Page 30 of Mistress of Bones

XXI

AZUL, NOT FORGOTTEN

Two days had passed since the exhibition. Two days spent playing games with those around her.

With Nereida, games of cards. With Sergado, games of waiting for ossuary entry. With Enjul, games of sneaking into each other’s rooms to rile the other.

The emissary had searched Azul’s room right after the exhibition, and Azul had used his absence the following day to search for his mask.

What would be more fitting than using its bone to raise an army of spies?

Instead, all she had found were sketches tucked away on a table.

Sketches made with paper and ink meant for letters.

Sketches of plants and birds and bone masks meant for a rounder face—something a youth might wear, or a woman—forming pleasing patterns instead of a broken, scary visage.

The art gave her pause. She would never have expected such a zealot to do anything that wasn’t related to his god, and she wondered what else he might keep hidden away, secret from the world. A love for plays? A penchant for collecting pretty stones?

A lover?

No, it didn’t fit him, Azul decided, and if the unpleasant twisting in her gut lessened at the thought, who would know?

She had followed him the next day, wanting to bother him as much as he was bothering her.

He had led her through a web of streets filled with high-end artisan shops and houses, and Azul, well aware of her shadow, had been careful to keep her expression blank while allowing her attention to snag on a few random passersby for a little too long.

Let the emissary and her shadow spend their evening figuring out if she had singled them out because they might be the other necromancer’s victims, or because she had taken a liking to their shirtsleeves.

It was a dangerous game, but Azul couldn’t stop herself from trying to prod him.

Virel Enjul exuded arrogance, so sure in his power, so certain she’d eventually acquiesce and help him find this other necromancer.

But Azul wouldn’t truly help unless she risked meeting Death—it was the only thing that kept her within Isadora’s reach.

Isadora. She was failing her sister. Four days had passed since arriving at Cienpuentes, and they felt like a year. No news from the dean. No news from her brother. No way to know whom else to ask without arousing suspicion.

She hadn’t seen the masked stranger from the exhibition again, although she had half expected to, since he had been so interested in her brother.

Asking about his identity would take her nowhere: young, dark haired, average looks, wearing a mask.

She had snorted at the thought. Welcome to Cienpuentes , would’ve been the answer.

No, no point in waiting for him, as much as she could use someone completely unrelated to her family, her captor, or Nereida.

And on the fifth day, finally an opportunity to find more allies without Enjul or his shadow being present: an invitation from Sergado to a private gathering with his circle of friends. He was tired of her long face, he had told her.

In the afternoon, they got into her brother’s open carriage—more of a cart with plush leather seats—leaving Nereida and Enjul behind. But not Azul’s shadow, elegant on his saddle a few paces behind the carriage.

Azul settled on her seat, arranging her skirts. She had chosen these and a short waistcoat instead of her usual breeches because they had appeared, along with some other clothes, in her room by her brother’s grace. Today she aimed to please.

“Brother,” she asked as the cart advanced through the cobbled streets, “where is your personal guard?” Lina del Valle had one, and even Azul did in the form of the shadow riding right behind them. She looked around once again, and found no one except the young man sitting by the driver.

“I don’t have one.”

She was surprised. “But you’re a marquess now. You must take care.”

Sergado smiled. “I haven’t gotten around to hiring someone. One of the footmen will suffice for now. Who would dare attack me out in the open?”

Azul eyed the footman’s back and wondered about that. The exhibition had proved there were plenty of people in Cienpuentes with more than passable skill at sword fighting, and who could say no to a good amount of coin?

The carriage moved on, and Azul returned her attention to her brother.

“Tell me more about your friends. You said these gatherings can be large.”

“Well, I must collect as many friends as I can. It’s the only way to survive here and not die of boredom,” Sergado said dryly. “As for my closest friends, you will meet them soon enough. No point in spoiling the surprise, is there?”

Azul scrunched her nose, eliciting a laugh out of him. “Brother,” she said, “will any of your friends be able to help us gain entry into the ossuary?”

He dismissed her question with a slight shake of his head. “Don’t worry about these matters today, Sister. I am working on it. Enjoy the afternoon, make connections. Things will look better soon, I promise you.”

And with that, the carriage stopped and he hopped out, then turned to help her down.

She accepted his help, missing her breeches something fierce, and wondered if wearing the skirts in her aim to please had made a difference at all—he appeared no more concerned about the ossuary than he did the last time she had asked. Did he consider it a mere whim?

Entering his friend’s house, she let her gaze explore the inside avidly: the beautiful patterns of the floor tiles, the abundance of tall vases and potted plants, the framed paintings.

The high ceilings with golden moldings helped alleviate the oppression of the entrance hall, and so did the wide stairs curving into the second floor. There, a hallway free of potted plants led them to a series of three interconnected rooms. No space for a patio in this long house.

A miscellaneous assortment of people filled the rooms, chatting in small groups or sitting on the settees and chairs strewn around. Refreshments and food had been set on tall tables, while more potted plants made their home in corners, their leaves long and impossibly green.

Azul found herself enthralled by the contrast between the muted shades of the walls and the garish colors of the guests’ clothing—not at all like the gatherings in Agunción.

This was a gathering meant to offer a haven of friendship, and Azul’s worries softened as her brother introduced her to name after name: artists, scientists, writers, socialites, from her age to over forty.

She was surprised to see that even in this more intimate setting, some of her brother’s friends wore masks. Cienpuentes certainly loved her masks.

What was it about them Nereida hated so much? She had tried to fish the secret out of her during one of their card games, but Nereida excelled at not speaking when there was nothing she wished to say.

Perhaps, Azul thought, the woman had simply grown to hate them during her life in the court.

“Azul.” Her brother tugged her elbow. “Allow me to introduce you to my closest friend.”

She was introduced to a young man slightly taller than her and with a friendly face—Isile Manzar. Simply Isile, he told her, for they were all friends there.

“Do you remember the painting that caught your attention in my room?” her brother asked, a twinkle in his eye.

“I do.”

“Well, here’s the artist.” Sergado clapped his friend’s shoulder.

Azul’s surprise did not escape their attention.

“You are shocked,” her brother said with relish.

“I thought it an old master’s painting,” confessed Azul, “not a young painter’s.”

“Thank you,” Isile said. “But I’m afraid I’m not sure which painting Sergado is speaking of.”

Azul waited for Sergado to clarify, but he was already walking away, leaving her with this new stranger. The best friend and the sister—a connection Sergado was obviously eager to make happen.

“The painting of a subject’s back,” Azul said, “with the flesh stripped down to the bone.”

Isile swallowed. “That’s ah…”

“What was your inspiration?” she asked. “I have never seen a painting like that before.” What in that kind of painting drew the interest of someone like this, young and fresh and far from death?

Her breath caught and she fought not to step away.

Could this be the other necromancer? As a close friend of her brother, he might have access to the type of places where an ambassador’s second-in-command would be.

But, no, she corrected herself, allowing her lungs to work again.

What would he gain by killing Zenjiel and bringing him back to life?

He already had a protector in her brother.

Why would he need the other bodies she had seen at the exhibition, the ones proving Zenjiel hadn’t been an isolated incident?

“I’m sorry, Sirese Del Arroyo,” Isile said. “That piece wasn’t meant for public viewing. It must have shocked you, yes?”

“At first, but it’s so beautifully done.”

He bowed. “Thank you, again. As for my inspiration, well, you can blame that on Norel.”

“Who?”

Isile fixed his stare on her, then grinned.

“Yes, of course, you’re new in town. Come, let me introduce you to one of our more nefarious members,” he said with good humor.

He led the way across the room into the next.

The conversations there were livelier, louder.

Fights of ideas , Azul thought as she caught errant phrases.

“Norel!” Isile exclaimed, making himself heard above the noise. A strong voice. Isile was surprisingly sturdy.

A man turned from a group and smiled widely. He was older than Isile and Sergado by several years, maturity starting to line his eyes and touch his temples.

“Isile,” he returned in an eager voice. “I haven’t seen you in a while. And who might this be?”

Isile made the introductions, and Azul found her hand gripped between Norel’s big ones.