Marie stood beside her, speaking in ghostly whispers: “There was more shadow here. Stubble here.”
For three careful hours, Isabelle had painstakingly toiled over a picture of Thornscar based on Marie’s unimpeachable memory. This was a technique she’d practiced before, and she’d been able to produce sketches and paintings of people she’d never seen as if they had been seated before her.
“Anything else?” she asked in a calm, patient tone that was nearly a mantra of meditation.
“No,” Marie said in her hollow voice.
Then she leaned back to take a better look at her creation. He was a lean-faced man with a high-bridged nose that put her in mind of a young centurion. His mustache hung down in points below his chin in the high-Aragothic style and his cheeks were covered in stubble. The long scar that puckered his flesh from brow to chin merely gave him character.
She turned to her bodyguards. “Is this our man?”
Vincent, who had been pacing the deck, came up behind Isabelle and said, “Incredible! It is him exactly. I would not have believed such a thing possible.”
Jean-Claude, his face ashen with sky sickness, sat against the forward rail with his hat over his eyes. “If you do not believe in impossible things, you will have a hard time keeping up with Isabelle.”
Vincent glowered at Jean-Claude and then said, “Are you aware that she has offered to hire me as her bodyguard once my current contract has expired?”
Jean-Claude lifted his hat and squinted at Isabelle, who flinched. She should have consulted with Jean-Claude first. Would he think she didn’t trust him or meant to abandon him? Damn Vincent for bringing it up.
I’m sorry, Isabelle mouthed to Jean-Claude.
If he noticed her or not, she could not tell. Instead, Jean-Claude focused his attention on Vincent and said, “Were you wise enough to accept?”
Vincent, deprived of the reaction he was looking for, said, “I’m still considering it.” He returned his gaze to the picture and said, “You do realize it’s backward. If you ever see the man in the real world, the scar will be on the other side.”
Isabelle said, “True, but he’s more likely to come after me as an espejismo than as a real person; it makes his escape so much easier.”
CHAPTER
Nine
Jean-Claude had been long at work by the time day broke. The Solar’s disk, a reddish blob seen through the eastern haze, rose above what passed for the horizon. Isabelle had once tried to explain to him why the sky changed color like that, but she’d lost him after the bit with the aetherbottle and the prism. Jean-Claude was content with the fact that the Solar was far away and unlikely to attack.
The Santa Anna was only a few hours out from San Augustus. After Thornscar’s failed assassination attempt, the trip had been tense but uneventful, so much so that everyone’s nerves were stretched tight in painful anticipation. Being a guard was like being a racehorse left to stock up in its stall for days, only to be expected to run flat out at a moment’s notice. That was one of the reasons Jean-Claude usually chose to actively hunt Isabelle’s enemies rather than passively secure her person.
Artifex Kantelvar had preceded them to San Augustus by two days. Now one of the queen’s Glasswalkers brought him back to the fleet via mirror to discuss Isabelle’s security with Vincent.
Kantelvar’s espejismo was the oddest case of soul distortion Jean-Claude had yet seen, though his experience with the phenomenon was limited. The priest’s saffron robes had taken on a luminescent quality, as if they glowed with an inner light. Gone were his characteristic limp, his mechanical limbs, and the hump on his back. If not for the testimony of his Glasswalker porter, his knowledge of the flotilla’s passphrases, and his detailed recounting of shared history, Jean-Claude would not have believed he was the same person. Was this what the man had looked like before receiving the honor of having his limbs hacked off and replaced with clockworks? Jean-Claude had to suppress an urge to snatch off the artifex’s cowl and see if there was a real face behind it.
Instead Jean-Claude leaned against the chart room wall, paying heed but offering little comment while Vincent and Kantelvar hashed out the details of Isabelle’s security along the parade route from the dock to the royal enclave at the citadel. The plan was quite elaborate but did not deviate terribly much from the one they had discussed before leaving l’Île des Zephyrs.
The problem with such a script was that the enemy was likely to read it. All a potential assassin had to do was change a line or two to take himself from a bit part to top billing.
Vincent, dressed in the padded gambeson that would serve as the underpinning for his alchemetal armor when the time came for him to debark, tapped his finger on a map of San Augustus and spoke to Kantelvar. “How, precisely, is Isabelle’s coach armored?”
Kantelvar said, “The coach itself is made of ironwood, two inches thick and banded with steel. It would take a cannonball to penetrate it, and we have cleared the route of all artillery.”
Jean-Claude snorted, “Just how much unsecured artillery does San Augustus have lying around?”
“Normally, very little,” Kantelvar said, “but with so much trouble anticipated, the city’s nobles have taken to supplementing their traditional guard with foreign mercenaries. Officially they are all kept out of the city, but many of the units have been there for months, and the borders tend to leak.”
Jean-Claude’s eyebrows lifted, but it was Vincent who asked the next question. “How many of these sell-swords are there?”
Kantelvar said, “At last estimate, around fifty thousand, with more scattered about the countryside within a few days’ ride.”
“And the king allows this?” Vincent sounded incredulous.
Kantelvar made a circling motion with his right—no, his left hand. “It is the traditional duty of the nobles to raise regiments in times of trouble. In fact, it is the traditional justification for their privileged status. They can hardly be prevented from assembling troops in anticipation of a crisis.”
Jean-Claude said, “So, the war for Aragoth’s succession, Builder forbid it should come to pass, may well be won by a foreign general who may then decide not to give up his prize.”
“An unlikely outcome, but possible,” Kantelvar allowed. “It therefore behooves us to ensure that there is no succession debate, and that means delivering Isabelle safely into her husband’s arms and praying she gets quickly with child.”
Jean-Claude bristled at politics that treated Isabelle like a broodmare, but there was no benefit in arguing about it. One might as well protest the necessity of rain in farming.
“So an ironwood coach,” Vincent said, gathering the dropped threads of conversation. “What about the windows?”
Kantelvar said, “The windows in the front of the coach are false, just curtains over wood. Isabelle will sit there, facing backward. There will be a wedge-shaped mirror, warded to keep a Glasswalker from coming through, that will show her reflection out the rear windows so that the crowd can see her. To anyone outside, it will look as if she is sitting in the rear seat. You, Vincent, will sit behind the wedge mirror. In case of an attack, either you or Isabelle can slam the partition door shut, at which point it can only be opened from the inside or with a special key that is kept at the palace.”
Vincent twisted his mustache and said, “That seems adequate.” He turned to look at Jean-Claude and added, “You have been surprisingly quiet through all of this.”
Jean-Claude shrugged one shoulder. “I would not presume to teach you your job. My question is to His Learnedness. What steps has he taken toward capturing Thornscar, which was the ostensible reason he left us in the first place?”
Kantelvar said, “I have reason to believe that Thornscar survived being stabbed in the arm. He is being pursued quietly, and he should be rounded up within the next few days. We cannot pounce too overtly for fear of alerting Duque Diego that his assassin had been identified, especially as we intend to use Thornscar’s
testimony as evidence against Diego later, after Julio is king. This is especially important because you managed to kill the only other known conspirator, this Hugo le Petit. If Diego knew Thornscar was identified, he would certainly cut the man’s throat. He could even use the act to ‘prove’ his loyalty to Príncipe Julio’s faction.”
“Even so, shouldn’t we wait until he is taken before we make landfall?”
Kantelvar’s fist tightened on his spiny-headed staff and his voice did not quite conceal irritation at this question. “No. Even though Thornscar survived, his sorcery was certainly discommoded by the trauma you both inflicted, or so the Glasswalkers tell me. He will not be a threat, but the longer we wait, the more time Diego will have to procure an alternate assassin.”
“If he has not done so already,” Vincent said.
“Do you have any notion of who the next assassin might be?” Jean-Claude asked.
“The most likely suspects are being watched,” Kantelvar said. “If you wish I will prepare a full briefing for you when you arrive.”
Jean-Claude would have liked for such preparation to have already been done, but he allowed that Kantelvar hadn’t had time for it, and having the information right now would not change Jean-Claude’s plans for the cavalcade. Having seen all that he needed of Kantelvar and Vincent’s designs, he excused himself to go to the head but instead made his way to the forecastle, where Isabelle had erected her easel and turned her attention to capturing the Craton Massif in paint.
The continent loomed off the starboard bow, filling up that entire quadrant without itself being fully revealed. The coastal precipice crinkled off to the left and right until it disappeared in the haze. Beyond the headlands, the level of the ground rose gradually, a patchwork of cultivated fields giving way to woodlands, foothills, and finally mountains, before being swallowed up by the distance. Towns and villages dotted the coastline. Jean-Claude could just make out the local temples, their brass-clad domes glittering in the morning light. People and animals were still too distant to perceive and their absence made the land look curiously abandoned and forlorn. Far ahead, at the very edge of vision, lay San Augustus. The sprawling crescent city, curled about its famous deep-sky harbor, was little more than a pale smudge at this distance.
Jean-Claude gripped the rail next to Isabelle and refrained from entreating her not to stand so close to the edge. He needed her attention on other things.
“Jean-Claude,” she said. Her eyes twinkled, and she smiled delightedly. “Have you noticed how the Craton Massif disappears into the distance? We’re higher up than most of the mountains, so we ought to be able to see all the way across the surface of the disk to the far coast, but we can’t.”
“Yes,” said Jean-Claude. “Doesn’t the atmosphere get in the way or something similar? I thought you knew that.” It was unlike her not to know facts of that nature.
“Correct,” she said, “but I was sitting out here watching the stars fade and thinking how odd that was. I mean, how can we see the stars at all when we know they’re much farther away than the other side of the craton? That implies there is more atmosphere between here and the other side of Craton Massif than between here and the stars. In principle, it means that using simple optics I should be able to gauge the upper limits of the sky.”
The ship pitched and Jean-Claude’s stomach heaved rebelliously. Jean-Claude glowered at the distant city. The sails were full, and the ship was pitching, rolling, and bobbing like a drunken dancer, but despite these obvious signs of motion, they seemed no closer to the harbor entrance than they had been this morning. He said, “I would settle for finding a solid place to land. Do you know how long until we make port?”
“Captain Santiago says it depends on the sky.” She leaned forward on the rail, which nearly gave Jean-Claude a heart attack, and said, “The craton is rotating at roughly the same speed we are traveling along its edge, rather like a hand turning a wheel. The whole landmass makes one rotation every ninety-seven days or so. At this point on the edge, that translates into a little less than four knots. We could sail in closer to land and get picked up by the cratonic vortex, which would carry us along in parallel to the coastal rotation, and then we could just sail up the coast, but Santiago says the headlands farther ahead put off a tidal trough. It stretches off the point like a ribbon in the hand of a spinning child. When we hit that trough, we’ll be able to glide down into the city in about an hour.”
Jean-Claude shook his head in fascination. He understood not one word in ten of that aeronautical jibber-jabber, but Isabelle spoke as if she were ready to give lessons on the topic.
He sidled closer to her and whispered, “Fascinating, but remember to guard your philosophical tongue.” Isabelle’s foes would be looking for any excuse to discredit her. They would not hesitate to accuse her of heretical numeracy.
Isabelle winced as if he’d slapped her. “I’m sorry. I know I should be more careful. I’m not any good at this. You’re the only one I can talk to.” She stopped herself short, clearly not finished. Jean-Claude gave her time.
After a long hesitation she asked, “What if Grand Leon calls you away?” she said. “Once I’m in Aragoth. Once I’m married … and then I started thinking, what do you want? You’ve been stuck with me twenty-four years.”
“And proud of every moment.” Alas, it was ever so much easier to befuddle his enemies than comfort his friends. Frequently there was no comfort, only truth. “Time moves on. You sow, you tend, you harvest, and there must be a winter. Grand Leon may call me away, but if you can’t survive without me, then I have truly failed you.”
“I haven’t been doing well so far.”
“That’s not true. You’ve made good moves and you’re very reserved.”
Isabelle huffed a laugh. “Is that what it looks like to you? I’m nothing but terrified most of the time.”
Jean-Claude scratched his mustache and said, “Under the circumstances I would be utterly remiss to advise you to be less careful. Rather I would say, trust yourself more. Your father had a kind of power over you no one in Aragoth ever will. These people need your cooperation and you must demand recompense. They will try to bargain you down. Threats and intimidation are nothing but negotiating tactics. Recognize them as such and make it easier for them to give you what you want than to push you around.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“For the most part it is simple, just not easy.”
Isabelle did not look reassured. “If the task were simple, success and failure would be obvious.”
“Failure is usually obvious, but since you’re not dead, we must be succeeding.” He looked around, but none of the bustling sailors were close enough to eavesdrop. “Speaking of which, we have just finished arranging for your security in the cavalcade from the dock to the palace, and I wanted to go over your part in it.”
Isabelle sniffed. “You mean aside from sitting quietly in the center of the coach with Vincent and Marie across from me and burly men on either side,” she said. “I’m surprised you didn’t claim the right to ride in the coach as well.”
“What good would I do anybody in there? Can’t see anything from inside a coach. Besides, the coach is only a diversion. The procession from the docks to the citadel is a window of vulnerability. The route will be well guarded but it will also be packed with peasants, pedestrians, and, no doubt, assorted other persons beginning with the letter ‘P.’”
“Pensioners, plumbers, philosophers,” Isabelle added wryly. “Partygoers, pallbearers…”
“My point is, there will be too many people to watch. An assassin willing to sacrifice his life for his cause might get close enough to harm you. The only way to assure that does not happen is to make sure you aren’t where he thinks you are. This afternoon, when you and your handmaids get dressed, I want you to switch clothes with one of them.”
Isabelle’s eyes grew wide. “Then I will ride unobtrusively in the handmaids’ carriage while she rides in the co
ach with Vincent?”
Jean-Claude smiled at her astuteness, but he was still ahead of her. “Not exactly. The handmaid will take your place in the carriage. In your trunk, I’ve left a soldier’s uniform that I took from the quartermaster’s store. With a helmet for your head, cuirass for your figure, trousers, and boots, you’ll make a strapping young officer. Then you will ride in the cavalcade. One uniform amongst many. It’s the perfect camouflage.”
“But won’t any potential assassin have studied my face? My father did have pictures of me made when he was trying to marry me off.”
“Possibly, but he will be looking for a woman. He will most assuredly not be staring into the faces of the guards. He does not want to be seen and he will not wish to draw their attention. You will be invisible.”
“To the assassin perhaps, but don’t all these soldiers know each other?”
“Not as much as you’d think. With as many nobles attending as befits the arrival of a princess, there will be private soldiers galore, so many different liveries that the result is anything but uniform.”
“This would be a lot easier if we had a Goldentongue glamour charm,” Isabelle said.
Of all the saintborn sorceries, the Brathonian Goldentongue illusionists were the only ones Jean-Claude had ever actually envied. So much of his own work involved changing people’s minds—okay, shoveling horseshit by the cartload—that being able to alter his enemies’ perceptions at will would be like owning his own feedlot.
He said, “That would be nice, but there are none to hand, and it would unnecessarily expand the circle of people who know what we are about.”
Isabelle considered this. “Speaking of which, I will not require one of my ladies to take such a risk for me. If one of them volunteers for this duty, I will be grateful, but I will not dragoon anyone.”
Jean-Claude bowed his head to her, glad she had accepted the general plan and was making it her own by taking control of the details. “A conscript would not serve to fill this post in any case; all she would have to do to spoil it is fail to act like you.”
An Alchemy of Masques and Mirrors--A Novel Page 16
