An Alchemy of Masques and Mirrors--A Novel

by Curtis Craddock

  “This is you,” she hazarded. Kantelvar had said he’d been there from the beginning.

  Behind her, Kantelvar let out a rattling breath and whispered, “You do remember.”

  Isabelle swallowed hard. She pasted a smile on her face and turned. “Of course.” He thought she was Céleste, her second coming. Oh, wretched woman, what sin could you have committed to have earned this sort of obsession? Were you kind to him? Did you give him hope so bright that it seared his soul?

  Kantelvar bowed to her, as he had always deferred to her, echoes of the supplicant. “I am glad you approve. I will leave you to rest and see to it that refreshments are brought to you. In the meantime, I must make Julio secure.”

  Kantelvar left. The door closed. Isabelle slumped against the wood, as if her slight weight could hold out all the forces arrayed against her. She rubbed her hand on her dress, trying to wipe away the cloying sweatiness of Kantelvar’s touch. By the Builder, she’d give her other arm if only Jean-Claude would come rushing in, preferably with a whole cadre of musketeers at his back. He could not be dead. Must not. The thought choked like dust in her lungs, but she refused to believe it.

  Yet even if Jean-Claude was alive somewhere, there was no way he could find her here. And Marie was abandoned in darkness. And Julio was chained to a wall. Builder help us; I am the last reserves.

  So think! Her mind was her personal pride, a well-oiled machine … a delicate clockwork easily thrown out of balance, never meant to be shaken or stepped on like this.

  Simplify. That’s what Lord DuJournal would say. So what if the imagined command came to her now in the voice of the imposter? It was still good advice.

  She had to stop the war. So simple to say. So out of reach. At the very least, she had to get a message off this skyland, something on the order of “Stop, stop, you’ve all been tricked!” If she could get Julio to a mirror, he could send his espejismo to do that job, but Kantelvar had just gone to strengthen his captivity. Would Kantelvar begin torturing Julio right away? And what would Julio do if she managed to free him? Even if the príncipe wasn’t convinced she was Kantelvar’s conspirator, he might still murder her just to thwart the breeding program.

  Isabelle pressed the heel of her thumb to her temple, trying to rub out an incipient headache. Never had her mind felt like such a blunt, squishy instrument. She was tired, hungry, weak, and sore. I can’t do this. I don’t know how. But there was no one else and no more time.

  An arrhythmic knock on the door nearly startled Isabelle out of her skin and she jumped away from the door. Was Kantelvar back already? How much time had she wasted? She wrapped herself in the same stony impassivity that had seen her through so many potentially lethal audiences with the Comte des Zephyrs and said, “Enter.”

  Strangely, the knock repeated itself again, three beats, then one, then four, before the door glided open. Gretl bustled in and curtsied low while holding up a tray bearing an assortment of delectables and a ewer of wine. Isabelle surmised that, being deaf, she had been trained to knock her special knock and enter rather than waiting for permission.

  Isabelle lifted her toe, giving the poor girl permission to rise. Gretl gave her a broad, carefully blank servant’s smile that made Isabelle shudder. There, but for the Builder’s grace, stand I.

  Gretl proffered some light pastries with candied fruit and a crystal flute of Célestial wine, pale and sparkling. The pastries’ fresh-from-the-oven smell set off desperate urges in the primitive root of Isabelle’s mind, and she nearly pounced on the tray. It felt like she hadn’t eaten in years. No wonder her head was so muzzy. She spent several minutes gorging far too quickly to appreciate the confectioner’s art. The flaky things seemed to turn to vapor before they hit her stomach, leaving her far from sated. She needed real food, not these lacy teases.

  “Do you have any meat?” she asked. Then she remembered Gretl was deaf, but the woman bobbed her head in understanding.

  Isabelle’s brows wrinkled in puzzlement. “Can you hear me?”

  Gretl made an emphatic negating gesture, but then pointed to her eyes and thence to Isabelle’s mouth.

  “You can see my words?” Isabelle said, being careful to enunciate.

  Gretl bobbled her head again, a sparkle peeking out from behind the mask of simplicity that shielded her eyes. Isabelle was abashed; she, more than anyone, ought to know that a defective body did not mean a dull mind. But just because Gretl could understand her didn’t make her an ally. If anything, it made her a danger.

  Isabelle asked, “Why didn’t Kantelvar tell me this?”

  With her free hand, Gretl mimed pulling a hood over her head. She covered her mouth and shrugged. Kantelvar’s mouth was a grille. He had no lips to watch.

  “He doesn’t know.” And it would never occur to Kantelvar that someone like Gretl could be any more than what he made her to be. So how much loyalty would she have to a master who treated her like an omnimaton?

  The question, she realized, could only be answered by experiment. “Please bring me real food and water, and then we will talk.”

  CHAPTER

  Twenty

  Isabelle wanted to curl up around the plate of cold meat and cheese Gretl brought in and hiss like a cat at anyone who thought they might steal a morsel, but that would have been counterproductive. Instead she bade Gretl join her. The other woman warily sat down on one of the old embroidered pillows.

  Over the course of an hour, with Isabelle dreading every moment to hear Kantelvar’s approaching footfalls, Gretl demonstrated a wide repertoire of hand signs for Isabelle to absorb, like reading semaphore, only much faster. Isabelle wished she had more time to explore this technique—could these ad hoc gestures be formalized? Could they be adapted for the one-handed “speaker”?—but that was a question for later. If there was a later.

  “How did you meet Kantelvar?” Isabelle asked.

  Gretl paused, her hands pressed palms flat against each other below her naval. Her expression was bland and her gaze was distant, as it frequently was when she was figuring out how to express herself to someone not fluent in her silent language.

  She tapped herself and then made a round belly gesture for “mother” and a beard-stroking one for “man,” presumably “father.” Then she made a stooped pantomime that meant “Kantelvar” followed by a bit of purse jingling and an exchange of coin.

  “Your parents sold you?” Isabelle was appalled. The comte had sold Isabelle before she was even born, but of course she hadn’t been his to begin with.

  Gretl shrugged and made a stomach-clamping gesture and pointed to her mouth, pantomiming hunger. Desperate families did desperate things.

  The real question, she supposed, was, “Why did Kantelvar keep you when he has not kept so many others?”

  Gretl shifted uneasily, looked at her hands, looked away. Isabelle all but held her breath; it hadn’t seemed like a horrid question but Gretl’s expressive fingers curled into fists.

  After a moment of profound stillness, Gretl drew herself up, unclenched her hands, and pointed to Isabelle’s stump. She mimicked Kantelvar and then she mimed a sawing motion. Then she touched her eye and made a plucking motion, and made a chopping motion against her leg. Then she tapped herself and pantomimed fitting on a prosthetic limb and sewing up split flesh.

  When she was done she stared at Isabelle with the dismal look of a subordinate expecting reprimand.

  Isabelle took a moment to digest it all. “You help him when he changes bodies.” Clearly, Kantelvar could perform the transfer on his own, but that didn’t mean it was the ideal way to do it.

  Gretl made a brief affirmative nod and shrank back as if expecting a reprimand.

  “That must be horrible for you.”

  Gretl stared at Isabelle with a look of incomprehension that made Isabelle wonder what she’d said wrong. Then Gretl’s eyes overflowed with tears, and she buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

  Poor woman. Isabelle wrapped her arm around Gretl as Je
an-Claude had so often done for her. She could not imagine what life must be like for Kantelvar’s captive servants that such a simple statement of truth could unleash such a flood of pain.

  It took several minutes of pouring herself out before Gretl was ready to make eye contact again, but when she did her expression was more open, attentive rather than wary.

  “I’m going to stop him,” Isabelle said, to which Gretl did not reply. “He’s going to set the whole world on fire if I don’t.”

  Gretl gave her a doubt-filled look and made an untangling gesture. How?

  “First I need to talk to Julio.” In truth, that was about as far as her plan had gotten, but if she could get him out of his cell and on her side, he’d be able to send his espejismo to take a message to his allies. At this point, even a message to his enemies would be preferable to letting them all be duped into war.

  Gretl pointed to Isabelle, made a negating gesture, and used her slipper to draw a line in front of the door.

  “Kantelvar never said I couldn’t leave this room,” Isabelle said; the imperative to stay was merely implied.

  Gretl winced and shook her head in an emphatic no. She made a slash across her cheek to indicate Julio, then Kantelvar locking him in manacles, and the omnimaton standing guard.

  “He’s guarded,” Isabelle said. “Yes.”

  Gretl pointed to the clock on the wall. It read the ninth hour. She pointed to the tenth hour, made the Julio sign, and made a throat-cutting motion.

  Isabelle’s hand flew to her heart and for a moment breath wouldn’t come. She had to rescue Julio now.

  “You take him his food. How did you get past the omnimaton?”

  Gretl shook her head again and made the Kantelvar sign, the throat slashing.

  “I’ll deal with Kantelvar,” Isabelle said, a promise spun from sheer need rather than any stronger silk. “But I must know how to pass the warder.”

  The way Gretl pursed her lips gave Isabelle the impression her sanity was in doubt.

  Isabelle held on to her patience and gave Gretl what she hoped was her most somber and serious look. “Do you know what’s going to happen next? After Kantelvar murders Julio and takes over his body, he’s going to rape me until he gets a child on me. He thinks I’m the reincarnation of Saint Céleste, and he wants me to bear the Savior.” Her hands balled into fists so tight that her left arm shook and her spark-arm threw off wisps of violet steam. Not while I have strength to fight.

  Gretl looked appalled, but not, Isabelle noticed, dubious of the claim.

  “And when he’s done with me he’s going to move on to the rest of the world. He has set in motion events that will start a war to end all kingdoms and destroy all peoples.” This would sound completely mad to anyone who did not know Kantelvar. “There’s no one left to stop him but me, and I need your help.” She unclenched her fists and made a gesture of supplication.

  Gretl’s already pale features were washed out as old laundry and her nimble hands had knotted like the roots of an ancient tree. Yet though her eyes were round with fright, she nodded strongly and curtsied to Isabelle, a transfer of fealty. Isabelle had no oil with which to anoint Gretl, so she touched her lightly on the head and bade her rise. And now I am responsible for you, too. But what was one more soul on her conscience at this point? What is one more ice crystal in the groove of a fracturing rock?

  From behind her apron Gretl withdrew an amulet in the shape of the Omnioculus, the all-seeing eye peering out from the center of a gearwheel. She brandished it and pantomimed the warder standing aside.

  Isabelle held out her hand and Gretl passed the talisman over.

  Isabelle weighed the object in her hand. “If Kantelvar needs you to help him change bodies, what prevented you from just waiting until he detached from a host and then putting the knife to him?”

  Gretl made a grim face and shook her head. She made the sign for Kantelvar and then bumped the back of her head with her fist. That was where the tubes came out. She pointed to the bed and pantomimed someone lying on it, Kantelvar standing over them. She went to the hump on her back, drew out another tube, and attached it to the body on the bed. The new body stood up, walked around the old body, and pulled the tube out, at which point the old body collapsed to the floor.

  “I see. He’s always in direct control of the proceedings.” Every variable accounted for, damn the man.

  Gretl nodded in the affirmative.

  It hardly mattered; she couldn’t wait for Kantelvar to drill into Julio’s skull before she acted. The clock on the wall ticked inexorably away. “We need to go now. Will you show me back to Julio’s cell?”

  Gretl squared herself up to a servant’s proper posture and opened the door. Isabelle confronted the darkened hallway. It felt like standing on the edge of a precipice with nothing left to do but jump. Kantelvar was out there, and omnimatons, and Julio, and she was not ready for this.

  Jean-Claude would have chivalrously suggested it was just the thin air that made her breath short and her heart pound. By all the saints, but she missed him. She had to do him proud. She smoothed her skirts and forced herself past the threshold.

  Now that Isabelle was in motion, she felt as if she were riding a rockslide, her only hope to stay on top of it and pray there was enough left of her to crawl out of the wreckage at the end. Dread waited around every corner. Would she bump into Kantelvar in the hall? How would she excuse herself to him? What if he went to her chambers and found her missing, the prize exhibit absconded from the museum? What reason might she give him for leaving her suite after she had pleaded exhaustion? Surely he could locate her by the stink of her fear.

  Yet, though she heard the echoes of distant activity, ghostly voices and mechanical clanking, they encountered no one in the passages.

  A short eternity later, they arrived at the suite of rooms that contained Julio’s cell. Isabelle listened at the door but heard nothing. Surely Kantelvar would be talking if he were in there. Julio made him rave.

  What if Kantelvar had already taken Julio away to be prepared for his surgery? All too vividly, she imagined Kantelvar plucking Julio’s eyeball out and taking a chisel to the vacant socket. A hammer blow and the príncipe’s body would jerk and lie still. Not yet. There was still time. She kept repeating that in her head like a prayer.

  Isabelle depressed the latch and eased open the door. There was no reaction from within. No sound but the creak of the hinges. The omnimaton stood at attention next to Julio’s cell door, a hulking armored skeleton of quondam alloy. It gave no sign of noticing her, though who knew what processes went on behind that great cyclopean eye.

  Isabelle turned to Gretl, who all but clung to her skirts. “Please stand watch outside. Give your knock if anyone comes along.” Though how such a little forewarning might help Isabelle, she had no idea.

  Gretl nodded and closed the door behind Isabelle. Isabelle forced herself to stand erect. The damned warder must already have known she was present and cringing wouldn’t help.

  “Julio,” Isabelle said, but her voice came out a harsh croak. She gathered herself and tried again, more clearly: “Your Highness Príncipe Julio.”

  There came no answer. Had he already been taken to be prepared?

  Isabelle drew out the amulet and held it before her as if warding off an evil spirit. Slowly she approached the door. Could the omnimaton sense terror? Its glassy eye, throbbing with an internal light, was the only indication of … “life” was the wrong word, but she could not very well use the word “animation” in reference to something standing so incredibly still.

  She came within arm’s reach of the machine.

  The omnimaton moved so quickly that it blurred. When it came to a stop, its singular three-fingered hand had closed on the door handle.

  Isabelle flinched uselessly. If the thing had been inclined to attack, it could have had her head off her shoulders before she could blink.

  With a series of abrupt twists the omnimaton twisted the door h
andle and opened the door. It didn’t seem capable of moving at anything other than blinding speed and seemed to be trying to average its movements out so that it didn’t shatter the door. The result was a staccato series of still lifes that ended with the door ajar just far enough for Isabelle to enter without scraping her shoulders.

  Isabelle held her breath and eased past the machine into the cell.

  “I see Kantelvar was right about you,” came a soft, harsh voice from the gloom.

  Isabelle’s head whipped around. Príncipe Julio sat slumped in a far corner, his hands shackled and bound by chains to iron loops set in the walls above him on either side. His face, downcast and obscured by lengths of tangled black hair, was pale and dingy as old snow. His silver eyes were sullen. His posture, sagging like the last sack of potatoes after a long winter, radiated defeat and despair, but Isabelle was chary of deception. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice … I think not.

  “That depends on what he told you,” Isabelle said.

  “L’Étincelle, the long-lost sorcery of Saint Céleste,” Julio said. “A fine birthright to bestow upon the Savior.”

  Isabelle’s hackles rose, but she kept her temper at bay. She had no time for anger or fear or any other emotion, no matter how they scratched and whined.

  “You accuse me falsely,” she said. “Kantelvar is my enemy, and I shall not complete his project.” Which meant that in the unlikely event that she lived through this, she could never marry Julio. Indeed, with all these sorceries lying dormant in her veins, she hardly dared contemplate children at all … but those problems presumed a future out of reach.

  “I do not accuse you of being his partisan,” Julio said. “Only his puppet. We are all his puppets. The only question is, what does he want from this—what is your word?—tête-à-tête.”

  Isabelle resisted the urge to turn around to check if Kantelvar had come up behind her. Instead, she approached his corner, the swirling maroon glow of her spark-arm painting faint pulsing shadows on the walls. Julio blinked and shuddered as if even these dim flickers burned like flecks of molten iron. Up close, his cheeks glimmered like tarnished silver, the aftermath of quicksilver tears.