An Alchemy of Masques and Mirrors--A Novel

by Curtis Craddock

  “I was not aware you had a poet in your soul,” Grand Leon said. “To go along with the lawyer.”

  “The bastards have been squatting there for a while, mucking up the place,” Jean-Claude replied. “I’m going to start charging them rent. In the meantime, Isabelle will be arriving at the Spindle very soon, and she relies upon Your Majesty for protection.”

  “I don’t suppose I can blame her for your disobedience.” Grand Leon made a subtle hand signal, and Ambassador du Blain took himself off.

  Jean-Claude said, “I make no apologies, sire. To obey you would have been to betray you and bring your plan to ruin.” After a moment he added, “Though if you do find it necessary to execute me, I request that my funeral include a tower of horse shit burned in my honor.”

  Grand Leon glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “In the tradition of a great hero being sent off with his preferred weapon?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  * * *

  Towed by Julio, Isabelle slithered through the Argentwash. It was as if she had plunged into thin cold mud, a wet chill that swallowed her from crown to toes. She opened her eyes with a start and found herself in the mirror realm, dissolved in and carried along by a river of quicksilver. There was nothing to see but eddies and whorls of silver, nothing to hear at all. How in the name of all the saints did Glasswalkers navigate this?

  Even counting time by the number of thoughts flitting through her mind, she could not tell how long it was before a pane of glass resolved itself before her, and beyond it an unfamiliar room, a round chamber, clad in marble with stately pillars holding up a domed ceiling. Its walls were lined with mirrors. The space her awareness occupied, the speculum loci, was quite literally the mirror image of the physical world before her. To her left, which was ordinarily her right, was a marble pillar, except that the back portion of it, the bit the mirror could not see, merely faded away to nothing. She reached out to touch it, just to see if it had any substance at all, but her phantom arm was gone, and in its place her old familiar arm of flesh and blood, complete with wormfinger.

  She had no time to absorb this new fact before Julio pulled her forward. She had seen curds strained from milk, the colloidal liquid becoming solid. Now she knew what those curds felt like as they congealed into firmer matter. It was rather squishy. She would have stumbled to the ground and possibly splattered like a butter sculpture had not Julio’s arm snaked around her waist to hold her up.

  A tepid breeze brought a whiff of brick dust and gun smoke. The distant blast of cannons rumbled like thunder across the city. Isabelle gasped and drew in a huge breath of air that didn’t seem to touch her lungs.

  “My arm,” she said. “I got my old arm back.”

  Julio frowned and said, “That’s still how you think of yourself, deep down.”

  It was profoundly strange to know that her body had been changed and yet be unable to feel that it was true. Even so, this was an unexpected blessing. People might have found her wormfinger revolting, but at least it was easy to conceal.

  “Princess!” called a voice in la Langue.

  She looked up to see the Hugo du Blain, all frills and lace and fancy embroidery, hurrying toward her. He looked oddly distorted, almost lopsided. So did everything in the room.

  “Ambassador,” she said. “I am pleased to see you.”

  The ambassador stopped short of her by a respectful distance and bowed, sweeping a gaudily magnificent hat that could have doubled as a prizewinning arrangement of exotic flowers. The ambassador said, “I am delighted that you are alive. And you … Príncipe Julio, I presume. This is a surprise.”

  “I am Julio,” he said.

  “The real Julio,” Isabelle explained. “The one who resides under Margareta’s thumb is a fraud.” She needed to establish that fact early and often.

  Du Blain nodded and continued, “And who is your other friend?”

  Puzzled, Isabelle followed his gaze. Her face grew slack in astonishment, for where before had been Kantelvar’s head in a jar was a young man dressed in yellow robes with a black mantle embroidered with gearwheels. His young face was lined with deep grooves of pain, and his glassy eyes stared into the middle distance. Hands with knobby knuckles folded and unfolded spasmodically.

  “Kantelvar,” she breathed. He was still alive in the jar when they brought his reflection through the mirror, but since he had no eyes to see himself with, his espejismo had emerged as he remembered himself, thanks to soul distortion. This must have been how his very first body had looked.

  “Padre de Santos!” Julio said, his surprise at least equal to Isabelle’s.

  Kantelvar’s glassy eyes fixed on Isabelle and he growled, in the Saintstongue, “Traitress!”

  Kantelvar’s espejismo lurched toward Isabelle. “I rearranged the world for you! I overthrew kingdoms. I started wars, and this is how you repay me!”

  Isabelle stepped out of his way. Julio recovered and grabbed Kantelvar’s arms. After a brief struggle, the cleric sagged in Julio’s grip like a sail on a becalmed sky.

  “Is this the artifex?” du Blain asked.

  “What’s left of him,” Isabelle said.

  “Traitress,” Kantelvar mumbled. “I gave you the world.”

  Julio asked, “Do you have any great suggestions for what to do with him? Or should I snap his neck and be done with it?”

  “I thought we were going to use him as evidence,” Isabelle said.

  “As a pickled head,” Julio said. “When he couldn’t argue.”

  “You will burn for this,” Kantelvar promised. “Both of you and all you hold dear. The prophecy was given to me—”

  Julio gagged him with an expertly applied chokehold.

  Isabelle’s expression soured. “You have a point, but don’t kill him yet.” She turned to du Blain. “Please enlighten me as to the state of the court.”

  The ambassador coughed into his hand. “King Carlemmo is dead. Príncipe Julio”—he paused to give the real Julio a significant look—“and Queen Margareta have called the Sacred Hundred to put Príncipe Alejandro on trial. Alejandro was just about to admit to regicide when your musketeer burst into the room and announced that you were on your way and that there was a plot afoot to assassinate you. He did not mention your Príncipe Julio. Grand Leon dispatched me to welcome you and provide you safe escort.”

  Julio looked surprised. “Did Margareta send no one?”

  “The musketeer sent them on a wild goose chase to the harbor.”

  “Bless Jean-Claude,” Isabelle said. “How is he?”

  Du Blain took a second to answer. “He still lives, but he had to fight his way into the hall, and he was sorely wounded. Worse, he embarrassed Grand Leon with his antics.”

  Isabelle’s heart all but seized at the thought of Jean-Claude wounded on her behalf. Too brave he was.

  Du Blain gestured to Julio. “Evidence suggests we do not want any forewarning of Your Highness’s escort to reach the court before we do.”

  “That is correct,” Isabelle said, relieved. “And might Príncipe Julio borrow your hat, er, minus the flora?” If Julio played the part of Isabelle’s escort, hauling her captive, with the wide brim of his hat pulled far down, hopefully nobody would be able to see Julio’s face to identify him until he chose to reveal himself.

  “But of course,” du Blain said, discarding the flowers and handing the much humbler brim to Julio.

  Julio donned the hat, readjusted his grip on Kantelvar, and said, “This one will do everything he can to destroy us.”

  “Perhaps, but he’s more of a threat to Margareta than to us. If only because she has farther to fall.”

  “Assuming she recognizes him.”

  “She will,” Isabelle said. “I’ll make sure of that. Just keep him quiet and your face covered until I give the word.”

  “Any word in particular, or am I supposed to guess?”

  “I’ll make it obvious,” Isabelle said, hoping the dryness in her mouth transl
ated to a dryness in her tone. She had foolishly imagined that merely delivering Julio, alive, to the court would be sufficient to disrupt Margareta’s plans, that she could turn the hard work of dismantling the queen’s conspiracy over to someone else, but if Alejandro had already confessed … The possibilities for disaster spun out too fast to be elaborated upon.

  The strange little band set off from the Spindle. A long staircase wound completely around the outside of the building, providing a distressing view of the city. Plumes of smoke and tongues of fire already consumed whole neighborhoods. The air shook with the rattle of muskets and the bass hammering of cannons, and she was glad when they descended to street level, where at least the scope of the chaos was obscured.

  They hurried through the empty streets and into the palace. The grounds were already crowded with refugees, seeking some sanctuary from the fighting. Du Blain flashed his credentials and rippled his bloodshadow at every guard or servant who sought to intercept them.

  By the time she strode through the wide-flung doors of the Hall of Mirrors, Isabelle’s heart had gone numb from hammering on her ribs. Fear ached like a bruise in her soul much worse than the ones blooming all over her body. So many people’s lives depended on her: Julio, Alejandro, even Clìmacio, and all those souls who would be lost if Kantelvar’s civil war grew into the nightmare he had planned.

  Trumpets announced her arrival, and a herald called out, “Her Highness Princess Isabelle des Zephyrs de l’Empire Céleste.”

  Everyone in the room stood. All gazes fell upon her as she limped down the center of the aisle toward the royal dais. The Sacred Hundred and their retainers stared at her with various levels of calculation, antagonism, and fear. Their situation was just as precarious as hers. If they should pick the loser in the succession debate, it could cost them everything from their titles to their heads. And there were the foreign dignitaries, Grand Leon chief amongst them, and—yes!—Jean-Claude stood by his side, though he was pale and his clothes were soaked with blood. He grinned and made a careful bow, sweeping his hat as if to clear all obstacles from her path.

  She smiled at him, glad despite her dread. She wanted to rush over to him and touch him, to feel the warmth and the life of him.

  Instead, she paused only long enough to dip a curtsy to Grand Leon. “Your Majesty. I have come to discharge the duty you laid upon me.”

  One corner of Grand Leon’s mouth quirked up and he nodded ever so slightly, appreciating her double meaning and giving his blessing.

  His approval gave Isabelle courage. She lifted her chin and marched toward the royal dais, where awaited Queen Margareta and Clìmacio.

  Margareta remained in her seat, still playing the part of the widowed queen, but she followed Isabelle’s progress with lupine intensity. Did she still dream of securing an alliance with l’Empire through Isabelle, or did she consider her victory over Alejandro absolute? Isabelle prayed that her presence was strong enough to draw attention away from her companions. Julio had his hat pulled down and this version of Kantelvar certainly looked nothing like the one Margareta was used to.

  Clìmacio, wearing Julio’s likeness, gazed down woodenly from his perch, his face no more animate than that of a puppet, which his mother wanted him to be. Half a dozen guards had been posted at the foot of the dais.

  Margareta said, “Welcome, Princesa. We are glad to see that you are well, but this is hardly the moment for a wedding. Please be seated with Grand Leon. We are almost finished here, and we will be happy to celebrate your return more graciously once we have done with this dire business.” She gestured to the foot of the dais, where Príncipe Alejandro knelt in bondage, his feet bare, his neck fastened to the floor by a short length of chain.

  Before him stood a judge holding up a large scroll. “Príncipe Alejandro de Aragoth, by means of your confession, thrice freely given, this court has no choice but to find you guilty of regicide. From this moment forward you are stripped of all name and title. Your eyes shall be burned from your head with hot irons, you shall be castrated, drawn, and quartered…”

  Isabelle surveyed the galley of Glasswalkers. From the number of seats that were filled, less than half were present, presumably Margareta’s loyalists.

  Assume I only get to say one thing. After that the axe would come down. Julio had said he would force the Sacred Hundred to choose between Julios, but that would only compound the problem of loyalty and treason. Once the príncipes started fighting and blood flowed, everybody would be a traitor in the eyes of his or her enemies. The only path to peace remained what it had always been, an accord between the brothers.

  All three brothers.

  Like a gladiator in the pits of ancient Om, Isabelle lengthened her stride and marched into the center of the floor, straight toward Alejandro.

  “Mercy!” she cried, startling the judge to silence. She extended her hand toward Clìmacio in a gesture of supplication. “My betrothed, I beg you have mercy on Príncipe Alejandro.”

  Margareta came out of her chair. “Isabelle, be silent. Alejandro is condemned by his own admission.”

  “I beg your pardon, Majesty, but I do not answer to you. If your son is to be my husband, he and he alone is my lord and master. Only he can command my silence. Only he can order my punishment if I disobey, and I am sure he would think twice before having someone whipped.”

  Clìmacio twitched at the mention of whipping. Every abuse Margareta had inflicted upon him was a weapon in Isabelle’s hand.

  He cleared his throat and said, “Isabelle, this is a legal proceeding.”

  Isabelle declined to dispute the dubious jurisprudence on display. “That is beside the point. The point is, this is your choice. Today, in this place, you have the singular power to begin the world anew. The question is, what world will you create? Will you create a world of strife? Where brother slays brother, where your beautiful city burns, where old rivalries crush new hopes, a world without friends where every shadow holds an enemy? That is the world Kantelvar wanted for you.”

  Behind her, Kantelvar squirmed in Julio’s grip. Isabelle gestured them forward and Julio forced Kantelvar to his knees beside Alejandro. Alejandro let one shoulder fall to the ground and twisted his head enough to get a look up under Julio’s hat. His eyes grew wide.

  Isabelle focused all her will on Clìmacio. “Here is the architect of all this misery. Here is Artifex Kantelvar, who had you tortured, who cut off your leg. By my hand, his power is broken. He cannot hurt you anymore.”

  Clìmacio stared, eyes riveted to Kantelvar. A susurration of disbelief rippled through the Sacred Hundred. No doubt most of them had received Kantelvar and sipped of his poison.

  One of the Hundred called, “That looks nothing like him, not even before he was Exalted.”

  “This is his espejismo, the way he sees himself,” Isabelle said. “Shall I let him speak and recite all the promises he made to each of you, and the price he extracted when he did?”

  The speaker in the crowd recoiled and many of the Hundred exchanged worried, thoughtful, calculating glances. Margareta, who had the most to lose if Kantelvar spouted off, just about stepped off the dais as she shouted, “Enough of this. Julio, control your woman.”

  But Clìmacio’s face was rapt, his breathing quick and shallow. “Let her speak.”

  Isabelle’s pulse thrummed with terrified exhilaration as she prized Margareta’s grip from Clìmacio’s strings, one finger at a time. “You’re not his slave anymore. You’re not Margareta’s puppet. You can be the man who undoes all their wickedness and overthrows all their designs. Make peace with your brothers. Forgive and be forgiven.”

  Clìmacio’s fascinated expression twisted into a snarl. “And what have I done to be forgiven for?”

  From his awkward crouch, Alejandro said, “You put Xaviera in the Hellshard.”

  “Lies,” Margareta said, stepping between Isabelle and Clìmacio. “Heed not the traitor who murdered your father or the poison-tongued Célestial witch. She has b
een sent here to sicken your mind, to snatch victory from your very grasp.”

  To Isabelle’s surprise, Jean-Claude stepped forward, brandishing what looked to be a ring of onyx. Grand Leon steepled his fingers but made no move to restrain him.

  Jean-Claude said, “Not lies, a testable hypothesis, as a friend of mine would say. Shall we put the key to the lock and see what happens?”

  Margareta’s face grew pale at the sight of the ring, but she rounded on Jean-Claude like a bear in a trap. “That only proves that you are the villain here. If there is anyone in the Hellshard, it is you who put them there, not I.”

  Jean-Claude turned to the Sacred Hundred. “What say you all? Shall we pull Xaviera from the Hellshard and see whom she identifies as her gaoler?”

  The rumbling from the Hundred grew louder, and most of them were on their feet.

  “Silence!” Margareta shouted. “You have tested our patience for the last time.”

  Julio pulled off his hat. “And you have deceived the Sacred Hundred long enough, Mother.” He faced the Hundred. “I am Príncipe Julio de Aragoth, and that man—” He gestured, open-handed, to Clìmacio— “is my twin brother, stolen away at birth and brought back by my enemies to take my place.”

  Clìmacio recoiled, exactly as if he’d seen a ghost. “I had no choice. I thought you were dead!”

  The Sacred Hundred yammered with excitement, denial, outrage, and began emptying their roped-off jurors’ box. Even the gallery of witnesses were on their feet now.

  Julio squared his shoulders and met Clìmacio’s gaze. “I know. And I forgive you. Can you do the same?”

  Margareta’s shock turned to fury. She jabbed a finger at Julio. “Guards, take that imposter! Take them all!”

  The guards who’d been stationed at the dais charged, apparently translating “take” as “murder.” Isabelle retreated. Grand Leon stepped forward. His crimson shadow flared like a cape and flowed over the ground to intercept the soldiers, but before it reached the first guard’s shadow, the emissary rocked back, clutching a gash in his throat. Arterial blood sprayed.