by Martha Wells
That scene faded, became washed in darkness, then formed another image.
The artist who had painted this work had known only that he was copying an Avenne for Nicholas’s own home. He had believed that the paints he was using were special only in that they were the same mixtures Avenne had used, necessary to duplicate the marvelous soft colors of the original. This was true, but the paints had been personally mixed by Arisilde Damal, the greatest sorcerer in Ile-Rien, and there was even more sorcery woven into the frame and canvas.
The library appeared again, this time in daylight, the curtains drawn back at the windows and a parlormaid cleaning out the grate. That image ran its course, followed by views of other servants coming into the room on various errands, and once a man Nicholas recognized as Batherat, one of Montesq’s Vienne solicitors, evidently coming to pick up a letter left for him on the desk.
The beauty of the painting as a magical device was that if Montesq had a sorcerer in to search his home for evidence of magical spying, as he had twice done in the past, the painting on his library wall would be revealed as what it was—only so much canvas, paint, and wood. The magic was all contained in the copy of it.
Montesq had believed the purchase of the original painting a cruel, private joke, an amusing favor for the family of a man he had caused to be killed. But cruel, private jokes were the ones most apt to turn on the joker.
Nicholas sat up suddenly, hearing a voice he would have known anywhere.
The painting now revealed the library at night, lit by only one gas sconce. Nicholas cursed under his breath. It was too dim to read the clock on the library wall, so he couldn’t tell what time this had taken place, except that it must be earlier this evening. Count Montesq sat at the desk, his face half shadowed. Nicholas’s memory filled in the details. The Count was an older man, old enough to be Nicholas’s father, with graying dark hair and a handsome face that was fast becoming fleshy due to too much high living.
The solicitor Batherat was standing in front of the desk, a nervous crease between his brows. Any other man of consequence in Ile-Rien would have invited his solicitor to sit down, but though Montesq was charming to his equals and betters, and in public showed admirable condescension to those beneath him, in private his servants and employees were terrified of him. In a tone completely devoid of threat, Montesq said, "I’m glad you finally succeeded. I was becoming impatient."
Nicholas frowned in annoyance. They must be continuing a conversation begun out in the hall and he didn’t anticipate gleaning much information from this exchange. If Montesq killed Batherat, of course, it would certainly be worth watching. The solicitor held his calm admirably and replied, "I assure you, my lord, nothing has been left to chance."
"I hope you are correct." Montesq’s soft voice was almost diffident, something that Nicholas had learned from long observation meant that a dangerous anger was building.
When Nicholas had first put together his organization, it had been necessary to free Cusard and Lamane and several others whose assistance he desired from their prior obligations to the man who considered himself the uncrowned king of criminal activity in the Riverside slums. This individual had been reluctant to give up their services, so it had ended with Nicholas putting a bullet in his head. The man had been a murderer several times over, an extortionist, a panderer, and addicted to various sexual perversions that would have startled even Reynard, but he was the rankest amateur at villainy compared to Rive Montesq.
The Count stood and circled around the desk to stop within a pace of Batherat. He didn’t speak, but the solicitor blinked sudden sweat from his eyes and said, "I’m certain, my lord."
Montesq smiled and clapped Batherat on the shoulder in a fashion that might be taken for amiable comradeship by a less informed observer. He said only, "I hope your certainty is not misplaced."
Montesq walked out, leaving the door open behind him. Batherat closed his eyes a moment in relief, then followed.
That was the last image the painting had absorbed and now the scene faded as it returned to its quiescent state, becoming merely a static window on some foreign household. Nicholas sighed and ran his hands through his hair wearily. Nothing of note. Well, we can’t expect miracles every day. Twice the painting had revealed pertinent details of the Count’s plans. Montesq moved among the financial worlds of Vienne and the other prominent capitals, bribing and blackmailing or using more violent means to take what he wanted, but he was careful enough to preserve his reputation so he was still received at court and in all the best homes.
But not for much longer, Nicholas thought, his smile thin and ice cold. Not for much longer.
He got to his feet and stretched, then blew out the candles and locked the door carefully behind him.
As Nicholas was crossing the central foyer to the stairs there was a tap on the front door. He stopped with one hand on the bannister. It was too late for respectable callers, and the not-so-respectable callers on legitimate business wouldn’t come here at all. Sarasate hesitated, looking to him for instruction. Crack reappeared in the archway to the other wing, so Nicholas leaned against the newel post, folded his arms, and said, "See who that is, would you?"
The butler swung the heavy portal open and a man stepped into the foyer without waiting for an invitation. He was lean and gaunt and over his formal evening dress he was wearing a cape and opera hat. The gaslight above the door gave his long features and slightly protuberant eyes a sinister cast, but Nicholas knew it did that to everyone. The man was ignoring Sarasate and looking around the hall as if he was at a public amusement. Piqued, Nicholas said, "It’s late for casual callers, especially those I’m unacquainted with. Would you mind turning around and going back the way you came?"
The man focused on him and instead moved further into the hall. "Are you the owner of this house?"
One would assume it, since I’m standing here in my shirtsleeves, Nicholas thought. His first inclination was that this was some curiosity seeker; it had been years since his foster father’s death, but the notoriety of the trial still drew those with morbid hobbies. People with a more conventional interest in the old man’s work also came, but they were usually more polite and presented themselves during the day, often with letters of introduction from foreign universities. This visitor’s appearance—his cravat was a dirty gray and the pale skin above it unwashed, his dark beard was unkempt and his cape was so ostentatious it would have looked out of place on anyone but a March Baron at a royal opera performance for the Queen’s Birthday—suggested the former. "I’m the owner," Nicholas admitted tiredly. "Why? Is it interfering with your progress through the neighborhood?"
"I have business with you, if you are Nicholas Valiarde."
"Ah. It can’t wait until tomorrow?" Nicholas twisted the crystal ornament on top of the newel post, a signal to Sarasate to summon the servants more experienced at dealing with unwelcome guests. The butler shut the door, turned the key and pocketed it, and glided away. Crack knew the signal too and came noiselessly into the room.
"It is urgent to both of us."
The man’s eyes jerked upward suddenly, to the top of the stairs, and Nicholas saw Madeline stood there now. A gold-brocaded dressing gown billowed around her and she had taken the dark length of her hair down. She came down the stairs slowly, deliberately, as elegant and outr้ as a dark nymph in a romantic painting. Nicholas smiled to himself. An actress born, Madeline could never resist an audience.
The man brought his gaze back down to Nicholas and said, "I would like to speak to you in private."
"I never speak to anyone in private," Nicholas countered. The butler reappeared and Nicholas gestured casually to him. "Sarasate, show our guest into the front salon. Don’t bother having a fire laid, he won’t be staying long."
Sarasate led their unwelcome visitor away and Madeline stopped Nicholas with a hand on his sleeve. In a low whisper, she said, "That’s the man who spoke to the Duchess tonight."
"I thought it li
kely from your description." Nicholas nodded. "He may have recognized you. Did he know you were listening?"
"He couldn’t have. Not without everyone knowing." She hesitated, added, "At least that’s what I thought."
He offered her his arm and together they followed their guest into the front salon, a small reception room off the hall.
The walls were lined with bookcases as the room served as an adjunct to the library, housing the volumes that Nicholas found less use for. The carpet had been fine once, but it was old now and the edges were threadbare. There were a few upholstered chairs scattered about and one armchair at the round table that served as a desk. The stone hearth was cold and Nicholas waited for Sarasate to finish lighting the candlelamps and withdraw. Crack had followed them in and as the butler left he drew the door closed.
Their visitor stood in the center of the room. Nicholas dropped into the armchair and propped his boots on the table. Madeline leaned gracefully on the back of his chair and he said, "What was it you wanted to discuss?"
The man drew off his gloves. His hands were pale but work-roughened. He said, "Earlier tonight you entered the lower cellars of Mondollot House and sought to remove something. I was curious as to your reason for this."
Nicholas allowed himself no outward reaction, though the shock of that statement made the back of his neck prickle. He felt Madeline’s hands tense on his chair, but she said nothing. Crack’s eyes were on him, intent and waiting with perfect calm for a signal. Nicholas didn’t give it; he wanted to know who else knew this man was here and more importantly, who had sent him. He said, "Really, sir, you astound me. I’ve been at the theater this evening and can produce half a dozen witnesses to that effect."
"I’m not from the authorities and I care nothing for witnesses." The man took a slow step forward and the candlelight revealed more of his gaunt features. The shadows hollowed his cheeks and made his strange eyes sink back into their deep sockets.
How appropriate for a spiritualist, Nicholas thought, he looks half dead himself. "Then who are you?"
"I am called Doctor Octave, but perhaps it is more important who you are." The man laid his hat and stick on the polished surface of the table. Nicholas wondered if he had refused Sarasate’s attempt to relieve him of them or if the butler had simply not bothered, assuming that the unwelcome visitor was not going to survive long enough to appreciate the discourtesy. Octave smiled, revealing very bad teeth, and said, "You are Nicholas Valiarde, at one time the ward of the late Doctor Edouard Viller, the renowned metaphysician."
"He was not a metaphysician, he was a natural philosopher," Nicholas corrected gently, keeping any hint of impatience from his voice. It had occurred to him that this might very well be Sebastion Ronsarde in one of his famous or infamous disguises, but now he dismissed the thought. Ronsarde and the rest of the Prefecture knew him only as Donatien, a name without a face, responsible for some of the most daring crimes in Ile-Rien and probably for a good deal more. If Ronsarde had known enough to ask Donatien if he was Nicholas Valiarde, he would have asked it in one of the tiny interrogation cells under the Vienne Prefecture and not in Nicholas’s own salon. Besides, Ronsarde’s disguises were exaggerated by rumors spread by penny sheet writers who were unable to fathom the notion that the most effective Prefecture investigator in the city solved his cases by mental acuity rather than sorcery or other flashy tricks. Nicholas exchanged a thoughtful look with Madeline before saying, "And Doctor Viller was also a criminal, according to the Crown’s investigators who executed him. Is that your reason for accusing me of—"
Octave interrupted, "A criminal whose name was later cleared—"
"Posthumously. He may have appreciated the distinction from the afterworld but those he left behind did not." Edouard had been executed for necromancy, even though he had not been a sorcerer. The court had found his experiments to be a dangerous mix of natural philosophy and magic, but that wasn’t what had condemned him. Was this a clumsy blackmail attempt or was the man trying the same game he had played with the Duchess, and suggesting Nicholas pay him some exorbitant sum to speak to Edouard Viller? Ridiculous. If Edouard wanted to communicate from the grave he was quite capable of finding some method for accomplishing it himself. Nicholas couldn’t decide how much he thought the man knew about him, his plans. Did he know about Reynard or the others? Was he an amateur or a professional?
Octave’s lips twisted, almost petulantly. He looked away, as if examining the contents of the room—the leatherbound books, the milky glass torcheres, a landscape by Caderan that badly needed to be cleaned, and Crack, unmoving, barely seeming to breathe, like a watchful statue.
Nicholas spread his hands. "What is this about, Doctor? Are you accusing me of something?" Behind him he sensed Madeline shift impatiently. He knew she didn’t think he should give Octave this chance to escape. I want answers first. Such as what he wanted in Mondollot House and what that creature was and if he was the one who sent it. Finding things out was the second driving force of Nicholas’s life. "There are criminal penalties for making false accusations."
Octave was growing impatient. He said, "I submit that it is you who are the criminal, Valiarde, and that you entered the Mondollot House cellars tonight—"
Nicholas had slipped off his scarf to give himself a prop to fiddle with and now pretended to be more interested in its woolen folds than in his visitor. "I submit that you, Doctor Octave, are mad, and furthermore, if I did enter someone’s cellar it is none of your business." He lifted his gaze to Octave’s dark, slightly demented eyes and thought with resigned disgust, an amateur. "I also submit that the only way you can know this is if you, or your agent, were also there. I suggest you think carefully before you make any further accusations."
Octave merely asked, "You still own Doctor Viller’s apparatus? Is any of it here?"
Nicholas felt another chill. He does know too much. "Again, you show too much curiosity for your own good, Doctor. I suggest you go, while you still can. If you have some complaint to make against me, or some suspicion of criminal activity on my part, you may take yourself to the Prefecture and bore them with it."
Octave smiled. "Then it is here."
Nicholas stood. "Doctor, you have gone too far—"
Crack, catching the change in tone, took a step forward. Octave reached for the walking stick still lying on the table, as if he meant to go. The gesture was entirely casual; if Nicholas hadn’t already been on the alert he would never have seen the spark of blue spell light that flickered from Octave’s hand as he touched the cane.
Nicholas was already gripping the edge of the heavy round table; with one swift effort he lifted and shoved it over. It crashed into Octave and sent the man staggering back.
Light flickered in the room, jagged blue light bouncing from wall to wall like ball lightning. Octave staggered to his feet, his stick swinging back to point toward Nicholas. He felt a wave of heat and saw spellfire crackle along the length of polished wood, preparing itself for another explosive burst. Crack was moving toward Octave, but Madeline shouted, "Get back!"
Nicholas ducked, as a shot exploded behind him. Octave fell backward on the carpet and the blue lightning flared once and vanished with a sharp crackle.
Nicholas looked at Madeline. She stepped forward, holding a small double-action revolver carefully and frowning down at the corpse. He said, "I wondered what you were waiting for."
"You were in my line of fire, dear," she said, preoccupied. "But look."
Nicholas turned. Octave’s body was melting, dissolving into a gray powdery substance that flowed like fine hourglass sand. His clothes were collapsing into it, the substance flowing out sleeves and collar and pants legs to pool on the faded carpet.
The door was wrenched open, causing Crack to jump and reach for his pistol again, but it was Sarasate and the two footmen, Devis the coachman, and the others who guarded Coldcourt gathered there. Their exclamations and questions died as they saw the body and everyone watched the s
pectacle in silence.
Finally there was nothing left but the clothing and the gray sand. Nicholas and Crack stepped forward but Madeline cautioned, "Don’t touch it."
"Do you know what it is?" Nicholas asked her. Madeline had some knowledge of sorcery and witchcraft, but she usually didn’t like to display it.
"Not exactly." She drew the skirts of her robe off the floor carefully and came to stand next to him. "My studies were a long time ago. But I know the principle. It’s a golem, a simulacrum, constructed for a certain task and animated by some token . . . probably that walking stick."
The stick lay near the body. Crack nudged it thoughtfully with the toe of his boot but there was no reaction.
"We should fold the whole mess up in the carpet, take it out to the back garden and burn it," Madeline continued.
"We will," Nicholas assured her. "After we take a sample and go through its pockets. Sarasate, send someone for my work gloves, please. The thick leather ones."
"Nicholas, dear," Madeline said, her brows drawing together in annoyance, "I didn’t say it was dangerous for the pleasure of hearing myself speak."
"I’ll take great care, I promise, but since we can’t ask our visitor any more questions, this is the only way we can find out who sent him."
Madeline seemed unconvinced. She added, "Besides, if whoever sent it had any sense at all, there won’t be anything in its pockets."
She was right but Nicholas never ignored the possibility that his opponent had overlooked something. Even the best went wrong; the trick was to be ready when it happened. Sarasate brought the gloves and Nicholas searched the clothing methodically, but found nothing other than a battered and much folded invitation to the Duchess of Mondollot’s ball, tucked into the inside pocket of the frock coat. More to himself than to the others, Nicholas muttered, "It could be a forgery, but spiritualism is popular enough now that he may have been invited as a curiosity." A close comparison to Madeline’s invitation note should decide it.
