Chapter XV. In Nothingness #4
Celene smiled again, brushing one dark lock from her face.
“Margot’s great convocation,” she said wistfully.
“Come at last to pass. It could not have been easy to lure those flies into her web. One wonders what bait the Empress used. But do pass on our congratulations to your dam for her achievement, little Marquis. Unless … you might convince her to come down here so I could deliver commendation personally?”
“You walk a dangerous line, mademoiselle.”
“Some might say I dance on it, sinner.”
“You lied to me about Lachance.”
“I told you she was dead. And so she was.”
“And yet she lived.”
That smile faltered then, that black gaze falling to the waters.
“We both know that isn’t true.”
“Do we.”
Jean-Francois snapped his fingers. At his signal, the thrallswords carrying the ironbound chest stepped forward, setting their burden on the rocky shore. The Liathe watched as they opened the lid, revealing dozens upon dozens of clay pots within.
“What is that?” she asked.
The Marquis bent down, hefted one of the pots. It was the size of a large melon, heavy as stone, the clay glazed a deep ocean blue and sealed with hemp-bound cork. And without a word, the Marquis hurled the pot at Celene’s head.
She moved, effortless, her greatcoat leaving a crimson blur on the air behind. The pot sailed harmlessly by, shattering with a bang and spilling its contents upon the cold stone. Slick. Viscous. Gleaming like gold and smelling like …
“Lamp oil,” she realized.
Another bang rang out in the cell, another, another, the Marquis standing back as his thralls hurled pot after pot across the river.
Not a one struck Celene of course—far too swift, far too clever—slipping between the hail of falling clay like a knife between ribs.
But the stone beneath her feet was soon coated with oil, a few droplets splashed upon her knee-high boots, agleam with the reflections of torches.
They were lined up on the shore now; a dozen men with burning brands in hand, poised to throw them across the gulf.
“You are the liar your brother names you, Mlle Castia. But upon some matters, you’ve given me truth.” Jean-Francois’s lips twisted. “Your fear of fire, for example.”
Midnight eyes fixed Jean-Francois, gleaming wide.
“You wouldn’t…”
“You’re the one who can read thoughts, mademoiselle. So look upon mine now and tell me true.” The historian stepped to the water’s edge, glowering. “Would I not?”
Celene fixed Jean-Francois in her gaze, mute as oil-slicked stone.
“You are in the deepest, darkest pit in my Empress’s realm,” the Marquis hissed.
“Those fools who claimed you friend are slain. Those fables you pinned your hopes to are unwound. And the only living man you might call kin has already sold himself at the prospect of seeing you butchered like the pig he names you.”
She tensed at that, lips peeling back from her fangs.
“Gabriel.”
“Your brother has betrayed you. In the tower just above your head, he has spent the last few hours comfortably sipping the finest of my dam’s cellars and singing like a lark. And the only spur I gave to his song was the promise he might watch you die.”
The Last Liathe snarled, black eyes agleam.
“Bastard.”
“And proud. Better, as he so often claims, to be a bastard than a fool. But you are both fools if you believe I’ll not light that stone beneath your feet and watch you truly dance should you not give me what I want.
” The Marquis lifted his chin now, all his wrath unveiled.
“I am sick to the eyeteeth of your insults, whelp. Your smug little barbs. Your imbecilic delusion that you are in any way in control here. I am your elder and your better. All the power within your veins has been stolen, not earned. All the coin you have wagered is pyrite, not gold. And I will suffer your temerity not one breath longer.”
Jean-Francois swept his coat aside and sat himself in the leatherbound armchair.
Meline placed another chymical globe on the table beside him, opening the bottle and filling his goblet to the brim.
As the scent of fresh blood kissed the air, the Marquis crossed his legs and placed his history in his lap, smoothing down a new page.
“You will tell me of the Grail. Of Mother Maryn. Of all that transpired after Lachance’s so-called death at the hands of the Heartless.
If you try to deceive me, you burn. If I suspect you are trying to deceive me, you burn.
If you insult me, you burn. I am Marquis Jean-Francois of the Blood Chastain, Historian of Margot Chastain, First and Last of Her Name, Undying Empress of Wolves and Men. And I have had enough of your shit.”
Celene’s eyes roamed the oil at her feet, rising to the torches in the soldiers’ hands, settling at last on Jean-Francois.
And slowly, she inclined her head.
“Well played, seigneur.”
“Believe me when I tell you, Mlle Castia, this is no bloody game.”
From his coat, the Marquis produced a wooden case carved with two wolves, two moons. He drew a quill from within, black as the row of feathers adorning his shoulders, placing a small bottle upon the armrest of his chair. Dipping quill to ink, Jean-Francois looked up with dark and expectant eyes.
Celene drew a deep breath, the taste of lamp oil in the air.
“Begin,” the vampire said.