Isabelle’s nervous gaze skipped over Queen Margareta and landed on a lean man in royal purple wearing a silver medallion bearing the royal heraldry and the marks of cadency befitting a second son. His posture was languid, almost bored, and the upper half of his face was obscured behind the jeweled scales of a wyvern mask.
Julio. My betrothed. She tried to make the name and title fit the figure before her, but a wide, thin-lipped mouth and a narrow chin weren’t enough to hang a label on. A pox on whoever had come up with the idea of masquerade balls. How was she supposed to be properly introduced to people if she couldn’t see their faces?
She arrived at the foot of the dais. A pair of Temple censer bearers detached themselves from the wings and walked slowly around her, wafting her with a heady, pungent incense. A sagax in a golden robe embroidered with carmine clockworks planted himself between Isabelle and the king. He was one of the fellows who had taken offense at her existence upon her arrival at the docks, the one who had claimed Kantelvar was deranged by his vision of the Savior’s coming. Did he have any idea how right he was? Dared Isabelle speak to him? The enemy of my enemy can give me information on my enemy. Yet she dared not reveal the exact nature of Kantelvar’s scheme, for the sagax would surely see that the easiest way to defeat Kantelvar was to remove Isabelle.
The sagax chanted in the Saintstongue, pronouncing the words roughly and mechanically, as if by rote rather than meaning, pleading with the Builder to sanctify an unclean woman to stand in the presence of Carlemmo, who was His power in the world. He monotonously reiterated the Temple’s assertion that Iav’s sin had somehow corrupted all women, enfeebling them body, mind, and soul. My many-times-great-aunt. And she was innocent … or at least Saint Céleste had defended her. On a level below reason, Isabelle felt she was the damned saint’s partisan, if for no other reason than any argument a woman made against this presumption of corruption was invariably rebutted with, “If you were a man you would understand this, but you’re a flawed woman, so you can’t.”
Apparently satisfied that Isabelle was not going to vomit up a swarm of locusts on the spot, the sagax finally withdrew.
Isabelle curtsied to the king and summoned up her voice. It cowered in the back of her throat like a dog hiding under the bed in a thunderstorm. She dragged it out and brought it to heel. These were not her words but an agreed-upon formula: “Your Majesty, I bring greetings from His Imperial Majesty Leon XIV, le Roi de Tonnerre, of l’Empire Céleste. In his name, and for the sake of everlasting peace and friendship between our kingdoms, I present myself, my life, and my blood, to reinforce the strength of your line.” Somehow the words seemed bigger and heavier, more important than when she had practiced them in front of her handmaids.
The king stirred, but his voice seemed to be coming from far away, as if he were calling back to her from halfway down a lonely road. “Princesa Isabelle des Zephyrs, your offer is well made and graciously accepted. Rise and be welcome. All hail la Princesa Isabelle.”
The crowd voiced a dutiful cheer. Likely more than half of them were privately outraged about the gross breach of tradition her marriage represented. How many in that faceless crowd still plotted her murder? And might all the masks, with their promise of anonymity, tempt her enemies to strike at her tonight?
Carlemmo gestured Isabelle to an empty chair beside Julio’s. The príncipe watched her warily from behind his wyvern mask, hunching into himself like a wounded animal holed up in a cave. His left leg was noticeably stiff, the amputated limb disguised with a boot, the buckles of the prosthesis poking out from his garters. His breath reeked of wine.
With a sinking heart, she curtsied to him and tried to speak, but her mouth had gone dry; this was the man to whom her fate was forever tied, a sulking, drunken stranger in a mask.
“Príncipe,” she managed, barely more than a whisper.
“Your Highness,” he said in the careful tones of someone rummaging for misplaced syllables. “You are even more beautiful than I had been led to believe.”
“Thank you, Highness.” She had a hundred things she wanted to talk to him about—politics and prophecies, intrigue and murder—but none of them involved her appearance. Also, she wished his gaze would’ve lingered at least a moment on her face. She made perfunctory obeisance, then took her chair.
Music resumed, and the crowd began to mill. A herald called out for the commencement of public ceremonies and all the most important nobles began queuing up in order of social rank. One by one they would ascend the steps, greet her, exchange rote pleasantries, and present her with gifts. Judging by the sheer number of nobles present, it was likely to take hours, and every last one of them would be judging her.
Would Lorenzo Barbaro be in the queue? What would she say to him if he was? Do you remember a time you spent with Vedetta des Zephyrs? Did you know you have a daughter? She supposed revealing herself as a bastard would be one way to extract herself from this marriage trap, if she were willing to sign her own writ of execution in the process.
She turned her mind from the mystery of the past and tried to think how best to persuade Julio to attempt reconciliation with his brother. She did not believe in prophecy, but Kantelvar did, and he seemed to be trying to arrange for its conditions to be met.
“Look at them,” Julio muttered to no one in particular, the words muffled in an alcohol-scented fog. “Lord of the Ten Gates all the way down to the royal rat catcher, every pendejo with a title to hide his name behind, bowing and scraping to el rey in public and wagering on the hour of his death behind the curtains. Boy-buggering whoreson. Cloth-of-gold sack of shit.”
It was impossible to tell toward whom these imprecations were directed. Isabelle steeled herself and pushed a question onto the field. “And what happens when your father dies?”
Julio snorted like a man waking from a dream and finding himself in a gutter. “I suspect we will all be horribly killed.”
This was not the sort of answer Isabelle had expected, but it seemed like a good enough opening for her petition. “If you don’t think you can beat your brother, why not come to an accord with him? Surely avoiding bloodshed is in everyone’s best interest.”
Julio cast a doleful eye upon her. “What makes you think there’s going to be a fight?”
“I … just assumed there would be some sort of struggle.”
“No doubt,” he said, “but riddle me this, oh unlucky princesa. What is messier than a civil war between two brothers?”
“I have no idea.” Indeed, Isabelle felt adrift in this conversation.
“A civil war with no brothers.” Julio took a drink. “If there is one brother left, he wins. If there are no brothers left, it’s a free-for-all.”
Isabelle was appalled at this insight. The Savior was supposed to be born into a time of universal war, but Julio could not be killed, at least not right away, not until Kantelvar was convinced Isabelle was with child. Did he know that was the plan? She dared not broach the subject until she had some idea how he would react.
“Then why don’t you treat with your brother?” she asked.
“What would be the point?” Julio said. “They say the dead give no testimony, but wills can be faked; competing wills are even better. Damned spring-wound spider thinks I’m too stupid to figure it out. Thinks I’m just his puppet.”
“Kantelvar,” Isabelle said. “Do you understand his scheme?”
That evoked a humorless chuckle. “I have no idea what he thinks to gain. All I know is that he talks to everyone, generally about what they want and how he can help them get it. The people he seduces become the careful gardeners of their own lies.”
“What did he offer you?”
Julio gave her a wary look. “He never offered me anything. No promises to keep that way. Just a pawn with no open moves, waiting to be sacrificed.”
“Then you must change the rules.”
Julio shook his head. “He is not two moves ahead. He is two games ahead.”
Isabell
e’s spirit sagged under the weight of his listlessness and of all the lies she had been told about him. This was not a man who had ever set out to be the greatest sorcerer in the world, or the greatest swordsman. He would be no help to her at all unless she could turn his apathy into a tool.
“Then shall I bargain with your brother on your behalf? If I can persuade him—”
Julio made a shooing gesture. “Make whatever bargain you like—it won’t matter—but for the Savior’s sake, can we please talk about something else?”
That was as definitive a commission as she was likely to get, but she imagined he would stand by any deal she made if it saved his sorry hide.
She shifted into rehearsed small talk. “Were you named after King Julio the Just?” That was a name she had picked up from her readings, one of the feudal kings who had fought the Skaladin to a standstill during the long occupation.
“No, I was named after my grandfather Julio, the Duc de Bosque de Dolores.”
Isabelle translated the name: “The Forest of Sorrows.” And a connection clicked in her mind like the hammer of a flintlock being cocked.
Her skin went suddenly cold and she must have been staring into the middle distance, because Julio asked, “Are you ill?”
She blinked hard and then asked, “The Forest of Sorrows. Is that still in your family?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Ah…” Julio pulled at his chin. “I think we’ve had it for a few centuries. It was one of the few places the Skaladin never conquered. Why?”
“Nothing,” Isabelle said, not trusting her own conclusions, not trusting Julio. Kantelvar said he had revived a bloodhollow in the Forest of Sorrows, which meant it had been ruled by Célestials, which meant either Kantelvar was lying or the revival had taken place over two hundred years ago. Impossible. Kantelvar could not have been creeping around that long; even if his quondam clockworks were somehow keeping him alive, someone would have noticed.
Even as she grappled with this deduction, a herald announced her first supplicant, Duque Ramon de la Gallegos Diego.
Isabelle’s head snapped around and her gut knotted as the man who had used her brother to arrange an attempt on her life approached. She pasted on her most professional smile and forced herself to breathe steadily.
Diego was not a looming nightmare giant, but rather a man of average height with above-average thickness. His mask was that of a dragon, the emperor of all fell beasts. It was not a terribly subtle message, but then, she gathered his ambition was well-known. Like all his kind, his eyes were pure mirrors and she could see her distorted reflection in them.
Yet whatever emotions he felt toward Isabelle, his manner and tone were entirely reserved as he made a leg to her and said, “Your Highness, I bid you welcome; your presence brings hope to us all. Please allow me to present you with this small token of my esteem.” He lifted a narrow box of polished wood from a pillow carried by his servant and held it up to her in his large, meaty hands.
Isabelle forced her good hand to remain steady as she accepted the box and thumbed it open. Inside lay a vellum scroll fastened with a ribbon and a wax seal bearing the Diego coat of arms.
The herald announced, “The deed to Monarch’s Cove.” A murmur of appreciation rolled through the crowd. Apparently this was a good gift.
Diego said, “For your own use, unattached to any dowry.”
Isabelle forced a smile. “Your Grace, I thank you for this. I hope to use it well.” That was all diplomacy required or protocol permitted, but she could not let the exchange go so easily. “And my condolences for the loss of your friend.”
Duque Diego’s expression was unreadable behind his dragon mask, but he remained stiff just a fraction too long before saying, “It is a loss everyone should mourn.” He turned his gaze on Julio, then bowed himself out.
Isabelle barely had time to wonder what he meant by that cryptic response before her next supplicant stepped forward, and the next. Servants circulated bearing silver trays laden with hors d’oeuvres and goblets of drink. Somebody poured Isabelle a chalice of strong wine. She calculated the size of her bladder relative to the length of the line in front of her and resolved to sip slowly.
An elegant parade of high nobility greeted her. Some were subtly hostile, others guardedly enthusiastic. Everyone brought gifts, though none so grand as Duque Diego’s. Julio supplied acerbic if not terribly useful commentary about most of them. “He has the manners of a saint but a manor in disrepair.” “No, that isn’t a mask; he really does have a nose like a pig.”
“Please, Julio. My poor mind cannot absorb your wit.” Jean-Claude was fond of mocking nobility, but at least his observations were clever and useful. “Don’t you care what your future subjects think of you?”
Julio frowned at this mild reproof and slouched deeper into his chair. “Long have I observed this … game.” He waved a languid hand at the assembly. “And I have come to the conclusion that a king does not and cannot command his subjects to behave. If everyone cleaved strictly to the rules, a balance would be reached, which would not be so bad for those on top, but would be intolerable for those being cooked on the bottom of the pot, and since there are more on the bottom than the top, they would soon cease to put up with it. The king therefore stirs the cauldron of courtly intrigue. He gives his subjects very subtle incentives to misbehave and taxes them for the privilege. This well-dressed rabble couldn’t care a fig what I think of them so long as they believe I can give them what they want.”
Isabelle had not evolved a response before a familiar shuffling figure caught her eye. Kantelvar entered the hall without fanfare and made his way directly to el rey, who was holding court with his favorites. Kantelvar cut through the line and leaned forward to whisper a few words in Carlemmo’s ear.
Carlemmo nodded and made a little “go ahead” gesture with his fingers. The artifex limped around behind the throne and headed in Isabelle’s direction. He had worn clothes cut to show off his clockwork limbs and polished the quondam metal until the telescoping tubes, coiled cables, and ball joints gleamed under the alchemical lights. Everybody he encountered stepped quickly out of his way, and at least two made signs against the wicked.
Julio groaned at his approach. “So much like a winter wind he is, squeezing in through every crack and bringing a chill.”
“Highnesses,” Kantelvar said, bowing. “I see the intended couple have finally been introduced. I trust all is well.”
“Well enough,” Julio said tightly.
Isabelle’s bottled indignation leaked into her voice. “Indeed, Príncipe Julio has completely supplanted my expectations.”
Even shadowed by his hood, Kantelvar managed to give her a wilting look.
“What have you for me tonight?” Julio asked. “Some new and incomprehensible subterfuge, another wallow in the dregs?”
Kantelvar’s emerald eye gleamed balefully beneath his hood. “No, Highness, but, if I may, I have news for your soon-to-be wife.”
“I pray it is not as grim as most of your news,” Isabelle said. Or as strange as your secrets.
“Indeed not, Highness,” Kantelvar said, bowing to her as much as his crooked spine would allow. “I come to inform you that your musketeer’s meddling has cost my investigation in time and resources. May I humbly request that you require him to cooperate with me?”
Isabelle could think of few worse ideas than putting Jean-Claude under Kantelvar’s direction. “Jean-Claude is not mine to command. If you don’t want him treading on your toes I suggest you tell him where you intend to put your feet.”
“He is an impediment to discovering your enemies.”
In other words, he’s getting in the way of your schemes. “Nevertheless, he stays.” And the sooner she could speak to him the sooner they could drag this mad scheme of Kantelvar’s into the light of day.
“As you wish, Highness.” Kantelvar bowed himself out but lingered, like an unfinished chore, behind the dai
s, to what purpose Isabelle could not discern. She did not like having him there and had to resist the urge to fidget.
Another petitioner came, and ten-score more, until the last of Aragoth’s highest nobility had made their official welcome and the foreign dignitaries lined up for their turn. There was a dour, heavyset mercenary general from Oberholz, and a sleek, goateed one from Vecci, and several more from other surrounding states. So many of the Aragothic nobles had supplemented their native troops with foreign mercenaries in anticipation of a civil war that they amounted to about a third of the armed men on Aragoth’s native soil. It seemed a dangerous proportion to Isabelle, even with as little as she knew of warfare. She referred dinner invitations from both generals to her staff to sort out and schedule appropriately; if she accepted every dinner invitation she had received tonight, she would bloat up to the size of a leviathan.
The herald announced, “The mathematician Lord Martin DuJournal.”
Isabelle very nearly choked on her wine. For a moment, it was all she could do not to cough or sneeze the stinging liquid out her nose. The effort of holding it down brought tears to her eyes, blurring her vision and making it impossible to see the man who claimed the identity of her nom de plume.
The man announced as DuJournal had taken a quick step forward as if to assist her, but a pair of guards blocked his way. He was tall and lean, and he wore a mask of autumn leaves and stag’s horns, a depiction of the lord of the hunt. Behind his mask, his eyes were green, and beneath it, his mouth was framed by short whiskers the color of wheat.
I am DuJournal! The adventuring mathematician was hers, her alter ego, her creation. She was the one who had conceived him, gestated him in the womb of her mind, given him life on paper, and sent his adventures out into the world.
“Isabelle, are you poisoned?” Julio asked.
She shook her head. “It just went down the wrong way. Thank you.” She coughed into a handkerchief and glared into the imposter’s eyes. How dare you … whoever you are?
An Alchemy of Masques and Mirrors--A Novel Page 28
