The Black Orchid

Chapter 3 

CHAPTER 3

“Good morning, lovey!”

Rory cracked an eye open to see Cruikshank beaming down at her. “You’re in a good mood today,” she mumbled.

“Best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages,” said Cruikshank.

Rory wished she could say the same. Although she and Longinus had returned to the workshop at a decent hour, Longinus had insisted they stay outside so he could rant and pace in peace. He had yet to formulate a plan for dealing with the missing black silk, but the ranting and pacing had at least improved his mood.

Cruikshank disappeared from Rory’s line of sight, and a moment later Rory winced at the shrieking sound of metal being twisted. She buried her head beneath the blanket.

“Up, up, up,” came Longinus’s voice. The blanket was yanked away. “We have work to be getting on with. Come on, up!”

Rory grumbled, but it was clear she would be getting no more shut-eye today. She’d go up to the roof later for a nap. She got up, yawned and stretched. Longinus strode over to the other end of Cruikshank’s workbench, which groaned beneath tools, parts, cogs, and chains.

“Cruikshank, I am going to make room for myself here.” He gestured at the workbench. “I have work to be getting on with, and this will be my operating base.”

“Knock yourself out, lovey,” replied Cruikshank. “Just so we’re clear though, you can’t touch anything around where I am now, and I don’t want to hear any complaints tomorrow when it all goes right back to the way I usually have it.”

“The way you usually have it? You don’t have it any way, it’s just mess.”

“Exactly the way I like it.”

Longinus was prevented from replying when the door opened.

“Good morning!” Rafe entered the workshop. He was a slim-built lad with the dark skin of a Damsian, and although he was a Varanguard, one of the Old Girl’s personal bodyguards, today he was dressed like a civilian.

Rory glanced over at him. “Oh, it’s you,” she said.

Rafe regarded her with his usual sardonic expression.

“Your powers of observation, as ever, astound me,” he replied.

“In some parts of the world,” Longinus called from the workbench, “I mean in some civilised parts of the world, knocking before entering is considered polite.”

Rafe ignored him, turning to Rory instead. “You’re wanted at the mansion.”

“At the mansion?” she echoed.

“Sadly, your powers of hearing don’t astound me.”

“Ooh, stretching our powers of sarcasm, are we?”

“What can I say, you’re just the right person to practice on.”

“Always happy to help — maybe if you practice long enough, your idea of humour won’t bore me to tears.”

Rafe smirked and crossed his arms, leaning forward. Rory leaned back.

“Name one instance when you haven’t found me entertaining,” he said in a low voice.

Rory ignored him. “So why am I needed at the mansion?” she asked.

“Well, the Marchioness sat me down, explained to me in full depth and detail her innermost thinkings before sending me out to fetch you, just in case you had any questions,” replied Rafe. “How the hell should I know why you’re needed? I’m told to fetch you, and so I fetch.”

“Like a good little dog,” Rory quipped.

“If you two are finished,” interrupted Longinus, stepping in between them. “I don’t want to be late.”

Rory’s eyebrows shot up. “You changed?”

In the couple of minutes she and Rafe had been exchanging barbs, Longinus had removed what she now knew to be a ‘smoking jacket’ — even though Longinus didn’t smoke — and had dressed in soft grey silks. Rory wasn’t surprised by the change: Longinus changed his clothes at the slightest provocation. It was the speed that shocked her — he usually required at least a good half hour.

“Yes, well, we can’t be keeping the Marchioness waiting,” he said, fussing with a sleeve cuff.

“My orders are for Rory only,” said Rafe.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Longinus walked outside, followed by Rory and Rafe.

A steam rickshaw awaited, gleaming in the morning light, its engine puttering softly. It was a simple adaptation of an old-fashioned rickshaw: a seat wide enough for two people, set on two large wheels, with an oiled canvas cover that could be pulled forward in case of rain. A small steam engine had replaced the man that would have dragged the rickshaw back in the day, but it still required a driver. He waited by the engine, wearing a wide-brimmed, flat straw hat that kept his dark-skinned face and shoulders in the shade.

“Sorry, but orders are orders,” said Rafe, following Longinus to the rickshaw. Longinus climbed in and settled himself, smoothing out his silks. “Out,” Rafe said with a jerk of his head.

“I ain’t going nowhere without Longinus,” Rory replied.

She knew full well why Longinus wanted to go to the mansion: Lady Martha would likely be there, and he never lost an opportunity to make cow eyes at her. Rory would have argued even if that wasn’t the case, though.

It was fun annoying Rafe.

“This isn’t a joke,” said Rafe. “I was given orders to summon Rory to the mansion, so Rory is coming, and only Rory.”

“Oh, unclench,” replied Rory. “What’s the big deal if Longinus comes along?”

“He wasn’t summoned.”

Rory grinned. “I ain’t going nowhere without Longinus,” she repeated.

“I can make you,” replied Rafe.

“Don’t you dare threaten my assistant in my presence,” snapped Longinus.

“Nobody’s threatening your assistant, since you ain’t got one, alright?” replied Rory.

“Not the time, Rory.” Longinus waved a hand impatiently.

“It’s always the time. Jumping to my rescue ain’t no good reason to claim I’m your assistant. Not when I told you over and over that I ain’t. You keep doing that, and you’ll be the one what needs rescuing.”

“Hey!” said Rafe. “We’re not here to discuss whether Longinus has an assistant. Longinus gets out and Rory gets in.”

“Gods you’re slow, ain’t you,” exclaimed Rory. “I already told you I ain’t going nowhere without Longinus. We’re inseparable. We’re like… like pork and apple.”

“That’s a stupid comparison,” said Rafe. “Plenty of people have pork without apple.”

Rory grinned. “Yeah, and like having me without Longinus, it wouldn’t be as good a meal, right. If they’d gone with the nature of things and had apple too, well they’d have eaten much better.”

“Why, Rory!” exclaimed Longinus. “You attempted a metaphor. How wonderful that my refinement and education are finally having a noticeable impact on you! Although I should point out that if anyone is the pork in that comparison, it’s me.”

“You do make a fine pig,” said Rory with a widening smile.

Longinus didn’t take the bait, adjusting his silks instead. “We’re keeping Lady Martha waiting,” he said.

A look of worry briefly came over Rafe’s face.

“The Old Girl’s gonna be pissed off if she has to wait,” Rory added with a sly smile.

“There’s not enough space for three in the steam rickshaw,” said Rafe.

“That’s alright, I’m only little. We can squeeze. Better that than trying to win an argument against both of us. Ain’t gonna happen, and all you’re doing is keeping the Old Girl waiting.”

Rafe threw her a dirty look. “Fine,” he said at last. “Longinus can stay.”

“Well, that took you long enough,” said Longinus as Rory climbed in.

Rafe followed after her, wedging himself in.

“What were you thinking, bringing such a small rickshaw?” Longinus sniffed as he shifted in his seat. “It’s entirely inadequate for three people.”

“It wasn’t meant for three people,” snapped Rafe.

“Well, clearly that was an oversight on your part,” replied Longinus.

Rory’s smile widened. She’d have to remember to g**g up on Rafe with Longinus more often.

* * *

As they walked through the mansion’s hallways towards the Marchioness’ office, Longinus became more obviously nervous. His fingers fussed with his cuff sleeves, then his collar, and his face was as taut as a bowstring.

“What if she doesn’t want me there?” he murmured to Rory. “What if the reason I wasn’t summoned is that she thinks I’m a subpar assassin? What if —”

“It’ll be fine,” Rory whispered back.

“What was that?” Rafe asked, turning back.

“Nothing,” said Rory.

She gave Longinus’ arm a reassuring squeeze.

They reached the office double doors and Rafe knocked smartly twice. “Rory and Longinus!” he announced.

Rory and Longinus stepped inside and Rafe closed the door on them, staying outside.

The Old Girl’s office was sober, almost austere. Dark wood panelling covered the walls. The furniture was also of dark wood, and the only decoration was a large map on the far wall, bristling with little flags and pins.

“I asked only for Rory,” the Old Girl said with a frown, rising from her chair. As usual the Old Girl wore simple leathers, her grey hair pulled back into a complicated braid, her nut-brown face heavily lined and all the more severe for looking displeased. She wasn’t seated behind her desk, but in the reading corner of the office with Lady Martha and a startlingly beautiful woman who Rory didn’t recognise. Standing behind them in a corner was a tall man with more salt than pepper in his neatly trimmed hair. He had the look of a warrior with his fighting leathers and sword.

“They obviously realised that you meant both of them since they work as a team, mother,” said Lady Martha, rising also, with a warm smile for them both and a warning look for her mother.

Lady Martha looked like a younger version of the Old Girl, but the resemblance ended at the similarities of their features. She was elegantly dressed in light blue silks, and where the Old Girl looked formidable and intimidating, Lady Martha was all smiles, making those around her feel at ease. Everyone, that was, apart from Longinus, who turned into a gormless fool at the merest mention of her name.

She wasn’t what would traditionally be considered beautiful: her features were just a little closer to plain than pretty, her nose had a hint of a hook to it, and her eyes sloped just a little downwards, but when she smiled — which she did often — her whole face lit up. And although she wasn’t formidable like her mother, she had an easy presence that seemed to command the room just as effectively as her mother did.

“If I had meant both of them, I’d have asked for both of them,” the Old Girl said. “I don’t need Longinus today. What I need is Rory’s connection to the Rookery. Last I checked, Longinus isn’t from the Rookery.”

“It might be a bit early to completely discount Longinus’ usefulness, mother,” said Lady Martha. “In any case, he’s here now, so why don’t we all sit down.”

Rory could see a blush creep up Longinus’ neck, although she couldn’t tell if it was caused by the embarrassment of not being wanted by the Old Girl, or by Lady Martha coming to his defence.

There was a brief confusion as an extra chair was brought in for Longinus, and then they all took a seat. Rory found her eyes repeatedly drawn to the woman who sat next to the Old Girl. She was more beautiful than a person had any right to be: her features had the kind of otherworldly perfection that was normally found only in stories or dreams. Her skin was like honeyed caramel, her eyes were framed with kohl and thick lashes, and her long black hair, streaked with silver, fell like two silk waterfalls on either side of her face.

Although she was dressed simply in a belted tunic of fine white linen, she was richly bejewelled. Her tunic sleeves were slit all the way to her shoulders, and beneath them were another set of sleeves, tight around the arms and all of cloth of gold. Gold and lapis bangles tinkled at her wrists as she moved, and more lapis and gold shone at her fingers. Enormous earrings covered most of her ears, from the tops to the lobes. A large gold and lapis collar completed the look, covering the base of her throat and stretching almost out to her shoulders.

“Rory, Longinus, may I introduce my dear, dear…friend. Mizria Ajmad,” said the Old Girl.

Rory started. “Consort Ajmad?” she asked, surprised. She guessed that the man standing silently in the corner was Mizria’s bodyguard.

The Marchioness glanced over at Mizria.

“Not any more,” Mizria said pleasantly. “But it’s nice to know I haven’t been forgotten.”

Rory was too young to have seen the Consort in person, but she had heard plenty about her. A Kushanian aristocrat, Mizria had been famous back in the day, both for her beauty and for being the Old Girl’s lover and Marchioness Consort. Although stories of Mizria and the Old Girl abounded, nobody knew why Mizria had left the city fifteen years ago, and the Marchioness had never spoken of the matter publicly.

Rory wondered why Mizria was here now, and she was even more curious about her own role in the affair.

“Mizria,” said the Old Girl. “Are you really sure —”

“Quite sure.”

“I just… I wouldn’t want you to —”

“Do you think me unable to withstand a little conversation?”

An awkwardness as palpable as summer humidity descended on the room. The two women’s eyes met, and the Old Girl quickly looked away. Rory glanced from one to the other, confused. What was going on?

Lady Martha cleared her throat. “Rory, Longinus, we asked you here —”

“I asked for Rory only to be brought here,” interrupted the Old Girl. And just like that her gaze was its usual calm and steely self. She gave Longinus a cold look. “And I like my orders to be obeyed to the letter. But it is what it is. Something unfortunate has happened: a man died a couple of weeks ago, in unusual circumstances. We managed to establish that he is from the Rookery, but that’s all. We can’t get any more information — his name, who he was, what happened to him. Nobody will speak to the people I sent to look into this.”

Rory grinned. “Well, you know what they say about the Rookery. We’ll kiss a cutthroat before we’ll talk to a guard.”

“I fail to see what’s funny,” replied the Old Girl.

Rory lost her smile. “I only meant that nobody would risk talking to a guard and looking like a grass. Grasses don’t live very comfortable lives in the Rookery — or very long lives neither. Depending on who they’re grassing up.”

“I’m well aware of that,” said the Old Girl. “My people were all in plain clothes. Nobody could have known they worked for me.”

“Beggin' your pardon, but we know our own kind in the Rookery. We ain’t talkative with strangers at the best of times, right, and strangers that go around asking questions, well that’s the kind of news that moves faster than a summer storm, and no mistake. Everyone will have been warned off your people pretty damn quick.”

The Marchioness sighed. “Yes, I assumed something of that sort would happen. I’m sure you can guess my purpose then. I’d like you to get in touch with any associates or acquaintances you have there, and find out what you can about this man.”

“What exactly happened to him — what’s unusual about his death?”

“He has been almost fully exsanguinated.”

“Exsanger-what?”

“Emptied of his blood,” explained Lady Martha.

“A vastly preferable state of affairs,” remarked Longinus. “If only we could find a way to survive in such a bloodless state, life would be infinitely better.”

Lady Martha, the Old Girl, and Mizria looked at Longinus, all nonplussed. None of them knew of his fear of blood, and Rory nudged his foot to remind him not to continue on with what must have seemed like ridiculous talk.

“Alright, so a man bled to death,” said Rory. “Ain’t nothing weird 'bout that.”

“There are no visible wounds on the body,” said the Old Girl, “other than two tiny punctures at the inner elbows and a circle of what looks like needle marks on the back of the neck. My man Howshinger has analysed what remained of the blood in the body, and he found that there was alchemy involved.”

“I could speak to Howshinger,” volunteered Longinus. “See if maybe I can help shed some light on what happened.”

Rory threw him a surprised look. He had taken a deep dislike to Howshinger ever since working with him ahead of the Revels to stop Myran. Not only that, he abhorred blood, so talking about it to Howshinger had to be the last thing he wanted to do. His desperation to get into Lady Martha’s good graces really was quite astounding.

“An excellent idea,” Lady Martha said with a smile.

Longinus beamed so hard he looked like he had swallowed the sun.

“One more thing,” said the Old Girl. “If this is another of Myran’s initiatives, I want to know at once. While Mizria is in Damsport, nothing is more important to me than her safety.” The Marchioness glanced at Mizria. “I want to know of every development,” she continued. “Every last piece of information, no matter how minor it appears to be. We won’t be taking any risks on this one. If Myran is back in my city, I want her hunted and killed. I want results, and fast. I’m sure I don’t need to explain just how disappointed I will be if you have no progress to report when we next speak.”

“Well, hold on now,” said Rory. “Them guards got nowhere, right, so if I don’t get nowhere neither, then why should I get into trouble?”

The Old Girl gave her a cold look. “Are you questioning me?”

“No, but —”

“Then I don’t want to hear any more on this. You will go find what you can in the Rookery and report back with an update on that man and what happened to him.”

“Please,” muttered Rory under her breath.

Not low enough.

“What did you say?” the Old Girl asked, her eyes like two chips of flint.

“Oh, er, nothing —”

“Let me make something clear,” said the Old Girl.

“Mother,” interposed Lady Martha. “I’m sure Rory didn’t mean —”

“Not now, Martha,” snapped the Old Girl. “Rory, I am the Marchioness of Damsport. You are an urchin, a nobody. You are also in my employ, and I do not tolerate my staff talking back to me.”

Rory looked down at her hands.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Rory.”

Rory lifted her head. She could practically feel the Marchioness skewering her with her gaze.

“You will learn your place,” continued the Old Girl. “And when I give you an order, you will say ‘yes, ma'am’ and do it without bothering me with your feelings on the matter. Am I clear?”

The room was as silent as a tomb.

Rory’s cheeks burned.

“Yes, ma'am,” she mumbled.

“Good. Then it’s sorted. You will go visit Howshinger and then you will head to the Rookery. I’ll expect a report early tomorrow morning.”

The Old Girl pulled a cord. The double doors swung open and a manservant stepped in, boot heels ringing smartly against the wooden floor.

“Escort them to Howshinger,” said the Old Girl.