Painted devils, p.35
Painted Devils, page 35
“A lot of probably dying,” Ambroszia adds dryly.
“So at present,” Emeric continues, “the only way to channel significant enduring power from transcendent to mortal is through a material anchor. It’s an object of our world that is transformed into a sort of conduit for magic.”
“Like Gisele’s pearls,” I say. Dame von Falbirg had to empty Sovabin’s coffers to pay a warlock to craft them.
He nods. “And the iron horseshoe von Reigenbach used to bind himself to the nachtmären in Minkja. Even the pigment of my prefect marks is technically a material anchor, though it’s complicated because it’s highly concentrated witch-ash, and that’s its own thing … but you get the idea.”
“Weren’t you saying something about this, Lady Ambroszia?” I ask. “At the prefect outpost yesterday.”
“Indeed.” She stands, brushing her skirts, and walks over to Emeric’s diagram to look. “My material anchor used to be the site of my tragic and untimely demise. As a mere ghost, I was able to possess a vessel for only a few moments. Willi made this journey possible by transferring my material anchor to this doll, allowing me to engage with the mortal world more extensively. But if it is destroyed, I fear I must, at long last, take my leave of this realm.”
“And many grimlingen, like nachtmären, are similar—their body is the material anchor to the mortal world, but if it’s destroyed, so are they.” Emeric draws a smaller circle overlapping both the mortal sphere and the transcendent and draws an X inside. “They can, however, claim additional anchors to grow stronger, just as the nachtmären displayed new powers once von Reigenbach bound himself and them to the horseshoe. The puzzle we’ve had this entire time is the Scarlet Maiden’s inconsistency. Her abilities don’t match those of any grimling I know—a Rye Mother may be tied to vegetation, like she is, but she shouldn’t be able to force visions on anyone.”
“So you think she bound herself to an additional anchor to expand her powers,” I connect.
“Exactly. If we can find that anchor in Hagendorn, this”—he taps the grimoire page—“can be cast to imprison her in it, using the blood ties. And then the anchor can be destroyed. The only catch is that the binding is meant to be cast by siblings working in concert, but I believe I can cast it with your help, using the blood drops as proxies. And a lot of witch-ash.”
“And it won’t hurt my brothers?” It feels like a load of bricks spills out of my gut when he shakes his head no.
We have a way out. We can turn her own tools against her.
We’re going to make it out.
I start at the distant peal of an hour-bell. “This is amazing, you’re amazing, and if I don’t go to bed right now, I will also probably die or at least sleep through all the fun tomorrow. Are Ghendt and Dursyn ready?”
“I may have sent word that an acquaintance is concerned Madame is trying to sell property she doesn’t own, and where exactly they’re meeting tomorrow to sign the deal.” Emeric passes Joniza’s appointment card back to me. “And there’s a surprise for you.”
“I hate surprises.”
“We both know that’s not true.” He gets up and starts moving around the room, blowing out the candles. “I promise, this one you’ll like.”
* * *
Rain rolls in by morning, but it doesn’t dampen my spirits in the slightest as I accompany Joniza into the Three Swans Inn, passing the newly re-headed Saint Konstanzia fountain on the way across the Sanktplatt. We’re early to the meeting, partially so Madame doesn’t see us walk into the inn where Joniza’s supposedly staying, and partially so I can make sure Joniza gets a seat near Ghendt and Dursyn.
The restaurant of the Three Swans is busy with breakfast service, but I still spot the two prefects at a table tucked in a discreet corner as I take Joniza’s waterlogged cloak. “Northwest corner.”
“I see them,” she says, brushing a few errant droplets from her hair. “Where are you sitting?”
If Madame recognizes me, the ruse is up, but I’m too paranoid to just trust this will all play out as I hope. I also can’t risk the prefects trying to detain me. “Couple tables away, pretending I don’t know anything. Just remember: If I’m right, they’ll summon the Godly Court, and you may have to testify.”
“Pff. I did that at Winterfast. At this rate I’ll feel like they’re just looking for excuses to call me.” Joniza sets off for a table within earshot of the prefects, and I triangulate accordingly, plopping down at a table along the wall where I can hide behind a menu if Madame looks my way.
We don’t have to wait long before she shows up in yet another impractical and elaborate white gown, hair as elegantly put up as ever, but with a grimy damp ring at her hem that almost makes up for my lost sleep. She sits across from Joniza, fidgeting, a very businesslike satchel at her side. It’s clear she’s eager to get this over with.
Joniza, on the other hand, insists on waiting until she’s ordered breakfast. Then she takes her time ordering, thoughtfully asking the server for recommendations and inquiring about substitutes. Madame’s foot taps faster and faster.
Finally, once a towering stack of apple pancakes has been delivered, Joniza allows business to proceed. “… contracts?” I catch.
I duck behind the menu as Madame turns to her satchel, putting me within her line of sight. When I look again, she’s sliding a sheaf of parchment across the table.
Joniza riffles through the pages, face unreadable. Her voice, however, is crystal clear with the quiet precision of a trained singer who knows exactly how to project: “And this contract covers both the Treasury and the Green Sleeve?”
“It does,” I hear Madame say.
And the first trap is officially sprung.
Joniza turns and looks directly at Ghendt and Dursyn, as if to say, Anytime now. They’re already pushing away from their table. Neither are in uniform, but I remember Emeric saying something about getting clearance to operate undercover.
“Gertrud Kintzler,” Prefect Ghendt says as I stifle a gasp, “you are under arrest for attempted property sale fraud and for your participation in import fraud…”
Her real name is Gertie. Emeric’s right; I do love a good surprise.
I catch Joniza’s eye to make sure she’s fine. She smiles and helps herself to a big bite of pancake, subtly extending a finger toward the exit. That’s my cue to start phase two.
I slip out of the Three Swans as quick as I can, then take off at a run for the city administration building, which I tracked down while scoping out inns earlier. It’s a few blocks away, and the streets are clearer than usual thanks to the rain, so I arrive soon enough—I hope. When prefects call the Godly Court, time itself will stop to let the trial proceed. It may have already happened.
But I don’t need to worry about the trial. What matters, terribly enough, is the paperwork.
My first stop is the regional tax archives, where the front office is staffed by a little old lady who has the air of one in possession of an undefeatable dumpling recipe and a willingness to use it. “Excuse me,” I say crisply, channeling my best Emeric, “I’m assisting with a property purchase, and my client would like to know what to expect in terms of annual commerce and property taxes.”
“Oh, of course, dear.” The archivist begins the ten-step process of getting to her feet. “What property?”
“Madame Treasury’s.” I pause. There was a different name on the purchase offer from Wälftsee Holdings. “It may be under ‘M. T.’s Inn and Brothel.’”
“And the owner’s name?”
I fight down a smirk. That one I’m not about to forget. “Gertrud Kintzler.”
“One moment.” She shuffles into the back. Now, I’m not sure about the state of the archives, so I can’t say that it takes an unusual amount of time for her to return, but it feels like it takes longer than expected. The rather puzzled look on the archivist’s face when she emerges seems to ratify this.
“It’s very odd,” she says, peering into a folder. “I did find records for M. T.’s Inn and Brothel, and associated properties, under ‘Gertrud Kintzler’ … but … well, see for yourself.”
She hands me a record of tax payments from the past year. I know what the hang-up is, but it’s still stark to see in person.
Madame Treasury’s entire business enterprise reported a total profit of a single gelt last year, for which it paid property taxes amounting to a single white penny.
It’s because she doesn’t report any transaction paid in spintz—not the brothel work, not the workers’ wages, not their board and upkeep, and neither the food nor the drink served on-site. (And I’m sure the gratuitous greasing of administrative wheels is a factor, if “wheels” has been in the arena of euphemisms long enough to have a championship belt.)
“Very curious,” I lie. “Would you mind issuing an official declaration of record for value and taxes paid? I’m not sure my client will believe me without documentation.”
She’s more than happy to fill out and sign the form for me, and to stamp it with the official archives seal. Once that’s in hand, I head to the opposite end of the administrative building: the magistrates’ complex. Most high-level magistrates have holding cells specifically for criminals of particular interest—such as a businesswoman tied up in a scheme to blockade a port for days—and, as a special present just for me, the prison intake area seems to be adjacent to the financial-services window.
Madame Gertie and the prefects arrive as I’m lurking out of sight by a stanchion. Madame’s trying to maintain a superior façade, a tight smile clinging to her raised chin, even as she’s marched over to a stone-faced booking officer.
Still I wait. I need the timing to be just right.
“Gertrud Kintzler,” Prefect Dursyn rattles off, “you have been tried before the Court of the Low Gods and found guilty of currency fraud, conspiracy to commit mass fraud against various citizens and businesses of Rammelbeck and Welkenrode, and assistance in said fraud. You are being formally remanded to the custody of the Konstanzian Imperial Abbey Administrative District Magistrate for sentencing.”
And there it is. I mince over to the financial-services window right next to them as Madame sneers, “You know this is nothing, don’t you? I’ll be out in a week, and I’ll be fine. I’ll be running the Sünderweg long after you’re gone.”
I’m not as good at projecting my voice as Joniza, but everyone hears me clear as day when I say to the window clerk, “Hello. I’d like to purchase some property in administrative forfeiture.”
You remember that ugly little legal pretzel, after all? The one Madame deliberately misrepresents to threaten her staff? The one that, now she’s been convicted, allows anyone to buy her property for the same price as the annual tax?
Well, today, I’m using it for one hell of a bargain.
I slide the stamped and signed declaration across the counter. The clerk reads it, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline, and I feel Madame Gertie’s eyes burning on me as she does what must be truly appalling math. The clerk brings the tax archives seal up to his nose, but it’s as authentic as they come.
Finally he asks, “Everything?”
“Everything,” I confirm.
“No,” Madame Gertie sputters, “that’s not—She isn’t even from here—you little—”
It’s extremely satisfying to ignore her, to remind her that she doesn’t merit my acknowledgment.
“Given the scale of the purchase, we’ll need some time to fully prepare the paperwork,” the clerk says, “but I can enter you into the general record as the owner now if you pay up front.”
“And how much will that cost?” I ask calmly, not because I don’t know, but because I want Madame Gertie to hear exactly how her own shitty scheme has bitten her in the ass.
The clerk swallows. “One,” he says haltingly, “white penny.”
“You don’t even know who you’re dealing with, you miserable bitch,” Madame snarls, “you are in so far over your head, you have no idea who you’ve crossed—”
“Oh, I’ve already met Prince Ludwig,” I tell her, fishing in my pocket. “Great host. Terribly sticky fingers.”
That gets her to shut up a moment as Dursyn and Ghendt trade looks. But once she’s recovered, she hisses, “I can get my property back. And I won’t even need revenge, because I can’t do anything worse to you than what your own mirror does every day.”
I do look at Madame then, shedding all arrogance, all pretention, and mustering only the hard, hard ice I grew in Sovabin. I set a white penny on the counter, and I make sure she can hear the silver ring on the stone as I push it across.
I want her to remember how one moment of casual cruelty became the worst mistake of her life.
And I want her to remember this moment when, after years of getting rich at the cost of girls like me, one of us took everything from her.
I say, cold as the crossroads that made me, “You were warned.”
In the end, a bailiff has to physically pick up and drag her, thrashing and screaming, off to her cell. I watch her go with a smile as the clerk finishes writing my receipt.
I could get used to this, slipping through the cracks to set things right. Not just taking, but mending.
“It feels like this should be illegal,” Prefect Ghendt says under her breath, eyeing me.
“Hmm,” I say blithely, collecting my receipt. “Someone really ought to fix that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ve earned a nap.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
RAINFALL
“This should be everything,” I say a few hours later, stacking what is hopefully the last heap of paperwork I’ll see for a week or five. Jenneke, Joniza, and I are sharing a table in the tavern of the Jolly Magistrate, wrapping up what I suppose can be called a business lunch. “So let’s review the terms of our agreement.”
“Yes, please,” Jenneke says politely, drawing her embroidered green robe a bit tighter. This one’s a bit sturdier than the one she wears at the Green Sleeve. “Not that I don’t trust you, but … this is not the hour for surprises.”
Joniza snorts into her cider. “I can see why Vanja brought you on.”
“The property formerly known as the Treasury, as well as its associated businesses, will remain under my ownership but be managed by you, Jenneke,” I start, running my finger over that part of the contract. “All after-tax profits will be reinvested into wages and upkeep. All transactions will be made in standard coin. If anyone even thinks the word spintz, they’re out.”
“So far, so good,” Jenneke says. “And Marien took the offer, so I’ll be training her to eventually run the … well, not the ‘Treasury’ anymore.”
“I still say it should also be the Green Sleeve, so you’re collectively the Green Sleeves,” Joniza says. “Your customers will walk down the street and right into their lovers’ arms.”
“I’ll consider it,” Jenneke says diplomatically.
I steer us back on track. “Point being, Marien and Agnethe will be taken care of. And”—I move to the next clause—“there will be at least five rooms open on the premises for people who need free short-term housing.”
“Yes, let’s nail that down, please,” Jenneke says. “Just for mietlingen who want to transition out of brothel work?”
“Or for people who’ve wound up in a situation like Agnethe’s, where they’ve been cheated out of wages, or who’ve just fell on hard luck. And they can stay up to three months. I’d rather ask fewer questions and help more people, to be honest.” I shrug. “Better to deal with a cheat or two than shut out the dozens who need help.”
“Agreed.” Jenneke folds her arms. “And the terms of the buyout?”
“Once the Other Green Sleeve has turned a profit for a solid year under Marien’s management, she can buy it from me for the same price I paid.” I tap the final clause. “One white penny.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Joniza raises her sjoppen. We toast, and then, when the mugs hit the table, she asks, “And Köhler will be hired on to redecorate the Not-Treasury?”
This is the part I’ve been waiting for.
Jenneke looks at me, then at Joniza, a small grin breaking across her face. “Actually,” she says, wiggling a little as she tosses her braid over a shoulder, “we went over some numbers with our bookkeeper. The, er, mystery money that arrived at our door … it’ll cover Köhler, but there’s plenty left over. And we want to completely redecorate the place. So we’re still going to hire Köhler to execute the project, but we’d like to buy the décor directly from your family. And we’d like to buy everything.”
Joniza’s eyes nearly fall out of her head, which is a rare sight. “All the décor?”
“And fabric, spices, perfumes, jewelry … I mean everything. The rest of the caravan merchandise.” Jenneke lifts her arm to show a mended patch on her sleeve. “We have so much in need of updating, and anything we don’t use, we can sell through Madame’s former side businesses. Of course, we’re happy to honor Köhler’s previous deal as well, if you’d like to sell the rest of your goods elsewhere.”
“No,” Joniza says a bit foggily, “I think my father will take your offer.”
“Wonderful.” Jenneke beams. “Now where do we sign?”
Jenneke handles her signatures quickly, then takes her leave, heading back to the Green Sleeve to start putting things into motion on her end. I, on the other hand, have a bit of an unexpected dilemma when we get to my own signature—specifically the last part.
Schmidt is a name I picked because I needed something and, as far as I knew, my father is—was, I recall with a pang—a blacksmith.
But my family’s name is Ros.
I … just don’t know if I’m ready for it to be mine.
Considering I just pulled a completely legal scam against one of Prince Ludwig’s business lackeys, it might not be the best for my family’s name to go into public record. I’m busy signing Vanja Schmidt on the papers when Joniza’s voice breaks into my thoughts: “Congratulations.”
