If Talia sensed a shift in Lucia’s attention after the duel, she did not show it; and she did not mention Lucia’s intrusion into her study, letting the matter lie. The spring monsoon came and went, with the celebrations usually associated with the season muted by the constant buzz of activity in Fallmire Manor. Lucia had been right in her assessment of the Mistress of the maids, who had taken to her duties like a succubus to a celibate nunnery—and where the Mistress went, the staff followed. Within mere weeks, the House of Fallmire functioned like any noble house. Lucia was oddly proud of herself for this.
These weeks passed quickly, as Lucia fell into a certain despondency. Her heart still betrayed her daily as she saw the Duke go about her business, but luckily events conspired to keep the two of them apart, mostly.
On the night of the party Lucia had promised to the Royces, a maid had decorated an archway with ivy and proclaimed that the gathered guests should pass beneath and share their true name with their partner, so their souls can be guarded against vengeful spirits riding the spring monsoon. The succubus had never heard of such a tradition; she was surprised to realize it hewed quite close to actual demonic lore. No matter that none of those present likely knew their true name. Traditions were rarely so logical.
She was half grateful that, when she passed beneath the archway with Talia, the latter whispered in her ear, “I’m sorry. This must be awkward for you, but I suppose it can’t be helped.”
Still, a petulant part of her felt cheated of learning her summoner’s true name. So Lucia whispered, “Well, mine is Gregory.”
***
Three interminable weeks had passed since the duel before Talia summoned Lucia to her study early one morning. They had barely exchanged more than a few sentences to each other after Lucia’s midnight trespass. Lucia had come to dread eating with Talia, who for her part seemed impervious to the awkward tension of her own silence. Outside of dinner, the Duke rarely left her study—which was, conveniently, adjoining her own bedchambers. Talia was rarely seen about the manor at all.
Lucia arrived ready to throw down with her again. Their last conversation worthy of the word had been a shouting match, after all.
The Duke, however, opened the conversation with, “First of all, I want to apologize. I’ve been busy with preparations and planning these last few weeks, but I haven’t forgotten you, nor do I believe you were entirely mistaken in your earlier position.”
“My earlier … what?” Lucia blinked, trying to parse if this counted as a full apology.
“Our argument,” Talia said, setting down her reading glasses. “You were right. I still don’t think you should have acted so hastily, but I cannot deny the doors your actions have opened … now that I am no longer ‘an eccentric recluse playing at being a Duke,’ to quote certain rumors I’ve come across.”
“Oh. Well, uh, thank you.” And if Lucia were honest, she had noticed couriers in and out of the Duke’s study almost on the hour for those weeks. Talia being busy certainly tracked.
Talia rested her eyes fully on her ‘wife’. “To that end, I would like to invite you to travel with me to Cavaline today. I am hoping to take you closer into my confidence, even though I reserve the right to some of my secrets. Perhaps you can be a wife to me; at least, more than you are now.”
Lucia snorted. “Well, for that I’d need the key to your private chambers.” She fully intended the double entendre. Triple entendre? It was a really common metaphor.
“Indeed,” said Talia. “Well, our chambers adjoin along one wall. Perhaps a rumor of a secret passage would not go amiss?”
“Using a ‘secret passage’ is hardly married couple behavior, you idiot.” Lucia knew from Talia’s tone that the conversation had ended. The succubus was no closer to opening that particular door—nor the other she sought: the one to Talia’s heart.
And, she told herself firmly, with luck she never would.
***
The carriage crossed over Foxbridge’s … well, bridge, before Talia started the conversation. She had been reading from a number of folders beforehand, making small notes and comparing various things—all in service to her mysterious master plan, no doubt.
But, with the Dutton River flowing beneath the wheels of the carriage, she flipped shut the last folder, dropping it into her briefcase before pulling out another clipped sheaf of papers. “The first thing you need to know about me is that my name is—well, was—not Talia Fallmire. Though I suppose you must have guessed as much.”
Lucia unfolded herself from the side of the carriage as she sensed Talia’s promise being fulfilled.
The Duke passed over a thick paper upon which had been pasted a newspaper clipping of an article, yellowed with age. Hand dated to the year 1121, Lucia read through it. She recognized it from Talia’s history, though last time she had barely skimmed it.
The next of those I found on Gallows’ Row this evening was the curious figure of Antonin Lovelace, the noted demonologist and long-practiced summoner of demons. In point of fact, the Author was graciously invited to his trial held one week previous. Thereat, many rumors swirling about him these past weeks were confirmed as the Commonwealth presented its case against him. It was thus: that Lovelace was party to, and most probably the instigator of, a summoning of the very PRINCE OF DEMONS, popularly known as LUCIFER, and were it not for the timely exorcism by one Deacon Riley Hyatt Francis, the knowledgeable reader will doubtless know the threat posed to the whole of the Commonwealth, not to mention the entire Continent.
In figure, Antonin was a tall and slight man, his height only subtly lengthened by the application of the hangman’s rope. It is strange to note, but the Author believes it must be said, that Antonin’s trade-mark look of eternal surprise still rests upon his face. It will doubtless do so until his body returns to the dust. It is an expression enough to force the sympathetic to question whether Lovelace truly was deceived by his fellows as he claimed. The man protested his innocence to the very end, even in the face of overwhelming and damning evidence presented by the right honorable Parliament’s men. Now, only the dead god may know the truth.
Lucia whistled as she read through the clipping, then turned it over to see an artist’s rendition of Antonin’s only surviving relation, his daughter Ida Lovelace. A girl who bore a striking resemblance to the Duke of Fallmire.
“Antonin was my father, and my name at my birth was Ida,” Talia said tightly, confirming Lucia’s supposition. “And I know firsthand that he was framed, that he died an innocent man. He had no idea the ritual he was given had the true name of an archdemon as its target. Frankly, I’m surprised the conspirators had access to such a powerful name—but, of course, it was Antonin who said the words, and Antonin who was hanged for it.”
That accorded with what Lucia had pieced together from that night in Talia’s study. She didn’t want to push to confirm the rest of Talia’s story—enough hesitation was flitting within the Duke as it was.
Instead, she took another tack. “The Ordo Sacerdotum would have those names. I’d bet they have the name of every known archdemon,” Lucia said offhand. “But other than that—huh?”
Talia looked stunned. “How … are you certain? That would explain—” and she rummaged in her briefcase, pulling out another folder and flipping through its contents.
“Well, yeah, they’ve got them in a vault in their Holy See in Alsace. From what I was told, within is a golden plate inscribed with every known Archdemon and their true name. I think if you get high up in the Ordo, you have to memorize the names by heart, probably so you could banish one if it came to it.”
“So you would know at least—”
“No, I wouldn’t. They wouldn’t open the vault in the presence of a demon. I was damn lucky to find out its existence, in truth. And I think they’re inscribed in cipher, anyway.”
Talia nodded, flipping from one page to the next in her folder, making a note here, then a note there. “Another piece falls into place,” she said. “In any case, there were three principal conspirators in the plot against my father: the Lion, the Butcher, and the Snake. There were a few more incidental allies, I believe, but they don’t bear the same culpability—I hardly think they knew the extent of what they were party to. In any case, the first conspirator, Commander General Gregor Hawthorne,” and she passed the next sheet over to Lucia, taking back the first.
This paper was fronted by a sketch of Hawthorne, who Lucia recognized immediately, both from the duel and the earlier day in Parliament. Below that was a clipped notice of his promotion to Commander General, with the date circled and noted as ‘three months later.’
“The Commander General of the Commonwealth’s standing army,” Talia said. “Which hasn’t seen much action since the Dauphin’s second invasion, admittedly, though it was in that war he received his reputation as The Butcher.” A slight shudder passed through the woman. “He is the only person living who has summoned an infernal-class demon.”
Lucia’s eyes widened. “Why, by the dead god, would he ever—”
“It resulted in a decisive victory,” Talia said. “And that’s what Parliament sees, not the senseless loss of civilian life, the annihilation of an entire Revani town. He’s as belligerent and violent in person, too—at least, when he knows he can get away with it. He was the one to arrest Antonin. And, for his service, he was promoted to his current position.”
“A real feather in his cap, nabbing a traitorous demon summoner, I expect.” Lucia passed back the paper. “He murdered that Deacon, right? I read it in, well … you know.”
“Yes,” said Talia tightly, taking back the paper and placing it securely in her folder. “I believe Deacon Francis was on the cusp of exposing the plot, so Hawthorne was just tying up a loose end.”
Lucia nodded. “You’ve got a real rogues gallery here, I expect.”
“Just these three.” Talia handed over another paper. Lucia recognized the Marchesa’s likeness drawn expertly beside her dossier. The Duke continued, “Here, you’ll see the Marchesa Gianna Forteza, head of her noble house of the same name. House Forteza has holdings near Black Harbor and near Sussex and the surrounding Shires. One of the wealthiest in the Commonwealth.” Talia rested a hand against the carriage window, tapping on the glass idly. “Her son was passed over to be named as the Prince of the Silver Coast, in favor of Antonin. My father was something of a rising star in the Prime Minister’s court, genius that he was, and that made him an enemy of the Marchesa.”
Above the sketched features of the Marchesa, Talia had scribbled “The Lion.”
“What was her part in the conspiracy?”
“Of that I am not perfectly certain, at least in full. I know she compromised the testimony of the Deacon Francis, who was key to the Parliament’s prosecution. But her influence I see mostly in arranging for Antonin to be at the right place and the right time—for a particular definition of ‘right.’”
Lucia nodded, passing back the paper. Talia handed over the rest of the sheaf of papers in exchange. Here was emblazoned “the Snake,” over a sketch of Lindell, dressed in his usual inquisitor robes.
“Inquisitor Henry Lindell, though currently he’s Bishop Lindell over the Diocese of Black Harb—I mean, Cavaline. It was under his authority that Antonin was arrested, and he received an elevation to Bishop of the Diocese within weeks.”
“Knowing the Ordo, that doesn’t surprise me.” The artist had caught Lindell’s particular bored expression well, one that apparently belied a scheming mind.
“How well do you know the Ordo Sacerdotum?”
“I’m a demon. It pays to know my natural enemies,” said Lucia, shrugging. “And a century or two back I was summoned by some Deacon Inquisitors as part of their, uh, education. It was quite enlightening, in more ways than one.” She smiled at the thought; much as she disliked inquisitors, that particular contract had been very fun.
“Indeed.” Talia coughed, then resumed her spiel. “In any case, Lindell benefited from Antonin’s capture and prosecution, yes, but it is his involvement which has been the most carefully hidden. I chanced upon a letter from him to the Butcher a few months after their coup de grace, admitting to some of his activities as well as the Marchesa’s involvement, but it was shortly destroyed; and I only see the faintest echoes of evidence remaining to tie him to the conspiracy. But if I were to guess, I would say he was the mastermind. My gut tells me he is the most dangerous of the three, by far.”
Lucia nodded, then passed back the sheaf; most of the papers seemed like irrelevant nonsense to her, though she had only lightly skimmed them. She didn’t have the head for research like this. Still, as she looked over Talia, she noticed a faint hum of vulnerability within the woman—and once she noticed it, the emotion was clear in her face.
“I’m glad you trust me, even this far,” Lucia said, hoping to assure her ‘wife’ that this tentative step forward was not misplaced. Talia nodded, her face resuming its emotional guard. That was all too typical.
The Duke said, “There is not much else to say, except for a few things you’ll forgive me keeping close to the chest, as it were. I’m not one to overly plan; I prefer to wait and watch for opportunities.”
“So you … you don’t have the next seven years scheduled out to the hour, then?” Lucia laughed, but honestly, the Duke did give off that impression sometimes.
“No, no!” Talia protested. And for the first time in … wait, was this really the first time in weeks Lucia saw a smile grace this woman? Surely not. It brightened Talia’s face beautifully, if only briefly. The Duke continued, “But I can forgive you thinking that.”
“Please do, dear wife,” said Lucia. “But do keep it up for everyone else—it adds to your misty-kay.”
Talia blinked, then shook her head slightly. “It’s mystique.”
“What?” Lucia blinked. “But the way it’s spelled—”
“It’s a Revani word, my dear.”
“No! What?” Lucia groaned. “I’ve only ever read it, never heard it spoken . . .”
***
The rest of the carriage ride passed more-or-less pleasantly, though Talia did not bring the conversation back to anything particularly important. Soon enough they arrived in Cavaline after about three hours on the road. Lucia stumbled from the carriage, letting Richmond steady her as she got used to, one, standing up straight upon, two, a surface that didn’t jostle her every few seconds.
The Duke followed, steadier, and Lucia wondered at the rumor that she was a pirate. Her bearing was more reminiscent of the military, a match to Richmond in fact … but there was a fine line between the two, particularly in the Navy. There had to be some truth to the tale Madame Florence spun her, those few weeks ago, but she had little resources for research of that kind. A half-decent newspaper archive would be a good start—or, just asking Talia when she was in a more forthcoming mood.
Looking around, she saw they had arrived in a more run-down district of the capital; the typical great black clouds of coal smoke were tamped down by the rain, but the latter lent the air an even more oppressive quality, so it wasn’t much of an improvement. A newspaper hawker stood on the street corner, calling out the headlines (“Parliament hung for fifth week over question of army pension!”) and small groups of huddled workers moved from alley to alley, and into the thoroughfare proper.
“What business do we have here?” Lucia asked, but Talia held up a finger.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” she said with another rare smile, and she offered her arm for Lucia to take. The demon did, and they made their way down the street while Richmond drove the carriage off.
As they walked, Lucia got a better look at the various peoples around them. Workers bustled about, drawn here by the new factories that had sprung up in the capital, and other cities in the Commonwealth, over the last decade or so. She didn’t know if the trend had taken root in the cities of the continent yet, but if not, it was only a matter of time. The broadsheets—delivered in a stack by a Foxbridge courier to the estate every morning and evening, promptly—spoke of opportunities available to the poor in the cities, but Lucia wondered whether the old poor farmsteads of yesteryear truly provided less for them than … well, this.
Talia turned them down an alley where small shopfronts had been set up, selling fruit, rain cloaks, ha’penny novels, pouches of stove coal, and all the necessaries of working life. The couple paused at someone selling buttons, needle, and thread (“Kept in small pouches for convenient use, Madams! And at no more cost to you!”), when the Duke put her finger on a singular opalescent button.
“Do you have more of these?” she asked, eying the seller strangely.
“Only if you want to see the backroom stocks,” the seller replied.
“The northwestern stock for me,” Talia said.
“This way.”
Somewhat belatedly, Lucia realized the exchange was something like a passcode, as the seller opened a low door behind him. Talia ushered her wife through it into a hallway that twisted into darkness ahead. The steady dripping of rainwater replaced the low din of the outside crowd. Hunched over, Talia led her ahead through two turns to another low metal door at the end.
This creaked open into a wider space, one that echoed with every step Lucia and her ‘wife’ took. Also echoing across the space came an accent Lucia could not quite place, belonging to a voice combining the dirt of poverty with the confidence of wealth.
“Well, bless my beautiful black beard, the new Captain Fallmire, come to grace us with her presence!”