An Alchemy of Masques and Mirrors--A Novel

by Curtis Craddock

  “Possibly,” he said, fixing her with his silver gaze. “I have a plan, but ‘risky’ is too kind a word for it, and I have to take you with me.”

  Isabelle’s heart lurched. “You said you couldn’t…”

  Julio scratched his scar in nervous habit. “I said I wasn’t willing to risk it, but now I have no choice. A charge against a high noble can only be adjudicated by a congress of the Sacred Hundred. Margareta has gathered all who would come in the Hall of Mirrors. It is likely that many of Alejandro’s supporters refused the summons for fear of being trapped by Margareta’s forces, so the jury will be heavily weighted in her favor. Even so, I don’t think she intends to let the matter get to a vote. Using Xaviera as leverage, she’ll force Alejandro to confess to murdering Father and then have him executed.

  “This means that most of the Sacred Hundred will all be in one place. Margareta will be there and so will Clìmacio. I intend to present the Sacred Hundred with a choice of Julios. For once, Kantelvar may have done us a favor. There’s no way of knowing which story he told to which noble about me and Clìmacio. Likely there are a dozen variations floating around by now. Even Clìmacio’s supporters must balk at the possibility of supporting a changeling. If I can divide them enough we might be able to suggest Alejandro as an alternative.”

  “Even if he’s accused of regicide?”

  “Accused by Margareta, whose word will be suspect, especially if we can free Xaviera. Being put in the Hellshard is a punishment no noble is supposed to endure without trial.”

  Isabelle’s mind whirled and she was acutely aware just how little she really understood of Aragoth’s underlying politics, the inner patterns of its people’s minds. “Will that work?”

  “It’s the best idea I have. There are too many players, too many moves to even think about controlling all outcomes. The only thing we can do is rip away as much of Margareta’s support as possible and pounce on any opportunity that arises.”

  Isabelle’s brows furrowed. “So how do I fit into this?

  “I need you to deliver me to the court. I met your musketeer in San Augustus. He plans to storm the Hall of Mirrors and make an opening for us. He intends to announce your arrival and send out an honor guard to escort you into the Hall of Mirrors and sneak me in as part of your retinue.”

  To her surprise, Isabelle felt as if a weight had been lifted from her chest. It had to be madness, but she preferred to risk all than be left behind, forced to wait and worry. She squared her shoulders and matched his gaze. “Then let us go.”

  “Are you sure? Once we step into that mirror there is no coming back. If we do not defeat Margareta, we will die. If you stay, I imagine you will be spared. You are too valuable as a diplomatic—”

  “No,” Isabelle said, quietly but firmly. “I am no one’s bargaining chip. No one’s pawn. I will not stand idle while evil rises and corruption spreads. I will not retire to survive into a damnation that my effort and sacrifice might have prevented. If Jean-Claude is giving us a breach, we must charge into it, forlorn hope though it be, or do you think I will wilt in the heat of battle?”

  Julio’s mouth crooked up in a smile. “I may be a fool, Highness, but I am not blind. Still, I would not drag you into danger unawares.”

  “And would you think less of me if I stayed behind?”

  The question caught Julio off guard. “Of course not.”

  Isabelle shook her head sadly. “Then you still think less of me than you should. When we walk into the Hall of Mirrors you must trust me as you would a battle brother.”

  Julio bristled but then let it go slowly. He extended a hand to her, his left hand. She extended her own and he clasped her around the forearm. “Trust.”

  “Trust,” Isabelle said, and squeezed his arm firmly. “Your plan is as sound as it can be, I think, but we must not make Margareta fight to the death. As the Codex Strategia says, never put your enemies on deadly ground. We must give Margareta a line of retreat, an offer of mercy.”

  “After everything she has done?” Julio’s outrage nearly cracked his voice.

  “Yes,” Isabelle said. “If she had not conspired with Kantelvar, you would never have been a príncipe, nor my betrothed, nor a hundred other good things sprinkled in amongst the bad. She must be cast out of power, surely, exiled somewhere she can do no harm, but it will do Aragoth no good if she burns it to the ground to save her skin. Just think of all the accusations she dare not lay if she still has something left to lose, all of those wrongdoings which ultimately implicate her.”

  Julio growled. “I concede your point, but what line of retreat can we give her?”

  Isabelle gestured to Kantelvar’s pickled head. “We make it all his fault. His idea, his manipulation, his machinations forcing her into sedition rather than her galloping there of her own free will.”

  After a moment’s agonized calculation, Julio said, “That could work.” He squeezed Isabelle’s shoulders gently as if to reassure himself she was real, then released her and picked up the cask. “We’ll take this as evidence, or rather as a trophy of your victory. It will be much more interesting than anything Margareta has to say, and while theater may not quite be everything in the high court, it can certainly shift the balance of opinion.”

  “Theater,” Isabelle said, her mind churning. “Yes. There’s one more actor here, Clìmacio, and we must assign him a part. He will be your long-lost twin brother.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Julio asked.

  “Is he not also Carlemmo’s son?” Isabelle asked.

  “He’s been pretending to be me,” Julio growled.

  “He’s had no more choice in his role than either you or I, and he’s scared, which makes him dangerous. We need to offer him a way out that gives him hope, turns him against Margareta, and preserves both of your honor.”

  Julio’s fists clenched and unclenched. “I don’t like it, but I have nothing better and we have no time.” He extended his free hand to Isabelle. “If your musketeer is as good as his word, there should be an honor guard awaiting us. If not, I imagine it will be a death squad.”

  “What the Builder omits, Jean-Claude provides,” Isabelle said. “We could not be in better hands.”

  Julio huffed and said, “And when did you ever read the Codex Strategia?”

  “I borrowed my brother’s copy after he said girls couldn’t understand such things.”

  Just then, Gretl returned with a heavy basket on one shoulder. Her eyes rounded when she saw Julio. She managed a curtsy and set the basket down on the crate holding the lamp hook. She gave Isabelle a quizzical look and made an eating gesture.

  Isabelle’s stomach growled at her, but she said, “I’m afraid not. We have to leave right now. What about the other servants?”

  Gretl made a gesture as if to round everybody up followed by a gesture of thanks.

  “Well that’s a relief,” Isabelle said. “Just keep them out of here until we get back. And if we don’t come back tell them a ship is coming.” It was the best hope she could offer.

  Gretl looked worried, but her posture was resolute.

  Isabelle and Julio lay down by the cistern, their heads sticking out far enough that they could see their reflections.

  Julio squeezed her hand and spoke with an instructor’s cadence. “This will be easier for you if you close your eyes. If you feel a tug like you’re being peeled out of your skin, let go. Once you’re on the other side, you can open your eyes, though there won’t be much for you to see. Don’t bother holding your breath because your lungs will still be here.”

  Isabelle dutifully closed her eyes and in a moment felt a tug on her mind, rather like a dream on the edge of drowsing. She let herself slide into it.

  * * *

  Jean-Claude allowed himself to be towed toward the Hall of Mirrors. His spirit sniggered with the glee of the moment. Not a man amongst the guards wanted the job of bursting into an assembly of the Sacred Hundred, but neither could they afford to delay lest Jean
-Claude’s warning of an imminent attack on the queen prove true. They therefore intended to throw him to the mercy of their betters.

  The captain led him down a sumptuously decorated hallway, with cosmatesque floors, tapestried walls, portraits, and suits of outdated armor all lit by bright alchemical lanterns. Retainers in a stunning variety of liveries lined the walls waiting for their masters to emerge from council. Palace servants in soft slippers whisked about. Muffled voices drifted from an alcove. Jean-Claude exaggerated his limp, but he kept up his patter to distract his captors from too much thinking. “The conspirators said there would be blood on the walls.”

  “It will be yours if you don’t be quiet,” growled the captain.

  At the end of the hallway, two tall white doors guarded the entrance to the Hall of Mirrors. The captain had just signaled to the guards standing at attention outside them when the doors swung open. Bright light and noise spilled out, as if from the gates of Paradise.

  Felix emerged, looking as peeved as ever. Jean-Claude ducked his head and tried to maneuver so that the guard captain was between himself and the queen’s champion.

  Felix noted Jean-Claude’s group approaching. “Captain Ortega, what are you doing away from your post?”

  Ortega obligingly stepped to the side to gesture at Jean-Claude. “Lord DuJournal here claims there is an assassination plot—”

  Felix’s gaze fixed on Jean-Claude, and his eyes bulged with outrage. “You!”

  Jean-Claude lunged, shedding his startled captors, and charged straight for Felix.

  If only he’d been younger, he might have closed the gap in one swift lunge instead of three irregular lurches. If he had been faster, Felix wouldn’t have had time to draw his sword. Jean-Claude bull-rushed him. Felix dropped his tip and thrust. The point bit through cotton, silk, and skin. Pain washed up Jean-Claude’s arm as the blade ripped a gash. Blood spilled. Jean-Claude wrapped his arms around Felix and bore him through the doorway.

  Steel rasped behind Jean-Claude, and somebody struck him square in the back. The blade that fetched up on his rib probably would have killed him instantly if he hadn’t already been moving away from it. He gasped in pain and tripped over Felix’s feet. Both of them went down in a heap.

  They rolled over and over each other, seeking advantage. Felix wound up on top. His bony fist crashed into Jean-Claude’s face. The back of Jean-Claude’s skull bounced off the floor. His vision was nothing but blurry red, like blood smeared on glass.

  Yet this was the Hall of Mirrors. Le roi must be here. “The princess!” Jean-Claude shouted as Felix hit him again and again. “Princess is alive! She is coming!”

  “Stop!” roared Grand Leon, and a bloodshadow spilled across the floor. Jean-Claude recognized its icy touch lapping against his own shadow. Felix froze in mid-pummel, his eyes round and his mouth a silent scream as le roi’s bloodshadow seized him and held him fast.

  The beating stopped. In the sudden absence of fresh pain, Jean-Claude jerked his trapped hand free and relieved Felix’s belt pouch of the Hellshard key in the process. The ring went up his sleeve like a rat into a rotten wall.

  At the other end of the big blurry world, people were yelling.

  “How dare you attack my captain—”

  “… my musketeer!”

  “… talking about the princess.”

  “She is dead…”

  Not dead, and Jean-Claude wasn’t finished yet. He had to make her safe. Slowly, achingly, he pulled himself from under Felix and to his feet. He found himself in a vast room lined with the largest mirrors he’d ever imagined, some of them twice as wide as his outstretched arms. On his left was a gathering of Glasswalkers, the Sacred Hundred, all of them on their feet.

  Before him, Queen Margareta and the false Príncipe Julio, both in mourning black, stood atop a dais on which had been placed a casket, presumably containing King Carlemmo’s body. Clìmacio leaned on a cane. His expression was grim and closed, his silver eyes wary. Margareta’s whole posture was stiff and haughty. Behind them stood the throne, flanked by the floating spindle of the Hellshard. Black and oily, it repulsed sight, so that one could only look at it out of the corner of one’s eye. It was solid and real, but also missing, like an absence in the world. If just looking at it bent the mind nearly in half, how much worse must it have been for Xaviera, trapped inside?

  At the foot of the dais, chained by the neck and wearing the dirty gray cassock of the condemned, knelt Príncipe Alejandro. His expression was resigned and his broad shoulders drooped with the weight of defeat.

  Margareta stood on the dais, her arm outthrust, pointing imperiously at Grand Leon, her voice ringing, “Leon, you were invited to witness these proceedings, not to interrupt them. You have defied custom and courtesy, and you have dared deploy your vile sorcery against a Glasswalker in my house. I should have you expelled.”

  The Sacred Hundred murmured in agreement. They might have loathed Felix to a man, but they rankled at any foreigner asserting himself in their hall.

  All eyes turned to gaze upon Grand Leon in the form of his emissary, his great shadow billowing at his feet. He had stepped out from a gallery of witnesses, visiting nobles, and ambassadors and claimed center stage, as was his wont. Grand Leon’s bloodshadow eased Felix away from Jean-Claude and let him go. “Is it a defiance of courtesy and custom to prevent a murder? My musketeer may be guilty of trespass, but allowing your man to beat him to death would serve no purpose except to extinguish his message before it could be delivered, and I do believe he mentioned Princess Isabelle, who was to be your boy’s bride.”

  Clìmacio bristled at being called a boy, but then he seemed in no hurry to interrupt the adults.

  Jean-Claude took a step forward. The wound in his back complained at every shift of his balance, but he bowed to Margareta and said, “Your Majesty. If I may.”

  “You may not,” Margareta said. “You have no right to speak here, and by sacred law I should cut out your tongue.”

  “Let him speak,” called another man, a hoary old gentleman from the ranks of the Sacred Hundred. His hair was more silver than his age-tarnished eyes, and his voice quavered, but his manner was shrewd. “Only a fool or a tyrant silences a messenger because his message is unwanted.”

  Margareta glared at him. “Order in the congress. You have not been called upon to speak, Duque Reyes.”

  “Since when has that ever stopped him,” muttered one of the other Glasswalkers, by no means below his breath.

  Jean-Claude didn’t waste the cue. “I beg your forgiveness, but I would not have interrupted this solemn ceremony except that the future of your line is in immediate danger. Princess Isabelle is alive, a ship has been sent to retrieve her, and she will arrive in the city within the hour.” That won a round of astonished whispers from the witnesses.

  Jean-Claude continued, riding a glorious updraft of invention. “Unfortunately, there is a conspiracy afoot to assassinate her. A plot conceived and carried out by that man!” He jabbed a finger at Felix, no matter that the gesture sent spikes of agony up his arm. The wound was not deep, but it was long. “By murdering Princess Isabelle, he seeks to bring l’Empire Céleste into your war on the side of your enemies.”

  “Outrageous!” Felix shouted. “This man was in league with the traitor Alejandro. He and his king would like nothing better than to see Aragoth dissolve into chaos so they can seize our ancient lands for themselves.”

  That argument won a murmur of agreement from the Sacred Hundred. They were all too willing to pin the blame for their troubles on outsiders.

  Jean-Claude turned his attention to the Sacred Hundred. They swam in his sight, but he refused to yield to his body’s pain. Isabelle needed him. “If that were so, señors and señoras, then why would I be bringing Princess Isabelle here? Her supposed death was meant to give l’Empire ample pretext to invade. Her resurrection takes that cause away.”

  “Enough,” Margareta snapped, but Jean-Claude could see the gears of politi
cal triangulation mesh behind her eyes. “Princess Isabelle will be heard, but this court and this trial are not the place for it.”

  Margareta turned her glower on Jean-Claude. She could hardly condemn him publicly for bringing her such a dreadful warning. “Your dedication to your princesa is laudable. Not so your discourtesy. Felix is an officer of this court and a member of the Sacred Hundred. No clayborn may challenge his word or besmirch his honor, much less lay a charge against him, no matter who that clayborn works for.”

  Grand Leon spoke, his voice pitched to carry without the impression of shouting. “Jean-Claude has embarrassed us as well. Rest assured, he shall be punished.” He gestured at a seat in the gallery. “Jean-Claude, sit, stay, and be silent.”

  Jean-Claude resisted the temptation to woof at him. His vision was sloshing from side to side. Sitting might help. He stumbled through the small crowd of dignitaries—what a show they were getting; he should pass around his hat for coins—and collapsed in the indicated seat next to the bedazzlingly bedecked Ambassador du Blain. Jean-Claude’s vision blurred and sound became like wind in his ears. He blinked a few times to clear his sight.

  Margareta whispered in Felix’s ear. Felix marched out of court, though not without a backward glare at Jean-Claude. The Sacred Hundred and the visiting dignitaries all muttered to one another in low voices.

  Grand Leon returned to his seat, which managed to be slightly taller than everyone else’s, and said to Jean-Claude sotto voce, “I distinctly recall giving you an order.”

  “Yes, Majesty,” Jean-Claude said. “You gave me two orders. I was to go to the docks to await Isabelle’s arrival, but she is not arriving by the docks, which makes that order moot. Also you told me that if Margareta became a threat to Isabelle, it was my job to dispose of her, which I am in the process of doing.”

  “How very much like a lawyer of you,” Grand Leon said. “Is this ploy worth your life?”

  Jean-Claude said, “I gave you my life long ago, sire. If all I have left to give is my death, so be it.”