Where should she go? Where would be safe? To Jeanne? Jeanne had said Anything you ask. Antuniet could almost hear her light laughter and feel the way her presence banished all that was dark and uncertain. But Jeanne had also said that her name couldn’t bear the weight of being tied to an alchemist. And how much more of a danger would it be with this new trouble? No, she couldn’t bring all this down on the head of the one person in Rotenek who had been kind to her, the closest she’d ever had to a true friend. Was it time at last to go crawling to Barbara and beg her protection on the slender thread of kinship? Her body spasmed again, as if to reject the very thought. And yet…
No doubt Barbara would relish a chance to play the grand lady over her. The old baron had delighted in flaunting the power of his purse over less fortunate relatives. She’d never danced to his tune herself; it was better not to want what he had to give. But she’d watched Estefen engage in endless battles to claim some small piece of his expected legacy. Estefen had been a fool. With each skirmish he thought he’d won, he’d only dug his own grave a little deeper. No, she would beg nothing from Saveze. Nothing except the return of her property. Whatever else she did, she must venture to Tiporsel House to reclaim the book. But perhaps she could offer something in exchange: the chance to be rid of her and the scandal that couldn’t help but spread like ripples from this disaster. Safe passage to her next refuge? The money was all gone but she could still work. Paris, perhaps? England might be better still. She knew little of the language and the rules of society there, but she’d heard stories enough to think that an aristocratic foreigner who dabbled in the esoteric might be able to play out enough of a charade to get by. Her imagination spun off scenes of possibilities.
* * *
She couldn’t have slept. How could it be possible? And yet when she came back to herself again it was dark. Tiporsel House, yes, and then a way out of the city. Her mind set forth but her body was slow to respond. Would it be better to wait a few hours? She was so tired, and the cobblestones under the arch were strangely comfortable. But the rain had stopped and there might be no better time. It took three tries to find her feet and then she leaned against the side of the stairs until she trusted her legs to hold her.
Tiporsel House. That meant crossing Pont Ruip if she didn’t mean to go well out of her way. If they were watching for her the approach to the river would carry the most hazard. Think. How far would it be if she went up to the East Gate and doubled back? A couple hours’ brisk walk in fine daylight, but now? She wasn’t sure she could make it that far. So tired.
It took twice as long to get to the river when keeping off the larger streets. When she reached the small square at the south end of the bridge she hung back in the shadows, watching the drifts of passersby as they hurried on their way, no doubt hoping to reach their goal before the rain started again. A lone chestnut seller had set up his cart at the foot of the bridge and was crying out his wares in counterpoint to the splash and calls of the rivermen passing below. It looked so ordinary. The foot traffic was mostly coming south, people returning home from the shops and day-work serving the better part of town. There were fewer groups walking north for her to hide among—lone stragglers and the occasional carriage. It would only get worse the longer she waited.
Three students, slightly the worse for drink, passed by the corner where she lurked and Antuniet took her chance. Not so close that they would notice her presence; not so far back that she wouldn’t seem part of the group. She staggered a little from the stiffness in her legs, adding to the illusion. But she hadn’t wasted the weeks sharpening her vision for any hint of her watchers. A man, there, buying chestnuts. His head came up in her direction and he moved purposefully. No point in bluffing it out now. Antuniet turned to the left and hurried around the bridge embankment and down the sloping steps to the waterside. Please, God, let there be a waiting boat! The river would take her the wrong direction, but with luck she could lose her pursuers in crossing to the other side.
She brushed past three chattering women who were ascending the path and tumbled into the waiting craft. “Downriver. As quick as you can,” she tried to say, but the words came indistinctly and muffled through violent shivers. “Go! Go!” she managed at last, hearing shrill protests behind her as someone else pushed the group of women aside.
The riverman gave her a hard look but shoved off, muttering, “You’d better have more coin than it looks.” They were out in the middle of the slow current when he asked impatiently, “Where to?”
Antuniet tried to think. Downstream there’d be more chance of shaking off pursuit, but farther to return. Upstream and they’d make such slow time that her enemies could pace them on foot and wait at every landing. She could never convince the man to leave her at the Tiporsel dock. It was worth his license to touch the private landings without a commission.
“Well?”
“T—t—take…” Her mouth refused to form the words. The riverman was peering at her strangely. He must have dropped the oars, for the craft was spinning around in the tide. Or was it only her head? Now he was staring down at her. She felt a hand touch her face then jerk back with an oath. Then the sound of the oars, working furiously. Had she told him where to go? She must have. Perhaps she could risk closing her eyes for just a little while. She was so tired.
She roused only briefly when the boat stopped and she felt strong hands lift her up. Had they found her? As if from a great distance, she heard the riverman’s voice. “Didn’t know where else to bring her. She’d no sooner stepped in than she swooned in a heap. Didn’t even have a chance to give me direction. Don’t know who she is. Or what.”
And in response a man’s voice. “That doesn’t matter, we’ll see to her.”
“Is it…I remember last time, when it seemed the whole city was sick. Is it that again? That’s why I didn’t just leave her on the next landing.”
“That and for the sake of charity, I would hope. And God bless you for that. No, I don’t see the signs of river fever.”
Who could they be speaking of? Antuniet wondered. But it mattered very little. Her mind drifted away again for a long time.
Chapter Fourteen
Margerit
The morning Anna was to return home—when Barbara had deemed it safe—Margerit succumbed to her request and brought a mirror. She expected tears, watching Anna crane her head this way and that to view the healing scar. Her dark eyes kept their secrets and she handed the mirror back, saying only, “Thank you. I needed to know.” She wouldn’t likely have grown into a beauty; her mouth was too wide and her nose too strong for that. But now who would look past the angry red cord that traced from the corner of her eye down across her cheek and almost to the line of her jaw? Margerit bit her lip to keep from offering cruel sympathy. Once or twice she had cracked through the girl’s shy reserve, but it seemed unlikely there would be a chance for more. At the last, when Anna and her sister Iudiz had been handed up into Barbara’s carriage for the ride across town, Anna pleaded, “If you hear anything—anything at all—about Maisetra Chazillen, send me word? I don’t know that my father will tell me.”
“Of course,” Margerit assured her, stepping back as the horses were given office to move.
There had been no word, not the slightest trace of Antuniet or clue to her whereabouts. Barbara continued to keep a few watchers in the places where Antuniet might return. And those watchers noted other watchers as well, though never with enough certainty to act. Margerit counted that a source of hope, that Kreiser was still searching too. Barbara was of the opinion that Antuniet had fled the country completely, but Margerit couldn’t stop thinking of the book that still lay hidden on the library shelf. Would Antuniet truly have left behind the object of all this intrigue? All this tragedy?
Every day, Margerit prayed for Antuniet’s safety. Ordinary prayers. She had searched for a mystery that would apply to the case but found only one for the safety of a fugitive that had requirements she couldn’t meet. And she w
asn’t the only one praying. Drawing up the analysis and notes from the Advent mysteries took her back to the cathedral for several hours on most days and twice she had chanced upon Jeanne there, kneeling with beads in her hands, her lips moving silently and the traces of tears on her cheeks. And once, when they met in their comings and goings, Jeanne asked searchingly, “Any word?” Margerit could only shake her head.
* * *
They called it the New Year’s Court but it was the secular echo of Epiphany, closing the celebrations of Christmastide. The previous time when Margerit had attended—trailing in Barbara’s wake, staring at the splendors like some country cousin—she had been oblivious to most of the undercurrents. This time she swam in those currents. It was a season for gifts, and the gifts that Annek had had the power to give carried more meaning than their value: rewards for loyalty, first steps toward new alliances, statements best made tacitly. Margerit would have been glad enough to remain only an observer, but that was denied her. No sooner had she delivered the last of the commentary on the Advent mysteries than another summons followed, and Margerit found herself ushered into the chamber Her Grace used for informal business.
“I need a small ceremony,” the princess said briskly with no preamble. “Perhaps I should have given you more notice, but I’d thought there might already be some traditional form that would do.” She looked up from the correspondence before her and gestured for her to sit. Annek’s dark eyes were bright with pleasure today; the shadows around them seemed only ordinary weariness and not her usual brooding watchfulness.
Margerit perched on the edge of the damask-upholstered chair and waited for further instructions as the princess’s secretary exchanged one set of correspondence for another in the array before her.
“Not a mystery, as such,” she continued. “But I want it to have some of the flavor of one and it seemed to me that might fall within your talents.”
“I’ll do my best,” Margerit ventured, since some sort of response seemed called for.
“I suppose you’ve heard that my son will be named Baron Razik at the New Year.”
Margerit nodded. The information had meant little to her except as an opportunity for Uncle Charul to expound on the intricacies of title and inheritance. The passing of Ambors Atilliet—not unexpected given his age—had solved a conundrum. His title returned to the crown, not to his heirs, being held only for his lifetime and granted by tradition to the offspring of a reigning prince. Ambors had received it from his grandfather as a boy and now it would pass in turn to Annek’s son, giving him standing and a household of his own, both key assets in the path planned out for him.
Efriturik should have been enrolled with a title of his own a year past when he came of age, but there had been no crown titles to hand. The princess had waited, hesitant to spend the capital of independent title-lands for what might seem self-serving purposes. Margerit drew her mind back to the matter at hand. “You would like…a ceremony? For the enrollment?”
“Exactly. A bit of pageantry, if you will, to make it clear this is not simply a routine grant but a matter of planting his roots in Alpennian soil. I want his taking of the title to mark his commitment to this land, no matter what the future may bring. And to that end, there are a few individuals to whom I would like you to give roles. Make whatever arrangements you need in my name.” She slid a small sheet of paper across the desk.
Margerit took it up and glanced over the list. Her heart sank at one item there. “Mesnera, I may not be the best person to seek your cousin’s assistance in this.”
“And yet you are the person I have asked.” Annek’s voice was sharp with asperity. “Do you refuse the commission?”
“I’ll do my best, Mesnera.” Indeed, what else could she say? That she’d thought the appointment as thaumaturgist would mean more of scholarship and less of politics?
* * *
In some ways, the ceremony would have been easier to draft if it had been a true mystery. There were set forms and models; success would be proven when the saints granted the requested miracle. Barbara found time from her own affairs to make a few suggestions based on previous ceremonies she’d seen, but the approach Annek wanted was entirely new. It was tempting to design it as a mystery and then step back from what touched on the sacred but that felt too perilous. What if she succeeded too well? Efriturik’s commitment was to be symbolic only. Who could tell the consequences if the ritual wove bonds that couldn’t be broken? And not only on Efriturik’s part. He had no special claim yet on the succession. She must take care to avoid even the appearance of binding the loyalties of those around him. It didn’t matter that the ceremony would be held in the court hall and not a sacred space. The saints found their own way of working, if they chose.
So she used only the phrasing and cadences of more formal workings, leaving aside the trappings of prayer and candle or the use of names. Telfin Zuremin, a granddaughter of Ambors, would hand over the keys and stewardship of the title-lands of Razik to Princess Annek. She, in turn, would grant them to Efriturik and direct Lord Ehing to enroll the grant in his function as Chamberlain. That was the essence of the business. The additions must be worked in around that skeleton. Efriturik was to request…not the title and lands themselves, as if it were a right, but a stake, a sense of homeland, an exchange for what he had relinquished in leaving behind his father’s name. And the representatives of Alpennia’s titled lords would not simply acknowledge and record the grant but would receive him into their company as a cousin and equal.
That was the part Margerit dreaded negotiating. It was not Princess Elisebet herself whose name had been on that list of participants, but young Aukustin, acting as Efriturik’s kinsman, to make the petition. But it was Elisebet who must assent to his participation. And in the two years since the matter of Estefen Chazillen’s trial and execution, Elisebet had avoided any public notice or acknowledgment of her existence. It had been an easy enough matter to pass over before. Elisebet could scarcely admit the grudge without admitting that Estefen had been her proxy.
Back then, Margerit had been content to be of no notice or importance in the court. Now she was no longer entirely nobody. The carefully worded note soliciting the favor of Princess Elisebet’s time had not been answered yea or nay and Margerit dreaded having to beg Annek for a more tangible sign of her authority to complete the task. Every day she delayed it, hoping for a response, until there was no time left to take account of any changes Elisebet might demand. No time for anything but to instruct the participants on their roles.
The holiday season left the entire city simmering with activity. Only Annek’s borrowed authority brought a hearing for her belated requests for appointments, and she had packed them into one long day. So the schedule looked to be thrown into ruin, when Marken of all people put a hurdle in her path. He’d known the outline of her plans, but on meeting her in the entryway while they waited for the carriage to be brought around, he balked. “I’d thought Maisetra Pertinek would be joining you.”
“She’s out visiting. This is all palace business so I didn’t ask her.” Aunt Bertrut would have come if she’d asked, of course, but why not spare her the trouble?
Back when Barbara had served her as armin, there had been a type of hesitant pause that had invariably signaled some bar she was not to cross—a quirk born out of a training that hadn’t allowed for more direct refusal. Marken’s moments of silence bore the same meaning, not from any reticence but for the time it took him to convert his instincts into words. Margerit connected the line from his question past his silently pursed lips and protested, “Surely I don’t need a vizeino on Her Grace’s business. You never suggested it before.”
“Begging your pardon, Maisetra,” he replied, in a tone that belied any expectation that pardon was needed, “but that was all in public. Guild meetings and dinners and whatnot. As long as you had the right to be there, no one can whisper about what happens under Princess Annek’s nose. But going alone to a man’s lodgin
gs? That’s more than my position’s worth.”
Not alone. You’d be there, she wanted to protest, except for a fragment of conversation that floated back from memory. An armin would have counted as an escort? No, an armin would have gotten her out of there. Marken’s role was to prevent the possibility of scandal, not ameliorate it by his presence.
“If it were just Lord Ehing I wouldn’t fuss,” Marken offered. “Him being old enough to be your grandfather and his wife sure to be there. But the young Atilliet? No. I can’t allow that.”
Margerit realized there was more to it than her own good name. Efriturik’s reputation was at stake too, for all that a man’s was far less fragile. The thought nearly made her laugh. “But they’ve all gone out already! There’s no one I could ask to come along.” Even Barbara was away from home, though she might not have served for the purpose. “I suppose we could try to track down Aunt Bertrut. I’ve already made appointments for today.”
Marken cleared his throat. “Mesner Pertinek might be a better choice. More…suitable. I know where he’ll be.”
And what might that mean, Margerit wondered as she waited in the carriage while Marken ventured into the back rooms at Uncle Charul’s club on Peretrez. Because these were his people? Or because he would lend the image of a man’s protection? As her uncle climbed into the seat beside her she said, “I’m so sorry to have interfered with your plans for the day.”
“No trouble at all my dear,” he replied. A smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “It’s been explained. I’m happy to be of use. Indeed, I sometimes wish—” He broke off as the carriage lurched in starting and didn’t complete the thought as he settled back against the cushions.
But Margerit knew she could finish it. I sometimes wish I could be useful more often. And he was, in subtle ways, by lending that image of respectability. But it must needle him to be reminded how rarely it rose above the mere image.
The Mystic Marriage Page 14
