life was going to get even nastier than a three-and-a-half-story drop under me and a gargoyle covered in pigeon shit.
The pack came to a screeching halt at the edge of Lornless's roof. Then they stood there and watched me like owls. After a moment, Rindleshin shouted, "You're going to break your fucking neck, Mildmay!"
"Don't you wish," I said between my teeth. But he wasn't telling the kids with him to break out their throwing knives, so I figured I was at least safe from that direction.
I took stock of my situation, real quick-like. The gargoyle was steady—nobody cut corners when they were doing stuff for Ver-Istenna. I edged my left foot a little farther onto the cornice, then braced my right foot against the wall and used the leverage to hook my right elbow over the gargoyle.
The fuckers on the roof gave me this snarky round of applause.
But I was in a better position, and it wasn't no big thing to go from leaning against the gargoyle to getting one hip up on it. It didn't stick out quite far enough for anything super-fancy, but I could just reach, by bracing my right foot as high up as I could get it and pushing sideways, a crevice in the frieze of eyes and balancing scales, and once I had a handhold up there, I could get my right foot on the gargoyle, and it was plenty big enough to stand on.
And from there—well, I'm a cat burglar. And cathedrals are easy. There was a bad moment with the overhang around the dome, but I'd gotten into my rhythm by then and hooked my knee over before I'd really even had time to think, I'm fucked if this don't work.
And then I was standing on the walkway around Ver-Istenna's dome. Her priests do tours, too, like Min-Terris's. I turned around. Rindleshin and his pack were still standing on Lornless's roof, staring up at me round-eyed as owls.
I gave 'em the finger, like I'd been itching to do for, I don't know, a good half hour—ever since they gave me that snarky applause for not turning myself into pâté on the pavement. Then I walked widdershins around Ver-Istenna's dome and started for Midwinter.
Felix
The fog burned away at last, and I knew where I was: a tiny, circular antechamber off the Stoa Errata, hung with the sand-colored velvet that had been in fashion when Shannon's grandmother had been Lady Protector. My watch, miraculously still in my pocket, told me that it was five-thirty. I snapped it shut without letting myself read the inscription Shannon had had engraved on the inside of the case.
I didn't want to think about Shannon.
I sat down on one of the spindly chairs. My hands were shaking. I was shaking, as if with cold. I knotted my hands together, pressing them between my knees, and tried to work out what to do.
I remembered my revelation of the evening before, that there was no one in the Mirador I trusted. If Thaddeus de Lalage had been here, things might have been different, but Thaddeus was in Aurelias, had been for five years, and even Thaddeus… no, I could not have gone to Thaddeus. There was too much truth in the air around me. I was not sure I could look anyone in the face. I remembered Shannon saying, Didn't you trust me?
I had trusted no one since Joline, and Joline had been dead for sixteen years.
"I cannot stay," I said aloud, and flinched at the sound of my own voice.
I got up again, beginning to pace, seeing myself caught between two impossibilities. For I could not stay, could not bear the thought of meeting Shannon again. Even worse was the thought of looking across the Hall of the Chimeras and seeing Malkar smile at me. But I could not go, for where would I go to ? I tried to imagine myself, like Thaddeus, going to a faraway town to help the townsfolk, to teach the children, to send the gifted ones back to the Mirador—Lord Gareth's gentle inspiration, after a century's worth of thaumaturgie war, a way to be sure that blood-magic and its vile offshoots were not being practiced. But first I had to imagine myself asking
The pack came to a screeching halt at the edge of Lornless's roof. Then they stood there and watched me like owls. After a moment, Rindleshin shouted, "You're going to break your fucking neck, Mildmay!"
"Don't you wish," I said between my teeth. But he wasn't telling the kids with him to break out their throwing knives, so I figured I was at least safe from that direction.
I took stock of my situation, real quick-like. The gargoyle was steady—nobody cut corners when they were doing stuff for Ver-Istenna. I edged my left foot a little farther onto the cornice, then braced my right foot against the wall and used the leverage to hook my right elbow over the gargoyle.
The fuckers on the roof gave me this snarky round of applause.
But I was in a better position, and it wasn't no big thing to go from leaning against the gargoyle to getting one hip up on it. It didn't stick out quite far enough for anything super-fancy, but I could just reach, by bracing my right foot as high up as I could get it and pushing sideways, a crevice in the frieze of eyes and balancing scales, and once I had a handhold up there, I could get my right foot on the gargoyle, and it was plenty big enough to stand on.
And from there—well, I'm a cat burglar. And cathedrals are easy. There was a bad moment with the overhang around the dome, but I'd gotten into my rhythm by then and hooked my knee over before I'd really even had time to think, I'm fucked if this don't work.
And then I was standing on the walkway around Ver-Istenna's dome. Her priests do tours, too, like Min-Terris's. I turned around. Rindleshin and his pack were still standing on Lornless's roof, staring up at me round-eyed as owls.
I gave 'em the finger, like I'd been itching to do for, I don't know, a good half hour—ever since they gave me that snarky applause for not turning myself into pâté on the pavement. Then I walked widdershins around Ver-Istenna's dome and started for Midwinter.
Felix
The fog burned away at last, and I knew where I was: a tiny, circular antechamber off the Stoa Errata, hung with the sand-colored velvet that had been in fashion when Shannon's grandmother had been Lady Protector. My watch, miraculously still in my pocket, told me that it was five-thirty. I snapped it shut without letting myself read the inscription Shannon had had engraved on the inside of the case.
I didn't want to think about Shannon.
I sat down on one of the spindly chairs. My hands were shaking. I was shaking, as if with cold. I knotted my hands together, pressing them between my knees, and tried to work out what to do.
I remembered my revelation of the evening before, that there was no one in the Mirador I trusted. If Thaddeus de Lalage had been here, things might have been different, but Thaddeus was in Aurelias, had been for five years, and even Thaddeus… no, I could not have gone to Thaddeus. There was too much truth in the air around me. I was not sure I could look anyone in the face. I remembered Shannon saying, Didn't you trust me?
I had trusted no one since Joline, and Joline had been dead for sixteen years.
"I cannot stay," I said aloud, and flinched at the sound of my own voice.
I got up again, beginning to pace, seeing myself caught between two impossibilities. For I could not stay, could not bear the thought of meeting Shannon again. Even worse was the thought of looking across the Hall of the Chimeras and seeing Malkar smile at me. But I could not go, for where would I go to ? I tried to imagine myself, like Thaddeus, going to a faraway town to help the townsfolk, to teach the children, to send the gifted ones back to the Mirador—Lord Gareth's gentle inspiration, after a century's worth of thaumaturgie war, a way to be sure that blood-magic and its vile offshoots were not being practiced. But first I had to imagine myself asking
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