Fox’s Tongue and Kirin’s Bone

“What’s ‘argent’?” Aaron had asked.

“Silver,” Rose had answered. “They call colors different names when they’re put on flags. Red is gules, gold is or, silver is argent. It’s going to look white on the flag, because that’s how things are in heraldry. But everyone knows it’s really silver.”

“Oh.”

The main gates at the west wall were opened. The duke was the last of his party to step onto the castle grounds. He sat astride his horse on King’s Street, flanked only by his bannerman as the rest entered. It was an old custom, like the king keeping his rooms on the castle’s upper floors. To let the entirety of the party enter a safe haven before he abandoned his own watch was a gesture only, in a city at peace. During the founding days, that post was the difference between life and death for those who sought the castle’s safety. The blood nobles had earned their titles, once upon a time.

That the duke sat the post now said something. That he sat his horse easily, with no trace of self-consciousness, said something more: that this was not a one-time show for His Majesty’s benefit, but simply the way the duke always behaved.

“Why’s there red on the flag? I thought that was only for your family.”

“He’s my cousin.”

“Oh.”

Aaron was on the ramparts, looking down. It seemed as good a place as any. To a road-weary party, the guards on the wall may as well be invisible. Even if someone should look up, the sun would be in their eyes, and his face a mere shadow. A shadow was very much what Aaron desired to be. He wanted to see Markus’ father, without being seen.

The man was at the end of his middle years. Fifties, edging into sixties. His hair was black peppered with white, and tied back in a long tail. He had a beard: short and neatly trimmed, it did not cover the strong lines of his face. Aaron could not tell the color of the man’s eyes from this distance, but he would wager on gray. The duke wore his house colors, the same as those on his flag: his coat was an argent that looked awfully white. When he moved, a lining of royal red flashed in the sun. He must have changed into it just outside the city. There was no way that coat had made the journey in such pristine condition. Even the hilt of his sword was white.

“Markus is the third son?”

“Third child. His responsible is the Lady Adelaide.”

“ ‘Responsible’?”

“Oh—firstborn, I think the common word is. Nobles still call them responsibles. If you’re not a firstborn, you’re a forfeit.”

“Because of the pact?”

“What else would you call a child you mean to give to the dragons?”

“Is she with him? Or still too young for this?”

“Neither. She’s in her thirties now—she’ll be home, ruling the duchy in his stead.”

“That’s quite the age gap with Markus.”

“The duke didn’t want a third child.”

“Oh.”

Duke Sung watched over his people as they entered the castle, and Aaron imagined for a moment that the man really was his father. That they were living somewhere together, and that Aaron was still small. The man didn’t belong in a cave, where the rest of Aaron’s childhood lay; he belonged, rather, in front of a window set in a stone wall, in a room that had a bed just for Aaron. The man would be dressed more plainly than he was now, with his back to Aaron, his shoulders framed by the sun coming in around him.

Aaron would have liked having a bed and a window. Maybe he’d have liked having a father, too.

He didn’t know quite what to make of the image. It was warm in his mind, but it was the warmth of a fire—there wasn’t anything about it he could touch, and trying to get too close was only good for getting burned.

When the last of the man’s party had entered the castle courtyard, the duke gave a nod to his bannerman. The soldier turned his horse and trotted across the entry, the kirin argent streaming in his wake. Only then did the Lord of Three Havens follow. The gates shut behind him.

“What about his other brother? …Or sister?”

“Brother. Michael.”

“Him.”

“He really was forfeit. The pact wasn’t broken until a few years after his death; a dragon chose him when he was fifteen.”

“Oh.”

The petition was to be presented tomorrow. It would be public; of course it would be public. When more than two lords shared a grievance, it was a matter for the whole kingdom to hear, not something that the royal family could silence. That was the sort of thing that got kings overthrown. By the time Crown Riona the Founder had set foot on Last of the Isles, the O’Shea line was firmly in command, and their open attitude towards outside council ingrained into the breed. Behind them, a line of less tolerant royals stretched their bones from the archipelago back to the continent itself. King Liam’s lineage was hardly the first to rule over humanity.

The duke and his party went inside the castle. Aaron stayed at the battlements, looking out over the city. The mortar between the wall’s stones was getting flaky. He took out his dagger, and began idly picking at the gaps as he stared down at the scene below. There wasn’t much to see now. The excitement caused by thirteen lords riding together was already dissipating, and the people returning to their lives. The bakers to Baker Street, the smiths to Smith.

“Having fun with your petty vandalism?”

“Hello, Lochlann.”

The lieutenant of the guard leaned against the wall next to him. Not to be outdone, Aaron slouched forward, tucking one arm under his chin, and letting his knife hand dangle off into space.

“Why is it called Justice? The street, I mean. Baker, Smith, Fletcher, King,” Aaron swung the tip of his dagger lazily, pointing out the vague direction of the streets he named. “Tanner, Carver, Justice. Mercy.”

The guard shrugged. “It’s just a name. Did you expect it to mean something?”

“No. I guess not.”

“Why are you up here?” Lochlann asked.

“Watching the duke.”

“He’s inside already.”

“I know.” The sun caught on his blade, marking out each scratch in the steel. “Why hasn’t anyone figured it out? Who hired the Kindly Souls.”

The man tensed. “Your mind is all over the place today.”

“Not really. Why is the duke here?”

“To present a petition.”

“What petition?”

“Why don’t you ask the duke.”

“Who would I ask about the Kindly Souls?” Aaron asked.

“Besides yourself?” the lieutenant couldn’t help but snipe. “Try the Lady. I’m sure she’d love to answer all your questions.”

The blade reflected the wall or the sky, depending on how he held it. If he angled it just right, he could get the castle: he and Lochlann, standing on the battlements. The man was tense, but for all that he was standing easy. He didn’t favor one leg over the other any longer. It was good to see.

“Thanks,” Aaron said, pushing off from the wall. He slid his dagger back into its sheath.

“Always a pleasure speaking with you,” Lochlann called after his back.

He found the Lady in the eastern courtyard, as far as one could get from the main gates, airing cloaks in the spring breeze. She’d taken over the lines ordinarily used for hanging laundry. Nervous maids hung at the edges with baskets of wet linens, unwilling to interrupt. As Aaron watched, she finished hanging up a large golden-furred skin. At which point she picked up a wicker beater, and began to strike it deader than it had ever been.

“Unnatural,” one of the maids muttered. The blonde woman paused a moment to wipe at her brow, and cast a pleasant smile their way. Suddenly, the maids found much more interesting things to do back inside. She spotted him, and her smile grew.

Aaron stepped forward. “A lovely afternoon to kill a cloak. Mind if I join you?”

She was breathing hard, strands of hair escaping her braid, a pink flush in her pale cheeks—all in all, she looked immensely pleased with herself. “Please do. There is a certain satisfaction in simply hitting things, I’ve found.”

“What kind of skin is this?” he asked, touching the gold fur lightly. It was horse-length, and coarse, but the cloak had clearly been trimmed from something much larger than an equine. It looked old.

“Continental griffin,” she panted. “Nasty brutes. Lion body, eagle head and wings. Not as intelligent as our northern griffins—no humans around to doppel anymore. Fast fliers, though, and strong. Here, have a try.”

She handed him the beater.

She was right. There was immense satisfaction in simply hitting things.

“This isn’t going to hurt it, is it?” He paused, shaking out his arms. A cloud of dust hung in the air around them, slowly drifting off in the spring breeze.

“What, are you afraid of beating the magic out of it?” The Lady clipped another cloak farther down the line. White with black spots, and smaller than the gold fur. It was the northern griffin he’d first seen her wearing, back on the night the fox attacked.

He had been a little afraid of hitting too hard, actually. But if she wasn’t…

Aaron went back to hitting things and stopped thinking for awhile.

The Lady continued down the rows. A heavy green cloak, formed of scales that clinked and clanked—a dragon whelp. A black skin of finer grain, smooth and reflective as a mirror in dark ice—basilisk. Her baskets were a much more terrifying place than the usual laundry.

“Was there something I could do for you, Aaron?” she asked, when all was out.

“I need to see them. The portraits of the assassins who died. Do you have them?”

What she answered wasn’t the question he’d asked. “You don’t need to go back. I’m quite certain Mrs. Summers could be convinced to give you up to another department. Perhaps as my assistant…”

“I need to see them.”

He met her eyes. She turned away and plucked at the white griffin’s coat. “There’s other ways, Aaron. Other people we can send. Whatever petty gang war is painting their walls should be nearly over by now; then it’s just a few glints of silver to buy new eyes. We’ll catch them, and we’ll kill them, and in between they’ll talk. You don’t need to go back.”

“I need to see them,” he repeated. “And you need to tell me what we know.”

She tugged at the cloak, straightening it. “Southern coin paid it, but anyone can get their hands on coins. The poison on their blades was mixed by an old hedge wife, too deep in the Downs to be worth the effort of catching; a raccoon doppel known for selling to all sides. The real concern is how they got in. The Letforget is failing, but it’s not lost itself completely. No one with hostile intent should be able to enter. Not without invitation, or magic enough to be a proper beast; even the fox singed himself knocking on our door. The vermin we killed that night were let in by someone with rights of blood or power.”

The Lady lifted the pelt with both hands and snapped it taut, forcing the wrinkles out with more aggression than strictly necessary. “Even if we catch one of these rats alive, they’re not likely to know who really hired them. Anyone competent would hide their identity, and anyone intelligent would lay the trail to point elsewhere. It’s someone with enough gold to lure them out of their holes, despite the risk: that’s all we can really prove right now.”

“Still.” Aaron said. “I need to see them.”

“You’re growing up so well.” Her hands moved in softer strokes across the white fur. “Sometimes I wish I’d played a bigger part in that.”

What would Markus say to that? Aaron swallowed. “You did what you could.”

“I did what I did,” she corrected. “And that I’ll live with. Come to my rooms after the trial. I’ll have the pictures then.”