disappointed somehow. Like everyone else in the Ministry, her old master could carry a grudge. It saddened her, no doubt—the old man had taken her in, looked after her for six long years. Though she’ d admit it to no one, she loved the old bastard.
But still, she was a Blade and he was now her bishop, and his tone reminded her sharply where she was. Mia produced the scroll case Solis had given her. It was leather, so it could cross the blood walk—nothing that hadn’t once known the pulse of life could travel via Adonai’s magiks. Mia watched Mercurio unroll the parchment, pore over it with narrowed eyes.
“The Dona,” he murmured.
“Leader of the Toffs,” Mia replied. “They run down by the Bay of Butchers.”
The bishop nodded, picked up the character sketch of Mia’s mark. It showed a woman with a dark scowl, darker eyes. She wore a frock coat of a fine cut, hair styled into artful ringlets, as was the fashion among marrowborn ladies in recent seasons. A monocle was propped (rather ridiculously, Mia thought) on her right eye.
Mercurio dropped the parchment on his desk.
“Shame to bury a knife that sharp.” The old man took a long sip of his tea. This close, Mia could smell the goldwine in it. “Right. The particulars are detailed, you know where to start looking. You’ve got eight turns to end her and snaffle this map, and the hourglass is running. What do you need from me?”
“A place to sleep. Wyrdglass. Weapons. A Hand who knows the ’Grave as well as me and can move as fast as I do.”
“You’ve got your Hand, she’s standing right behind you.”
Mia turned to look at Jessamine. Back to Old Mercurio. The bishop was obviously unaware of the enmity that lay between the girls, and to bring it up seemed on the south side of petty. But Mia trusted Jessamine like she trusted the suns not to shine, and enjoyed her company the way eunuchs enjoy looking at naughty lithographs.
How best to broach this …
“Perhaps there’s someone with more … experience?”
Mercurio peered at Mia over his spectacles, his expression sour.
“Blade Mia. Godsgrave is the only Red Church chapel we’ve managed to rebuild in the eight months since the Luminatii attack. Thanks to Grand Cardinal Duomo and his god-bothering shitheels, I’m one of two bishops servicing the whole fucking Republic, in fact, and with Scaeva running for a fourth term as consul and Godsgrave politics all aflutter, there’s no end of bastards who need killing. So, given that I’m busier than a whorehouse running a two-for-one special, do me the honor of saying thank you, and taking what you’re bloody given.”
Mia looked her former mentor in the eye. She recognized his tone—the same one he’ d use when she was a little girl and he’ d caught her stealing his cigarillos. She glanced over her shoulder at Jessamine. Softly sighed.
“Thank you, Bishop.”
“My fucking pleasure.”
“May the Moth—”
“Aye, aye, black kisses all around. Now sod off, will you?”
Mia backed out of the room with a bow, trying not to take Mercurio’s mood too personally. He’d always been a sour old cur, and running the Godsgrave Chapel at a time like this couldn’t be doing his humors any favors.
Jessamine led Mia down a twisting passage, the Blade following close on her heels. Once they were safely out of the bishop’s earshot, Mia took Jessamine by the arm, turned the Hand to face her.
“Are we going to have problems, you and I?”
“Whatever do you mean, Corvere?”
“I mean it’s no secret we hate each other like fucking poison. But you’re my Hand now. I need to be able to trust you, Jess.”
The redhead’s green eyes sparkled as she spoke.
“I don’t like you, Corvere. You think you’re clever. You think you’re special. You poisoned Diamo and cheated me out of my spot as top of Songs. But I serve the Mother, I serve the Ministry, same as you. Don’t question my devotion again.”
The redhead turned and stalked off into the dark.
The shadows at Mia’s feet rippled, a cold whisper in her ear.
“… you always had a talent for making friends …”
“… WELL I AM QUITE FOND OF YOU, IF THAT MAKES A DIFFERENCE …”
“… thank the mother i am not actually capable of vomiting …”
“… SHUT UP …”
“… such a witty riposte …”
“… WIT IS WASTED ON THE WITLESS …”
“If you two are quite finished?” Mia asked.
“… mongrel …,” came a soft whisper.
“… CUR …,” came a softer reply.
Mia folded her arms, tapping her toe on the stone. Silence fell in the corridor, punctuated only by Jessamine’s receding footfalls.
“Hurry up, Corvere,” the Hand called.
“The hourglass isn’t getting any fuller.” Thumbs in belt, Mia had no choice but to follow Jessamine down the hall.
Darkin …
Mia stared across the courtyard at the gladiatii called Furian. The man met her stare, warm breeze blowing his long dark hair about his face. His eyes burned right through her with an intensity that …
Well, truth told, without Mister Kindly at her side, it frightened her.
But Black Mother, what might this mean? Mia had only met one of her kind before now, and Lord Cassius had died before he gave her any answers about who or what she was. Perhaps Furian knew something more? Perhaps he held all th—
The executus cracked his whip.
“Gladiatii! Return to training!” He turned to Mia, Sidonius and Matteo. “You three. Attend me.”
The gladiatii fell out, holding perfect formation as they marched down to the courtyard at the building’s rear. The executus limped after them, leaning on his lion-headed cane. As Mia followed, she saw him take a sip from a metal flask at his belt.
In the rear yard, where Mia’s father had once kept a stable of proud horses, she saw the grounds had been completely refitted. The ochre sands were set with training dummies, racks of shields and wooden weapons. The ground was uneven, scaffolds and pits dividing the space into different levels, from ten feet high to ten feet deep. A broad circle was marked with white stones, and sigils of the Familia Remus flew proudly upon the battlements.
The gladiatii paired off to spar. Mia saw different combinations of weapons, different fighting styles. The Vaanian girl hefted an ironwood bow and began peppering targets at the other end of the yard. Furian took up twin swords, began beating one of the training dummies as if it had insulted his mother.
The executus limped to the verandah, greeting a huge dog sitting in the shade. It was a mastiff, male, with dark fur and a studded collar. The dog was clearly overjoyed, and the big man knelt with a wince so it could slobber on his face.
“Good to see you again, old friend,” he murmured, patting the dog. “Been guarding the collegium while I was gone?”