26 #2
They’d passed into West Carintheum. The phaeton skimmed on through the neat, quiet streets. The pedestrians stepped back and held their hats at the sight of the funeral equipage. It took Felix a moment to register the mourning drapery now rippling from the sides.
They turned into a private street and up a curving driveway, where the phaeton halted at a set of silver gates marked Immortalis House. Lysander leaned through the window and spoke into a grille on the gatepost.
“The Metellus family.”
The gates swept open with a gentle rush of light, and Lysander coaxed the phaeton through. The rain vanished the moment they crossed the boundary. Sweet strings began to play from somewhere out of sight.
They glided down a pathway lined with roses, where fountain waters crossed into an arch above the vehicle.
Felix gazed across the flower-bright gardens beyond.
Sun-sprites looped in glittering lines beneath the willows.
Pure white Isran senyxes lounged in the shade, their fox-like ears relaxed and lyrebird tails swishing at the butterflies.
Well, well. Nice place to die, if you can afford it.
At the end of the path stood two white-gowned women, positioned like guardian seraphs before a tunnel cut from snowy marble. Immortalis House rose above it, towering in ancient Carinth grandeur.
“Time to move,” said Cassia.
Felix affected a solemn countenance and climbed out of the carriage, hat in hand, followed by the others. The seraphs glided in, all elegant sympathy.
“It’s . . . the matter we discussed,” said Leo, with a stiff motion to the wagon. “A fearsome curse. The residue’s still hissing off him.”
“Our condolences, dear sir,” said the first of the women, bowing her head. “He’ll be purified entirely. Do you wish the wagon to join him in the flames?”
“Best it does. It’s not safe to touch him.”
“And the phaeton,” Cassia added in a choked voice, dabbing at her eyes behind her veil. “Oh, my darling. He loved that absurd thing.”
The women swapped looks of faint alarm. That vehicle was likely worth more than they were paid in a year together. On cue, Felix cleared his throat and drew them aside.
“I know it’s rather singular,” he said, “but she’ll be better off for it. He, ah . . . died in somewhat compromising circumstances. A duel over a young lady. She may or may not have been found in the back seat.”
The ladies gave twin nods of calm discretion. The first one gestured to the marble tunnel, and flames roared up inside it.
“Please, madam, sirs, do come,” she said. “It’s time we laid him to rest.”
They stood in a hand-wringing line as the phaeton and wagon rolled toward the furnace.
The arcanic horses pulled the glorious vehicle into the fire, driven by Lysander’s magic.
The quartet stood for a moment, shimmering at the heart of the great pyre.
Then the flames reached the traces, and the creatures flickered out.
Cassia choked out a sob, and Leo set an arm around her shoulders. Felix hid his grin. He suspected that grief was only half feigned. He knew a few fellows who’d shed a tear to see that lovely phaeton go up in flames.
Still, it’d do the job. Those arcanic furnaces were powerful enough to reduce anything to dust. Any trace, any curses and any evidence would be gone.
It was just as well that there was already a market for the service.
Carintheum had no shortage of rich men fool enough to vex powerful arcani, and they usually ended up corpses, often simmering with curses too deadly for anyone to touch.
In places like Immortalis House, demand had met supply.
“You’re going to burn it all?” he’d exclaimed to Myria. She’d smiled and cocked her head.
“Of course. It’s the taking that matters, not the keeping.”
“But all that risk, for nothing?”
“Hardly nothing, old boy,” she’d said, alight with mischief. “The moment word escapes, he’ll be ruined. Besides, a hoard like that’s a liability. Too dangerous to keep.”
He’d looked at her, a dozen notions warring in his mind. He half believed her—half believed she’d burn a fortune for a principle—but he also knew human nature.
Now, though, it seemed she’d been in earnest. The flames turned incandescent white, burning up a treasure hoard worth more than he’d ever know. It was an oddly pleasant sight. The seraphs set out refreshments, and they sat and took tea as a fortune turned to ash in front of them.
At length, the pyre consumed the last of its fuel. The ladies cast cooling charms across the ground, before a grave Lysander stepped forward and swept the cinders into an urn. With that, he and Leo ushered the still-sobbing Cassia away down the garden path.
Felix glanced to the pyre. Despite the evidence of his own eyes, he couldn’t quite believe the treasures were gone.
“Everything obliterated?” he asked in a low voice. The older attendant consulted an arcanic scroll.
“The curses were incinerated, sir,” she said. “There are still some traces of arcana, but I expect it belongs to the late gentleman. It can endure for a few hours, even in the ash.”
Indeed? thought Felix, stealing a look at the scroll. Lines and figures dashed across it, etching out the traces she’d spoken of—traces colored in all-too-familiar shades of turquoise and amber.
“I must say, though, it took a full hour to burn away the curses inside the coffin,” the woman added. “Might it be insensitive to ask . . .”
“My cousin didn’t choose his conquests wisely,” he said. “Turned out the lady was the sister of a Seraph Guard. Still . . . there’s always the inheritance, eh?”
With that, he smiled, donned his hat and set off after the others.
Despite the doubts simmering in his head, Felix couldn’t help but be swept up in the spirit of the company. It took no little willpower to affect the air of a funeral procession. Triumph danced inside him. They’d done it—they’d emptied the fifth lord’s vault with nothing more than paper and words.
They preserved a somber silence as they climbed into a cab.
It took them to the Pantheos Aristos, where they walked through half a dozen layers of patrium charms. The sacred spells very nearly singed his skin when they entered the death sanctum.
If any arcanic trace survived that treatment, it deserved to.
After half an hour’s solemn rituals, they left by the back door and vanished into the silver lining. From there, at last, they stepped into the safety of the Claritas.
With an air of great ceremony, Lysander set the urn atop the dining table. There was a moment’s silence. Then, as one, they collapsed into laughter. Cassia whooped and leapt at her friends. Leo picked her up and spun her around with a cheer.
“Mighty magisteria. We did it!” she exclaimed, beaming at them all. “Oh, to see that bastard’s face when he finds out . . .”
“And to see it again, when the rest of Carintheum hears of it,” Lysander said with a subtle smile. “Speaking of which . . . Prefect Aurelias, perhaps you’d care to start spreading rumors. The thirty thousand only, mind you. Not the vault. Not yet.”
“My pleasure,” he said. “I’d best change, though.”
He turned into the spare bedchamber and threw off his mourning clothes. His mind was racing as he unbuttoned his waistcoat. Leo and Lysander’s arcana had been twisted all through the ashes of that treasure. That couldn’t have happened by accident.
They wouldn’t throw it all away, a voice insisted. No one would.
He swung his prefecture uniform back on and turned to the mirror. On a split-second instinct, he knocked his knuckle against the belt buckle hard enough to open a bleeding graze. Then, pressing a handkerchief to the injury, he strode back into the room.
“Right. I’ll be a few hours,” he said. “Pass me a gauntlet, will you? I caught myself on one of those boxes, in the rush.”
“Lysander, can you stitch him up?” asked Cassia, instinctively withdrawing.
“I can’t, my dear. I’m a therical surgeon, not a corporeal one.”
“It’s alright. Just let me work the controls,” said Felix, gesturing to the gauntlets. Cassia wrinkled her nose, then reluctantly thrust out her hand. Felix flicked a row of spellwork attachments and set the thief’s palm atop the wound.
“Fathomed out the controls yet?” he asked. Cassia shot him an arch look. Then, arcana washed across his hand and sealed the wound.
“Well, I’ll be off,” he said. “Tell me when Myria returns. The centurion’s bound to want to talk to her.”
“Yes, Mother,” Cassia muttered, giving him a quick shove toward the door. All the same, she flashed him a wink before she closed it.
Felix struck out for the stairs. At last, the ice seemed to be thawing. A shame it wouldn’t last long.
After all, he’d just set a vigilantus charm running on the gauntlets.
Felix stepped into the first secluded space he found—the broom cupboard, it so happened—and closed his eyes. At once, the images came flooding into his head.
They were in Cassia’s workshop in the silver lining. The urn stood at the center of the empty floor, and they crowded eagerly around it.
“Go on, open it!” Cassia said with a grin, poking Lysander. The thericist flicked his hands skyward, and the ash went cascading up.
It began to spin, spreading out into a slow maelstrom twelve feet wide. A flash of amber thrilled across the surface. The thieves stood back. Then a scar split the ash, and a cascade of emberyn boxes went thundering to the ground.
“There. All in good order,” said Lysander. “That arcanic pocket didn’t do too badly in the flames.”
“Told you so,” Leo said, a little smugly. “I stitched it into the coffin, so it’d stay embroidered in the ash.”
“Sterling work.”
“Mercias above, was that a compliment?”
“We’re not all constitutionally incapable of giving them.”
Felix blinked hard, trying to make out what he saw; the silver lining made the image blur and sway in his mind’s eye. Lysander bent over the nearest box and tapped the top. It unlocked with a faint click.