have to go deeper.
I spent a lot of time in the Arcane. The tunnels run under most of the Lower City—except in Simside and Queensdock, where the ground's only barely fit to build on—all the way out to Carnelian Gate on the east. About two blocks south of the Road of Ivory, to the west of the Lower City, somebody bricked 'em off. Perfectly straight line, perfectly regular brick-work, all the way from Ivory Gate to the Plaza del'Archimago. There's spells there, too, or so the hocuses say, and if anybody's ever been crazy enough to try and see what the mason and the hocus were hiding—well, they ain't come back to brag about it, that's for sure.
Can't get to the Arcane from Simside. Can't get to the Arcane from Queensdock. Breadoven don't have a way into the Arcane, neither, but I don't know why. Other'n that, you got your pick. The big, official entrance is in Scaffelgreen, with the fancy carving over the doors that says CATACOMBES DES ARCANES. That's where the tours go in, but what they don't tell you on the tours is that what you see ain't even the beginning of what's down there. They take your half-gorgon and show you the Executioners' Ossuary and the buried church of St. Flossian and probably a couple miles of crypts, but that ain't the Arcane. That entrance ain't much good for nobody but the flats.
There's three entrances in Midwinter that I know about—probably more—but two of them are hard to get at. One's under the altar in the church of St. Griphene, and the other's in the root cellar of a house on Excalibur Street, and the family that lives there now don't know about it. I went in through the trapdoor in the basement of the Hornet and Spindle and started for Havelock, where the lady I wanted to talk to ran her business.
Her name's Elvire. She's the madam of the Goosegirl's Palace. Her and her girls cater to the hocuses and flashies along with the thieves and pushers, so the Palace is about as much about gossip as it is about fucking. Elvire'd passed her Great Septad, but she hid it with corsets and rice powder and this enormous black wig like her own private cathedral. She talked flash—rumor said she'd been Lord Gareth's mistress for an indiction or three. Her information was always good, and worth its weight in gold.
The Palace is way, way under the Butchers' Guild. I never went there without wondering how many butchers knew that. The guy at the door today was Philippe Wall-Eye—so as not to get him confused with Philippe le Coupé, the eunuch who ran the Palace's bar. Philippe Wall-Eye knew me, and he let me past without any fuss. Me and Elvire had done deals before, and I'd played fair by her.
She had two offices. I found her in the one that wasn't meant to impress the clients. She looked up when I knocked and gave me a smile. Elvire had been a madam for three septads and a whore for at least two before that—her smile didn't mean nothing about how she felt.
"Hey, Elvire," I said. "What's going on?"
"You mean Upstairs." The Arcane don't like the word "Mirador" neither.
"Yeah."
"Sit down."
My stomach muscles clenched up, 'cause she hadn't said that like it was just to be sociable. I sat.
Elvire took a deep breath and came out with it. "The Virtu was broken last night."
" What ?" I was glad I was sitting down, 'cause that was a nasty kick in the teeth, no two ways about it.
The Virtu of the Mirador was created by the Cabal back in 16.5.1. It was a big blue globe, as tall as a man. They kept it in the Hall of the Chimeras, smack in the middle of the Mirador, and what it was supposed to do depended on who you asked. The Mirador talked a lot of mystic bullshit about purity and strength—the name "Virtu" was some kind of cleverdick Marathine-Midlander pun. The hocuses in the Lower City talked about focusing and matrices, and made even less sense than the official line. All I knew for sure was that all the hocuses in the Mirador swore oaths on the Virtu every single day, and that was
I spent a lot of time in the Arcane. The tunnels run under most of the Lower City—except in Simside and Queensdock, where the ground's only barely fit to build on—all the way out to Carnelian Gate on the east. About two blocks south of the Road of Ivory, to the west of the Lower City, somebody bricked 'em off. Perfectly straight line, perfectly regular brick-work, all the way from Ivory Gate to the Plaza del'Archimago. There's spells there, too, or so the hocuses say, and if anybody's ever been crazy enough to try and see what the mason and the hocus were hiding—well, they ain't come back to brag about it, that's for sure.
Can't get to the Arcane from Simside. Can't get to the Arcane from Queensdock. Breadoven don't have a way into the Arcane, neither, but I don't know why. Other'n that, you got your pick. The big, official entrance is in Scaffelgreen, with the fancy carving over the doors that says CATACOMBES DES ARCANES. That's where the tours go in, but what they don't tell you on the tours is that what you see ain't even the beginning of what's down there. They take your half-gorgon and show you the Executioners' Ossuary and the buried church of St. Flossian and probably a couple miles of crypts, but that ain't the Arcane. That entrance ain't much good for nobody but the flats.
There's three entrances in Midwinter that I know about—probably more—but two of them are hard to get at. One's under the altar in the church of St. Griphene, and the other's in the root cellar of a house on Excalibur Street, and the family that lives there now don't know about it. I went in through the trapdoor in the basement of the Hornet and Spindle and started for Havelock, where the lady I wanted to talk to ran her business.
Her name's Elvire. She's the madam of the Goosegirl's Palace. Her and her girls cater to the hocuses and flashies along with the thieves and pushers, so the Palace is about as much about gossip as it is about fucking. Elvire'd passed her Great Septad, but she hid it with corsets and rice powder and this enormous black wig like her own private cathedral. She talked flash—rumor said she'd been Lord Gareth's mistress for an indiction or three. Her information was always good, and worth its weight in gold.
The Palace is way, way under the Butchers' Guild. I never went there without wondering how many butchers knew that. The guy at the door today was Philippe Wall-Eye—so as not to get him confused with Philippe le Coupé, the eunuch who ran the Palace's bar. Philippe Wall-Eye knew me, and he let me past without any fuss. Me and Elvire had done deals before, and I'd played fair by her.
She had two offices. I found her in the one that wasn't meant to impress the clients. She looked up when I knocked and gave me a smile. Elvire had been a madam for three septads and a whore for at least two before that—her smile didn't mean nothing about how she felt.
"Hey, Elvire," I said. "What's going on?"
"You mean Upstairs." The Arcane don't like the word "Mirador" neither.
"Yeah."
"Sit down."
My stomach muscles clenched up, 'cause she hadn't said that like it was just to be sociable. I sat.
Elvire took a deep breath and came out with it. "The Virtu was broken last night."
" What ?" I was glad I was sitting down, 'cause that was a nasty kick in the teeth, no two ways about it.
The Virtu of the Mirador was created by the Cabal back in 16.5.1. It was a big blue globe, as tall as a man. They kept it in the Hall of the Chimeras, smack in the middle of the Mirador, and what it was supposed to do depended on who you asked. The Mirador talked a lot of mystic bullshit about purity and strength—the name "Virtu" was some kind of cleverdick Marathine-Midlander pun. The hocuses in the Lower City talked about focusing and matrices, and made even less sense than the official line. All I knew for sure was that all the hocuses in the Mirador swore oaths on the Virtu every single day, and that was
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