by Martha Wells
Nicholas smiled in acknowledgement. "The least you could do is tell me how you knew."
"No," Fallier said. "That is not the least I can do," and gestured to the Guards to take him away.
Madeline took the stairs up to the apartment two at a time. She reached the door and fumbled with the key, cursing herself when she saw how badly her hands were shaking. Finally the lock turned and she flung the door open.
Lamane was standing in the doorway to the salon, staring blankly at her. "Did Nicholas come back here?" she demanded.
He shook his head. "No, no one’s come. What’s happened?" Inspector Ronsarde appeared in the doorway past him, a blanket draped over his shoulders.
Madeline shut the door behind her. "No telegrams, messages?"
"No, there’s been nothing." Lamane looked a little unnerved. Madeline didn’t imagine her expression was terribly reassuring at the moment. She leaned back against the heavy wooden door. This had been her last hope. If Nicholas had been unable to meet them for reasons of his own he would have come here or sent a message. She rubbed her temples, trying to massage away the ache of tension.
Ronsarde let out his breath in exasperation and came forward to take her arm and draw her inside the salon. The fire was burning brightly and a card game was laid out on one of the little tables. Ronsarde led her firmly to one of the well-upholstered couches, saying, "Sit down, calm yourself, and tell me what has happened."
Madeline sat down, glaring at him. "Don’t treat me like one of those stupid women who come to the Prefecture because they think their neighbors are shocking them with electric current—"
"Then don’t become hysterical," he said sharply. "What has gone wrong?"
She looked away. It wasn’t his fault and the last thing they needed to do now was argue. "I think Nicholas was caught."
Ronsarde’s face hardened. "By whom?"
Madeline drew breath to speak and then hesitated, remembering who and what he was. No, we’re in this too deeply to hold back now, she thought, exasperated at herself. And Halle knows already. But she trusted Halle more than she did Ronsarde. She said, "A detachment of the Royal Guard rode up as the others were leaving. Nicholas was trapped in the middle of the street and couldn’t slip away." She quickly told him everything Reynard had witnessed during the carriage wreck concerning Octave’s death and the intrusion of the sorcerer again. "The others are still searching for Nicholas, trying to discover if he was taken to the Prefecture or the palace. . . ." Madeline was the only one who knew what that might mean, that there was a reason other than the crimes he had committed as Donatien that the palace might be interested in Nicholas.
Ronsarde threw the blanket off and paced. Lamane had found a walking cane for him somewhere and his limp didn’t seem to slow him down much, as if some of the old energy Halle had described in his articles was returning to him. He said, "This sorcerer’s ability to anticipate our movements is distressing."
"He can’t have put another Sending on us," Madeline protested, gesturing around her at the apartment. "We would all be dead."
"Oh yes, if he had been able to fix his power on one of us, we would never have gotten through the sewer alive and we certainly wouldn’t have been able to take shelter here unmolested for so long. No, it was Doctor Octave he was following, watching somehow, knowing our next step would be to accost him." Ronsarde stopped in front of the hearth, staring into it, eyes narrowed. "He unites the ferocity of a madman with the cognitive ability of the sane; this is not a pleasant combination."
"What about Nicholas?" Madeline said, running a hand through her hair wearily. She wasn’t accustomed to feeling helpless and it wasn’t a sensation she found agreeable in the least.
"If he has been taken to the palace, I can help," Ronsarde said. His mouth twisted wryly. "I should say, I can try to help. Appealing to them directly was an avenue I meant to take once we had obtained more solid evidence for our theories. It’s always risky to approach royalty, especially after one’s just escaped from prison—you never know the attitude they are going to assume. But even without official assistance I can still secure entry to the place, at least for the present."
Madeline exchanged a look with Lamane, who shrugged, baffled. She thought Ronsarde was babbling and with everything else that had gone wrong, it didn’t much surprise her at all.
The outer door rattled again and they all tensed, Lamane reaching for the pistol in his coat, but it was Crack who stepped through the salon door. He went immediately to Madeline, standing in front of her and breathing hard. He said, "It’s the palace."
She swallowed in a suddenly dry throat. She hadn’t believed it, not really, not until now. "How do you know?"
"The Captain found somebody who seen the troop go back in through Prince’s Gate. He was with ‘em."
"Then we are committed." Ronsarde nodded to himself. "We will pursue the best course we can and hope we are not making a possibly fatal mistake." He looked around the room thoughtfully, as if marshalling nonexistent troops, ignoring the way the others were staring at him. "I will need your help to obtain materials for a disguise, young lady. . . ."
Nicholas had never been to the palace before, not even in the areas on the north side which were open to the public during Bank Holidays. He had not thought it particularly politic, or sensible, to attend, even though there was said to be a museum display of items from the Bisran Wars in the old Summer Residence that he would have quite liked to see.
He did not think it was particularly politic, or sensible, to be entering the palace now, but then the choice wasn’t his.
The plaza in front of Prince’s Gate was lit by gas lamps and there were so many torches in the towers that the whole edifice looked as if it was on fire. The light washed the ancient stone blocks of the walls and the great iron-sheathed doors with a dull orange-red glow. There was a line of crested carriages waiting to enter the palace grounds for some occasion, with the usual crowd of idlers there to watch.
Nicholas was on horseback, one of the troopers leading his mount, the sound of the hooves muted by paving stones softened and polished by time. The Guards at the gate halted the carriages as the troop passed under the great arch of the Queen Ravenna Memorial. A few necks craned as the occupants tried to see who the troop was escorting, but Nicholas had been placed near the center and he thought no one could get a good view. They had bound his hands with a set of manacles held together by a lock that he would have found laughable under less serious circumstances. He had two pieces of wire sewn into the cuff of his shirtsleeve that would open it with little trouble. It was Fallier he was worried about.
The Court Sorcerer was riding ahead in his coach, a fashionable vehicle with the royal crest on its doors. The gate Guard saluted as it went by. Nicholas was watching the back of it even as they passed through Prince’s Gate, more aware of it than the menace inherent in the battlemented walls and the armed men surrounding him.
Try as he might, he couldn’t cast Rahene Fallier as Octave’s mad sorcerer.
He didn’t know much about Fallier personally, but everything he knew about his political career suggested a more subtle man than the sorcerer who had transformed the Courts Plaza into a battleground.
As they drew away from the gate the torchlight faded and the shadows grew thick. The troop drew rein in a dark cobblestoned court whose uneven surface spoke of many years use. Gaslight and other such modern innovations evidently had not come to this part of the palace; there were only oil lamps and the scattered illumination from the windows above to light the court. It was surrounded, turned into a deep well almost, by old stone and timbered buildings of elegant design, by massive stone edifices with fantastically carved pediments and new structures of brick, which seemed stark and ugly against the older work. Nicholas realized with a shock that they had passed within the wards, must have passed them at some point outside the gate. And I didn‘t even turn to stone, he thought.
He saw that Fallier’s coach continued on, vanis
hing under a deep archway. This was one of the oldest sections of the whole walled complex, built to be a fortress and the center of Vienne’s defenses. The newer section lay behind the ancient King’s Bastion and was more open, designed more for comfort and entertainment, and less for defense. The old buildings crumbling around him were also the most powerful ethereal point in the city, perhaps in all of Ile-Rien, better warded and more powerfully protected than even Lodun.
Dismounting from the restive cavalry horse, Nicholas pretended to clumsiness, stumbling and letting one of the troopers catch his arm to steady him. Recovering, he looked around at the circle of armed men, all larger than he was. With a rueful expression he said, "Am I that dangerous? Why not draw up an artillery battery?"
One of the troopers chuckled. Walking ahead, the lieutenant glared back at them and snapped his riding crop.
Nicholas smiled to himself, looking down to conceal the expression. He wanted them to think him harmless and he might be succeeding. He had bruises from falling in the street and his shoulder was sore from having his arm wrenched around behind him, but it was nothing that should keep him from taking any opportunity that presented itself.
That was assuming an opportunity presented itself. Oh, no, Nicholas thought, as the troopers hauled him across the court, I’m becoming an optimist. I’ve obviously been with Madeline too long. That thought reminded him of how worried she and the others would be. Well, as far as sorcerous attacks went, there wasn’t a safer place in Ile-Rien. It was all the other dangers he had to worry about.
They took him toward one of the older buildings, a stone and timber structure with three or four stories. As they approached it, Nicholas noted the heavy beams and frame around the door and the apparent lack of windows in the lower floor; it was a guard barracks then, a very old one. He was hustled inside and through a high, timbered hall, empty except for a few Guardsmen talking idly. They glanced at Nicholas curiously as the group passed but didn’t offer any comments. Nicholas marked potential exits and hazards as his captors led him up a flight of wooden stairs at the end of the hall, then down a short corridor.
They stopped before a door and one of the Guards fumbled with keys. They had shed most of the troop by now, either down in the court or coming up through the main hall of the barracks, but there were still five of them and that was about four too many.
The door opened finally and he was led into a small room, windowless, walled with dingy plaster with a plain wooden chair and table the only furnishings. One of them took the manacles off, which was a consideration he hadn’t expected, but then this wasn’t the Prefecture. He said, "Wait. I haven’t been told why I’m being held here."
One trooper hesitated but then shrugged and said, "I haven’t, either," as he stepped out.
The troopers were standing right outside, though they hadn’t closed the door. There were quiet voices in the corridor, then Rahene Fallier walked into the room.
Nicholas took a couple of steps back, putting the table between them, suddenly overcome by the gut-level conviction that Fallier was Octave’s sorcerer compatriot, no matter what logic said. He told himself it was ridiculous. Fallier didn’t look mad and surely no one could be mad enough to commit those acts without showing it somehow, in his eyes or in his demeanor. Nicholas said, "Now that we are, I assume, unobserved, will you tell me how you recognized me?"
Fallier stood near the table, removing his evening gloves. His expression enigmatic, he said, "You are as dark as your infamous ancestor was fair. But I’ve seen the Greanco portrait of Denzil Alsene, which is very like seeing the living person, and there is a resemblance."
Simply from that? Nicholas frowned. Could it be true? It would be impossible to believe, except for the fact that Greanco had had the second sight and his portraits had tended to capture the soul of their subjects, and that Fallier was a powerful sorcerer, with perhaps more insight into those semi-magical works of art than most. And of course there was a portrait, he thought sourly. Denzil Alsene had been a King’s Favorite a century ago before he had hatched his plot to take the throne, and Greanco had been the most celebrated portrait painter of the age. "You could be mistaken."
"But I am not." Fallier’s gaze was calm.
Nicholas was aware his palms were sweating through his torn gloves and he couldn’t tell if he was successfully keeping his expression under control. He said, "I can’t think why it’s of interest to you. I have every right to be in this city."
"That is true to a certain extent," Fallier said. His face gave nothing away, not his motives, his intentions, and certainly no hint of how he felt about this encounter. There was nothing for Nicholas to grasp on to. The sorcerer continued, "I’ll admit to some curiosity as to why you are in Vienne."
Fallier didn’t sound very curious. Nicholas said, "I live here." The cold eyes didn’t change and Nicholas found himself adding, "I’m only a scion of a disgraced family; I don’t see why that piques your interest." The family was still technically of the nobility of Ile-Rien, though the charter of the duchy of Alsene had been revoked when Denzil Alsene had plotted to take the throne from the then King Roland. Nicholas’s ancestry should be a historical curiosity, nothing more. Surely he wasn’t the only person in Vienne at the moment who was descended from a famous traitor.
Of course you’re not, Nicholas thought in self-disgust. Now tell him you’ve had nothing to do with the Alsenes since your mother fled their moldering estate more than twenty-five years ago, that you use her maiden name of Valiarde, that you have a legitimate business as an importer. Then tell him why you‘re disguised as a cabman in the middle of an apparently anarchist attack on Lady Bianci’s coach. And Denzil’s treachery hadn’t simply been against his king. He had plunged the city into turmoil, caused countless deaths, exposed the people to attacks by the dark fay of the Unseelie Court, murdered enemies and allies alike. He was the most hated traitor in Ile-Rien’s long history. His actions and subsequent death had turned the former duchy of Alsene into an enclave of hated outcasts, not that they didn’t deserve that status on their own merit.
Fallier said, "That may well be true, but somehow I doubt it." A little sarcasm slipped through the stony facade. "I have previous engagements, so I’ll leave you to think of a better excuse for your presence in the street tonight." The sorcerer stepped back, pulling the door closed behind him, the lock tumblers clicking into place with what Nicholas hoped was only symbolic finality.
He waited a moment, giving Fallier time to get down the corridor. You idiot, you‘ve done for yourself now. He had trouble enough in the present without dragging the past into it. And the damnable part of all this was that he hadn’t meant any harm whatsoever to the Queen’s stupid bitch of a cousin, he had only wanted Octave.
He knelt next to the door to carefully examine the lock. It was old and not terribly secure. He touched it lightly with the back of his hand, but there was no reaction. Fallier hadn’t bothered to put any magical warding on it. He extracted the wires from his cuff, carefully inserted one into the lock—an instant later he was rolling on the floor clutching his hand to his chest and biting his lip to keep from crying out.
The pain faded rapidly and Nicholas lay on his back, breathing hard, carefully working his fingers to make sure the joints and muscles still worked. "You bastard," he said aloud. So Fallier had bothered to ward the lock.
After a moment, Nicholas sat up and looked around the room. There was a yellowed map of the city environs pinned to one wall, an empty bookshelf in the corner. This wasn’t a cell, it was only an old, unused chamber. So why hadn’t he been taken somewhere more secure?
All his knowledge of the palace came from what was available in the popular press and a few half-remembered tales passed down from his father’s family, which were all at least a century out of date and probably lies to begin with. But he knew there were better areas for holding prisoners than this, probably in the King’s Bastion. Why hadn’t Fallier had him taken there?
Fallier w
as taking no chances. He didn’t want anyone else to know Nicholas was here.
Nicholas edged back to the door and through painful trial and error managed to ascertain that the ward didn’t extend beyond the metal of the lock. He pressed his ear to the wooden door, listening for noise from the corridor. He was willing to bet there was at least one guard outside, probably two. After a moment he heard a voice, transformed into an unintelligible mumble by the thickness of the wood, and another answering mumble.
He sat back. Damn it. Given time, he thought he could get past the ward on the lock. Pain wasn’t as effective a deterrent as some other methods, such as the spell that caused you to be distracted by movement glimpsed from the corners of your eyes whenever you focused on the warded object. He could train himself to become accustomed to the pain long enough to work the lock, and the ward might not react to a splinter of wood as quickly as it did to a metal lockpick. But he couldn’t get past the guards.
Nicholas stood and began to pace.
Looking at Ronsarde, Madeline had to shake her head in admiration. The Inspector was as adept at disguise as she and Nicholas.
It was cold and very dark and the air had the feel of the deep night well past midnight, when only those people and spirits up to no good were about. Which includes us, Madeline thought grimly. They stood one street over from the palace, in the open court of a closed porter’s yard, using Cusard’s wagon to shield them from casual view. Down the street Madeline could see the plaza in front of the Prince’s Gate, the circle of gas lamps illuminating one side of the massive arch of the Queen Ravenna Memorial and the classical fountain at its base. The plaza had been busier earlier in the night, carriages carrying guests through the gates, peddlers hawking to the small crowd of sightseers, but it was mostly deserted now except for a coach or two passing by. Madeline knew that if this sorcerer who thought himself Constant Macob somehow found them now, they wouldn’t have a chance of escape. He was following Octave, she reminded herself. And Octave is dead.
