The Ragpicker King.
Lin’s pulse sped up as she and Ji-An dismounted the carriage and approached the dark stone house. She had given up any thought of running away or even protesting. She did not like being misled, but she was terribly curious. Everyone in Castellane, she suspected, was curious about what lay behind the walls of the Black Mansion, just as they were curious about the interior of Marivent. How strange, to see inside both structures within the span of three days. She lightly touched the brooch at her shoulder. How strange life had been recently, in every way.
Two guards, dressed in black, stood on either side of the mansion’s great front door. They nodded to Ji-An as she ascended, with Lin beside her. A bronze knocker in the shape of a magpie graced the door, but Ji-An did not use it. Lifting her necklace over her head, she used her pendant as a key and ushered them both inside.
Inside, the mansion was less dark than Lin would have expected. The interior walls were polished wood, lit by hanging carcel lamps. A long corridor stretched ahead of them, like a tunnel leading into the heart of a mountain. It was carpeted with thick rugs in deep jewel colors, muffling the sounds of their feet as they walked.
“What do you know of the Ragpicker King?” asked Ji-An as they followed the winding corridor. Doors led off it on either side, all of them closed. Lin could not help but wonder what was behind them.
“What everyone knows, I imagine. That he is a criminal mastermind, of sorts.”
Ji-An frowned. “He doesn’t like that word, so I wouldn’t use it around him.”
“What, criminal?” Lin wondered how else he might describe himself. A guildmaster of felons? A tycoon of the illicit?
“Oh, no, he doesn’t mind that at all. But he does object to being called a mastermind. He feels it has the air of pretense.”
They had reached a massive room, with glass skylights built into the sloped ceiling. The floor was black marble, and a wide channel, running with water, had been cut through the center. There was no way past save a wooden bridge that arched above the man-made river. Ji-An led the way over, flicking the hem of her robe away from the edges. “If you can avoid it,” she said, “do not look down.”
Lin couldn’t help herself. As she crossed the bridge, she heard a noise—a dank, sucking noise, as of something sliding beneath the water—and looked down.
The surrounding black marble lent the indoor river an opaque quality, but as Lin watched, she saw that the water was not still. It moved, without the eddies or currents of a tide. Shadows darker than its darkness slid noiselessly beneath the surface. One glided close to the bridge, and Lin jumped as a bumpy crest, dotted with a single yellow eye, broke the surface.
Crocodile.
She shuddered, and hoped Ji-An hadn’t noticed. She was glad to reach the other side of the bridge and hop down onto the marble bank. Glancing back as they moved away, she saw only flat black water, stirred here and there by peculiar currents.
Distracted, Lin barely noticed as they crossed into a solarium: a glassed-in tangle of hothouse flowers. They had these at the Palace, too; Mayesh had told her of them. In such a place, one could make the delicate plants that did not grow in Castellane’s salty earth flourish. Long ago, the Empire had discovered that one could not graze animals on the alluvial plain surrounding their precious harbor; crops like wheat and oats did not grow within the circle of the mountains. So Castellane became a garden of trade. If they could not grow crops, they would grow the money to buy them. They traded roads for wheat, tallships for barley and millet; their apples were banks, their peaches casques of gold.
Yet here, the Ragpicker King had re-created a more temperate climate, redolent of white flowers. Paths of crushed stone wound through the garden, with its roof of glass; benches were set at intervals. Lin tried to imagine the lanky, black-clad form of the Ragpicker King, relaxed on a bench, enjoying his carefully tended hothouse.
She failed.
“Wait here,” said Ji-An. “I have an errand to run; I will return to escort you when Andr—when he is ready to see you.”
“I don’t—” Lin began, but Ji-An was already gone, slipping noiselessly through the greenery.
Well, really, Lin thought. It was one thing to be snatched from the market under false pretenses and another to be made to wait around afterward. The Ragpicker King could at least behave as if kidnapping her was a priority.
Annoyed, she wandered among the flowers for a time, naming off the ones she knew from botanist’s guides. Camellias from Zipangu grew beside the paths, white heads nodding like a group of old men in harmonious agreement. There were blue passionflowers from Marakand, and nodding Hindish poppies, the sap of which could be extracted to create morphea.
After what seemed like an hour, she lost patience. She could not remain here forever. She had patients to see in the afternoon, and Mariam would worry if she did not return for hours.
She slipped out the door of the solarium. She did her best to point herself back in the direction she’d come, but soon found herself in an unfamiliar room. It was large, with a massive fireplace and a great deal of shabby but comfortable-looking furniture—deep sofas and wing chairs whose brocade was fraying along the arms, not at all the sort of thing she’d have expected to find in the home of the Ragpicker King. The ceiling above disappeared into shadow—the famous dome of the Black Mansion? A pendant lamp hung from it on a long metal chain, swaying slightly above her head.
Shelves along the walls held oddments and antiquities: a brass and turquoise honey pot, probably Marakandi in origin. A map written in Malgasi. A jade statue of Lavara, Goddess of thieves, gamblers, and the underworld. And—she saw with some surprise—a silver incantation bowl of Ashkari workmanship. She picked it up, curious: Indeed, engraved around the rim were words in Ashkar. ZOWASAT MUGHA TSEAT IN-BENJUDAHU PAWWU HI’WATI. Designated is this bowl for the sealing of the house of Benjudah.
In the Sault, engraved bowls and tablets were often buried at the threshold of a home, to protect the family within from bad luck and evil spirits. Seeing such a bowl here, a holy item scattered among a collection of trinkets, made the hair rise on Lin’s arms. And it wasn’t as if Benjudah was an ordinary Ashkari name. Only one family bore it—the family of the Exilarch, the Prince of the Ashkar.
“Two long tons of black powder.” A man’s voice, gruff and irritable and very nearby, broke into her thoughts. “You’re sure you can manage it?”
“Calm yourself, Ciprian.” The second voice was smooth, low, peculiarly devoid of any identifiable accent. “Of course I can manage it. Though I am tempted to ask why you need quite such a large amount of explosives.”
Lin set the bowl down hastily, her hands shaking slightly. She was sure this was a conversation she was not meant to overhear. Two long tons of black powder could blow a city block into the sky. She had only heard of black powder being used to blast holes through rock or to destroy ships. During sea battles, flaming bags of it would be catapulted onto enemy decks, shattering the hulls when they exploded. She had treated sailors who had old burns from the stuff. Was a naval army being supplied? Or, more likely, a band of pirates?
“Because I need to blow something sky-high. Why else?”