The Last Page (40 page)

“The Cabal—”

“Shht—not here.” Megan glared. She touched Sena’s hair like a granger examining blight.

“You grow away, Sienae. It’s not good to live outside the Circle as long as you have.”

Megan set N
s down.

“It’s temporary. It comes right out.”

Megan snorted. “At least it isn’t blue or purple or whatever they dye it in the city these days.” Megan clucked. “Sienae, you would look charming if you had no hair at all.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

Haidee rolled her eyes.

Megan moved back to her sweating drink.

“Come with me, Sienae.”

Her request dismissed Haidee at the same time it left Sena no other choice. Sena saw hatred crawl beneath Haidee’s lovely cheeks.

Megan opened a door off the portico and ushered her into a complex of chambers, cool and dim as a cave.

Statuettes stood in nubile poses, gazing across music rooms or onto languid staircases that flowed like syrup from the second floor. A terror bird’s head was mounted on one wall. Most of its skull was a six-pound beak, rosy pink fading into dirty white. Fleshy blue skin ringed a set of glassy golden eyes. Sena plopped down in a stuffed chair beneath the trophy.

“How was your trip?” asked Megan.

“Abominable. Muggy—”

“I thought you had a horse . . .”

There was a squat iron canister on the floor fitted with tubing and a tight lid. A chemiostatic cell supplied power. It hissed as Megan unlatched the lid and scooped out a glass full of ice. She poured Sena one of the tall cinnamon drinks and topped it with a straw.

Sena accepted the glass and sipped it greedily, making a fourth of it disappear before she answered.

“I did.”

Megan frowned. “You cleaned up after yourself according to Clea but really . . . Sienae . . . what were you doing in the Halls?”

“Are they looking for me?”

“They were. We provided several thousand gryphs and one night’s pår
n to the chief constable, I think you know him, last name Hews. He’s not an easy man to bribe but he’s been aching for this girl we placed a year ago, Autumn? We knew his taste and were hoping to use her for something more sensible. What got into you?”

“It was the Cabal.”

Megan raised her eyebrows. “Of course it was! Clea checked. Gavin bore the mark!”

Sena was momentarily stunned by the detail, fearful and embarrassed that she hadn’t checked Gavin herself and simultaneously grateful that the facts supported her fabrication.

“Why did you go to Sandren?”

“To close my bank account.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Gods, Mother! You know how you are! You didn’t even let me get my clothes when you dragged me out of college! But it’s
my
money! I earned it. I wanted it.” She pretended to sulk.

Megan softened. “Maybe you’re right . . . but then what in Emolus’ name were you doing in the Halls?”

Now it got tricky. “I overheard Gavin, talking about a meeting with the Cabal. It was supposed to happen there, in the Halls. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“Do you know what the meeting was about?”

“Something about the book.”

Megan scrutinized her for a moment. “Tell me how it went wrong.”

“It was my fault. I didn’t think I’d have to kill him. I didn’t plan ahead. I made a false step. He heard me, turned around . . . we never made it to the meeting.”

“The Seventh House doesn’t make false steps, Sienae.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I’m not exactly that kind of operative, am I? It was my first time.”

Megan drummed her fingernails against her glass. Sena knew it was no excuse. She knew the Sisterhood couldn’t tolerate this kind of blunder, especially from an Ascendant.

Megan’s expression remained soft. “With the W
llin Droul hunting us, we have to be careful. There’s no telling who to trust.”

Sena put her drink down. “If they’re such a problem, why not focus on them? Why go to war with Stonehold?”

“War? Who said anything about war?”

“Haidee.” It wasn’t exactly what Haidee had said, but Sena enjoyed stirring the pot.

Megan snorted. “It’s not a war. It’s a transumption hex. Pandragor’s negotiations with Stonehold have failed. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but the Pandragonian Empire isn’t paying us for this. It’s an exchange of services. They’ve agreed to help us with the W
llin Droul . . . help us locate the book.”

Sena tensed.
Wouldn’t you die,
she thought,
to know I’ve already found it! It’s sitting in my pack six feet in front of your nose!

“What’s a transumption hex?”

Later that night when Sena had wriggled into the doll-like allure of the Seventh House’s ceremonial dress, painted her eyes black and her lips red and pulled the sepaled mask over her head, she sauntered into Deep Cloister with a mounting sense of dread, ignoring the propositioning looks she received from her Sisters.

She had hidden the
C
srym T
carefully. She knew her belongings could be rifled at any moment.

The great hypostyle of Deep Cloister sat inside the enormous courtyard made by parliament’s wings. Deep Cloister was a circular collection of pillars holding up a slightly conical roof.

Sena wove inward through the columns. They were positioned in such a way that no clear line of sight extended to the interior and even daylight choked after forty yards.

Thorn apples grew in profusion throughout Mir
yhr and the Sisterhood had gathered leaves earlier that day. Now they boiled them, brewing a drink that promoted visions.

Some had already become sick. Others laughed and ran screaming that they were flying and that the darkness above the columns had dissolved into sky—a sky that flamed and spiraled with brilliant sinister hues of green.

Sena sipped the beverage shoved into her hands and made her way to the center where Megan was already calling loudly from atop a dais of ashen slate.

The Sisterhood responded with unified shrieks of holomorphic formulae. Though the cacophony must have floated far above parliament and filled the streets of Skellum with terrifying echoes, whatever dissidents might have heard stayed well away.

“Tonight we call on the Faceless One.” Megan’s frail voice lifted from
the dais. She held an ornate staff of metal and bone, riddled with tubules and hoses and bundles of wire.

Ghastly and slender, the staff glistered. Tiny gem-like windows revealed its center was filled with chemiostatic fluid. From a distance it looked like glowing chrysoprase decorated its grotesque length.

It was not a Shr
dnae implement. This thing had come out of the south.
Out of Iycestoke,
thought Sena.
Or more likely Pandragor itself.