Page 49 of The Infernal Battalion

“There’s visitors, Mistress Gravya,” Hyllia said. “Master Uhlan asked if you’d speak with them. He says you can trust them.”

“Visitors?” The door opened, revealing a tall, iron-​haired woman in her sixties. She wore a practical brown dress and thick spectacles, and a white cap was pinned to her neat bun. She took in Marcus’ and Cyte’s uniforms, and her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “Soldiers? What would soldiers want with me?”

“My name is Marcus d’Ivoire,” Marcus said. “This is Colonel Cytomandiclea.”

“That’s a mouthful,” Gravya said, looking critically at Cyte. “You’re a woman.”

“Yes, mistress,” Cyte said. “And you can call me Cyte, if you like.”

“We’d like to ask you some questions about Janus,” Marcus said. “What he was like when he was younger.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Gravya said. “He was a boy like any other boy. There were no comets at his birth or anything like that.”

“I realize that. He... is a friend of mine.” Marcus lowered his voice and fought off another pang of guilt. “I was hoping you could tell me about Mya.”

The old woman went very still for a moment, staring intently at Marcus. Her hand came up and patted her bun, as though reassuring herself her cap was still in place.

“Hyllia, you can go,” she said. “I’ll bring the officers back when we’ve finished.”

“Yes, mistress.” Hyllia bobbed again and hurried off, apparently glad to be away from these strange visitors.

“He never talks about Mya,” Gravya said. “Not to anyone he doesn’t trust completely.”

Another stab of conscience. Janus hadn’t known he’d been talking about Mya; he’d been delirious, dying of a supernatural poison. Marcus forced himself to nod solemnly.

“All right,” Gravya said, suddenly decisive. “Come along.”

She swept out of her room and led them off down the corridor again. It went deeper into the oldest part of the house. Eventually they climbed a narrow stairway, accompanied by a chorus of creaks and groans.

“I keep telling Medio someone ought to clean up here,” Gravya said. “But there’s always something else to do, and not enough hands to do it. That’s the thing about an old pile like this; some part of it’s always falling down. I’m not so different, I suppose.” She gave a bark of a laugh.

“You knew Janus well, then?”

“Of course. I practically raised him. His parents both died when he was a baby, you know. We all raised him, the servants here at Mieranhal, but I was his tutor.” She snorted. “To the extent he needed such a thing.”

“And who’s Mya?”

“Nearly there.”

They reached a door, which Gravya opened. It led to a dimly lit room at the top of the house, attic rafters fading into darkness overhead. A long, moth-​eaten carpet spread out underfoot. Gravya took an oil lamp from a hook on the wall, lit it expertly with a match, and turned up the flame to reveal a gallery hung with paintings in heavy, ornate frames.

“The other thing about an old pile like Mieranhal,” she said, “is that nobody ever throws anything away. You stash it somewhere, just in case you need it. Or someone else needs it, three generations down the line. It’s not as though we’re short of space!” She raised the lantern and started to walk, then stopped in front of a painting. “Here. Look at this.”

Marcus looked. The painting was a big portrait, well captured and thick with detail. The background was a large kitchen, with dozens of figures preparing food. In the foreground were two children, standing side by side, looking up as though they’d been captured in the act of doing something naughty.

The boy on the right seemed about six years old, with a round face and a lick of dark hair. In the crook of one arm, a small gray kitten was nestled, looking up at him inquisitively. On the left, an older girl, perhaps twelve, held a saucer of milk. The resemblance between them was uncanny—​her hair was long and brown, and her face sharper ​angled, but the eyes were the same. Huge gray eyes, with a strange depth the painter had expertly captured.

“That’s Janus,” Gravya said. “And Mya. The night of the winter feast, they snuck into the kitchen to find treats for the cat. Janus had been hiding it in his room, because old Woodsmark had said he couldn’t have one. I forget why. Cook caught them, but the poor cat looked so sad she kept it secret anyway.” Gravya smiled. “Mya asked for the picture to be painted, later. She had a mischievous streak a mile wide, that girl.”

“She’s his sister?”

“His older sister.” Gravya touched the painting with one gnarled hand. “This was painted not six months before she died.”

Part 2

Interlude

Janus