by Martha Wells
The gardeners were preparing the flower beds for spring, and none of them gave him a second look either when Nicholas walked in the back gate and through the kitchen garden to the scullery door. It was long enough after lunch that the kitchen and pantries were deserted except for a pair of maids scrubbing pots, who acknowledged his passing with hasty head-bobs and went back to their conversation.
Nicholas left the gown on the coat rack in the butler’s sitting room and went through a baize servants’ door that led out into the front hallway. The house was lovely from the inside as well. The hall was filled with mellow light from the dozen or so narrow windows above the main door and the cabinets and console tables lining the hall were of well-polished rosewood, the rugs of an expensive weave from the hill country. But Rohan had always had exquisite taste, even when he had been a dean living in a tiny cottage behind the Apothecaries Guild Hall. His star did rise fast, didn’t it, Nicholas thought. And for all its apparent peace Lodun was a competitive world, especially for sorcerers. Nicholas investigated a few receiving rooms, finding them unoccupied, then heard voices and followed them into the large parlor at the end of the hall.
There was a group of men just coming in from the room beyond, talking amiably. They were all older, dressed either in Master Scholars’ gowns or impeccable frock coats. One of the things Nicholas had discovered in his morning reconnaissance was that Rohan was giving a luncheon for several dignitaries from the town and the university this afternoon; he was glad to see his informant had not been mistaken.
"Master Rohan," Nicholas said lightly.
The old man turned, startled. His face, thin and ascetic, marked by harsh lines and pale from too much time in poorly lit rooms, changed when he recognized his new visitor. That change told Nicholas everything he wanted to know. Rohan said, "I didn’t realize you were here."
The words had been almost blurted, as if from guilt at forgetting his presence, yet Rohan had to know the butler hadn’t admitted Nicholas or he would have been informed of it. Stiffening with annoyance at the display of ill-mannered impudence and demanding to know why he hadn’t come to the front door like a gentleman would have been more convincing. Nicholas smiled. "Which didn’t you realize: that I was here in town, or that I was here among the living?"
Rohan’s eyes narrowed, as if he suspected mockery but wasn’t sure of the inference, but he said only, "You wanted to speak to me? I’m presently occupied." His voice was colder. In a few moments enough of his self-control would have returned to allow him to confidently dismiss the intruder.
Nicholas strolled to the table, hands in his pockets, and met Rohan’s eyes deliberately. "I had something to ask you about Edouard’s Lodun affairs. You were doing such a marvelous job of handling them for me when I was younger, I thought surely you could assist me now."
The old man’s gaze shifted. With a barely perceptible hesitation, he turned to the others. "You’ll excuse me, gentlemen. An obligation to an old friend. . . ."
The other men assured him that of course it was no trouble at all and Nicholas followed Rohan into his study without pause. He had been seen by the Master of Doire Hall, three deans of the medical college, and the Lord Mayor of Lodun, none of them Rohan’s fellow sorcerers. If Rohan wanted to kill him he wouldn’t be able to do it in his home this afternoon.
The study was spacious, the walls covered in green ribbed silk and lined with glass-fronted bookcases interrupted only by a lacquered map cabinet and several busts of classical figures on carved pedestals. There was a landscape by Sithare over the marble mantel, a strong sign that Rohan was not having any difficulty with his finances.
Rohan moved to the desk and sat down behind it, as if Nicholas were a student called in for a dressing down, not a very friendly gesture toward an old friend’s son. He said, "I hope this won’t take long. As you saw I am—"
"There’s only one thing I still need to know; the rest is only curiosity," Nicholas interrupted. He let the old man wait a heartbeat. "The material you gave to Doctor Octave. Where did it come from? Did you take it from Edouard’s laboratory?"
Rohan sighed. "I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re implying." He leaned on the desk and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Some of the notebooks were Edouard’s, the rest were mine." He raised his head, wearily. "The sphere was mine. Edouard constructed it and I devised the spells."
Nicholas didn’t allow his expression to change and kept his grip on the revolver in his pocket. This might be a trick. Readily admit what you already know you can’t conceal, and strike as soon as my guard is down. He remembered the teasingly familiar handwriting on the scraps of paper they had found at Valent House; it must have been Rohan’s. His voice deceptively mild, he said, "I didn’t realize you had worked with Edouard. You said—"
"I said I didn’t approve. I said what he did was nonsense." Rohan slammed a hand down on the desk, then took a deep breath, reaching for calm. "I was afraid. I made it a condition when I agreed to work with him that he tell no one of my involvement. Wirhan Asilva was an old man with no ambitions, even then. He could afford to be mixed up in such things. Arisilde. . . ." When he spoke the name Rohan’s voice almost broke with bitterness. "Arisilde was a precocious boy. No one could touch him and he knew it. But I was Master of Lodun, and vulnerable."
This sounded too much like the truth. Nicholas said, "He kept his word to you. He told no one. You could have testified—"
"He was a natural philosopher who wanted to talk to his dead wife and they hanged him for necromancy. I was a sorcerer in a position of power. What do you think they would have done to me?" Rohan shook his head. "I know, I know. Asilva testified and it did no good. I convinced myself that Edouard might be guilty, that he might have killed that woman for his experiment, that he might have concealed the true nature. . . . And I was afraid. Then Edouard was dead, and then Ronsarde proved it was all a mistake, and there seemed no point in dredging it up again." He rubbed his face tiredly, then spread his gnarled hands out on the desk. "Octave wouldn’t tell me what he wanted with the sphere. I suppose he went to you for the same purpose. I knew there were things missing from Edouard’s rooms here when the Crown seized the contents and I knew you and Asilva must have taken them, but I didn’t tell Octave that. That’s not something that can be laid at my door. Did he threaten to expose you as well? Since Edouard was found innocent I don’t think it would be a crime. . . ."
Rohan was speaking quickly, his hands nervously touching the things on the desk. Nicholas stopped listening. There was something tawdry and anticlimactic about it, to come here expecting evil and find only weakness. He asked, "What did Octave threaten you with?"
Rohan was silent a moment. "It wasn’t the first time I had dabbled in necromancy." He looked up and added dryly, "I see you’re not shocked. Most sorcerers of my generation have some experience with it, though few will admit it. Octave came to me here, two years ago. He knew. I don’t know how. He knew about my work with it in the past, my work with Edouard, he knew everything. I gave him what he wanted, and he went away." Rohan winced. "I shouldn’t have, I know that. Edouard meant it to be a method of communication with the etheric plane, but it never worked quite the way he wanted." Seeing Nicholas’s expression he added, "I can’t be more specific than that. Edouard built the thing; all I did was contribute the necessary spells. I know he wanted it to work for anyone, but it would only function for a person who had some talent for magic. It might be a small talent, just a bare awareness of it, but that was enough."
But how did Octave know you had it? Nicholas had the feeling that if he could answer that question then all the half-glimpsed plots would unravel. "Is Octave a sorcerer then?"
Rohan shook his head. "He has a little talent, no skill. He isn’t a sorcerer. But with the sphere. . . . I don’t know. I can’t tell you any more." He sat up a little straighter. "If that is all you have to ask, please go."
It might all be an act but that seemed unlikely. This was Rohan’s sole involvemen
t with the plot, as the victim of blackmail for past crimes and disloyalties. Nicholas took his hand out of the pocket with the pistol and went to the door. He paused on the threshold, glanced back, and said, "I’m sure Arisilde would send you his regards. If he could remember who you were," and quietly closed the door behind him.
Nicholas found Madeline waiting at a table outside the little cafe where they had arranged to meet. She stood as he came near, saying, "There was a wire waiting at the hotel from Reynard. He says there’s been a development and we need to return immediately."
Nicholas spotted Reynard in the crowd on the platform of the Vienne station as he and Madeline stepped off the train. Since they had no baggage to collect they avoided the congestion and were able to make their way over to him and withdraw into one of the recessed waiting areas, left empty by the arrival of the Express. It was a little room lined with upholstered benches, smelling strongly of tobacco and the steam exhaust of trains.
"What’s happened?" Nicholas demanded immediately.
Reynard was as carefully dressed as ever but he looked as if he hadn’t slept. He said, "Ronsarde’s been arrested."
"What?" Nicholas glanced at Madeline, saw her expression was incredulous, and knew he couldn’t have misheard. "What the devil for?"
"The charge is officially burglary," Reynard said. From his skeptical expression it was evident what he thought the likelihood of that was. "Apparently he broke into a house in pursuit of evidence and was careless enough to get caught at it. But Cusard says there’s a rumor in the streets that he was assisting a necromancer."
The mental leap from housebreaking to necromancy was a long one, even for Vienne’s hysterical rumor-mongers. Nicholas felt a curious sense of vertigo; perhaps he was more tired than he realized. "How did that get started?"
Reynard shook his head. "I should tell you from the beginning. The morning after you left for Lodun, the Prefecture found Valent House. Ronsarde was investigating the murders yesterday when he broke into this place he’s accused of breaking into." Anticipating the question Nicholas was trying to interrupt with, he added, "And no, I don’t know the name of the house. It wasn’t in the papers and Cusard couldn’t find out from his sources in the Prefecture, either. Which makes it sound like a noble family, doesn’t it?"
"An ignoble family, perhaps." Nicholas was thinking of Montesq. Octave’s initial interest in Edouard Viller, his theft of the scholar’s work, his knowledge of Coldcourt, even the way he had approached Ilamires Rohan. Like footprints on wet pavement they led back to Montesq. Could he be at the root of it? Supporting Octave and his lunatic sorcerer? That would be so . . . convenient. Convenient and in a way disappointing. He didn’t want Montesq executed for a crime the man had actually committed. That would ruin the whole point of the thing.
"Wait," Madeline said, exasperated. "I’ve missed something. How did the Prefecture get the idea that Ronsarde was behind the murders at Valent House?"
"They don’t have that idea, of course," Reynard told her impatiently. "He was done for burglary and whoever managed to pull that off must be damn high up in the ranks, that’s all I can say." He gestured helplessly. "But this rumor that he’s involved with necromancers is everywhere. There was a small riot last night in front of Valent House. Took a troop of City Guards to keep them from burning the place down."
"And half of Riverside with it, I imagine." Madeline’s brow creased as she looked at Nicholas.
Nicholas dragged a hand through his hair. Several women and a porter laden with baggage passed the open doorway, but no one entered. He muttered, "Oh, he must be close. He must be right on top of them."
Reynard checked his pocket watch. "He’s due to go before the magistrate in an hour. I thought it might help to hear what goes on there."
"Yes, we’d better go there at once." Nicholas turned to Madeline. "I want the other spheres removed from Coldcourt. Can you do that while we’re at court?"
"Yes. You think Octave will try for them."
"No. But I may need them as bait and I don’t want to risk going to Coldcourt again. I don’t want their attention on it. Take the spheres to the warehouse and put them in Arisilde’s safe. I wager even the real Constant Macob couldn’t find them in there."
"I have the impression," Reynard began, his eyes grim, "that I’m underinformed. Who the hell is Constant Macob?"
"I’ll explain on the way."
Madeline found a hire cabriolet to take her on her mission to Coldcourt and Nicholas and Reynard went to the coach. Devis was driving and Crack was waiting on the box. Crack’s greeting was a restrained nod. Standing so as to block any curious onlooker’s view, Nicholas handed Crack back his pistol and touched his hat brim to him.
"It’s very odd," Reynard commented, once he had seen the book and had Nicholas’s theory on their opponent explained to him, "to be rushing off to see Inspector Ronsarde arraigned before the magistrates. I always expected to be on the other side of the bench, as it were."
"Odd is a mild word for it," Nicholas said, his expression hard. Now that he had gotten over the initial shock, he was almost light-headed with rage at Octave and his lunatic sorcerer. They had stolen Edouard’s work, they had tried to kill himself and Madeline, and now. . . . And now Ronsarde. He should be grateful to them for destroying the great Inspector Ronsarde, something that he had never been able to do. Except I stopped trying to destroy him years ago. He wasn’t grateful, he was homicidal. It wasn’t enough that they endanger his friends and servants, they had to attack his most valued enemy as well. "Where’s Octave?"
"The night of our little upset in Lethe Square he moved out of the Hotel Galvaz and into the Dormier, using a false name. Some of Cusard’s men are keeping an eye on him. Oh, and Lamane and I went back to that manufactory that Octave led us to. There was nothing there, just an old, empty building."
Nicholas grimaced in annoyance. Octave’s behavior was inexplicable. He thought it would be greatly improved by a couple of hard blows to the spiritualist’s head with a crowbar. "Octave should have left the city, at least until we were taken care of."
"Except that he has an appointment for a circle at Fontainon House. I don’t think he wants to miss that."
"Fontainon House?" Nicholas didn’t like the cold edge of prescience that simple statement gave him. Fontainon House was the home of the Queen’s maternal cousin, an older woman of few ambitions beyond social achievement, but the house itself was within sight of the palace. It might even be caught in the edge of the palace wards. The idea of Octave holding a circle at Fontainon House didn’t have the feel of another confidence game; it felt like a goal.
"Does that tell you something?" Reynard asked, watching Nicholas’s expression.
"It makes a rather unpleasant suggestion. How did you hear about it?"
"I ran into Madame Algretto at Lusaude’s. They’ve been invited. She wasn’t keen on it after what happened at Gabrill House, but then she hasn’t much choice in her engagements, from what I can tell," Reynard answered. He watched Nicholas sharply. "This worries you, doesn’t it. Why?"
Nicholas shook his head. His suspicions were almost too nebulous to articulate. Octave had been working his way quickly up through Vienne’s social scale. The Queen’s cousin was practically at the top of that and there had been rumors for years about her odd pastimes. He said, "I never thought there was a plan. I thought Octave was out for what he could get and that this sorcerer was simply mad. But. . . ."
"But this makes you think differently."
"Yes." Nicholas drummed his fingers on the windowsill impatiently. "We need Arisilde. If I’d paid more attention the last time I spoke to him, perhaps—"
Reynard swore. "You can’t live on ifs, Nic. If I had burned the damn letter from Bran instead of keeping it in a moment of sentimental excess, if I’d become suspicious when I realized it was missing instead of shrugging it off to carelessness, the little fool would still be alive. And if I kept living those mistakes over and over again, I’d
be as far gone into opium and self-pity as your sorcerer friend."
Nicholas let out his breath and didn’t answer for a moment, knowing very well he had said something similar to Arisilde the night of the sorcerer’s last fit. For a time, when they had first met, he had wondered if Reynard had loved the young man who had killed himself over the blackmail letter. He had decided since that it was not very likely. But the young man had been a friend and Reynard had felt protective of him and responsible for his undoing. Nicholas thought most of Reynard’s excesses concealed an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. I wonder what my excesses conceal, Nicholas thought. Better not to speculate on that. Dryly, he said, "Don’t worry on that account. If I succumb to self-pity I’ll probably do something far more immediate and spectacular than a simple addiction to opium." That sounded a deal more serious than he had meant it to, so he added, "But I’ll have to get Madeline’s permission first."
Reynard’s mouth twisted, not in amusement, but he accepted the attempt to lighten the mood. "I’m amazed that Madeline puts up with you."
"Madeline . . . has her own life and concerns." Maybe this wasn’t such an innocuous topic after all.
"Yes, fortuitously so, since it makes her remarkably tolerant of aspects of your personality that would require me to thump your head against the nearest wall."
"When you meet her grandmother, it will give you an inkling of how she acquired her thick skin."
As their coach drew near the city prison, Nicholas saw no evidence of the unrest Reynard had spoken of. The streets of Vienne seemed busy as always, as calm as they ever were. He was sure the damage caused by the Sending in Lethe Square had stirred up some trouble but Vienne had a long history and had seen far worse.
