by John M. Ford
Louis's outer chamber had high, narrow, leaded windows, and slightly less furnishing than the rooms before it. Cynthia and Dimitrios sat in low-backed chairs facing the fireplace and Louis, who was in silhouette, his face invisible.
Louis said "What, then, is the bankers' interest in the foolish Clarence's paper?"
"There are considerable loans outstanding from the Bank to Edward of England," Cynthia said. Her words were somewhat cadenced: a messenger, but one who knew what her message meant. "Some of these loans have been difficult in collection."
"That is a problem with loans to kings."
Cynthia said "Some of these debts were incurred in the name of the Duke of Clarence. It is the opinion of certain lawyers for the Bank that, if Edward proves the Duke to have conspired in treason, he might also declare these loans to be ex parte and void."
Louis examined refractions in his wineglass. "Even assuming that this document is... more than a rumor... why should I save the
Duke of Clarence from his brother's righteous wrath?"
"The Bank is apolitical, as you know."
Louis laughed. "Of course; excuse me, Doctor. Continue."
"You have a document of no particular value to yourself, and of some value to the Bank. They wish to purchase it."
"And what price do they set upon it?"
Cynthia took a small sip of wine and said nothing. She was thinking about Falcone, the courier she had helped to kill; wondering if this had been his destination and his message. She had seen the bits of paper in the fire, when Hywel's mind was touched to hers. Perhaps they were expected here. Perhaps she was doing Lorenzo's last will.
She smothered all such thoughts.
Louis was chuckling again. "My debts are also the debts of a king." Then he looked at Dimitrios, head tilted, and his fingers drummed the arm of his chair. "Hector. Hellene? Byzas?"
"I am an advisor to the lady," Dimi said in crisp French, "on technical matters."
"Then you must also excuse me. One must never assume too much, or too little." Louis paused, then spoke rapidly: "The paper's worthless, of course... an idiot's bargain with two exiles over something none of them owned. It's not worth a foot of land or one gold... bezant."
Cynthia said "Then any price for it is a profit."
"It belongs to the Queen of England."
"To the Duke of Anjou's daughter," Dimitrios said in a low voice. "And you are the King of France."
Louis sat back, turned so that his nose showed sharp in profile, stroked it; his smile was high-lit.
There was a rapid knocking at the chamber door.
Louis's fingers stopped moving. "Enter," he said, irritated.
It was Reynard. He bowed, said, "Your pardon, lord, but there is an active magician in the castle. I sensed him a few minutes ago. It is not Flambeau or Wirtz."
"Where is he?"
"I cannot be certain, my lord; I was trying to avoid close contact."
Louis turned to face Dimitrios and Cynthia. "Reynard..."
"Majesty?"
"Wait here. See that no one disturbs our guests, especially not strange wizards."
"My lord."
Louis stood, walked out past Reynard, who closed the door and dropped its latch. He leaned against the doorframe in an attitude of confusion and tension, but his face was blank as always.
Cynthia sat quite still. Dimitrios filled three glasses with wine.
"We will go at once," Hywel said. "And I think I will give Monsieur le Magicien some practical instruction.... By Your Grace's leave?"
"Not yet," Margaret said, a little softly. "I never knew you to be so impatient You said it was contrary to the rules of magic. It's a long way to Calais; you can wait a little longer." Then, unkindly, "There are rooms in the chateau. Are you no longer interested in castles?"
"Your Grace does us a disservice."
"Oh, do I? The Queen of England does a disservice to two serpents in doctoral gowns?" She got out of her chair and went to where Hywel stood, looking him almost eye to eye. "You have a rare and unnatural talent for survival, and that makes you a useful instrument, but never forget that an instrument is all you are."
"Yes, madam."
'"Yes, madam.'" She turned to Gregory. "And why do you stand there, all righteous and satisfied? Do you think, because you came late to this business, you are better than this soulless husk? Your talent for survival is just as unnatural as his." She reached into the front of her gown, produced a medallion on a chain: an eight-rayed star in gold, with a central bloodstone. "Do you know what this is?" She dangled the star in front of Gregory, who took two halting steps back, then turned away.
Margaret paused then, as if surprised at the reaction; the medallion jingled on its chain.
Her back was to Hywel. He looked up sharply, rotated his head, touched his temple. "We understand, madam," he said. As Margaret turned toward him, he made an urgent gesture, just out of her sight, toward the door. Gregory nodded.
She said "As you understand that I am a ridiculous woman, who would be naked in an English dungeon if the promise of my father's lands were not worth a few bezants to Louis... whom no one ever calls ridiculous... I want to know you understand better than that."
"That is the sigil of beloved Ishtar, Your Grace."
"'Beloved'! You'd call a toad beloved, and kiss it. But yes, it is Her sign. And now that the Sun Defiled wears the English lions, it is my sign." She looked at the star, at Hywel. "I am Ishtar. I am the door that lets in the storm. For my sake, brothers will kill one another." She caught the medallion in her left hand, squeezed it hard, turned to Gregory. Her large eyes were intense, and every pretty or pleasant thing was strained out of her voice. "And I am the Lamia, who will have Hera's children dead, for my own." She held out her fist with the star inside; a drop of bright blood ran between the clenched fingers. "You. Will steal. The life. From the Woodville Hera's children."
Hywel's hand moved slowly toward the back of Margaret's neck.
"And from the Neville woman. Who gave my son nothing. And ran to sanctuary in Richard Plantagenet's bed."
Hywel's fingertips touched Margaret's hair.
Her stained hand fell. Without any fire, she said "Now go; you are commanded to England. There kill, like the good men you are."
"Your Grace."
"Madam."
"Though I am dispossessed and naked on the floor of the house of the dead," Margaret said calmly, as the two men went out, "still I am the door that lets in the storm."
The starburst of Ishtar fell bloody to the floor.
Dimitrios stood at the windows of the audience chamber. In the courtyard beyond, lights moved. No sound penetrated in. Dimi looked at Cynthia, who looked at Reynard, who smiled back at them both. The spy sat comfortably in Louis's chair; the firelight was bent slightly around his cheeks.
Cynthia said "Do you trust me, Messer Reynard?"
"At the very least, Dottorina," Reynard said pleasantly, "the question is badly phrased."
"I withdraw it I have some reason to believe that the intruder is looking for me. If we left the castle, he would not find us."
"He would not find you here, that is certain."
Dimitrios took a step away from the window.
"Signorina," Reynard said, "I've seen you with a knife in your hand. We are not different. It's not the employer, it's the job." He stood up, went to face Dimitrios. "You were one of their soldiers, weren't you?" Reynard said to Dimi, in accentless Greek. "Before you got into this."
"Yes."
"Then you know the routine, I imagine." Reynard turned his head, said "Best of luck, Dottorina. Merry meet again."
Dimi drove his right fist into Reynard's flank; his left hand chopped behind the spy's ear. Dimi caught the collapsing figure across the chest and lowered it to the ground.
"My father's best spy once had himself whipped to the bone," Dimi said to Cynthia. "Now that we've saved him an explanation, let's go, before we have to explain our—" He pulled bac
k from Reynard as the magical glamour cleared from the spy's face. Cynthia breathed in sharply.
"Hywel said that sort of spell was difficult to keep," Dimi said, very softly. "Now we know why she bothered."
"She said we weren't different," Cynthia said hollowly.
Crystal-cold air cut across the courtyard, and the full moon was sharp as a new-struck coin. There had been no time to recover their cloaks; Dimi's armored jacket glittered, and Cynthia's gown showed purplish in the moonlight. There were a hundred yards to cover to the gatehouse, all white and silver light. Yellow lanterns bobbed off to the left.
"Do we run?" Cynthia said, reaching to the hem of her gown.
"No." The word was a sharp puff of fog. "Walk fast, but lightly. Shadow to shadow."
They wove through the darkness of the trees, stopping and starting as the lanternlights swept by. Dimitrios was all a piece with the night, even his misty breath seeming part of the scenery; Cynthia pulled her sleeves tight, fought shivers, kept going.
Finally the gateway was in clear sight, across a stretch of open grounds; brightly lit, and guarded.
Dimi tapped Cynthia's shoulder, pointed; among a group of statues, almost the same distance from the gate, were two figures in cloaks. One pulled back a sleeve, gestured whitely.
Cynthia was pulling the pins from her hair, letting it fall. The pins slipped from her stiff fingers, tinkling on the pavement. "S- sing me an un-unsuitable song." She pulled her gown up along one leg, pinned the hem high.
"What?" Dimi said, almost too loudly.
"You s-said you knew some. In French, I hope." She took his arm and draped it across her shoulders. "You're a French knight, and I'm a French lady. Now, act naturally, before I turn blue and crack."
The guards at the gate steadied their spears at the sound of voices; then they saw the staggering man and the woman in red with her hair unbound, roaring and giggling through "Forty-four Knights in the Lionheart's Tent."
The couple got halfway into the gateway before bumping into a line of armored men. "Hey, Jacques, where'd you get her?"
"And where you gonna put her after?"
"Some guys know how to stay warm."
A man in a plumed sallet said "We can't let 'em through here, not until the noise is over. Take 'em back to—"
Dimi's straight fingers went into the officer's throat. Cynthia's boot came down on an instep, the heel of her hand driving to the corner of the guard's jaw.
A black cloak fluttered around two men, and they sank down quietly, Hywel's hands on their necks. Gregory struck twice at the backs of skulls; there were awful crunches and the men fell, twitching wildly. Gregory's white face was set very hard in the torchlight.
Cynthia said "We didn't—"
"We did," Hywel said. "The coach, now."
Gregory tossed his cloak across Cynthia's shoulders and climbed to the driver's seat. The others got inside; it was a close fit. Gregory twitched the reins and they were off, without any fuss.
"Is it already gone from the castle?" Cynthia asked.
"It was never kept there," Hywel said, looking out the coach window. "Did Louis agree to sell it to you?"
"I think he would have."
"So did Margaret."
The coach stopped before a shuttered storefront; the signboard outside was black, speckled with silver stars and a moon with a contented smile. a. guillaume, it read, astrologe, philosophfie, karnaciste.
Dimitrios tried the door. It would not move. "Shall I knock?"
"No," Hywel said. "He can't be disturbed in what he's doing yet, and we don't want to meet anyone else. Back door." He looked at the moon at the apex of the sky. "Quickly."
Dimi's knife lifted the latch of the back door, and he opened it with both hands for silence. They stepped into a small, untidy kitchen smelling of smoke, beer, and old cheese.
Beyond the doorway, light spilled down a flight of wooden stairs. Dimitrios took a step up, on the ball of his foot; the stair creaked only faintly, and there was no sound in reply.
At the top of the stairs was a candlestick, and beyond it a room that glowed furnace-red, without heat.
The room was large, with a beamed and cupolaed ceiling. The light came from wall lanterns with blood-red glass; everything was red and black. Around the walls, supporting the ceiling beams, were figures of gods in the Egyptian style.
In the center of the room, a man sat at a table with a mirrored top; the table shone with milky moonlight from an open cupola above. On the surface, in the light, was a large sheet of heavy paper, with writing and a ribbon and a seal.
The magician held up a hand, tilted his head back, framing something overhead in his fingers; his other hand moved on the tabletop, trailing phosphenes after the fingertips. He was quite a young man. A clicking and whirr came from an orrery in the corner, little enameled worlds revolving in the darkness on wheels of red brass.
A fringe of rainbow light drew itself around the edges of the document, reflected in the tabletop; a double rainbow with darkness between. A draft rose from nowhere, rustling the draperies and the charts on the walls.
Dimitrios moved.
Yellow light sheeted down the doorway. Dimi bounced from it, dropped to one knee. Smoke rose from his leather sleeve.
The magician at the table turned his head.
Gregory took a step. "Wait!" Hywel said. Cynthia reached for Dimi's burned arm. Hywel pushed back his left sleeve, knelt, then planted his right hand on the floor, fingers spread.
The wizard, Guillaume, stood up slowly. Hywel tensed, shut his eyes, thrust his bare left arm into the doorway. The sheet of light came down. Yellow-white lightnings danced across Hywel's shoulders, down his right arm. The floor beneath his hand cracked and blackened.
"Now," Hywel said, rasping.
Dimitrios stood up, pushed past Cynthia and Gregory, and went into the red room. A spark appeared above Guillaume's head, and white light descended in a cone around him.
Dimi stopped, knife half-raised; with a snap of the wrist, he threw it at the magician.
The blade hit the cone of light and hung there, the point a handspan from Guillaume's chest. Then a little knot of white-hot energy formed around the knifepoint, spinning down the blade, leaving nothing but glowing metal dust that blew away on the rising wind.
"Guillaume," Hywel cried out. "Dimitrios—don't touch him."
Dimitrios looked at the table. The paper grew hazy, transparent; through it, its reflection was visible, still sharp in the mirror. Dimi reached down. His fingers went right through to the glass.
Guillaume moved inside his cone. Dimi stepped back, reaching for his short sword. The magician raised his fists. Gregory stepped into the room. Guillaume pounded the inside of the cone of light. Darkness pooled around his hands. He opened his mouth, stretched it in a scream. There was no sound. Something fell in flakes from Guillaume's hands, his face. It was his flesh. Dimitrios stared.
"It's too late for him," Hywel said. "The paper."
Dimi reached for the document, and touched only mirror. "It's gone. There's only—"
"Correspondences," Hywel said, with the last of his breath.
Dimi grasped his sword hilt. Gregory had already drawn his little steel gun. Flame spurted. The seal of Henry VI exploded in glass slivers and bits of bright red wax.
The cone of energy stuttered and vanished. Dimi drew his gladius. Guillaume fell down hard. A smoking paper, bearing formal black script and the fragments of a seal, fluttered down beside him, and the wind was still.
There was a sudden, gagging stench of rotten meat.
"What did you do?" Cynthia said dully, staring at the oozing, corrupt mess on the floor. Above it, a carved Egyptian held out the ankh of immortality. The orrery planets had stopped their motion.
Hywel leaned against the doorframe, not looking in or out. "All that light and noise had to draw power from something," he said. Anger rose in his voice. "He was already driving two works, costly, direct ones; and then, with anyth
ing but whole concentration, he set up a third to guard him from attack. But he didn't give it any point to stop guarding. I didn't do anything. There wasn't anything I could do. He must have been very young and strong, to last as long as he did."
Hywel swayed, turned to face the others. With a sudden startling bitterness he said "Only a madman would ever do genuine magic, when there are so many tricks to hand. But we're all mad. And we'll keep it up until we extinct ourselves."
Then he stopped, and sat very quietly.
From below came a pounding at Guillaume's front door.
Dimitrios and Cynthia helped Hywel stand. Gregory stuck the Exemplification of Clarence in a lantern flame, put it burning on the broken glass of the table.
"Out the back door," Dimi said, "before Louis's men think of it."
Hywel nodded and said very calmly, "We have a passage to England waiting. Let's see if any good at all was done tonight. "
PART THREE
Directions
of the
Road
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels,
and dreams.
—Act I, Scene 1
Chapter Seven
UP
A city the size of London must contain every sort of person and belief, and at the end of the year they all found something to celebrate: the lengthening of the day after the Solstice, the longest night itself (and the lost things found upon it), the birth of Mithras, Saturnal, year-change in all its social and numerological and astrological implications, the twelvemonth of city refuge that made serf or villein into townsman, transforming his life of rural toil into one of urban poverty.
And on this December day, everyone in London seemed to have taken their celebrations into the street, which was colorful and noisy and surpassing merry but made a traveler's progress just about impossible.
