Unmasking
The plan, Luvian informed her as he rushed her to finish her breakfast, was to leave for Rhylla within the hour. They’d take a carriage to the bridge, and on the other side a Rhyllian carriage would collect them, to bring them to the capital city. But on the way they would stop overnight in an inn.
“Where is the inn?” Sorrow asked.
“Ah.” For the first time since he’d entered the room, a spark lit Luvian’s eyes. “We’re staying overnight in a place called Ceridog. It’s a small village, tiny school, a clay mine, the inn. Oh, but the clay mine is … unusual. It’s what they call a Rainbow Clay Mine, very rare. In fact, it’s the only one in Rhylla.” He paused, reaching forward for a pear from the bowl on the table. “Ceridog is a very popular place for artists to live and work.”
Sorrow understood then. “The artist who painted Mael’s portraits is Rhyllian. You found him?”
“No.” He looked momentarily chagrined. “But, seeing as we’re passing that way – and it’s such a hub for artists – who are we to turn down the chance to visit? If we happen to find the artist, and therefore discover who commissioned the portraits, and, if that person happens to be Lord Vespus, well … that would be a bonus.” He was sounding more and more like himself each moment, his expression brightening. “Obviously the primary reason for going is because I myself am an art lover; everyone knows it.”
And despite herself, and everything that had happened the night before, Sorrow found herself smiling at him.
Luvian took a bite of his pear with a satisfied crunch.
The journey to the bridge was uneventful, though Sorrow’s heart had hammered the whole way, expecting at any moment for more quickfire to be thrown, or the carriage to be ambushed. She was almost grateful for Dain’s silent, hulking presence beside her. When she saw the bridge on the horizon, the white stone blinding in the morning sun, she relaxed. They’d be over the border soon.
It was too easy. As the carriage drew to a halt, she looked out of the window to see two of the Decorum Ward scrubbing at something on the ancient, mythical bridge.
Luvian’s face tightened.
“What is that?” She turned to Luvian. But then she saw it.
Sons of Rhannon. In tall, red letters like blood. Like the tunic she’d worn the night before.
Luvian was out of the carriage at once, Sorrow following a split second later, with Dain hopping down from her seat beside the driver to join them.
“How did this happen?” Luvian demanded of the guards.
The men turned slowly, looking at Luvian, their eyes shifting to Sorrow and finally resting on Dain, offering her a respectful nod.
“We don’t know,” said one of the men; he was small, wiry, with pointed features.
“You don’t know how someone managed to vandalize a bridge that is supposed to be under round-the-clock guard?” Luvian asked.
“It was dark. They were very quiet.”
Luvian’s face was thunderous. “I see.”
Sorrow looked at the men. Their expressions were insolent, the same hint of a sneer Meeren Vine had worn gracing their lips. And she knew then that it was deliberate. That they’d wanted her to see this, before she crossed the bridge. Perhaps they’d even planned it. Last night hadn’t been a one-off, but a beginning.
Sorrow’s eyes darted to the woman beside her, her supposed protector, and her fear grew. Was Dain part of this? How much danger was she in?
Then, to everyone’s surprise, Dain spoke. “What is this? Get this filth cleared,” she said in a low growl.
The men looked at each other, clearly shocked, as Sorrow looked at the commander, an identical look of surprise on her face.
Commander Dain wasn’t finished. “And you make sure it doesn’t happen again. Because if it does, I will take it as an act of disobedience against me personally. And I won’t like that one bit. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Commander.”
Dain looked to Sorrow and nodded, and Sorrow returned the gesture, still taken aback by the Decorum Ward commander’s actions.
Luvian covered for her. “Come, Sorrow, we’ll be late. Let’s leave these good men to their jobs. It looks like they have a quite a lot to do, and the sun is only going to get hotter and higher.”
With that he turned, taking Sorrow firmly by the elbow, guiding her to the Alvus gum waiting for them.
Sorrow said nothing else until they were both seated in a new carriage on the Rhyllian side of the bridge, Dain up beside the driver once more, and the carriage was on the move.
“They did it.” Sorrow moved to Luvian’s side and pitched her voice a fraction louder than the carriage wheels. “The guards, they painted it, and they wanted me to see. I think they’re trying to align themselves with the Sons of Rhannon. I’m the common enemy to them both.”
Luvian turned to her, staring for a long moment before he gave a single nod. “I think you’re right.”
“What do we do? If they control the bridge then they control who’s crossing it. What if someone comes after us – me – when we’re out there, miles from home?”
Luvian chewed his lip, falling silent as he contemplated. “We’re safer there,” he said finally. “We’ll be safe at the castle; it’s well-secured and there will be guards everywhere. And no one knows we’re going to Ceridog apart from you, me and Irris.”
“And the coach driver, presumably,” Sorrow said.
“No,” he said thoughtfully. “I didn’t want to tip Vespus off, so I hadn’t planned to tell him until we’d stopped. The inn is booked under a pseudonym, for the same reason. By chance, it’ll keep the Sons of Rhannon off our tail. They won’t know we’re there, and they won’t have time to get to you even if they do find out. Win-win.”
Sorrow was impressed. “That’s sneaky.”
Luvian shrugged, his cheeks darkening. “Quite. In the meantime, you need to write to Lord Day. Tell him everything.”
“I can’t. He has to be impartial.”
“This is impartial. This is the country’s police turning on their potential leader. And that only ever leads to martial law. Sorrow, if Dain hadn’t been there today, Graces knows what might have happened. You have to nip this in the bud. If they’re being this blatant about it, they must already think they could win.”
“Win what?”
“Rhannon.” Luvian leant forward. “You’re not only fighting Mael for the country any more. You’re fighting the Sons of Rhannon too. As is he, but I don’t care about that. I care about you, and they’ve made it pretty clear that they have a grudge against you. Without the power of the chancellorship behind you, you’re vulnerable to them all. It’s more important than ever that you win.”
The rest of the journey to Ceridog was sombre, and silent, Luvian working through his list, circling cases he thought were of note, and Sorrow writing to Charon, then watching the Rhyllian countryside roll by.
She sent the letter when they paused to change horses, staying close to Dain while Luvian informed her and the driver of the change of plan. He didn’t seem put out, only commenting that he’d have to stay in Ceridog overnight too, in order to take them the rest of the way to Adavaria the following day. Luvian, it seemed, had already thought of that, and had booked him a room at the inn.
“I didn’t anticipate you,” he said apologetically to Dain. “Though I’m sure they’ll have something.”
“I’ll be fine on the floor outside Miss Ventaxis’s room,” Dain said.
“You can’t—” Sorrow began, but stopped when Dain tilted her chin up, her jaw set, gaze steady. “Well, we’ll at least get you a pillow,” she said feebly, following Luvian back into the coach as Dain closed the door firmly behind her.
The inn was different from Melisia’s – this building was four storeys tall, with black wooden struts studding the white walls, and tables outside. Luvian had reserved the two attic rooms for them, at the top of a crooked but private staircase, and a room on the floor below for the coachman.
Dain checked both Sorrow’s room and Luvian’s before she took up a position at the base of their stairs without being asked, and Sorrow shrugged and went to see what a Rhyllian bedroom looked like.
Before she could see her own, Luvian tapped her shoulder and beckoned her into his. It was small, and disappointingly unremarkable. A single bed slotted against the wall, a narrow wardrobe at the end of it. There was a bureau and chair opposite, and a door Sorrow assumed led to a bathroom. But it was clean, and bright, the window looking out on to the square below, swallows darting in and out under the eaves.
Sorrow watched as Luvian reached into one of his cases and pulled out a rolled canvas. She gasped when he unfurled it, using shoes, a hairbrush and a bottle of cologne Sorrow had no idea he wore to pin the corners to the golden wood floor.
This year’s portrait of Mael. He’d taken it from the Summer Palace.
“You stole it,” Sorrow accused. “How? When?”
“Hush. I’m about to say some very important things.” Luvian knelt down beside it. “Pay attention. So, I’m going to assume you know very little about art, given the state of the nation for, quite literally, your whole life?”
Sorrow nodded.
“Then allow me to educate you, Sorrow, dear. The Rhannish style of painting is to use small strokes to create a whole picture. Up close it makes no sense, but at a distance the image can be seen. But the Rhyllian style is long, continuous strokes. That’s one way we can be sure the artist really is Rhyllian. See?” He gestured at the painting and she saw what he meant.
“The paints themselves differ too. Rhannish paints are oil based. Whereas Rhyllian –” he brushed a finger along the painted hair of the portrait and held it up to her, so she could see the thin layer of brown dust there “– are clay based. And when clay dries, it leaves a thin layer of powder.”
“And here we are in the clay paint capital of Rhylla.” Sorrow remembered his words back in the North Marches, and Luvian beamed at her.
“Indeed. A place so prestigious, there is a Registry of Colours.”
“OK, now you’ve lost me,” Sorrow confessed.
In reply, Luvian drew a small knife from the pocket of his coat and began to scrape the dark paint from the birthmark on the portrait.
“What are you doing?” Sorrow watched in horrified fascination as he vandalized the painting.
He didn’t reply, continuing until he’d made a small pile of purplish flakes, which he carefully lifted on to the tip of the knife, before tapping them into the centre of a plain silk handkerchief.
“As I was saying, Rhylla takes art so seriously it keeps a Registry of Colours. The Rainbow Clay Mines mostly yield primary colours, which anyone can buy and sell, and mean very little, but every now and then, the pigments in the rocks mix and create pure, naturally occurring secondary and tertiary colours. Of course, that happens very rarely, so the artists buy primaries and mix their own. But they’re required to register the colours, and the paintings they used them on, with the Registry, so that art buyers can’t be cheated. See, an unscrupulous artist could claim the purple they used in your portrait was genuine pure colour from the mines, something they paid a fortune to procure, and therefore have to pass the cost on…”
“I get it,” Sorrow said. “So, we can take those scrapings to the registry and find out who registered them? And that will lead us to the artist, which will hopefully lead us closer to finding out who Mael is, or at least who commissioned the pictures.”
“Got it in one, Sorrow darling.”
A burst of pleasure shot through Sorrow at his approval. “How do you know so much about Rhyllian art?”
Luvian opened his mouth, then closed it. “It’s what I would have liked to do, if I could have. If the option had been there for me,” he said finally. “My grandfather was a great lover of art. He taught me.”
Sorrow had never seen Luvian look sad before. Angry, cheerful, arrogant and annoyed. But never sad. She realized it was the first time he’d ever revealed anything about himself. His time at university was “educational”, his family were “amicably estranged”. He never spoke of friends, save to say he wasn’t popular, nor of lovers or love interests, only focused on his work. All accounts from his time at university said the same. She’d assumed there was a tragic story there, some kind of falling out with his family, or maybe childhood shyness he’d only outgrown after university, because no one could accuse him of it now. To be honest, she’d stopped thinking about him as anything other than part of her, Irris and him, the team she hoped to win the election with. He’d slotted so seamlessly into Sorrow’s life, barely causing a ripple, that she’d almost forgotten he was still mostly a stranger to her.
He seemed to realize he’d let his mask slip as he forced brightness into his voice and continued. “So I used the gift of foresight to become a political maven, with the intent of seating a chancellor who will make it possible for me to indulge my hobbies. And on that note, we have work to do.”
There was no point in pretending they weren’t who they were – the country was abuzz with the news from Rhannon and the fact that both candidates were attending the Naming, even though no one had anticipated them coming to Ceridog.
So they didn’t try to be discreet, instead walking slowly through the town to the central square, Dain shadowing them closely. Though Sorrow felt horribly exposed, she tried to relax, reminding herself no one knew they were there.
She forced herself to pause and look in windows, as Luvian marvelled at the things for sale: books, jewellery, trinkets that could have no real use except to be looked at as they gathered dust, until eventually Sorrow’s curiosity was real, and her enthusiasm too. All around them Rhyllians walked and chattered, sitting on tables outside cafés with small cups of steaming coffee, gossiping in their lilting language, looking happy and relaxed. On a street corner a tall olive-skinned Rhyllian pulled a shining silver flute from a case and began to play, as passers-by flicked silver coins into a hat he’d left on the ground. Two children darted forward to dance, and Sorrow found her mouth curving involuntarily.
There was so much room for pleasure in the world, Sorrow realized, as Luvian handed her a small cake, topped with cream and crystallized petals, that he’d ducked into a bakery to buy after she’d pointed it out in the window. This was what she wanted for Rhannon. For life to feel worth it, not just be toil and misery.
Luvian handed one of the confections to Dain, who stared at the cake as though unable to believe it was real. She ate it in three bites, but there was a reverence to them that Sorrow found oddly charming. She would never have expected one of the Decorum Ward to be so … human. Though she was loath to admit it, after what happened at the bridge, and now this, the woman was beginning to grow on her.
When Sorrow took the first bite of her own cake, she couldn’t stop herself from moaning. She’d thought the feast at the inn was incredible, but it was nothing, nothing, compared to the rapture of sugar and cream that flooded her tongue now. She met Dain’s eyes with a complicit, chocolate-coated grin, as she licked the cream from her fingers greedily, not wanting a single morsel to go to waste. Irris hadn’t said it was like this. Sorrow was right to demand everyone give her cake, she thought giddily. There really ought to be cake every day.
When she glanced at Luvian, he was staring at her, rubbing the back of his neck, his lips parted, and she realized abruptly she wasn’t behaving like a future chancellor. She swallowed the remainder quietly, making sure she appeared composed every time her advisor darted a nervous glance her way.
Though she’d find a way to go back to the bakery before they left.
After they’d spent enough time establishing themselves as curious tourists, and Sorrow had finally recovered from her cake, they headed for the Registry of Colours. It was two streets back from the square, an old-looking, golden-bricked building that dominated the leafy avenue.
Sorrow pulled Luvian away from Dain. “How do we play this?” she whispered.
“Straight. There’s no point in lying, they’ll see right through it. We say we’re trying to trace the artist, and we know this is one of the colours they used.”
“All right.” She returned to Dain. “I’m sorry, but I need to ask you to wait here.” She pointed to a wooden bench, positioned beneath a tree. “This is confidential. You can’t come with us.”
“I’m supposed to guard you. I have orders.” When she’d spoken at the bridge her voice had been a commanding bark, iron-lined and brutal. But now her voice was soft, sweet even, at odds with her muscular frame.
Sorrow looked at her more closely then, at her clear, bright skin, her delicate nose and large, thickly lashed eyes. She couldn’t be much older than Luvian, perhaps mid-twenties. Her cheeks still had a childlike roundness to them, and again Sorrow thawed towards her. She wasn’t the battle-hardened monster Sorrow imagined all the Decorum Ward were.
“I’m sorry, Dain. I can’t tell you why you can’t come, but that’s my order. Please,” Sorrow tried.
Dain gave her a long look, and then nodded. “Very well. I’ll wait.” She sat on the bench, knees apart, hands resting atop them.
“Call me deluded, but I think Vine might have accidentally assigned me the only decent member of the Decorum Ward,” Sorrow murmured to Luvian as they approached the door to the registry.
“Miracles do occasionally occur.”
He pulled the cord that hung beside the door, releasing it when a deep bell chimed behind the thick wood. A moment later, the door swung silently open and a young Rhyllian woman stood there. Like Rasmus, she was adorned in jewellery, her ears lined with hoops, another in her left nostril, and one piercing her left eyebrow. Her paint-splattered fingers were full of rings too, and through a tear in her equally stained tunic, Sorrow spied another ring through her belly button. The girl looked from Sorrow, to Luvian, then back to Sorrow, before frowning.
“We have some paint fragments we’d like to match,” Luvian began, in Rhyllian.
“I know who you are,” the girl replied in heavily accented Rhannish. “You’re here about the portraits. Of the lost boy returned. You want to know who painted them.”
“Yes.” Luvian blinked. “But how—”
“It’s me,” the girl said, leaving Luvian gaping like a fish, and Sorrow stunned into silence. “I paint them. Well, I painted the last one, at least. You’d better come in.”
She stood back to allow Sorrow and Luvian to enter, and they did, stumbling through the doorway.
They stood in a light, airy hallway dominated by a white wooden staircase that curved like the spirals of a shell, narrowing as it joined the floor above. The floor was tiled, also white, and the girl’s bare feet made no sound as she walked past them, heading to a small door set back in the wall.
“Were you expecting us?” Sorrow asked, bewildered by the fact she’d been there, as though waiting for them.
The girl gave her a scathing look over her shoulder. “I was passing the door when you rang the bell. This way,” she said.
Sorrow and Luvian exchanged a confused glance before following.
The Rhyllian didn’t bother waiting for them as she moved silently down a corridor, turning left and vanishing around a corner. By the time they reached that bend, she was about to disappear around another, and so it continued as they chased her through a warren of identical passages, until at last they came to a corridor halted by a wall at the end, the girl nowhere to be seen. Nervous, they edged down the passage, pausing as they drew level with an open door. When they peered into the room beyond, they found the girl in there, throwing sheets over canvases.
They hovered in the doorway, something about the space forbidding them from entering without permission. It was a studio, that much was clear. But it was also a home; there was a low, narrow bed in the corner that hadn’t been made, a small table covered in dirty dishes, clothes in rainbow colours thrown over a mannequin and heaped on a chair.
“Come in,” the girl said, apparently more concerned with hiding her work than the evidence of her life. The girl lowered herself to the floor, crossing her legs under her in a smooth motion. “I don’t have any refreshments to offer,” she said bluntly.
“That’s all right,” Sorrow said. She walked over to the girl and sat opposite her, Luvian kneeling beside her, trying to remain calm. Finally they’d found the artist. Finally she’d get some answers about Mael. “So, you’re Graxal?”
“No.”
Sorrow paused. “But you said you were the artist.”
“I am. Now. But Graxal isn’t my name. It isn’t a name at all. It’s two names, made one. My name, Xalys. And my mother’s, Gralys. She was the artist, and when she died, I moved here and took over her work.”
Sorrow hadn’t been able to look at the signatures on the older portraits, back in the Winter Palace, before she’d left. She’d taken it for granted it was the same signature, same artist. Graxal. Gralys.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sorrow said finally.
The girl – Xalys – shrugged. “It was too soon.”
Sorrow left a respectful pause before she asked her next question. “So your mother was the person who originally painted the portraits of Mael?”
“Yes.” Xalys looked at them with silver eyes. “Until this year – she died before she could finish. So I finished for her, and signed it from us both.” She paused. “I suppose your next question is who commissioned the paintings?”
“Exactly,” Sorrow said.
“Lord Vespus Corrigan,” Xalys said. “Though I suppose I can technically call him ‘Father’.”