In the Shadow of Lightning

39

Kizzie hurried across the yard of a small estate on the outskirts of Ossa. It was about one in the morning and the world was quiet. The silence from Grent – where artillery exchanges had gone on for over a week – was deafening. A day and a half since the defeat and the newspapers tried to spin it as positively as possible, but an undercurrent of dread now hung over Ossa. Everyone knew that the real damage had been censored, and whispers repeated in every corner about how it would take weeks for Ossan reinforcements to trickle in. Everyone wanted to know who would take over command of the Foreign Legion with Stavri dead. Citizens fled to the provinces by the thousands.

Kizzie was not concerned about the Stavri heir. She was interested in his little brother – a member of the Glass Knife, and an apparent blackmailer. In the chaotic jumble, Agrippo Stavri’s family seemed to have been forgotten. The house was dark and quiet, most of the family sent away and servants dismissed. There were no bodyguards or enforcers, just a handful of National Guardsmen doing a slow circuit around the outer boundaries of the yard. They were easy enough to avoid. Kizzie reached the patio, crouching briefly beneath the window of the main-floor office. The office windows were made of hammerglass, preventing her from removing the panes with her sorcery.

A military-grade razorglass knife pulled from her boot did the trick.

She cut the window lock with her razorglass and pushed the window open, slipping quickly inside, where she paused to put on a pair of powerful sightglass earrings that she’d borrowed from the Vorcien enforcer armory. Once they were in place, she could see Agrippo’s office as if it were bright as day, hear even the quietest squeak of a mouse in the basement, her nostrils filled with a thousand near-dormant scents. It was brilliant, incredibly expensive sorcery. Even her sense of touch was magnificently amplified, to the point where merely stubbing her toe would leave her in agony.

Kizzie stood frozen, listening carefully, trying to sort the sounds of the world out from the beating of her own heart. No footsteps, no talking. Somewhere far away, all the way at the other end of the house, someone wept quietly. Probably the widow.

Satisfied that she would not be interrupted, Kizzie proceeded carefully, trying not to let her senses overwhelm her as she passed through the remnants of days-old perfume or heard the creak of a board magnified a dozen times beneath her own feet. The office was much as she expected of a guild-family member – a large room, decorated with built-in bookshelves, drinks cabinet, glass-fronted gun cases. There were tables laid out with diverse hobbies, and a big desk topped with a globe of the world that she swore every damned elite in Ossa owned.

Kizzie inspected everything. She lifted decorative busts, rooted through drawers, checked behind tapestries and paintings for hidden safes. She was looking for blackmail material of whose nature she was uncertain. It could be incriminating ledgers or letters, and it could be hidden just about anywhere.

She was not optimistic about her prospects, but she had to stay focused and hope that Agrippo was too paranoid to stash the blackmail with a friend or at a bank box.

The desk turned up nothing, nor did the wall decorations. Kizzie crept along the floor on her hands and knees, looking for any sign of peculiar scratches on the wood flooring or discoloration that would indicate a commonly moved rug. Again, nothing.

Hours passed and Kizzie’s frustration grew. The weeping from the other end of the house had long since ceased. Footsteps passed the office without stopping, then returned the way they came. She grew more and more nervous. How long until dawn, or Agrippo’s restless widow came to the office, or a proper enforcer patrol checked on the house?

It was the bookshelves that finally proved her patience. Kizzie removed books one by one, flipping through each until a copy of Turio’s Sapphic Compendium betrayed its late owner. A handful of letters were hidden inside, along with what appeared to be a set of military orders. Kizzie compared the letters with the one she’d stolen from Agrippo’s corpse. Definitely the same handwriting. She turned them over, searching for proof of the sender.

Only one of them – the first, before the blackmail victim wised up – had a return address on it. Kizzie read the address, almost laughed out loud from pure shock, and then read it again. Her legs felt a little wobbly. Sinking down to the floor, she set the letter to one side and then opened the military missive. It said:

Kizzie ran her hand through her hair. There wasn’t much to know about the disaster at Holikan. Nothing ever came from it. The city was sacked, Demir had a mental breakdown, and then Adriana and the Assembly covered up the entire affair. Civilians could barely find anything in the history books and any information to be had was all word-of-mouth. It was one of the biggest cover-ups of the century.

Among people who gossiped about such things it was widely accepted that the Lightning Prince, high on his own power, had ordered the sack of the city, only to be overwhelmed by guilt the next morning.

Kizzie had always tried not to think too much about it. She didn’t want to believe that her childhood friend was a butcher. Here, in her hand, was evidence that vindicated that belief. Capric, her own half brother, had given the order. Not Demir. Kizzie tried to swallow, her tongue dry as sand, and looked around for a glass of water before remembering where she was.

She withdrew from the estate, clutching all the evidence of Capric’s double guilt, and couldn’t think straight again until she was riding safely away in a hired hackney cab. She rubbed the military missive between her fingers, wondering idly how much this thing was worth. How much would Capric pay to get it back? What would the Ministry of the Legion give to know what really happened at Holikan? And Demir … what about Demir?

Kizzie opened the letters one at a time, carefully reading through the correspondence between Capric and his blackmailer. There were threats, recriminations, begging, and refusals. Eventually Capric gave in, agreeing to any demand.

What to do with this information? Sell it? Give it to Demir? Give it to Capric? Kizzie felt the hungry pull of her own greed. With these two pieces of information she could get herself well back into Father Vorcien’s good graces. He might be involved or he might not, but he would want the whole thing buried for good. Demir, he would tell her, must never know about either betrayal – to protect Capric, and to protect the Vorcien name.

She leaned back in her seat, warring with herself, and thrust her hand into her pocket. She felt something there – a tiny piece of wax paper. It still smelled faintly of toffee, and with that smell came a flood of memories. She could remember playing with Demir and Montego on the floor of Adriana’s study, and dozens of times Adriana had shown Kizzie kindness in ways that her own family never would: dinner at the formal table, gifts for her birthday, washing her hair when she fell in the mud.

“I can’t serve justice for you,” Kizzie whispered. “Not this time. I’m sorry, Adriana.” She looked down at the letters in one hand, then the military missive in the other. “Perhaps, though, I can get Demir some closure.” She reached up, pounding on the roof of the hackney cab. “To the Vorcien estate,” she ordered.

Kizzie sat outside Father Vorcien’s office, drumming her fingers on her knee. The foyer was mercifully empty this early in the morning, her only companion a young man who smelled like coal dust. She’d been waiting for almost an hour, careful to remove all the emotions from her face but boredom and a bit of impatient consternation. Listening to the ticking of the grandfather clock, she was painfully aware of her precarious position in the guild-family.

The door finally opened and a nod came from Diaguni, granting Kizzie access to her father for however many scant minutes he’d allow her an audience. She strolled inside, stopping in front of his wheeled chair and kneeling to kiss his silic symbol. He stared down at her with a bemused expression.

“Has Demir constructed a working phoenix channel already?” Father Vorcien asked.

“No.”

“Then why the urgent request for an audience? I am a busy man, my bastard daughter, and I do not like having my time wasted.”

Kizzie ignored the implied threat. He would make time for this. She produced the stack of letters from her pocket and tossed them on the little table beside Father Vorcien’s chair.

“What are these?” he asked, tapping his finger on them.

“That,” she replied, “is a correspondence between Agrippo Stavri and the man he blackmailed into helping murder Adriana Grappo.”

“And who was that unfortunate soul?”

“Your fourth child, Capric.”

Kizzie had never actually seen her father surprised before. His eyes bugged slightly, his fingers hovering just above the stack of letters. His gaze darted from the letters to Kizzie and then back again, and they remained in silence for an uncomfortably long time before he spoke again. “You’re certain?”

“His return address is on the first letter,” Kizzie told him, “and the correspondence matches his handwriting.”

“Diaguni,” Father Vorcien called, “delay my next appointment by twenty minutes.” He then began to read each of the letters, just as Kizzie had done earlier in the cab. Kizzie waited in silence, ignoring the drops of sweat rolling down the small of her back. When he finished reading he took the whole stack and shuffled it carefully, lining up the edges of each letter, his gaze distant.

His next words were spoken very carefully. “Have you told Demir?”

“Of course not,” Kizzie snorted. “I came directly here.”

“Where is the blackmail material?”

Kizzie tried to keep her expression neutral as she shrugged. “I have no idea. The letters reference some kind of important military missive. Capric spent what, seven years as an officer? It could be damned well anything.” She tilted her head as she examined her father, her heart skipping every other beat. Had she ever lied to him directly before? Had she ever dared? She went on, “It may be in a bank box somewhere, or it might never have been in Stavri’s possession.”

“Explain.”

“I’ve uncovered four of the six of Adriana’s killers. The Grent agent, Churian Dorlani, Glissandi Magna, and now Capric. Churian was ordered by his grandmother. The Grent agent was sent by the duke’s brother. Glissandi killed herself rather than confess under shackleglass. Capric was blackmailed by Agrippo Stavri. The instigators are connected by a single thread: they all belong to the same Fulgurist Society.”

“Which one?”

“The Glass Knife.”

“I haven’t even heard of it,” Father Vorcien snorted.

“Well, they seem to be at the center of things,” Kizzie said, “and if anyone has that blackmail material, it’ll be one of them.” She searched her pockets until she found the list Gorian gave her. “A membership roster,” she said. “I don’t think it’s complete, but it has given me some direction in my investigation.”

Father Vorcien looked over the list, scowling. “There are too many important people on this list for me not to know the name of the Society.”

“They appear to be very secretive. The National Guard is keeping tabs on them.”

“They keep tabs on every Society. Make me a copy and leave it with Diaguni.”

“Of course.”

Father Vorcien laced his fingers beneath his chin, staring off at the other side of the room. If he suspected that she was withholding anything he did not show it. He seemed to meditate for a time before stirring once more. “Capric’s involvement in Adriana’s murder can never be revealed.”

“Agreed.”

He looked up at her sharply. “You don’t want to tell Demir?”

“That my half brother killed his mother? Absolutely not.” No lie there. Kizzie had played such a conversation out in her head while waiting to see her father. Even just the mental pantomime was deeply unpleasant.

“And your personal feelings?”

“Adriana was always kind to me. I know it’s not my place to say anything as a bastard, but … I’m never going to be able to look Capric in the eye again.” Another truth.

“He will not be punished. Surely you must know that.”

Kizzie flinched. She’d guessed as much. “I know.”

Father Vorcien leaned forward, searching her face for some time before finally reclining in his chair. “You so desperately want to tell Demir,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes. And yet you came to me instead. You chose well, Kissandra.” He rested a hand on the stack of blackmail letters as if to establish that they were now in his possession. “Anything else to report on your investigation?”

“I still have two killers left to discover. Aelia Dorlani and the duke’s brother are both beyond our reach, but one of the remaining two must be able to give me clearer answers. Someone is orchestrating all of this. I want to find out who it is, and gather evidence against them.”

Father Vorcien’s eyes became distant, his lips pursed, face taking on that expression she’d always called his “decision-making face” when she was younger. Finally he said, “Find the other two killers and find out why they did it. When you do, come to me first. I’m not going to let Demir start a guild-family war, but leverage over Aelia Dorlani will allow us some measure of justice and enrich the Vorcien.”

Kizzie swallowed. “Yes, Father.”

“This appears to be much deeper than just Adriana, and it may affect the Empire itself. Come back this evening. I’ll have my spymaster gather whatever information we have on this Glass Knife Society and make it available to you.”

“That’s very generous.”

“It’s not generous, daughter. It’s in my interest. Now go.”

Daughter. Not bastard daughter. Just daughter. She’d pleased him, and she hated how good that felt. Kizzie’s heart raced as she followed her father’s dismissal. She half expected someone to chase after her and search her as she walked back down the gravel path of the estate, but no one came. She summoned another hackney cab at the end of the drive. As the cab took her out of the Family District and back down into the city, she considered the military missive still in her pocket.

She knew Demir well. The murder of his mother would be met with blood no matter the cost, but Holikan was now distant history. If he found out about Capric’s involvement he would respond with the cold calculations of a true Ossan politician. Father Vorcien was wrong – there would be justice, but neither he nor Capric would even see it coming.

Kizzie changed cabs three times to be sure she wasn’t followed and then walked the last few blocks to end up at the desk of a postal clerk on the edge of the Slag. “No return needed,” she told the clerk, sliding the military missive into an envelope. “Send this to Breenen Alvari at the Hyacinth Hotel.”