X had no idea what Regent meant by that last statement, and was shocked to hear other lords murmur their assent.
Dervish finally stood. He screwed up his face, as if he had a bitter taste in his mouth.
“What could you possibly mean by such nonsense?” he said. “If X here—you do realize, by the way, that he has given himself a name, which is an outrage all its own—if this troglodyte before me is better than the basest of souls, I should like to hear why.”
“You know very well why,” said Regent. “Do not pretend to be even more slow-witted than you are. Your stupidity is already a towering achievement.”
“Well, if I know why he’s so special and you know why he’s so special,” Dervish goaded him, “then why not simply speak it aloud?”
“Because, as you are certainly aware, the law of the Lowlands forbids it,” Regent said coolly. “Yet you seem quite blustery today. Perhaps you would like to educate everyone yourself.”
“You think I am too frightened?” said Dervish. He gestured at the lords, who were drawing closer and flashing him looks of warning. “You think I am scared of them? They are weak. They cannot so much as scratch their asses unless it is voted upon and approved on high!”
X could not hold his silence.
“What can be so shocking about me that no one dares speak of it?” he said.
Dervish looked ready to answer. The lords threatened him with their eyes.
“This disgrace you call Regent believes you are special,” Dervish said, “because he believes your mother was special.”
At this, the lords swarmed forward and began dragging Dervish away. He struggled and kicked, outraged that they dared to touch him.
“Who was my mother?” cried X, to anyone who would answer.
He looked at Regent.
“Who was my mother?” he said. “Please.”
Regent looked at him regretfully, but did not speak.
Dervish made himself heard a final time.
“She was nothing and no one, just as your father was,” he screamed. “Your father was less than dirt. Your mother was a traitor—and a whore.”
Then his voice was muffled and lost.
X needed to know more. His chest was heaving. He found himself near tears.
Regent must have pitied him, for he took his arm and began walking him slowly toward the great stone steps.
“Does he speak the truth about my parents?” X asked him.
“That desiccated mouse has no idea who your father was,” Regent said quietly. “I can assure you, however, that your mother was no whore. She is now a prisoner in a secret corner of this place—but, once, she was a true friend to me. Dervish is correct when he says that she is the reason I believe there is hope for you yet.”
He paused, and all the world seemed to pause with him.
“Your mother was a lord.”
eleven
X woke with his head on Ripper’s lap, as she tended to his wounds. He was shocked to find her in his cell, with no guards in attendance. He’d never known two prisoners to be left together for even an instant. Regent must have made it possible.
Ripper sat with her legs folded under her, the ruined golden gown spilling everywhere. Beside her, there was a stone bowl filled with healing water. She dabbed at X’s face with a cloth, humming a dreamy tune as she worked. A crude metal lantern threw her silhouette against the wall.
Something about the shadow and the song awakened a memory in X.
“You have ministered to me before,” he said. “When I was a child. You sang that very song.”
Ripper submerged the cloth, then twisted it over the bowl.
X winced at the sight of her hands: They were all bone and knuckle. What fingernails she had were ingrown and crusted with blood. Still, there was a gentleness to her, a glow, that he hadn’t witnessed since he was small.
“It is one of the few tunes I remember,” she said. “And do not inquire after the words, for they have gone poof out of my brain. Something insufferable about a sparrow, no doubt.”
She pressed the cloth to X’s brow.
“They never told you my mother was a lord?” he asked her. “Truly?”
“Never, I swear it,” said Ripper. “I knew there was something special about you, and I told you as much. You were a finer and fiercer bounty hunter than I by the time you were seventeen—and, as you know, I am a veritable legend.”
Once she’d cleaned X’s wounds, Ripper began to bandage the more severe ones, beginning with the gash on his leg. X did not have the strength to lift his head and survey the damage. Still, he knew it must be profound, because his friend frowned at the sight of it.
“This nastiness on your leg concerns me,” she said. “It is a jagged valley of tissue and blood. Does it burn?”
“Yes,” said X. “As if with white flames. And please do not describe it again.”
“My apologies,” said Ripper. “I fear it may be infected, though I am not a doctor, merely a murderess.”
X ground his teeth to distract himself from the discomfort, and looked up at Ripper. Her skin had hardly suffered from centuries in the Lowlands, and she was still beautiful by any measure. She had strong, clean features, a sturdy, dimpled chin, and ageless blue eyes. Because it had been decades since she had hunted a soul, even the bruises beneath her eyes had faded. Today, her dark hair was swept up in a knot atop her head, a single silver lock weaving through it like tinsel.