist,” the man said, adding a small growl.
Did the man think he would be cowed by dogs? “Your wishes are of no matter to me.”
The man’s hand went to his sword. The two behind him copied his movement. “Then we shall make it your business.” He began to unsheathe the rapier.
De Anví’s hand gripped his own Valiente, a present from his late father. One foot glided backward, and his body turned sideways. He was isolated, but the narrowness of the alley worked in his favor. Here, they could not surround him. Here, they’d be stuck in line like ducks after their mama. Then it would be a simple matter of pushing their corpses into the water and letting the river’s current work its wonders.
He suddenly craved the excitement, the risk of a fight. Pride would not allow him to intentionally fail, but he could always be bested. One missed feint and a rapier between his ribs, and then the Lord Death would be to blame for the promises his death would break, even if De Anví had only made them to himself.
The man’s rapier slid out of its sheath. “Come now, Your Honor. Don’t make things difficult for yourself.”
Things had never appeared simpler, in De Anví’s opinion. He brought out Valiente and pushed his half cape aside, allowing for a full range of motion.
His opponent’s eyes narrowed. Did he think him a man of words and not swords? If he were brought up in Cienpé, perhaps, but De Anví was bred and raised in the countryside, where fights erupted at a moment’s notice and the paths at night weren’t always safe.
He pressed forward, the other man raising his rapier in response, waiting to see who would attack first.
De Anví decided he had a liking for it, to start something rather than be dragged into it.
Valiente pierced through the air, its path met by his opponent’s rapier, De Anví’s mind on the next move, and the next, and the one after that.
After the man parried the count’s initial attack, he attempted a strike in return. De Anví blocked it easily, pushing forward and aiming for the man’s shoulder. A rapier could sever things besides veins, and De Anví had always preferred the subtle tearing of tendons and muscles to bloody shows of conquest.
His attack was parried again, easily. They were testing each other, figuring out their speed, their accuracy, their reflexes.
The man lunged for De Anví’s arm. Valiente met his rapier, the ensuing rasp filling the air over the murmur of the river.
The man’s companions remained silent behind him, waiting, bored. Curious. De Anví would have expected them to cheer or jeer or try to join in.
But then, these men didn’t want him dead. If they killed De Anví, how would their employer talk to him? That explained the half-hearted attacks coming his way—they were not a matter of skill but of necessity. De Anví’s opponent sought to maim, not kill.
This fight would not give him the satisfaction he craved, but perhaps he could still find some sport in it.
“What’s this?” cried a new voice from behind the men. “My, what luck—a show of underhanded tactics!”
De Anví and his adversary stopped. The two men in the background turned to glare at the newcomer. The front man’s attention didn’t waver—he trusted his companions to deal with the new danger—and De Anví allowed himself a spark of intrigue. Hired criminals did not usually trust one another this much.
“This is not your concern,” one of the men told the newcomer. “Scamper.”
“Scamper, you say,” the newcomer answered. “What am I, ten?” His rapier was halfway out of its sheath, the glint of the little Anchor left in the river’s bottom reflecting on the metal.
Miguel Esparza knew how to make an entrance, De Anví had to admit.
The men’s leader, realizing he was stuck between two combatants in a narrow passage, pushed his rapier back into its scabbard.
“Another time, then.” Giving his back to the count, he motioned the other two toward the end of the alleyway.
De Anví felt a pang of disappointment at the men’s easy capitulation, his heart still beating an eager rhythm.
“Not so fast,” Esparza said. “Who are you and what do you want with His Honor?”
“Not your affair,” the man in front of him said. Before Esparza could reply, he’d shoved past him, the other two following.
“Hold,” Esparza demanded. “On the City Guard’s order!”
But the men’s steps had hastened into a half run, and in the next breath, they were out of sight.
Esparza cursed before turning to the count. “Where is your shadow?”
De Anví rearranged his half cape and closed the distance between them, gesturing for the other man to walk ahead of him. “Which one?”
“Not the one under your feet.”
“I told Tonio not to come with me tonight.”
“Tonio should know better than that. A count, a high-ranking member of the Royal Guard walking alone without his personal protection? One day, Death might receive your invitation.” Esparza clucked. “And what of your other shadow?”
“The Witch,” De Anví answered, his jaw tightening, “I’ll meet later.”
“Don’t mind me if I tag along for now.”
De Anví didn’t mind, still hungry for something more since the masked strangers had given so little.
They emerged from the alleyway and crossed onto the next island. A few minutes later, they took their usual seats in the small hole of Casa Rojita. Ale promptly followed.
De Anví took a sip, then idly studied the tavern. Most of the customers were familiar, although he did not know who they were—unlike the countryside, city dwellers were not free with their names. There was a kind of safety in this room full of known strangers that made De Anví return again and again, mindless of dark alleys and the danger his rich clothing attracted. Besides, he was used to people greeding for what he owned. He had spent a third of his life at court, after all.
“Who were those men?” Esparza asked after sipping his own drink. He grimaced in disgust, then heartened himself and drank some more.
De Anví shrugged.
“You’re too cavalier with your safety, De Anví.”
The count snorted. “I did not see you calling for help.”
It was Esparza’s turn to dismiss the words. “They’d have been easy pickings for the both of us.”
“Perhaps.”
“What did they want?”
“I’ve not yet the gift of reading minds.”
“You are like this, and then I no longer wonder why you aren’t married.”
De Anví froze until even his eyes were as cold as metal. Forcing himself to relax again, he said conversationally, “You court the Lord Death with your words, Miguel. You will find him one of these days.”
Esparza returned the stare with a mocking one of his own. “It’s a race, then, to see who meets him first.”
Silence settled over the small table, the murmur of other conversations drifting close. “If the god is willing,” Esparza finally muttered, tipping his mug against his lips, “I’ll find him first.”
“Any rumors that should concern me?” De Anví asked, studying the other man. Although he wore nondescript breeches, shirt, and an open doublet, Miguel Esparza was in fact a member of the blue tabards, the City Guard. But what made him valuable to De Anví was his excellence in scurrying where he wasn’t wanted. The count took a heartier sip of his drink. Esparza often called himself a rat, and the word carried no insult, because that’s what he was—a city rat. Fast, stealthy, with a bite.
“Nothing I’ve heard.”
“The Marquess de Mavén?”
“Quiet as a duck on a pond.”
“Then I guess those men weren’t his.”
“Whoever they belong to—if they belong to anyone beyond their coin—must like you alive, even if slightly broken in the process.”
“They said their employer wanted a word with me.”
“Court politics?”
“Likely, but nobody has attempted kidnapping before.”
“You weren’t so high up in the Golden Dogs last time court was in session.”
The man wasn’t wrong, De Anví conceded. “If it was important business, I’m sure this won’t be the last time I hear of it. And the other matter? Is that why you happened to cross my path?”
“What, can’t one wish to spend some time with a friend? Ah, don’t answer, you are right.” Esparza retrieved a small pouch from inside his doublet and handed it over. The count didn’t bother examining the contents—he knew what it held, since he’d asked Esparza to procure it for him: a single sliver of pure Anchor. So tiny it could easily fall between his fingers and never be found again.
Cienpuentes had once been as bright and blue as the sky—or so the tales went—but there was barely any glittering Anchor left. It had been mined away except for the bottom of Espasesmo’s delta and the lake, places not even the smartest engineers knew how to access without condemning their workers into the strong currents and the maelstrom in the middle of the lake.
Though they had tried.
He pocketed the pouch.
“You won’t look inside?” Esparza remarked.
“Why, have you decided to start fleecing me?”
“I was able to acquire two pieces. At a lower price.”
De Anví’s eyebrows arched. News of the likely Anchor mining vote must be spreading. Someone was going to be either very happy or very sad about making this deal.
He wondered if he should look for full pieces again. He had once entertained the idea of turning the few he already owned into a set of necklace and earrings—the most beautiful of gifts, fit to adorn the most beautiful of women. Different images flicked through his mind, different designs—the yearning in his heart taking shape.
With a sigh, he forced himself to wipe the thoughts from his mind. What good was a gift when you had nobody to gift it to?
At least, not anymore.
“It’s true the mining ban is being lifted, then?” Esparza asked before taking a sip of his drink. “Girende’s sinking, forgotten so soon.” He studied the count. “You are part of the court. What will be your vote? Will you condemn us simple peasants to Girende’s fate, or abide by the late queen’s wishes?”
“When I decide, I might let you know. Now, go, before the Witch arrives.”
“You don’t need to order me twice.” Esparza finished his drink with one last giant gulp and a bigger shudder, tipped his hat, and left.
De Anví didn’t have to wait long for the Witch to appear, wearing her favorite young man. It had been a while since he had seen her using another body, and sometimes he wondered what her victims thought about while the Witch took over. Did they still see and hear and feel, or were they thrown into a dark dream?
The Witch took the seat opposite De Anví, and he could see the eager gleam in her green eyes, not quite concealed by the mask covering the upper half of the face.
The man she was currently inhabiting was in his early twenties, with the same dark hair and lightly tan complexion shared by nearly everyone in the tavern, including the count. The mask, a simple snug affair covered in black fabric, had no ribbons tying it back around the man’s head.
He had once asked her about this mask business, early on in their acquaintance—not friendship, for De Anví did not have friends, and, he guessed, neither did the Witch—and she had promised she could only peek through the masks of those who agreed to allow her in.
But then, the count had also sworn to willingly lay his life down for the sake of the king.
So, Emiré de Anví had never touched a mask since.
“You were ambushed,” she said.
De Anví stilled. He was surprised … but not truly. Amazed at how quickly the Witch had learned of it, certainly, but not that she knew—the Faceless Witch had her fingers in every house’s business. Luckily for the Witch, most scoffed at the notion of someone like the Witch even existing.
The citizens of Cienpuentes held two very strict beliefs: their prospects and their purses. Anything else might as well not exist. Something like the Witch was a reality they were happy to ignore unless they sought her out. An anomaly they didn’t want explained but were happy to use whenever it suited.
To everyone else, this was a young man here for a drink and talk. If the man’s friends were to walk in, they would think nothing was amiss.
De Anví knew better.
“Your ambush must have something to do with the late De Gracia,” the Witch said eagerly.
“Why do you think it’s related to the dead marquess?” he asked, curiosity slipping through. The notion that the encounter had anything to do with De Gracia’s death hadn’t entered his mind. The Marquess de Gracia had been a brusque widower uninterested in politics, despite belonging to the court. His murder had come as a shock, and rumors ran rampant. An awful debt? A secret mistress? Blackmail? Or, De Anví’s favorite—wrong place, wrong time?
He would know, having been caught in a very similar net by the Witch sitting in front of him.
“Him, a ban supporter, three months ago,” the Witch said. “Now you. Everyone knows you don’t care about the ban or politics; they might want you out of the way.”
“You can sound a little less excited at the prospect,” De Anví said dryly. “Unlike him, I’m still alive. You don’t need three men to kill someone. One with a crossbow and half a decent aim will do. It’s more likely De Losa finally got tired of her machinations and decided to buy my vote.”
And why shouldn’t she? The Countess de Losa had been poised to take the position De Anví now held if it hadn’t been for the Witch’s interference. He had often hoped De Losa’s political schemes would get him ousted, but disappointingly, it had never come to pass.
The Witch dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “De Losa is too busy ingratiating herself to De Fernán, now that the royal mourning is ending.”
De Anví mulled that over. “She’s aiming to become the regent’s spouse?”
He could see it. De Losa wasn’t the kind of person to give up on rank and power—ingratiate herself with the regent and his Anchor mining now, become his spouse next. If De Fernán were to be removed, even become regent herself.
“Forget about her,” the Witch said. “Someone must be looking to buy your influence.”
“Such as it is,” De Anví muttered before tasting his drink.
“But,” the Witch continued, fingertips drumming against the table, “what do they want? Your support for the ban? Or your opposition?”
“It doesn’t matter. Girende’s cave-in was too long ago.” And people easily forgot the lives lost, the crumbling of a faraway Anchor city into the Void. “The coffers are feeling the strain.” Especially the gentry’s. The queen had been a staunch supporter of the ban on Anchor mining, but the queen was now dead and De Fernán held the regent’s chair.
The fall of a proponent for the ban and the subsequent rise of someone who wasn’t hadn’t been lost on anyone.
“The law will change,” De Anví continued. “De Fernán will make sure of it. He likes his money too much.”
“The Temple might complain.”
“The Temple will receive new statues, and the gods will need Anchor for their eyes.”
The Witch pursed her lips. “It’s probably as you say.”
“Yet you obviously disagree.”
“The Marquess de Gracia was a stern supporter of the ban. Now he’s gone, done in by a dagger in his heart, and his heir doesn’t seem to care about what happens with Anchor.” She pointed at De Anví. “You have never cared, and now you’re ambushed, but not robbed or killed. The same person who murdered De Gracia might be looking to influence your vote. It’s all connected.”
De Anví studied the Witch. “Perhaps this interest in De Gracia is wholly your own. Perhaps you seek a new body and have taken a liking to his son.” And damn him if hope didn’t color his words.
If the Witch switched bodies, then there would be no reason for De Anví to stay around her, in Cienpuentes, in the Heart. There would be no broken promises, no need to keep the Witch’s current body safe.
The Witch lifted her chin with an arrogant grin and ran her hands down her waistcoat. “No, this one suits me quite well. I have grown attached to it.”
Yes, hope wasn’t for the likes of De Anví.
“Still,” she added, her features sobering, “something feels amiss. I shall visit the Heart tomorrow. We might find more.”
De Anví was brought back to the moment a year and a half ago, when the Faceless Witch had become his constant companion; the moment she had decided to become his shadow, mere months before De Anví was finished with his family’s tradition of a stint in the Golden Dogs.
He had found her amusing at first, always speaking as if she were best friends with everybody. Because of this, everybody indulged her, no matter which body she wore—a servant’s, a soldier’s, a noble house heir’s—never realizing they were all the Witch.
And then one day she had come to De Anví with rumors of a plot to abduct the baby king.
Foolishly, he had allowed the Witch to explain further.
Even more foolishly, he had agreed to help end the plot.
If only there were a god of time he could beg to take him back to the moment he’d told the Witch he’d help. Maybe then the child king would be gone, De Anví’s tenure in the Royal Guard over, and he wouldn’t have to see the Witch and her new face, have a constant reminder that he was stuck.
But even if there were such a god, what did gods care about humankind? As a child, he had often pondered this. Why did they create such feeble beings that they had needed to raise the continents so humanity could thrive? Why not wipe everything and begin anew?
He would have.
“Let us talk of happier things,” De Anví said. “Are they ready?”
“That, they are, my friend.” She retrieved a pouch from under her waistcoat and put it on the table.
De Anví took the Witch’s pouch and tossed Esparza’s across. “For the next round.”
A playful smirk crossed her face as she secured the slivers of Anchor inside her waistcoat. “If you would only wear a mask, I’d gift you as many dreams as you want.”
The count stood and set his hat onto his head. “Once again, I must refuse. These single dreams will do.” With a nod, he made his exit.
He was willing to deal with the Faceless Witch, give her Anchor in exchange for dreams, stand her presence for the sake of his promise, but he’d never allow her to look into the deepest recesses of his mind.
He rarely allowed himself.
Later that night, he opened the Witch’s pouch and found three marbles, smaller than pearls and ten times—no, a hundred times—more valuable.
De Anví sprawled on his bed and swallowed one of the Faceless Witch’s dream pills. The bleakness of the day faded away into eagerness, into this hope he kept locked inside himself.
Because tonight, he would dream of Nereida de Guzmán.