Page 28 of Mistress of Bones
XIX
THE FACELESS WITCH
The young woman’s face was a map, and the Faceless Witch took immense pleasure in studying it. Shock and awareness edged with just enough reserve to make anyone curious about what it hid. Well, not all. Many could not see beyond the surface, but the Witch could, and did.
“What a morsel of curiosity you are,” murmured the Faceless Witch through the young man carrying her. Still the same man. Still her favorite. Sío de Guzmán, with his raven locks and handsome features enhanced by a simple dark green mask. “What a pity you wear no mask.”
The little plaything looked lost. “Excuse me?”
The Witch offered a guileless smile. “Masks are so alluring, don’t you think?”
“Who are you?” the woman asked, bluntly as only someone unaccustomed to Cienpuentes’s coquetry would.
Hmm-hmm. Delicious, indeed. “An interested citizen.”
“And what is your name?”
“One of great charm and beauty.”
A spurt of laughter escaped the woman. The Witch congratulated herself—she had been right to approach this one instead of restraining her curiosity and subjecting herself to the torture of waiting.
“Very well, masked stranger,” she said. “Will you—?” She stopped, looked around, as if she had suddenly realized what she was missing.
The Witch stepped closer. “Don’t worry about your zealous companion, countryface. He was called elsewhere.” And then, in a conspiratorial whisper, “I don’t think he’ll be gone long, little songbird, so we must do the best we can with what time we have.”
“Your doing?”
The speculation in the woman’s tone was more alluring than beauty or money could ever be to the Faceless Witch—she so loved secrets. Loved to find them, untangle them, savor their content, and then, only then, use them.
“I will admit to it,” the Witch said, “if you admit to your name.”
“Seems hardly fair, since you won’t tell me yours.”
The Witch put her hand to her chest, today clad in a dark crimson waistcoat with golden leaves vining the neckline and hem. “Ah, but I need to retain some secrecy so you’re tempted to seek me tomorrow.”
Another smile, a calculating gleam in her eyes. The morsel might be from the countryside but knew better than to fall headfirst into the Witch’s charm. It only made her more intriguing. “Azul del Arroyo.”
“Like the summer sky. How fitting. How lucky. Now, tell me, what did you wish to know? I must reward this honesty of yours.”
Del Arroyo returned her focus to the plaza. “Will you tell me about those people over there? Those dignified ones.”
The Witch leaned against the parapet bricks, her half cape draping over her left shoulder and arm, curtaining them into a private nook away from prying ears.
“Are you certain, Azul del Arroyo, that you want to waste your time learning about others instead of me? About those”—she waved toward the plaza—“you can ask anyone. Their names are well known. About me, though, you can only ask me.”
Another round of jeers and cheers filled the air while Del Arroyo paused to rethink her query.
“No,” she told the Witch, shaking her head. “I’m fresh from the countryside, and I have to begin somewhere. Tell me.”
A deep sigh preceded the Witch’s next words: “If you wish. The man over there, in the blue-and-silver waistcoat and stiff cravat is none other than Dío de Mavén, head of the City Guard. Although if he doesn’t get rid of that thing around his neck, we might be looking for a replacement.
How can he breathe in this heat? The woman sitting by his side is his niece, Maril de Mavén.
By their right, that one with the ruddy cheeks is De Pío, one of the captains of the Guard.
See how nobody stands near him? He probably still reeks from last night’s drunken feast. The opposite from him is De Aria, the head of the Golden Dogs, His Majesty’s Guards, and that one, the one standing like he’d rather be anywhere else, is the Count de Anví, his second-in-command. ”
“The regent doesn’t attend?”
“Hah!” the Witch exclaimed. “Does this look like the sort of gathering a regent or a queen would attend?”
Del Arroyo shrugged. If she was hurt by her laughter, she didn’t show it. “Seems like everyone is enjoying it well enough.”
“No, countryface. Those you see here are nothing to those who own the Heart. Haven’t you noticed your host isn’t here?”
The Witch grinned at the sharp glance thrown her way.
“My host?”
“The Marquess de Gracia, of course.”
“Is he the reason you sought me out?”
“Hmm-hmm,” the Witch answered. “I’m quite a curious person, you see. I aim to learn all I can, but De Gracia’s servants are too well paid to talk.”
“I appreciate your honesty, but there is nothing to learn. I’m a temporary guest, and soon I’ll be gone. You ought to ask De Gracia directly, if you wish to know more.”
“How formal, how priggish. It doesn’t suit you.”
“Nothing here suits me,” Del Arroyo muttered.
“Ah, but I think it could if you wanted it to.”
Del Arroyo didn’t bother responding to this. Instead, she asked, “Why do people like masks so much in this city?”
“They find it coy; they like to flirt. A game.” A wicked smile—Sío de Guzmán produced the best ones, just short of rakish, yet too obvious to be anything else. “And idle people do love entertaining themselves.”
“So do you,” Del Arroyo pointed out.
“Only with those worth my efforts.”
Del Arroyo ran her fingers across the parapet’s top, put a drop of whine in her voice. “Am I not worth the effort of knowing your name, then? If I’m worthy of your curiosity, surely I’m worthy to know more of you.”
“A good attempt, but you need to work on your tone if you wish to charm such things out of jaded old souls like mine.”
She studied the Witch, taking note of the youthful looks of her face and obviously wishing to ask. Truly, she was so easy to read on the outside. But the inside—ah, the inside—that’s where the Witch truly wished to delve.
“What do you dream of, little bird?” she asked, crowding Del Arroyo against the stone barrier.
“Do you dream of the pigs and sheep back home? Do you dream of men, or do you dream of women? Perhaps both? Perhaps neither. Do you dream of riches within your grasp or of the things you no longer have?” She lifted a hand to hover it by Del Arroyo’s temple.
“Ah, the things I could do with your dreams.”
Del Arroyo blinked, maybe hoping the action would clear the sight in front of her. Adorable. “You confound me.”
“Such is my intention.”
“Why?”
“My day would be awfully boring otherwise.”
Del Arroyo gestured toward the duelists in the plaza. “Is this not enough? What do you do to fill your days, that they’re so boring?”
A hand landed on the woman’s arm, startling her. “Miss Del Arroyo.”
The deathling was back.
“Ah,” said the Witch, “here’s De Gracia’s other mysterious guest. Also from out of town, I assume?”
The man didn’t answer, because of course he wouldn’t.
The Faceless Witch was well versed in men like him—walls of flesh and bone with no windows to peek through.
They stirred another kind of curiosity in her, but she didn’t think this one would agree to allow her into his mind.
Others enjoyed the hunt, the steady, eventual weakening of their opponents.
Not her. The Witch wanted to know , and while she did enjoy her games, there were too many minds out there to get stuck wishing for any particular one.
“Are you enjoying your stay in Cienpuentes so far?” she asked with an open smile. Another benefit of this body—gods, she loved this body; if only she could retain it forever!—was the ability to appear young and unabashed and too honest for subterfuge.
“It is a beautiful city,” he answered, to the Witch’s surprise. Truly, she hadn’t expected him to. “But we must be on our way.”
Accustomed to giving orders, this one was. It exuded from him: authority, power. The Witch recognized the posture of someone used to eliciting respect and fear. Unfortunately for him, the Witch was not easily cowed.
“So soon? Stay, enjoy the exhibition. Who knows which of the duelists won’t be back next time to grace us with their skill?”
He gave her no reaction. But his hand hadn’t moved from Del Arroyo’s arm.
Anyone else might’ve mistaken this for a sign of passionate possession in the face of an unwanted rival, but again, she was the Witch, and humans were so easily read.
Del Arroyo’s features had rearranged into pure blandness, and she did not resist the hold.
She had expected, if not this, something of the same sort.
She was in his debt, that was obvious. And still, something seemed to crackle in the air between them, the tension of two people unwilling to admit their inner desires.
Nothing more interesting than secret deals and hidden feelings, was there?
“You will stay long enough to enjoy Noche Verde, I hope,” she said smoothly. “It’s been two years since the last one; I can only imagine how magnificent it will be this summer.”
Not a blink from the man, not even a tightening of fingers or a spark of curiosity. The Witch cursed herself. She had meant to find out about De Gracia’s mysterious guests, and now all she wanted was to see what was inside this man’s mind. It was tempting. He wore a mask; he might be convinced.
He was looking at Azul del Arroyo now, as if expecting her to answer. What a thoughtful keeper.
“I would love to see it,” she said meekly. Slyness suited her as badly as her attempt at charming an answer earlier. A woman like this could never be anything but direct. Underhanded, yes, but direct.
“Ask the Marquess de Gracia,” the Witch said. “He should have entrance to the grandest parties. It would be a shame to miss them.”
“Will you be there?” Del Arroyo asked.
“Who knows?” The Witch pressed her small wooden fan into Del Arroyo’s hand. “A small token of welcome, to remember me by,” she whispered. Then, after a small bow, she retreated into the crowd.
The Witch had been half-honest with Del Arroyo—she was a native of the city, after all—and some of Cienpé’s higher echelons did come to the exhibition, hiding behind their masks to conduct secret talks. A perfect opportunity for her to peddle some dreams.
She had often wondered in her younger years why she could do what she did, why she was allowed to turn Anchor into dreams, but had eventually concluded that it must’ve been life’s way to compensate her for her lack.
A lack of eyes, of ears, of nose—a lack of a face.
Every hour, every minute, every second, she felt the weight of the tether linking her consciousness to her actual body hidden in Cienpuentes.
A wasted body—useless, weak, and rotting of old age. Too close to death.