When that was finished, she let her ladies back in and suffered herself to be soaped, scrubbed, patted dry, corseted, gowned, powdered, painted, manicured, coiffed, gloved, and perfumed. Her handmaids exerted themselves to make it appear as if she had never been near a sabotaged skyship on fire, as if they could make the whole event unhappen. It was a perfect waste of an hour that could have become several hours had not an invitation arrived for Isabelle to join the fleet captains in conference.
Isabelle brushed her skirt as if to smooth out her dread of being trapped in a room with so many strangers all used to getting their own way. She was happy to have been invited—it showed they did not discount her completely—but she prayed she wouldn’t be asked to contribute. No matter how many times she reminded herself this was not her father’s house, she could not shake the conviction that any point she made would instantly become the one everyone condemned.
The junior officers’ cabin had been fitted with a table, which, being inadequate to the purpose of seating all present, only made the place more stuffy and crowded. She joined Captain Santiago at the head of the table. Don Divelo took up most of one wall by himself, owing to his alarming girth. Vincent and Jean-Claude had flattened into the corners behind Isabelle. The captains of the three remaining escorts and a few of Santiago’s officers were arranged around the other two sides of the table.
Santiago concluded his report, “… no structural damage. Santa Anna’s skyworthiness was not compromised. I see no reason to transfer Princesa Isabelle to another ship.”
“Because the enemy knows she is on this one,” Don Divelo said. “Clearly your precautions were inadequate.”
Santiago’s swarthy face grew red at this insult to his competence, but before his temper got the better of his tongue, Jean-Claude interjected, “To say that Isabelle’s security was inadequate underestimates the resourcefulness and determination of our enemies.”
“The musketeer is most wise,” Santiago said.
Perhaps offended by Jean-Claude’s defense of the captain, Don Divelo drew himself up as if about to deliver a lecture, but Jean-Claude spoke first. “What I want to know is how that mirror got aboard this ship. It’s not one of Isabelle’s.”
Santiago shouted for the boatswain, who stepped in smartly and looked rather puzzled when the question was repeated to him.
He said, “It showed up at the docks with the rest of la princesa’s things. The manifest said ‘paraphernalia.’ It was not specific to each item, so we loaded it.”
“So the enemy has an agent in Windfall,” Jean-Claude said.
“There’s nothing we can do about that now,” Vincent said. “The mirror is smashed. The plot is foiled. We must turn our attention to threats in front of us.”
“Because whoever is behind us is just going to give up,” Jean-Claude said dryly.
Captain Santiago broke in, “On my life I swear no one else will board this ship, nor will any of my men betray la princesa. They are all known to me.”
Vincent said, “What do you imagine the enemy will do now their sabotage has failed? Howl into the wind?”
“We won’t know unless we ask,” Jean-Claude said. “Don Divelo, I understand you are a sorcerer of great refinement.”
The ambassador’s silver eyes gleamed at this compliment, and he settled slightly. His feathers were still ruffled, but he no longer seemed inclined to squawk. “I am no Cerberus Cortez, but my skills are adequate.”
Jean-Claude said, “I have heard that you can walk through the glass as if it were an open doorway and you have guided many important people safely through the Argentwash.”
Divelo made a dismissive gesture with his fingers, but his voice was clearly pleased. “I have only done my duty.”
Jean-Claude said, “It so happens that I have need of a great sorcerer.”
Divelo’s expression grew wary. “To what purpose?”
“I need you to take me to l’Île des Zephyrs, so I may track down whoever put that mirror aboard this ship.”
Don Divelo sniffed. “What you ask is accounted a high honor amongst Aragoth’s most faithful servants, not something to be handed out lightly to a clayborn Célestial.”
Isabelle tugged at her veil, a nervous habit. She’d been hoping to avoid becoming involved in this conversation, but Jean-Claude’s idea was a good one.
Steeling herself, she said, “I would ask it as a favor.”
Divelo’s whole expression brightened and he steepled his child-sized hands. “A favor for you, Highness, is an honor for me.”
Isabelle kept smiling, though if history was any guide, repaying this favor would cost her dearly. She should have pointed out that helping her was a favor to Príncipe Julio, assuming she could speak for him. Should she try to renegotiate, or would that simply make her look more a fool?
She looked to Jean-Claude for reassurance. To her relief, he touched the brim of his hat in salute.
Vincent protested, “Your Highness, with all due respect, Jean-Claude is known to be … inconsistent. Perhaps I should go to l’Île des Zephyrs to make these inquiries.”
Isabelle’s chest was tight, but this needed to be her choice. “But I would feel much safer with you and your men here guarding me. Besides, Jean-Claude knows everyone in Windfall.”
Vincent frowned at Jean-Claude but said, “You have a point.”
In truth, Isabelle didn’t like sending away the only person on board she truly trusted, but no one else was so well equipped to discover the traitor on l’Île des Zephyrs.
CHAPTER
Seven
Jean-Claude shifted from foot to foot and tried not to look nervous as Don Divelo produced a key from a ring under his sash and unlocked the iron grate that guarded the face of the full-length mirror in his cabin aboard the escort ship the Lanza. Any unwelcome Glasswalker trying to emerge would have to squeeze through that narrow grid to be able to manifest.
Jean-Claude glowered at his sallow reflection. Asking to be taken through the mirror had seemed like a good idea at the time, but as the heat of inspiration cooled, phrases like “lost between mirrors” and “died from the shock” leaked in. Mirrors were just things of glass and silver; one should not be able to step through them and end up somewhere else.
“Do not worry, señor; I will not drop you,” Don Divelo said, replacing the key on its gold chain around his neck.
Vincent smiled. “If monsieur is too afraid to go, I can send a real man to take his place.”
“An empty threat, monsieur,” Jean-Claude growled.
Isabelle’s face looked waxen but she said, “I have full confidence in Jean-Claude’s courage and ability.”
And for that alone, Jean-Claude would walk through fire … or mirrors. Or mirrors on fire, for that matter. “Let’s get this over with. What happens next?”
Don Divelo raised himself to his most authoritative height, his bountiful midriff nearly cresting the sash around his waist. “It is said that Cerberus Cortez, the Secondborn King of Aragoth, could pass his true flesh through a mirror, split his reflected self in parts so as to be many places at once, and even pass through his reflection on water. Alas, but those arts are lost to us. Even so, what remains is still the most remarkable sorcery in all the world.
“I will take the reflection of your true essence to le Château des Zephyrs. Your corpus, the part of you that lives and breathes, that eats and shi—er, drinks, shall perforce remain behind. Your espejismo, the part of you that thinks and acts, will manifest on the other side, where it shall emerge from the mirror to walk about as if it was made of flesh and blood. Yet it will not be flesh and blood. To you, everything will appear to be backward. While you are there, you should refrain from eating or drinking, as the part of you that does the digesting is here, and you cannot bring back anything you did not take with you. This makes food problematic.”
Vincent murmured, “But will anyone recognize him without a wine sack in his hand?”
Jean-Claude ignored Vincent�
�s jibe; he’d worked hard to maintain his intoxicated reputation and was glad to know it was holding up. The journey ahead, though, filled him with trepidation and he fought the urge to hunch. “What must I do?” The less time he had to think about having his soul ripped out, the better.
“Take my hand, close your eyes, and allow yourself to be pulled. Do not hold your breath. Remember, the part of you that breathes is staying here.” He held out his hand.
“Then how am I supposed to talk?” Jean-Claude said, stalling in spite of himself. Sometimes people didn’t come back from these trips. Or they came back insane.
“Air will still go in and out; you just won’t assimilate it.” He took Jean-Claude’s wavering hand, said, “Close your eyes,” and touched the mirror. “And don’t panic.”
Jean-Claude closed his eyes, but not before he caught a glimpse of Don Divelo going very still while his corpulent reflection detached itself from the face of the mirror and drifted backward into some deeper space. It kept hold of Jean-Claude’s reflection and tugged.
* * *
Two sailors caught Jean-Claude’s body, preventing him from falling as his spirit departed. Isabelle stared in fascination as Don Divelo’s espejismo towed Jean-Claude’s out of the mirror frame, both drifting like a pair of windblown ghosts. She rushed to the mirror and peered into it as if it were a window but saw only the reflection of the room, sans the two travelers.
The sailors ensconced Jean-Claude and Don Divelo in chairs designed for the purpose of supporting Glasswalker sorcerers during their out-of-body wanderings. Jean-Claude’s face, normally elastic and expressive, sagged like wet linen without the animating force of his personality. Leaning back in the chair, his eyes closed and his arms folded, he most greatly resembled a corpse. Isabelle touched his cheek to assure herself he still lived.
Noxious worry seeped into her mind. Had she sent him off to die in the strange and terrifying world between the mirrors, or to be murdered in some back alley in Windfall? What if he encountered Thornscar?
But Jean-Claude would be very offended if he knew how much she worried about him. He was a King’s Own Musketeer, after all, and though he wrapped his pride in sackcloth and rolled it in the mud, it was still precious to him.
Yet even if he came back triumphant, with Thornscar’s heart in a jar and all her enemies laid low, she was still going to lose him. By delivering her safely to her wedding, his tarnished honor would get a new shine, and noble marriages were always a good excuse for handing out medals and citations. She had no doubt le roi would recall Jean-Claude to his service and deploy him on some other important errand. She’d probably never see him again. The mere thought of that made her feel hollow as a dried-up well.
Yet maybe Jean-Claude would attend some other birth, rescue some other infant, succor some other child. Maybe somebody else needed him even more than she did. Isabelle closed her eyes and let go the stale breath of selfishness. When the time came, she would have to be brave enough to share.
* * *
Having his reflection torn from his body felt to Jean-Claude like being peeled out of his skin and dragged through cold, gritty, metallic butter. The stuff oozed into every orifice he owned and a few that he assumed had been invented for the purpose. Against the advice of his porter, he held his breath.
Jean-Claude wasn’t sure how long the passage lasted, or if it lasted any time at all. Was there any distance between the mirrors, or did the concept of space even apply?
Then he encountered the barrier. It felt like having his face pressed against a frozen sheet of silk, cold and smooth. He dented it, and it tried to deform him.
“Press hard.” Don Divelo’s voice seeped into his awareness without passing his ears.
Jean-Claude pushed, though he had nothing to push against; he willed himself forward. The fabric enveloped him, squeezing him, oozing through him as he crossed through it.
Chill, dry air slapped his face. He had almost forgotten what air felt like. He gasped. Air passed his lips but felt dead in his lungs, though he did not feel he was suffocating.
“You can open your eyes now,” Divelo said, patting him on the shoulder.
Jean-Claude cracked an eye and found himself in a weirdly familiar room. Familiar because it was the mirror-gate room at the Château des Zephyrs. Weird because everything was skewed in his vision, stretched on one side and compressed on the other.
“Now I know what vomit feels like,” Jean-Claude said. “Why is everything lopsided?”
“A peculiar effect of perception, que? Your dominant eye has moved to the opposite side, so everything is distorted, and of course your perceptions of left and right are reversed.”
Indeed the room’s one barred window was on the opposite side from where Jean-Claude remembered it. Two comfortable wing chairs sat opposite the window, and a locked door—the hinges were on the wrong side—stood across from the mirror. Jean-Claude faced the mirror and saw that he, or rather his espejismo, had no reflection. The lack of it made him shudder. He turned to Don Divelo, but the man was not just distorted but distinctly taller and leaner. His gelatinous girth had been compacted into a solid column.
“You look … different,” Jean-Claude ventured.
“As do you,” said Don Divelo. “It’s called soul distortion. Your free reflection is shaped not just by your physical body but by your inner nature.”
Which implied Don Divelo’s inner nature was strong and solid instead of flabby. Such a distortion could equally well represent vanity.
Jean-Claude asked, “What do I look like?”
Don Divelo buffed his palms against each other. “Hmmm … I would have to say, lupine.”
Jean-Claude crossed his eyes trying to see if he had a wolflike snout, but it looked just like his nose to him.
“How much can you change?” he asked. “If you can change completely, you could pretend to be anybody.”
The changes are mostly small and involuntary, though you can control them somewhat with practice. Most of us develop an ideal that we sculpt over time.”
“I don’t like it,” Jean-Claude said. There were many things going on in his mind that he didn’t want on his face.
“You will get used to it in time,” Don Divelo said. “It’s easier if you concentrate on something else, like finding your rival’s agent.”
Indeed, having a mission could help one overcome all sorts of distractions. Jean-Claude tried the door and found it locked, to prevent uninvited Glasswalkers from emerging into the château at will. There was a bellpull, presumably to summon a servant to identify an unexpected visitor before giving them access.
“I do not wish to be seen,” Jean-Claude said.
Don Divelo’s eyebrows lifted, making coinlike discs of his mirrored eyes. “Why not? Surely the Comte des Zephyrs ought to know his daughter’s ship has been attacked.”
Jean-Claude made an emphatic cutting gesture with his left, or rather, his right hand. “The person I am looking for is surely a member of des Zephyrs’s court. Bringing this to the comte’s attention will only alert the prey to his danger.” Better by far if he could get out of the château without being detected. The trail he sought began in town at the docks, where a mirror had been added to Isabelle’s luggage.
Don Divelo’s eyebrows beetled. “How do you know he was a member of the court?”
“Several reasons, but mostly because he had an unscored, full-length mirror to hand for the purpose. Those things are rare and expensive here.”
Don Divelo made a scornful noise. “In Aragoth, it is considered an honor for every household of any worth to keep and maintain a mirror for the use of their noble masters.”
Jean-Claude bit his tongue on a tart retort about the honor of being forced to enable others to spy on oneself—he needed the fat bastard to carry him back to his body—and said, “Perhaps the Aragoth who is behind this did not realize how rare such mirrors are in l’Empire Céleste. It is certainly not a question that I can answer from in here.�
�
“Very well. Stand away from the door.” He approached the bellpull.
“Wait. What will you do while I am gone? And how will I find you again?”
“I will speak with Isabelle’s father regarding the details of his family’s attendance at his daughter’s wedding. When you are ready to return—and you must return before your real body suffers from dehydration, exhaustion, or hunger—simply tap a mirror, any mirror, and I will know where you are and come fetch you back to the ship.”
Jean-Claude pointed to the mirror from which they had emerged. “This is the only unscored mirror that I know of.”
“Scoring works because it breaks up the reflection and fractures the speculum loci; there is no contiguous space big enough for a Glasswalker to manifest. But right now you have no reflection and I don’t need to manifest to pull you through.”
“Good to know. And, purely for academic interest, mind you, what happens if someone stabs this body in the back?” Whoever had placed the mirror aboard the ship likely had other swords at his disposal.
“Your body might live, for a time, but without the part that thinks.”
Jean-Claude grunted understanding. He stood with his back to the wall next to the door. Don Divelo tugged the bellpull. Shortly, footsteps approached and a shadow darkened the lozenge-shaped window in the door.
“Ah, Don Divelo.” Jean-Claude recognized the chamberlain’s voice. Keys rattled in the lock, and the door glided open on well-oiled hinges. “Welcome to Château des Zephyrs. We were not expecting you.”
Jean-Claude’s thoughts thrilled with anticipation, but he could not feel his faraway heart racing or his blood thrumming. It was damnably disconcerting not to be able to feel excited.
Don Divelo stepped smoothly through the doorway. “I did not anticipate you would, but I thought the comte might like to discuss the details of his attendance at his daughter’s wedding…”
The door eased shut again. Jean-Claude slid the blade of his main gauche between the strike plate and the bolt. The chamberlain turned his key in the lock and swore quietly when the bolt refused to slide home. Jean-Claude grabbed the door handle and leaned back, keeping the door pulled shut as the chamberlain gave it a tentative tug. Go away!
An Alchemy of Masques and Mirrors--A Novel Page 12
