Between Worlds: the Collected Ile-Rien and Cineth Stories

by Martha Wells

  Her mother glared. Reynard assured Belina, “I was using ‘delicate’ as a metaphor, not a euphemism.” But it was refreshing to deal with someone who spoke plainly. He had thought it would take another half hour before Lady Shankir-Clare got around to admitting what the problem was. Belina seemed sensible, and he had trouble imagining how she could have ended up in this situation, unless someone had set a deliberate trap for her. “What exactly did he do to you? Or you to him?”

  “He propositioned me, at a ball. I laughed at him.” Belina grimaced in a very unlady-like fashion. “I didn’t mean to be cruel. I was nervous and it startled me. No one ever did that before!” Resigned, she gestured helplessly. “I apologized, but it didn’t do any good.” She leaned forward. “Is that normal for men?”

  “Sadly, yes,” Reynard told her.

  “But the worst is--” Belina glanced at her mother. “He has images. I didn’t pose for them. I don’t know how he got them.”

  “Disgusting images.” Lady Shankir-Clare’s grip tightened on her fan until it cracked.

  “Photographs?” Oh, hell, Reynard thought. That was going to be tricky.

  “Yes.” Belina’s composure didn’t slip, but he could tell it was taking her a great effort. “Of me. With no clothes. Only it isn’t my body. He said he made them with magic, that there’s no way to prove they aren’t real. I mean, I can tell it isn’t my body, and my maid can tell, and my sisters, but--”

  “I understand.” Reynard stopped her. Amadel was obviously trying not to writhe with embarrassment and looked on the verge of jumping up and leaving the room. Lady Shankir-Clare was gritting her teeth. “The photographs are fake, but you have no way to prove that.” It could be done by the relatively simple method of cutting apart two different images, combining the pieces, and then taking another photograph. One could penetrate the deception by a close examination with a magnifying glass. But Nicholas had shown him images that had been magically manipulated, and they were much harder to prove false. The method didn’t matter; the humiliation and distress the images would create if displayed publicly were very real. Bad enough for it to happen to anyone with a reputation to risk, but that it should happen to a sheltered child was just that much worse. I’ll just have to kill him, Reynard thought. Well, I was probably going to do that anyway. The problem would be in getting the photographs away from the bastard so they couldn’t fall into any worse hands.

  He kept his expression mild. “Did he know who you were? A Shankir-Clare?”

  Belina frowned. Reynard felt the implications of the question hadn’t eluded her. She said, slowly, “He called me by name, but I had never met him before. Someone told me who he was later.”

  Just to make it plain, Reynard said, “Somehow he knew he could insult you without consequences?”

  Lady Shankir-Clare’s expression turned thoughtful, then even more angry. Belina appeared to be biting back a curse. Lady Shankir-Clare said, “So he knew about our quarrel with the court sorcerer.”

  “Or someone else put him up to it.” Reynard glanced at Belina. “He’s asked for a meeting? The photographs in exchange for money?”

  She nodded grimly. “Two nights from now, at the opera.”

  It was always dangerous to deal with a criminal sorcerer, especially one who asked for private meetings. The opera was warded, but only for the general protection of the building. Unless the man intended to use magic to blow it up or set it on fire, the wards wouldn’t interfere. “I can’t escort you -- my reputation would draw stares, and we don’t want to be noticed.” The opera drew as many noble and upper-class patrons as it did demi monde and every other class who could afford the tickets. Too many people might recognize Belina and wonder why she was with Captain Reynard Morane. There was just no story to explain why the Shankir-Clares would ask him to escort their daughter to the opera, even if there had been some family connection. “I’ll be there, nearby, and I have a friend -- a suitable, unobjectionable friend -- to escort you.”

  “You can protect her?” Lady Shankir-Clare’s voice was tight.

  Reynard stood. “My lady, no one will touch her. And this man will not trouble you again.”

  Lady Shankir-Clare smiled grimly. Then Belina ruined it by demanding, “Are you going to kill him?”

  Amadel winced. Lady Shankir-Clare said, forbiddingly, “Belina.”

  Reynard found it more politic to withdraw than answer. He bowed, and followed Amadel out.

  * * *

  On the afternoon of the next day, Reynard stood on the landing of Idilane’s flat, while Nicholas worked the lock. The building was on a relatively quiet street with flats too small for families, and so inhabited mostly by young office workers who were absent during the day. Nicholas had discovered that Idilane did indeed travel between Vienne and Lodun on the express, and wouldn’t return until tomorrow morning. With the concierge currently out doing her shopping, they shouldn’t be disturbed.

  “Will your sorcerer friend be of any use?” Reynard asked.

  Nicholas, still occupied by the lock, winced. “He’s not well right now.” The tumblers clicked and Nicholas stood and turned the handle.

  Reynard didn’t move. It was never a good idea to shove one’s way into a sorcerer’s domain, even a student sorcerer. But Nicholas stepped inside, explaining, “The flats have a general cleaning woman. He can’t have warded the place.”

  “Then let’s get started.” The flat held only one room, but it was large enough for a bed, a desk, dresser, and comfortable seating area.

  After some time, Reynard stood in the middle of the room, dissatisfied. He had mainly been hoping to find the photographs, which would simplify any decisions about their next course of action, but they weren’t here. The search had been exhaustive, including Nicholas using various devices to uncover sorcerous hiding places.

  “He’s got them on him,” Nicholas said finally, circling the room like a prowling cat. “I didn’t think he would be that clever.”

  “Something’s wrong,” Reynard said. Nicholas lifted his brows, and Reynard sighed. “I don’t know what it is, I just have an odd feeling.” He looked around again. “Bit of a stage set, do you think?”

  “No, I’m certain he lives here.” But Nicholas paced the room, frowning. He moved to the desk again. “The books, the notes he’s taken, I’m certain he’s a student of sorcery from Lodun. There are things here no one would know to fake.” Nicholas spoke from experience, having attended Lodun himself, and closely associating with the sorcery students.

  Reynard had to admit the disheveled appearance of the furnishings certainly seemed authentic. Then that elusive sense of wrongness solidified. He said, “There are no love letters, no dirty postcards, no prophylactics, none of that sort of thing. Not even a salacious novel.” There were other letters, from other students, from distant relatives, from tailors and so forth. But nothing from a woman, not even a cousin or aunt. And none of the letters from male students indicated any romantic or erotic relationship.

  Nicholas didn’t appear to find this particularly enlightening. “I never had that sort of thing as a student.”

  “Of course you didn’t. But this young man, as far as we can tell, is a slimy little ass. So why doesn’t he have any of the things even nice young men have? From his behavior toward our employer, you’d think he would have left a trail of betrayed young women in his wake. Is Miss Shankir-Clare the first he’s accosted? That seems unlikely.”

  “I think The Lady’s Letters is salacious.” Nicholas poked through the drawers, looking for hidden compartments again.

  Reynard turned to the bookshelves. “Does he have a copy? I didn’t see it.”

  “No, I had a copy.” Nicholas straightened up. “I see what you mean. If we didn’t already have an account of his character, I would think we were looking at the room of a young monk. Someone could posit that his behavior was an aberration, the act of a spoiled silly young man thwarted for the first time in his short life, except--”


  “For the photographs, and the criminal demand for money,” Reynard finished. “And the knowledge that her highly-placed family will not be able to go to the court sorcerer for help.”

  “Yes.” Nicholas made another circuit of the room. “Perhaps he has so many letters from discarded lovers he keeps them somewhere else.”

  “The meeting is tomorrow. There’s no time to uncover any other hiding places.”

  Nicolas smiled. “Then it seems we’re all going to the opera.”

  * * *

  Reynard called for Belina two days later at half past seven, which would have her arriving at the opera far earlier in the evening than he ever had before. The demi monde didn’t usually roll in until close to the interval, but people of Belina’s set would arrive well in time for the beginning of the performance.

  The coach he had brought was unmarked, though the driver was well known to Reynard and would be happy to step in if anyone needed to be beaten unconscious. Reynard separated Belina from her mother, Amadel, and an anxious maid, escorted her outside, and handed her into the coach.

  Once they were settled and clopping down the street, he explained, “My friend will join us on the way. If anyone asks, tell them he’s been commissioned by your family to acquire a painting, and he’s escorting you tonight as a favor to them.” Reynard took in her lack of expression, and somewhat tight grip on her reticule. Her gown was a wine-colored silk, and looked lovely on her, though the lack of décolletage suggested it had been chosen by her mother or a sensible maid. “He isn’t going to proposition you.”

  The set of Belina’s shoulders relaxed a little. She asked, a little mulish and a little plaintive, “Why not?”

  “You’re too young for him, for one thing. For the other...” Reynard tried to think of a succinct way to explain Nicholas and gave up. “He just isn’t going to proposition you.”

  Belina nodded understanding. “He doesn’t like women?”

  “He doesn’t like anyone.”

  “Why are you helping us? Helping me. Amadel said he had the impression you really didn’t care about the money, or if you were paid or not.”

  Amadel was perceptive. It was really too bad he wasn’t interested in an assignation. Reynard explained, “A friend of mine was targeted by a blackmailer. It didn’t end well for him. Reducing the number of blackmailers in the city provides me with some comfort.”

  Belina leaned forward. “So you are going to kill him.”

  “Belina.” Reynard regarded her patiently. “In the circle in which you are traveling tonight, we don’t ask that sort of question.”

  She thumped back against the seat. “But what if it was my fault? What if I caused him to do this--”

  “To make sorcerously-created obscene photographs? He didn’t come up with that because he was so stricken by the awkward rebuff of, forgive me, a schoolgirl who then apologized for her actions. He’s done this before.” Even if it was the first time, even if there was no plan or ulterior motive, a sorcerer who would do this was plainly a menace. It was Idilane’s misfortune that he had chosen the wrong victim.

  Belina still frowned, but clearly decided to table the argument for another time.

  * * *

  Ten blocks from the opera, as the coach paused to wait for a cabriolet to clear the way, the door opened. Nicholas swung inside and dropped into the seat opposite Belina. He was dressed impeccably for the opera, in a dark suit with a light-colored waistcoat, and a hat and cane.

  Reynard said hastily, “Miss Belina Shankir-Clare, this is Nicholas Valiarde.”

  Nicholas frowned. “How old are you? Should you even be out without a chaperone?”

  Belina shared a glance with Reynard, her expression eloquent. “I think I’ve got a chaperone,” she muttered.

  Reynard asked Nicholas, “Do you have it?”

  Nicholas produced a glass ball, small enough to fit into the palm of his hand. “Of course.”

  Belina leaned forward. “What is it?”

  Reynard told Belina, “It’s a spell that will distract and confuse a sorcerer for a few moments, and prevent him from using his powers.” It wouldn’t trouble any serious practitioner, but from what Nicholas had said, the things were designed to work on Lodun sorcery students and used by them to bedevil each other at parties. It would provide an instant of distraction at the right moment, which was all they might need.

  Nicholas lifted the shade over the window to check the street. “It’s clear.”

  Reynard just hoped Arisilde Damal had been relatively sober when he had provided it. He shifted over and put a hand on the doorlatch. “I’ll see you later, Miss Shankir-Clare.”

  Belina nodded anxiously, and Reynard swung the door open and stepped out onto the walk. The coach clattered away, and Reynard adjusted his coat, and started to walk toward the theater district.

  * * *

  Reynard arrived just at twilight, taking up a position across the street where he had a good view of the the opera’s grand main entrance. Classical statues were carved into the façade and gilded figures danced above the pediment, and the fountains with ornamental lamps that stood in front of the building provided a shadow-show of moving light and water. The area was already noisy with early arrivals and the flower and sweet sellers and drink vendors were setting up along the opposite promenade. Reynard strolled over to one and ordered a coffee.

  Coaches arrived sporadically and deposited minor nobility or wealthy patrons, dressed in their formal fashionable best. A number of people of the less fashionable sets were walking in, it being easier to have a cabriolet drop you off at the corner than fight its way into the line of personal coaches. Though it wasn’t quite as crowded as usual tonight. Reynard attributed that to the fact that the performance was the old standby Life of the Good Duke, put on to keep the company warm and up to scratch before the real opening of the season next month. Nicholas had pointed out that it made an excellent cover, since it was an opera that people often took young relatives to, because they were the only ones who weren’t sick to death of it. It was just not the sort of opera that the Gamethon Club attended to be rowdy at.

  Not long later, the coach pulled into the carriage circle, and Nicholas stepped down and handed Belina out. As the coach drove away, Reynard watched carefully, but saw no one give them a second glance. Well, one woman, but Reynard suspected she was only admiring Belina’s dress. Belina herself was trying to look at ease while stealing glances at the other arriving patrons. Reynard waited until they were through the front doors, then handed his cup back to the coffee-vendor, crossed the street and made his own way in.

  The big double doors opened into a three-story pillared gallery, lit by crystal and gilt gas lamps and lined with different colors of marble, all the way up to the paintings covering the arched ceiling. The subjects were all classical, sex, death, and warfare, very appropriate to the usual preoccupations of opera. He navigated through the crowd and across the marble-floored entryway and went up the right side of the staircase. He didn’t note any acquaintance, which was fortunate. More new arrivals were milling around the grand foyer on the second floor.

  After a moment, he spotted Nicholas and Belina. Nicholas had secured a glass of soda negus for Belina and was radiating “friend of the family escorting young lady in an entirely paternal manner.” Then a young man in cavalry officer’s uniform approached Belina. Reynard saw her shoulders stiffen and her chin lift and knew this was no friendly acquaintance. He strolled close enough to listen, pretending to be waiting in the outer circle of Lady Villechasse’s admirers.

  The young man was saying, “This isn’t a palace ball, my dear, we don’t need to be acquainted to speak.”

  Belina said, “Sir, I don’t know you, and you need to leave me alone.” Her voice was quaking with what Reynard read as a combination of nerves and rage.

  “Of course you’d have to say that here. I’ll join you in your box, shall I--” It wasn’t a question.

  Sounding a little bored, Nicho
las said, “Leave, and do not attempt to speak to her again.”

  “And who are you?” The young man eyed Nicholas with contempt. “Too old to be a suitor, I think. If her family has hired you to escort her--”

  “I won’t tell you again.” Nicholas didn’t move but his weight shifted.

  The young man was stubborn. “You’re unarmed.”

  Reynard rolled his eyes. If this young idiot challenged Nicholas to a duel, he wasn’t going to be able to keep his countenance.

  Nicholas’s smile implied physical violence would be a terrible mistake. He said, “Draw your sword and find out.”

  The young man hesitated a long moment, became flustered under Nicholas’ steady regard, then withdrew. Reynard tracked his progress across the crowd, but he didn’t appear to be signaling anyone, or going to make a report. Still, it was an odd incident. He glanced idly back at Nicholas and Belina.

  Belina caught his eye briefly but didn’t make the mistake of acknowledging him. She sipped her drink and said, “You can’t kill someone in the grand foyer of the opera and get away with it.”

  Nicholas raised a brow. “If it comforts you to believe that.”

  “How would you--” Belina frowned. “Do you have poison darts?”

  Nicholas’ failure to answer was pointed. “Why did that creature think he could approach you that way?”

  Belina bit her lip, controlled herself, and said, “I think Idilane’s spread rumors. Well, I know he has. My friends have told me.”

  “Mmm,” Nicholas commented, and flicked a glance at Reynard.

  Yes, Reynard thought, this little bastard has a great deal to answer for.

  “You should have told us earlier,” Nicholas told Belina, offering her his arm for the obligatory stroll around the grand foyer. “I would have brought more poison darts.”

  * * *

  After Nicholas and Belina had started for the stairs to the boxes, Reynard strolled around the crowd for a while, but couldn’t spot anyone who matched the description of Idilane. The man could be magically disguising his appearance; the opera’s wards wouldn’t interfere with such a mild spell. He spotted one acquaintance, a young man called Dissonet who was the despair of his family and proving it by already being drunk before the performance had even started. Few people attended the opera unaccompanied, so Reynard contrived to run into him. Dissonet greeted him with somewhat bleary delight. “Morane! What are you doing here?”