Chapter 10 The Festival of Demons
The cooling, longer nights and the subtle hint of frost in the air always welcomed the Festival of Demons.
On the proceeding days, Leena watched as lights lit up the winding streets, stretching from here to New Algaraa District, then all the way to the bricked factories in Ridgeways.
She could smell the hints of kerosene mixed with the oils from frying food that permeated the streets, and the resulting smoke caused a thin mist to weave between the roads.
Every block would already be teeming with caravans selling services and wares: doughnuts fried to golden perfection, fortune-tellers decked in scarves, palm-readers, fire-eaters and jugglers, perfumers who swore to be able to bottle desire.
Night had not yet fallen, but she could see the revelers making their way down to the festival through her bedroom window.
They dressed in masks to hide their identities, ranging from grotesque depictions of demons with snarling faces to coquettish ones with exaggerated red lips and crimson cheeks.
She saw a man wearing the long flowing garb of the Saints as he tried to hail a hackney, an idol swinging from a chain on his chest, reminding her with a shudder of the Black Coat whose throat had been slit by St. Silas.
She knew that this man, unlike the rest of the revelers, would not join the festivities, instead spending the night in prayer in one of the cathedrals.
Every year Leena wondered how this once-holy festival—a way for the Mors to celebrate the Saints’ triumphant massacre of the demons—had turned into an excuse to get roaring drunk and pursue every form of debauchery known to man.
She knew the history—back when Golborne was a tiny settlement that herded sheep, any misfortune that had befallen it was blamed on the demons.
A child dying young from pox? A mind turned with madness? Lustful thoughts? All demon-cursed.
Then the Saints cropped up, offering blessings, curing the ill, and—most important—banishing the demons. Nowadays, Leena thought wryly, instead of blaming demons for their misfortunes, people often looked toward the aristos.
A note delivered by Mrs. Van told Leena that the Saint required her presence for the festivities. It had been a week since the Black Coat’s death, and Leena would be seeing Rami tomorrow. She could bear a night with the Saint for that.
The housekeeper had laid out her garments—a stiff high-collared dress in a shade of emerald green with a simple half mask, in the form of a skull, that revealed her mouth.
One of Leena’s earliest childhood memories was attending the festival with Baba and Rami.
Algaraans often wore their traditional dress—the only time it was not frowned upon by Morish society—and Leena usually wore a long, loose kaftan with a delicately embroidered belt.
When Mrs. Van left, rather than reach for the petticoats, garters, and whalebone corset, Leena found the white kaftan her father had bought for her birthday years ago.
Wearing the dress felt like home—a return to another life, to another Leena with far less worries.
She tied the golden-flossed belt around her waist, then loosened her long curls until they fell down her back.
She observed the effects in the mirror, unsure whether Sweeper’s Cough had left any lasting traces on her face.
Her eyes, she thought, would always remain the same: brown like her mother’s, large like her father’s, speaking of other lands, like her blood.
The rest of her—the cheekbones that rose high above her lips, the mouth that had a tendency to quicken into a smile as much as a frown—hadn’t altered much.
She wanted—Leena could not suppress the thought quickly enough—to look more carefree.
And yet, even in the mirror, she looked burdened.
She pinched her cheeks before setting the mask carefully over her face.
—
Leena and St. Silas stepped out of the carriage in New Algaraa District.
Night had descended and the revelers were in full swing.
Leena stood for a moment taking in the scene before her.
Children weaved through the throng holding ribbons with cutouts of paper demons.
A young man started playing a fiddle, the music filling the crowd with an excited buzz.
The juxtaposition of bright colors coupled with the demonic disguises gave the festival an enchanted aura.
Ahead of her, a woman wearing a bone-white mask began dancing to the music, and a man in a smiling demon disguise joined her. Leena paused to watch for a moment, until the dance became wild and sensuous. Then she turned away quickly, feeling embarrassed without knowing why.
She focused on following her employer, his decisive gait cutting through the crowded street with ease.
Like her, he didn’t wear a demon disguise but a mask with lupine eyes that left the contours of his sharp jaw exposed.
He hadn’t shared his purpose in attending the festival with Leena, despite her questions in the carriage.
Nor had he chided her for her change of outfit.
He led her away from the revelers, toward a cathedral that stood frowning over the festivities.
It had been left abandoned for years, the structure weak, the roof caving in.
In the quiet courtyard, the noise had dimmed to a low hum, the stone walls and the sullen statues of the Saints guarding them from view.
A man stood beside a bronze sculpture of the Saint of Silence.
Another Black Coat.
He didn’t wear a mask. His watchful eyes were pinched over his bulbous nose; his frame was large, the muscles stretching the fabric of his jacket. He hadn’t noticed them yet, although he kept turning to peer over his shoulder uneasily.
St. Silas’s hand on her elbow stopped her by the iron gates just before they entered the courtyard. “That is Basil Richards. Do you see a ghost by him?”
By now, she knew there was no point questioning St. Silas’s motives.
Leena trained her eyes on the courtyard. Yes, there was a flickering of movement directly behind the Black Coat: a gaunt man dressed in the striped uniform of the incarcerated.
Leena nodded at the Saint and reached for her copper coins as the phantom prisoner eased away from the Black Coat and drifted toward her, but she didn’t strike them together yet.
As the phantom approached, she could see he was clearly Algaraan, his brown skin no fainter after death. When he turned around, she noticed a knife buried deep in his spine. Leena tried as best she could to describe him to St. Silas. “There are initials on the knife inserted into his back—B.R?”
“Basil Richards keeps busy, I see,” St. Silas murmured, his smile thin, eyes alert on the nothingness beside her. “Good.” He turned back to Leena. “Anything else?”
“There’s also inking on the prisoner’s wrist.” Leena paused, assessing the phantom slowly. The ghost watched her with searching eyes. “No, not inking. A brand—” Her breath hitched when she saw the seven brutal letters burned into his skin. “The Wake,” she whispered.
St. Silas’s head tilted toward her as if in confirmation. “Ah.”
He stepped toward the entrance, but Leena moved to stand in his way. Her pulse thrummed in her neck. Waves of images flashed through her mind—of Mama pleading with Leena to save her father from the Wake.
St. Silas took in her defiant eyes, the harsh tilt to her chin. “You want to question Basil about the Wake?”
Leena gave a firm nod.
He seemed to consider this, then shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him one way or the other. “You may do whatever you please after my business is concluded.”
Leena stepped out of the way.
They walked into the courtyard, leaving the phantom behind them, the echo of their steps lost in the distant noise of the festival.
“Basil.” St. Silas nodded at the man. His tone was pleasant, but it drew a shiver out of Leena. “You said it was urgent. What do you have to report?”
Basil bowed jerkily, his eyes flickering to Leena briefly. Then he took out a match, busying himself with lighting a cigarette. Leena noticed that his bulky fingers trembled.
“You’ve not been followed, sir?” There was a trace of apprehension in the large man’s voice.
“I got rid of my shadow a fortnight ago,” was St. Silas’s laconic reply. Leena could not forget the beaten man in the Saint’s study, and she wondered if that was the shadow he was referring to. “The only news I care to hear from you is whether your boss received my message.”
Basil heaved a sigh. “Two Black Coats dead within the span of a few weeks. That’s a lot even for you, sir.”
“In which case”—St. Silas smiled—“Orley should not have sent his man to spy on me, posing as a confessor. I will not ask again. What do you have to report?”
Basil’s cigarette drew shadows on his face. “Mr. Orley does not want a war. The two men you, er, disposed of…had also been taking bribes from an Algaraan gang in exchange for Black Coat information about Tar shipments. Overall, Mr. Orley’s pleased by the outcome and sees no need for retaliation.”
A dangerous frown twisted St. Silas’s face. “It matters little to me what Orley’s motives were for ridding himself of his two spies. If your boss decides to send anyone else to attempt to collect information on me, I would not hesitate to bury a hundred Black Coats, and retaliation be damned.”
Basil nodded wearily. “Aye, sir. I think the boss has received your message very clearly.”
St. Silas didn’t immediately respond, watching Basil with a wolfish intensity, light glinting off his mask. “As matters stand, Orley should be more worried about spies in his own circle.”
Basil tensed, and the hand holding the cigarette shook. “Mr. St. Silas, you know Mr. Orley would slit my throat in an instant if he knew I was sending reports to you—”
“Not just me, though, is it, Basil?” St. Silas’s laugh was cutting.
“Certainly being an agent for three organizations simultaneously must have vast rewards for you—and in truth,” he continued, as smooth as the pistol that appeared suddenly between his fingers, “I cannot fault you for trying to sell information about both myself and your boss to a higher bidder.”
Basil dropped his cigarette.
“Come, Basil, confess. You have also been spying for the Wake. The question I have for you is what it was you chose to divulge about me.”
Basil eyed the gun fearfully. “I would never—”
The pistol clicked. “I do not take kindly to liars, Basil. Tread carefully.”
Basil took a wary step back. “I have not—”
“I know many things about you,” St. Silas interrupted easily. “For instance, in addition to spying, you also trade prisoners for the Wake—and when you are ordered, you execute them.”
Basil opened his mouth several times before managing to croak out, “H-how did…did you…You couldn’t have known…How…?” He continued pleadingly, “Only a few Algaraans—criminals who would’ve got the rope anyway.”
Leena’s heart raged. To Basil, these prisoners—a few Algaraans—were not human enough to deserve a proper trial or a fair outcome, but a currency to line his pockets with.
Who knew why the Wake wanted these poor men dead or why they traded the living ones, but it was a certainty that people like Basil Richards profited hugely from this business.
“Who runs the Wake?” Leena cut in, her breaths heaving painfully from her chest.
Basil eyed her once more with distaste, and for a moment she was sure he was not going to respond. She wanted to throttle the information out of him.
“Answer her,” St. Silas commanded.
Basil’s attention focused once more on St. Silas’s gun. The words were twisted as he spoke. “Ten years ago, it was run by an aristo. But he’s dead now—long may he rot.”
“What was the aristo’s name?” Though Leena had a sinking feeling she already knew.
“Lord Avon. I don’t know who runs it now. I am not privy to that information.”
Leena felt suddenly lightheaded. What was the connection between Lord Avon, St. Silas, the Wake, and her father? Why had Mama delivered her a warning without any explanation about how Leena should act on it?
She swiveled to look at St. Silas, but she could not read his expression behind the mask.
“Who do they trade the prisoners to?” Leena asked, afraid of the answer already.
“I have also not been privy to that information. I merely follow instructions.”
There was a moment of tense silence.
“Any further questions?” St. Silas asked Leena, his exposed mouth upturned at her with a glimmer of interest.
She addressed Basil Richards again. “Do you know if an Ali Al-Sayer is a prisoner who has been traded by the Wake? He is Algaraan, less than middling height with black hair. He cannot speak Morish very well, but he has been sentenced to life imprisonment for attempting to start a union.”
“I don’t know an Ali Al-Sayer,” Basil muttered. “But then, I don’t bother to learn their names.” An echo of the words of the Warden of Newtorn Prison.
Leena felt an anger so potent it drew stars behind her eyelids. She had just that morning learned an Algaraan word for this sort of anger—the kind that dragged ships of despair behind it: thalam.
“Have you now finished?” St. Silas asked her.
“Basil and I still have to discuss what he chose to divulge about me to his new friends. Will this be a lengthy conversation, do you think, Basil?” St. Silas didn’t acknowledge her stiff nod, nor the shudder that went through Basil’s large frame.
“Wait for me outside the cathedral. The rest won’t be a fit sight for you. ”
She leveled one last look of disgust at Basil before weaving through the statues and back to the exit.
Her palms dampened. She knew exactly what would happen behind her back, and she didn’t flinch even when the gunshot sounded after a few long minutes, the noise ringing like another drumbeat of the festival.