The Revolution and the Fox

by Tim Susman

  “It was not a bad thing. They kept her very comfortable. And it led me to the service of the Dieuleveults and allowed me to be here in the carriage with you.” He smiled and pointed out the other side of the carriage. “Here you will see the trees of the lovely Luxembourg Gardens. You cannot see the fountain from here, but if you have the chance, I pray you take a walk and find it. It is lovely and very peaceful.”

  The trees were visible past buildings, at the foot of which sat another collection of beggars. Kip didn’t like thinking of them that way, but there was no other way he could imagine to describe them.

  As they left Paris, he thought there would be fewer beggars, but there were not; the difference was that they were walking rather than sitting. Even through a patch of harder rain, the ragged-clothed people slogged through the mud at the side of the road. After the rain had slackened and then stopped, they passed farms where farmers, in tunics that at least had fewer holes, walked through the fields sowing.

  Charles continued to speak. “These lands belong to M. and Mme. de Clamart, who are good friends of M. and Mme. Dieuleveult. They are great patrons of the musical arts and have often brought gifted performers to soirees at the Dieuleveult estate.”

  Emily’s gaze, too, rested on the farmers, and when she turned back to look at Kip, he saw that she had the same questions he did about the poverty of the people and the wealth of their lords. He saw too that she held back those questions, because they didn’t know if they could trust Charles; any perceived ingratitude might make its way back to the Dieuleveults, and if they were in competition for a donation, they couldn’t afford any missteps.

  When they passed into the Dieuleveults’ land, only Charles’s words signaled the change. The farmlands looked just as dreary and the people just as unhappy, although at around this point the rain did stop and the sun broke through, leading Emily to ask Charles with a smile, “Did the Dieuleveults arrange for nicer weather for our arrival?”

  “I am certain that M. Dieuleveult prayed for it,” he said without a trace of a smile. “To Saint Médard, if I am not mistaken.”

  “I can never remember all the saints,” Emily said. Her eyes flicked to Kip, but she kept her expression neutral because Charles was looking at her. Kip, at the footman’s side, did not stop his ears from splaying; he was sure that even if Charles noticed, the man wouldn’t understand the expression of bemused surprise.

  “Nor can I, but Saint Médard is one that M. Dieuleveult invokes often.” Charles waved outside. “He looks after the weather.”

  “M. Dieuleveult is quite devout, then?” Kip asked.

  There was the barest pause before Charles replied, “Exceedingly. He has devoted his life to the Church. The Dieuleveults’ chapel contains no fewer than three Holy relics.”

  “Which ones?” Kip leaned forward.

  “I am certain that M. Dieuleveult will wish to show you the relics himself, and he will give a much more thorough explanation than I am able to.” Charles pressed his face to the window. “In another few minutes we shall come in sight of the estate.”

  By “estate,” Kip expected to see a large house in the midst of many fields and orchards. But when Charles said, “Here we are,” the carriage passed by orderly rows of trees into farms that looked only a little more well-off than the ones they had been riding past. The ground below the carriage wheels did smooth out noticeably, but little else seemed to have changed. Kip searched the horizon for a house, and then asked Emily, who was looking out the other window, “Can you see the house from there?”

  “Oh,” Charles said with a small laugh, “the Château Dieuleveult is some ten miles down the road.”

  He pointed out the window, which afforded Emily the chance to mouth, “chateau!” at Kip.

  Now Kip didn’t know what to expect. He had seen the palaces in Paris and London; would it be a low, sprawling building that impressed with its reach, like the Louvre? Would it be a grand, modern building like Windsor Palace?

  It was neither. As it turned out, the Château Dieuleveult bore a closer resemblance to the White Tower than to either of those other great palaces. Calling it a castle might be deemed a slight exaggeration, if not an outright lie; it did have a great round tower from which two men stood guard, and a large wooden gate in its outer wall. But the tops of the outer walls showed wear from the weather, and the area they enclosed was scarcely larger than Trippenhuis.

  Just inside the wooden gate, the carriage stopped and two men ran up to take charge of the horses. Charles hurried to disembark so that he could reach up and help Emily down, and Kip followed her.

  They stood in a courtyard small enough that the carriage could not have proceeded much further without running into a finely carved wooden door upon which a heraldic coat of arms had been painted. Another carriage sat against the wall nearby, and behind it stood a small stable. The stones of the courtyard glistened with mud as evidence of recent rain, and the mottled grey stone of the outer walls felt very old and plain.

  Ignoring the grooms and the driver, who clambered down behind them, Charles tried to take Emily’s arm. When she refused, he settled for leading her and Kip to the emblazoned door and opened it for them. “On behalf of M. and Mme. Dieuleveult,” he said formally, “I bid you welcome, honored guests. Please enjoy the hospitality of Château Dieuleveult.”

  The world on the other side of the door could scarcely have been more different from the plain stone courtyard. Blue and gold velvet wallpaper lay behind several immense oil paintings, and a white marble statue in the Roman tradition stood at the center of the room with its arms outstretched in welcome. Beautiful Persian carpets covered the floor, and a couch that matched the wallpaper lay against the wall. A fire crackled in a large fireplace, filling the room with warmth and the smell of wood smoke.

  Another servant in livery similar to Charles’s hurried up to them with several cloths draped across his arm. “Please,” Charles said, “if you would be so kind as to remove your shoes...”

  He removed his own, as if to show them how it was done. Emily reached down, but the other servant stopped her with a phrase in French. He motioned for her to lift her leg; she did, and he gently removed the shoe from her foot, guiding her to step on the carpet. They repeated the process for her other leg, and then he knelt to dab at her stockings with a towel.

  “This isn’t necessary,” Emily said.

  “Mme. Dieuleveult insists,” Charles explained. He barked something to the servant, who ducked his head and finished quickly. “Please notify me if he should touch you inappropriately.”

  Kip was glad he’d worn shoes; these days he often went without footwear, but for visiting Amsterdam he’d thought it best to look respectable, so he’d brought a pair of shoes made for the shape of his feet by a Calatian cobbler. He did not, however, wear stockings (they caught on his fur), and when the servant had removed his shoes, the man stared for a moment at the bare feet below.

  “It’s fine,” Kip said, meaning that the servant didn’t have to clean his feet, but Charles misinterpreted his permission. The footman spoke in French, and the servant replied, “Oui, oui,” and set to rubbing a warm damp towel over Kip’s fur. The pleasant feel of the cloth on his fur did not make up for the awkwardness of having a servant perform the task.

  When this ordeal had finally concluded, Charles led Kip and Emily out of that room and down a long hallway hung with tapestries, many of which looked ancient, several of which depicted saints, if Kip’s recollection served him correctly.

  Through a sitting room, through a large ballroom, up a staircase, down a short hallway, through a parlor-type room, and then down another hallway—all of them carpeted—to a door that Charles opened for them. “These will be your rooms for the duration of your stay.”

  Inside, more of the blue and gold wallpaper, more oil paintings, and two more of the long couches. No Roman statue greeted them, but a young woman did get up hurriedly, brushing her skirts down. “This is Claudine,” Charles said
. “She will attend to your needs while you are a guest here. Her English is not very good, but she understands better than she speaks.”

  “Welcome, Monsieur and Madame.” Claudine’s English was heavily accented, but she spoke properly despite being clearly distracted by Kip’s appearance.

  “Oh, we don’t need a servant.” Emily stepped into the room.

  “Mme. Dieuleveult insists.” Charles bowed. “It has been my very great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master Penfold and Miss Carswell. I hope to renew it soon in the future.”

  10

  The Competition

  After Charles left, Kip and Emily tried to settle in, but it was difficult with Claudine there, even though they’d been assured she didn’t speak English. Kip wanted to plan out what kind of sorcery would be most impressive, and Emily had spoken to the Dieuleveults where he hadn’t. But he didn’t want to discuss strategy in front of a servant of the house, because he didn’t want to appear calculating, or showy, or anything else, even though he was supposed to be showy and was being forced to compete for money.

  When Emily came back with their bags, she seemed less bothered because of the sorcery, and more bothered because she didn’t know how long they would be waiting for the Dieuleveults and Claudine could not tell them. “How long will we be here, do you think?” she asked Kip, staring at the wardrobe. “Need we bother unpacking? Will we cast a spell tonight and be off before sunrise?”

  “The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.”

  “One good fire spell should do it. Nobody else can do that.”

  “I don’t want to terrify them.” Kip paced in front of the window. Claudine hovered nearby. “Summon an elemental?”

  “They’ll hardly be less scared of that,” Emily said. “Do stop worrying about it. Can you please try to ask her again?”

  “She doesn’t know.”

  “Just ask her.”

  “Then will you please tell me what sorcery we’re going to do that will—“ He looked at Claudine. “I don’t know, what are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know either. We can’t do anything until they’re here.”

  Kip tapped his claws on the windowsill. “Who else is here to ask for money?”

  “I’ve no idea. I think they said there was a Dutch school, but not the Athaeneum. Maybe it was a Belgian school.”

  “I didn’t even know there was a Belgian school.”

  “Of course there’s a Belgian school,” Emily said. “And there’s at least one other. I don’t know who they are, Mme. Dieuleveult didn’t say.”

  “What—“ He couldn’t finish. What else could they do, these other schools? What would be impressive, set him apart? “Where are they?”

  “Who?”

  “The other schools. The other people. If I could just meet them...” Maybe, he thought, some of the other sorcerers knew spells that could find lost people. Maybe they could help him.

  Emily sighed. “Then ask her.”

  He turned to Claudine. In basic French, he struggled to ask, “Ou sont...les autres?”

  She brightened, hearing French, and replied very quickly with a string of words that he only caught some of. He asked her to go slower, and eventually nodded his head in understanding so that she would stop.

  “I think they’re somewhere else on this floor,” he said. “I’m just going to go see if I know anyone from them.”

  He made for the door, but this alarmed Claudine. She hurried to intercept him, shaking her head, and when he put his paw on the handle, she spoke rapidly in French. At least some of those words, he knew.

  “What’s she on about?” Emily asked.

  “I think we’re not supposed to leave? She said Charles’s name so I think he’s meant to come fetch us.”

  “They can’t keep us here.” Emily walked over to Claudine, who retreated from her. “Go ahead.”

  But as soon as the hindrance had been removed, Kip hesitated and withdrew his paw. “I don’t want to get us in any trouble. What if this hurts our chances?” He returned to the window, pulled a chair over to it, and sat staring out over what was a very pretty elaborate garden. “I’ll see what Alice is up to.”

  Ash was watching Alice and Malcolm in a small room together. She turned her head and Kip didn’t see anyone else there, so he said through Ash, “Hallo.”

  Both of them turned toward the raven. Alice’s ears perked and she beamed. “Hello, Kip. How is France?”

  “Confusing,” he said. “Have you made any progress?”

  “We haven’t solved the mystery in half a day, if that’s what you’re asking,” Malcolm said. “How’s Emily?”

  “She’s fine. She’s doing well. What have you learned?”

  Alice sighed. “Very little, I’m afraid. The Dutch tried to be helpful, but all they could confirm was that someone saw Jorey and the others—“

  “We assume,” Malcolm chimed in.

  “Yes, Jorey is the only one they remember. Anyway, one of the Dutch masters saw him hurrying along with two others and then they were approached by a man in a cloak and then they all vanished.”

  “Exactly what I saw,” Malcolm said.

  “Yes. The master did at least say that he didn’t know the man in the cloak, and he knows all the Dutch sorcerers as well as a good number of others who were at the Exposition.”

  “It wasn’t Victor or Farley, unless Farley’s learned to translocate.”

  “He might well have, but he wouldn’t be described as a ‘man’ by any stretch of imagination. And for what it’s worth, the sorcerer said he thought the man looked British or American.”

  Malcolm spoke up again. “He may have assumed American because Jorey is a Calatian.”

  “So not much more than we knew.” Kip exhaled. “What next?”

  “We go to London, as we’d planned,” Alice said. “I’ll talk to the people I know there and we’ll see if we can’t get a calyx to spy on Victor, or at least sniff out the students. I think I can describe the scents well enough.”

  “And Headmaster Janssen said they will continue to listen for information here and will contact us through the Post to the school if they hear anything.”

  “All right,” Kip said. “Meanwhile, we’re waiting for the Dieuleveults to get back so we can start this competition.”

  “Good luck,” Alice said.

  “You too.”

  “Best to Em,” Malcolm added.

  Kip looked up at Emily. “Malcolm sends his best,” he told her.

  “Did they learn anything?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think they would, but I hoped.” She turned to Claudine, who was staring at them. “Oh, go on with you.”

  Claudine shook her head and retreated to a corner, where she stayed for the next half hour while Kip and Emily discussed sorcery in low voices. Kip’s fire was the obvious choice for their most impressive sorcery, but controlled in a way that never let the audience feel they were in danger. That “feel” was the hardest part; they never would be, but they couldn’t see Kip’s control. “A little danger is good,” Emily argued. “People like it. But not too much.”

  “I’ve trained for years not to allow any,” Kip pointed out.

  They were still discussing this when Charles returned. “Master Penfold, Miss Carswell. You are invited to join the Dieuleveults and their other guests for refreshments in the parlor.”

  He bowed and waited for their reply. “We would be delighted,” Emily said, and she and Kip followed the footman out into the hall.

  When he’d closed the door behind them, Emily said conversationally, “Would the Dieuleveults be very put out if we should explore the house unaccompanied? I would very much like to admire the works of art they’ve collected.”

  “The Dieuleveults do prefer that their guests be accompanied in the house,” Charles replied. “The paintings, tapestries, and statues all have stories and they feel that without hearing those stories, their guests will not appreciate
the art as much as they should.”

  Emily shot Kip a look, and he nodded minutely. As they walked along the hall, he lifted his nose, trying to smell any other people who might have walked along, but most of them were not people he knew. There was one scent that he caught just before the stairs, and it set his ears flat.

  He tugged at Emily’s sleeve to slow her and then whispered to her, “Patris.”

  Her eyes widened. “Here?”

  Charles turned. “Is something amiss?”

  “Not at all.” Emily composed herself and smiled brightly.

  They descended to a parlor crowded with more paintings, tapestries, and statues than any other room they’d seen. They could stay for a week and still not hear all the stories behind this art, Kip thought. A few caught his eye: a lovely watercolor of a bridge with lilies on the water below; a small statue maybe a foot and a half high of a naked youth fleeing a beast; an oil painting of a haloed saint reaching upward while shadowy jaws snapped around his ankles.

  The only other people in the room approached them: an elegant woman with skin made paler by powder, her face framed by a cascade of golden curls trailing down to the shoulders of her mint-green satin dress that shimmered in the afternoon sunlight. Around her pale neck hung a gaudy necklace of gold supporting a large pendant whose center was an emerald as big as an eye.

  Beside her and a little behind came her husband, Kip presumed, dressed in a fancy suit that looked to be composed of at least six different layers. Broad ruffles descended from his elaborate collar to the buttons of the vest that strained against their shining fabric, and on his lapel he wore a tarnished round silver piece with the relief of a saint impressed on it. He wore a powdered white wig and a vaguely distant expression that resolved into interest as he focused on Kip.

  “Good day, Master Penfold,” the woman said in perfect English. “I am Mme. Dieuleveult, and this is my husband. We are so delighted that you have accepted our invitation, and we simply cannot wait to see what marvels you choose to favor us with.”