An Alchemy of Masques and Mirrors--A Novel

by Curtis Craddock

  “And how much of that blood do you want to drink?” Isabelle asked. “If you really want to change the world, try not going to war. Accept the fact that in the end, nobody gets to win. I’ve been reading your history, and it’s almost nothing but war. There is no way more war is actually a change. To say that peace exists only at the whim of war ascribes peace no strength or value save as a respite for the beast to lick its wounds before rampaging again. That is certainly how Kantelvar saw the world. I therefore stand against it, against him. I say peace has value. It is worth striving for, risking for, sacrificing for.”

  “If I can bring Duque Diego and his supporters over to Alejandro’s side, it will vastly shorten the war. What more would you have me do?”

  “It won’t help as much as you think,” Isabelle said. “Kantelvar has stirred up all the Risen Kingdoms. If Margareta finds her local support draining away she will turn to the troops waiting just across Aragoth’s borders, Vecci and Oberholzers—”

  “And Célestials,” Julio added. “Let us not forget your people, either.”

  “My people.” Isabelle stood up from the crate, her eyes round as an idea bloomed in her head. Kantelvar had been counting on a fight between two sides, neither of which could afford not to fight. Everything balanced on that assumption.

  Sometimes the only way to win was to break the game.

  She took a deep breath of humid air, met Julio’s gaze, and said, “I’m going to give you an army.”

  He regarded her skeptically. “What?”

  “Grand Leon appointed me his ambassador to Aragoth and granted me the power to declare which Aragothic faction l’Empire would support. I choose you, a third faction. Neither Alejandro nor Clìmacio will ally with each other for fear of betrayal, but neither one of them can afford to fight two opponents at once. You can force them to parley.”

  Julio looked stunned, but when the expression melted it was into a thoughtful, calculating look. Levelly he said, “You are assuming that Grand Leon has not reabsorbed that power or given it to another since your disappearance.”

  “Once he realizes I am alive, he will honor his word,” she said, keeping the Or this will all be for nothing to herself. “He has no desire for this war, and I will make it plain to him that I have a plan to prevent it.”

  “You would make me a puppet of l’Empire Céleste, turn Aragoth into your satrapy.”

  “Of course not,” Isabelle said.

  “But that is not how my people will see it. There are still graybeards alive who remember the Skaladin occupation. Nobody wants another boot on our necks.”

  “Which is exactly what they will get if Kantelvar’s plan plays out. Even with his death the war goes on, everybody gets drawn in, everybody loses. I don’t imagine you want Célestial barons rampaging through your lands any more than I do, but Alejandro and Clìmacio don’t know that.”

  Julio’s brows pinched in thought. “It won’t be Clìmacio though, will it? It will be Margareta, and I cannot imagine her agreeing to any terms that do not involve keeping a large portion of what she has stolen.”

  Isabelle’s pulse thrummed with the excitement of her speculation. “Not if you can steal Clìmacio’s loyalty.”

  Julio bristled. “What makes you think that wretch has any loyalty to give?”

  “Appeal to his self-interest. He didn’t choose his path. He has had no choice but to pretend to be you or die, and indeed death is all he expects. You can give him a better option, convince him to sue for peace and pull him out from under Margareta’s heel. She has no power except through him.”

  Julio shifted his weight from foot to foot as if in some wrestling match with himself. “Out of morbid curiosity, assuming we can dissolve Margareta’s power base, what do you suggest we do with her?”

  Isabelle stared at her reflection in the pool. She wore no crown. She had no authority to hand down judgment. “Are you asking me to pass judgment on your mother?”

  Julio joined her in staring at their reflections. “She never had any affection for me, much less love. I eventually stopped trying to figure out what I had done to displease her, but I never stopped hurting. Now I know why she hated me, feared me, and it doesn’t help.”

  Isabelle retreated from pain into the safety of logic. “If you’re asking my advice, I would say Margareta should be judged by the Sacred Hundred, in public and with all due ceremony.”

  “Such would be a trial of politics rather than evidence,” Julio pointed out.

  “Yes,” Isabelle said glumly. “But at least it would force everyone to bob their heads at the rule of law. It will help everyone get back to pretending the government into existence.”

  “You make it sound like some sort of dream.”

  “The most important things we have are dreams,” Isabelle said. “Without them we cannot conjure new truths or better worlds. Where we get into trouble is when we tell ourselves dreams don’t matter, or we let other people tell us our dreams are silly or stupid. I dream of peace, and I won’t give it up.”

  Julio paced a few restless steps around the circumference of the pool and back again, like a bear in a cage. Isabelle sat calm and still, trying to be like water, reminding herself of Jean-Claude’s maxim “Never interrupt someone who disagrees with you when they are in the process of changing their mind.”

  Gretl returned with an armload of cloth that shook out into a long, fur-lined cloak. Isabelle wrapped herself in it gladly. Maybe now she’d have enough body heat to send some down to her frozen toes.

  At last, Julio stopped pacing. “I will accept l’Empire’s aid and make a third faction, but be aware that what you ask may be as irretrievable as yesterday. We have no way of knowing what has transpired in San Augustus since the night you were kidnapped. The factions may have been at each other’s throats for a week already. If it comes to that, I will do whatever it takes to ensure Alejandro emerges victorious. Carlemmo is my father whether he sired me or no, and I will not repay him by betraying his true heir. Nor will I allow his kingdom to be destroyed if it is within my power to prevent it.”

  Isabelle nodded. “We should get going. We should go first to the Célestial embassy and inform Hugo du Blain I am alive.” Hopefully someone as urbane as du Blain would be able to defer judgment on her noncanonical sorcery.

  “No.” Julio stared grimly at the water. “I won’t chance taking you with me. It’s too much of a risk. Breaching through water is like … it’s like melting, dissolving. It takes everything I have to hold myself together. After your bodyguard stabbed me, I couldn’t even gather my sorcery; my espejismo was diluted. I was lost in the Argentwash for days and very nearly starved to death before Kantelvar returned, pulled me out, and locked me in that cell.”

  Julio flexed his right arm, the one Jean-Claude had stabbed. “I honestly don’t know if I’ll be able to make the passage now, but I do know it would be harder to take a passenger with me. I won’t risk losing my grip on you and dissolving you through the Argentwash.”

  “But I have to be there,” Isabelle protested. Then suspicion bloomed in Isabelle’s mind. “Unless you plan to keep me isolated from my allies.”

  He gave her an offended look. “I cannot very well use you as a hostage given that my departure necessitates giving you care and control of my helpless body. The first thing I will do upon arrival in San Augustus is send a ship to pick both of us up and return us to civilization. In the meantime, how may I prove myself to your people?”

  Isabelle reined in her distrust. She was the one who had made the overture of Célestial aid to him, after all. She had little choice but to rely on him.

  She said, “Contact my musketeer; his name is Jean-Claude. I’m afraid he’s the one who stabbed you. Tell him what I told you. He will relay it to du Blain.” Kantelvar said he’d had Jean-Claude killed. Not dead, she prayed. Please. Kantelvar had underestimated Jean-Claude before; he could have done it again.

  Julio said, “Given his proven animosity toward me, how should
I recommend myself to him?”

  “Tell him … I am safe, sound, secure, and several synonyms starting with ‘S.’”

  Julio’s eyebrows quirked up. “That’s a very long password.”

  “More like a private language, but he will understand it.” Please let him be alive. “And someone has to find Marie, my handmaid—”

  Julio looked exasperated. “I will not have time to locate everyone of your household. Approaching the Célestial embassy makes sense but—”

  “Marie is my family,” Isabelle snapped, “and Kantelvar damned her worse than anyone. She’s spent twelve years as a bloodhollow, and now she’s been left to rot in a cellar beneath the old Temple in the citadel with no one to look after her.”

  Julio backed away from her as if she were spitting fire. “I’ll inform your ambassador; he should be able to send someone to fetch her.”

  “Thank you,” Isabelle said. “May the saints smile upon your venture.”

  Julio crooked the unscarred corner of his mouth. The left side on his true form. “I am only doing the duty that was given to me, perhaps salvaging my honor. You are the one who serves a greater vision.”

  “Peace only seems like a great vision because the prizes of war are so small.”

  Julio nodded and held his hand out, palm up. “Builder keep you.”

  She floated her spark-hand over his, palm down. “Until the Savior comes.”

  Julio sat down with his legs folded under him on the lip of the pool. He bent and reached for the surface of the pool. The very tip of one finger brushed the surface of the water, bending it without causing so much as a ripple. At first, nothing seemed to be happening, but after perhaps a hundred heartbeats, the air grew tight and the glimmers of light on the pool warped and stretched toward Julio’s reflection. Isabelle felt herself being pulled in that direction as well. Loose wisps of her hair and folds of cloth yearned toward Julio as if the direction of “down” had subtly altered and Julio were literally the center of the world.

  Something snapped, the world rocked back into its ordinary shape, and the tension in the air disappeared. Isabelle wobbled, but recovered her balance in time to see Julio’s reflection stand up in the pool. He bowed to her, and she curtsied to him. Then, with a fishlike flicker, his espejismo vanished into the deep. His physical body slumped backward and sprawled on the floor.

  Julio’s sudden absence seemed to suck the air from Isabelle’s lungs. Had she done the right thing? There was no use for such a doubt. It was hard to admit it, but her part in this mad improvisation was done. The final act must be completed by others. As much as she hated conflict, she ought to be thankful. So why did she feel so empty?

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-one

  The royal carriage rattled down the cobbled streets of San Augustus toward the Naval Orrery, wherein lay records of every ship that entered or departed the sky harbor, including, Jean-Claude fervently prayed, the one that had stolen Isabelle away. I will find you, he swore, even if I have to storm the Halls of Torment.

  With only four people in its cabin, the carriage should have been quite spacious, but the guards at Jean-Claude’s sides pressed him close and kept his arms pinned even though his hands were tied behind his back. Across from him, Felix’s anger had grown so massive that it practically needed its own seat. In a way this was good, because angry people did not think clearly.

  “It’s not your fault you didn’t know about Thornscar,” Jean-Claude said by way of keeping the fire stoked. “I’m sure you were doing the best you could, but you had so many other things to worry about. Missing that little detail hardly matters.”

  “Silence,” Felix snapped, “or I will have you gagged.”

  Jean-Claude stared out the coach’s windows. The city’s normal bustle was all but gone. The rivers of people who normally flooded the streets had dwindled to a mere trickle. City guards, soldiers, and mercenaries in every type of uniform hurried toward fortified rallying points, hauling loads of supplies. A few units had formed up in swift columns, making some preemptive tactical moves, seizing high ground, and setting up ambush points. It wouldn’t be long until two such groups found each other and decided to dispute some advantageous position. Sooner or later, some nervous soldier was going to decide to shoot first. And then we will find out if it’s possible to set off just one keg of powder in a magazine.

  The people had not been told the king’s death was imminent, but they knew. They knew the instant all military leaves had been canceled and all storehouses had been shuttered. The city held its breath as if, by some sympathetic magic, it might delay Carlemmo’s last exhalation.

  “Have they closed the gates?” Jean-Claude asked.

  “Shut up,” Felix said.

  “If the gates are shut, all these people will be trapped in here when the fighting starts.”

  “There will be no fighting. Príncipe Julio’s claim to the throne is irrefutable.”

  “That’s Margareta talking. You’ve been fighting your whole life, and you know Alejandro’s supporters will never give in without bloodshed.”

  Felix’s eyes narrowed. “You know nothing of me.”

  Jean-Claude considered the man’s odd appearance. “One of your parents was Skaladin. Your mother, I imagine. That makes you a mixed-blood sorcerer. By Temple law, you should have been given to the sky when you were born, but you were your father’s only son.”

  Felix’s dagger moved so quickly that Jean-Claude barely had time to flinch before the blade scored a bloody line along his left cheek just under his eye.

  “You will be silent!”

  Jean-Claude’s pulse raced with anger born of pain. He wanted to take that dagger away from the little bush tit and carve his initials on his liver, but he had no right to take such a risk, not while Isabelle was still in peril. He hadn’t any right to turn away from her, even for a second. That was the responsibility he’d taken when he had given Isabelle her name. He needed to unbalance Felix, not unhinge him.

  He shrugged, inspiring the guards to tighten their grips. Good. Let them tire their fingers. It would make their grip clumsy if he could arrange an opportunity for escape.

  When the coach arrived at the Naval Orrery, it was met by a small squad of outriders who had forged ahead to scout the place and make sure Jean-Claude had not somehow arranged an ambush to receive them. Only when Felix was satisfied that no enemies lurked in the wainscoting did he allow Jean-Claude to debark.

  With his hands bound behind him, a poniard aimed at his ribs, and a smear of blood down his left cheek, Jean-Claude suffered himself to be led, limping theatrically, up the steps to the orrery building. It was an enormous, six-sided structure, four stories tall, faced with marble, and adorned with double-sized statues of famous admirals, explorers, philosophers, and, of course, kings. What else was nobility for, if not to provide fodder for artists?

  The building’s tall ironbound doors were propped open, revealing a broad barrel-vaulted corridor paved with glossy, caramel-colored stone and decorated top to bottom with intricate mosaics depicting famous voyages both recent and ancient.

  Toward Jean-Claude’s expeditionary party strode a tall, thin man in a frock coat. “Greetings, señors. I am given to understand you are on the queen’s business. I am Don Amerigo, the Naval Orrery’s curator.”

  The don’s wiry frame seemed to be under siege by a small army of eyepieces. A pair of half-moon spectacles bestrode his nose while another set of glasses with thick dark lenses surmounted his forehead, two pairs of square-rimmed glasses hung from the pockets of his coat, and another set hung from a cord about his neck. A monocle bravely clung to its fob chain like a soldier scaling a wall on a grappling line, and Amerigo waved a jeweler’s loupe in one hand. His expression was pleasantly bland, except for his eyes—clayborn brown, not Glasswalker silver—which were creased with the sort of nervous exasperation typical of a man who had been dragged away from doing something important to deal with someone important.

  �
�We are,” Felix said. “We require you to find for us a ship.”

  “Of course,” Amerigo said. “Which ship?”

  Felix glowered at Jean-Claude.

  Jean-Claude made a respectful bow to Amerigo, a gesture that surely emphasized the fact that his arms were tied behind his back. “We are looking for a smuggler.”

  Amerigo looked Jean-Claude up and down, apparently unsure what to make of him. “Can you be more specific?”

  Jean-Claude prevaricated. “Yes, we are looking for the smuggler with the queen’s personal enemies on it. I understand that the Naval Orrery keeps records of every ship with an Aragothic flag. Does that include accounts of their movement through your aerial domain?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s one of our most important tasks. It keeps an entire regiment of clerks occupied around the clock.”

  “What exactly do you track? Just the ships that come into port?”

  “Oh, no. We would miss too much that way. We have divided our aerial demesnes into precincts. Whenever a ship enters a precinct or leaves it, its passage is noted in the daily list and subsequently entered in the weekly ledger, which is then compiled in the monthly codex for long-term storage.”

  Builder bless the detail obsessive. “I need a map of these precincts. And I’ll need to look at the lists going back five days.” That would encompass the day Kantelvar had kidnapped Isabelle.

  “All of the records?” Amerigo asked. “There will be thousands of listings.”

  “In that case, I will also need someone who knows how to read them.”

  “Ah.” Amerigo looked to Felix for confirmation.