The Mystic Marriage

by Jones, Heather Rose

  “Are you offering me employment?”

  “Not yet. Only a chance at a trial.”

  He stood for a long moment in thought, but whatever his considerations were, at last he nodded and went to speak with Perret.

  When he returned, strapping a borrowed blade about his waist, Barbara asked, “Can you ride?”

  “Well enough,” he said. “But I have no horse.”

  “Of course. That was foolish of me. Then as your first task, go hire us a fiacre.”

  Perret came up beside her when he’d gone out. “Will he do for you?”

  “I don’t know yet. I think I see why you thrust him in my path. He has the makings of an armin but he needs some seasoning in a post where there’s little chance of disaster. And he’s a bit too young and handsome to be set to guarding someone’s daughters.”

  Perret snorted. “No, I thought he might do because you need someone you can train up in your own ways.”

  “I’ll give him a trial. If he hasn’t come back by the end of tomorrow you can assume he’s off your hands. Except as a student, mind you. I hope you’ll grant me that.” Perret was choosy about students, but the man was already under his wing after a fashion. He nodded and she added, “If you would, send my horse on to Tiporsel House. And if Tavit isn’t back here by sundown you can send his things there as well.”

  She wasn’t ready to begin making serious inquiries after Chautovil, but there was groundwork to do. A question here and there. She could pretend no claims to a direct connection—their paths wouldn’t have intersected—but perhaps she could invent a mutual friend to seek. That would give an excuse to ask after others in his circle. And the Red Oak tavern was the best place to begin. Some of the denizens must still remember her from her own student days—before those days were overshadowed by her duties to Margerit. As they approached the entrance, Tavit stepped out before her, not to block her path in any way but to demand her attention. “Mesnera, there is a question…”

  Memories of her own years in service flooded back. The echo of how Mesner, may I speak? prefaced every conversation. Was that what she wanted? But that had been the baron’s quirk—that and her own peculiar place in his household. She stepped back from the doorway and nodded briskly.

  “Mesnera, am I to guard you as a maid or as a man?”

  Barbara tilted her head to consider the question. That he asked it at all was perceptive. “What do you think?” she prompted.

  He hesitated, no doubt considering whether his chance of employment hinged on his response. “If I’m to treat you as a sheltered well-born maiden, then this is a test to see how I would prevent you from misbehavior.” She could sense the invisible curl to his lip that gave his opinion of that. “But if I’m to guard you as if you were a man, then I need to know what sorts of slights and familiarities I should allow that wouldn’t be offered to a woman.”

  Yes, very perceptive. “For now, consider it your duty to guard the honor and dignity of the name of Saveze. I can deal with anything more personal.”

  It was an educational afternoon. The quest for her fictitious friend turned up the names of several of Chautovil’s associates and one of the dozzures around whom their circle formed, but no indications that their politics were worse than the usual. The more familiar undercurrents of the court were a world apart from this crowd, but Barbara knew some of the key players and saw no cause for alarm. She would follow the path far enough to reassure Elisebet.

  Tavit had done well enough. He hadn’t yet mastered the trick of invisibility, but his instincts were sound on position and movement. And Marken was right in one thing: there was a difference in how she was treated simply from having an armin at her back, even here in a place where she was known and recognized. The honor and dignity of Saveze, she thought. It’s a tangible thing and perhaps I have been neglecting it.

  On their return, when he would have climbed up on the box with the driver, Barbara said, “Inside,” and motioned him to the facing seat. “So,” she said as the carriage lurched forward, “do I return you to Perret’s or do we continue on to Tiporsel?”

  He was silent long enough that she realized he hadn’t understood it as a question for him rather than for herself. She gestured permission to answer. Hesitantly, he did: “You said you would give me a chance at a trial…”

  Barbara nodded. “This is your chance: a two-week trial. If you suit, then the standard contract.” She leaned out the window to confirm the direction to the driver. “It’s not just me you need to satisfy though. Marken’s likely to be a tougher nut to crack.”

  “Marken is…?”

  “He’s armin to—” Her tongue stumbled on how to explain. He would need to know how matters stood soon enough, but to my mistress sounded awkward and crude. “—to Maisetra Margerit Sovitre, who owns Tiporsel House.” She leaned forward and said, with quiet emphasis, “Maisetra Sovitre’s safety and good reputation mean more to me than my own life. So Marken’s opinion will carry a great deal of weight with me.”

  “Yes, Mesnera, I understand,” he stammered.

  Likely he didn’t, but that would come soon enough. They were careful enough to allow society the ignorance it preferred, but it was impossible to keep such secrets within the household. She softened her tone. “Marken can help you make a good start. I’ve worked with him since the old baron’s time. He knows my habits.”

  * * *

  Some time later she found Margerit, as expected, in the library and kissed her cheek in greeting.

  “Not changed yet?” Margerit asked. “I heard you come in ages ago. What have you been up to?”

  “Getting my new armin settled in,” Barbara said, enjoying her surprise.

  “At last!” Margerit laughed. “And when do I meet this paragon?”

  “He’s hardly a paragon, but I think he’ll do. And for the rest, are you going visiting tomorrow? Perhaps I’ll join you.”

  “I have lectures all through the morning.”

  “Of course, I’d forgotten. I’ve hardly seen you lately between your studies and this alchemy thing.”

  “It’s not as bad as that,” Margerit protested. “And the term is finished after next week, so we’ll have all summer.”

  “Then decided? No summer lectures?” It would be the first time she’d skipped a term by choice.

  “I’m tired of begging for crumbs. I’ll get more use out of studying with Akezze all summer than an entire hall full of dozzures. And it means we’ll be free to spend floodtide out in Chalanz if we want.” She laughed. “Jeanne is already making plans for that.”

  Jeanne was always making plans. This year, Jeanne’s plans also included accepting her invitation to spend the summer at Saveze. She had offered on a whim of the moment and been surprised when Jeanne had agreed. It would be a smaller, quieter party than she was used to, once the floodtide party broke up. “I should go change,” Barbara said. “Do I remember correctly that we’re dining in tonight?”

  “And tomorrow with the Marzims, so don’t go riding off all over the place tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I’ll have you know I was hunting down secrets for the dowager princess.”

  Margerit looked intrigued at that, but then she frowned suddenly and said, “Speaking of secrets, do you know anything about this?” She rose and went over to the table by the windows. “I was trying to find a copy of Desanger that I remembered seeing somewhere in here and I ran across this on one of the upper shelves.”

  “I thought I’d hidden it better!” Barbara expected her to produce a paper-wrapped package, but what Margerit brought out was a wooden box. For a moment Barbara was equally confused, but then memory returned. “That woman…Chamering, that was her name. You remember from last autumn? The one who said she was my mother’s sister. She left it here. I’d forgotten all about it.”

  “Oh. I’ll have someone put it back, then.”

  “No, leave it for now.” Perhaps it was time to see what sort of legacy she’d been left.

&n
bsp; “And what was it you thought I’d found?” Margerit asked, looking curiously back to the top of the tall case.

  “Oh, that,” Barbara said, feeling sheepish. She moved the steps down farther and climbed up to extract the parcel from behind the volumes that hid it. “Eskamer found something out at Urmai that I thought you might be interested in. I meant to save it for your birthday.” She held it up tantalizingly out of reach.

  “No secrets, Barbara, you promised!”

  “Not even for a birthday?” she teased. But she handed down the parcel and watched as Margerit picked through the knotted twine and carefully unwrapped the book.

  She glanced at the title page and said in surprise, “Another copy of Gaudericus? How many do I need?”

  Smiling, Barbara stepped down from the little ladder and leaned over her. “I could take it back. But you might want to look at the colophon first.” She watched eagerly as Margerit turned to the back and worked her way through the ancient script.

  Margerit’s breath caught in a gasp. “Tanfrit? Tanfrit’s own copy?”

  “That he sent her, according to one of the inscriptions. It’s covered with notes all through the pages. I don’t know if they’re hers or a later owner’s. Do you like it?” But there was no need to ask.

  * * *

  The next morning Barbara found herself contemplating the letter-casket again in that quiet space after Margerit had left for the university and before the Pertineks were stirring. The first clamor of the household had stilled, and drifting up from the end of the garden she could hear the faint calls of the rivermen bringing deliveries to the private docks.

  The box was one of those casually beautiful pieces of furniture she had been surrounded by all her life, joined so seamlessly and invisibly it might have been carved from a single block and cunningly inlaid with marquetry in a design of roses. A small keyhole under the edge of the lip provided the only access, but of course there was no key.

  A tap on the door pulled her attention away as Tavit entered. “They said you wanted to speak to me?”

  “Yes, I should have sent for you last night to go over today’s schedule but I thought you might need the time to settle in.” Recalling her own first evening in Margerit’s household and how at sea she had felt, she added, “Perhaps I shouldn’t have waited. Always best to begin as you mean to go on, I say. But never mind. I don’t think I’ll be going out today until evening, so—” She looked him over with a critical eye. “I suppose you don’t have anything better to wear? No, Perret said you’d arrived with just your traveling clothes. Tell Ponivin I said to arrange for a suit. Not livery; I don’t hold with that for armins. But he should be able to find you something presentable before tonight’s dinner.”

  “Perhaps it would be better to wait until my trial is over?” Tavit asked uncertainly.

  She guessed at his hesitation. “Don’t worry that I’ll take it out of your pay. I don’t count coppers like that. When you’ve taken care of the clothing, have someone show you all over the house and grounds. I want you familiar with every corner of this place by the end of the day. When Marken gets back later he can tell you what you need to know for the evening. We’ll only be a few doors down, dining with Mesner Pertinek’s cousin, so you might even find time to go speak to their people in advance, though it’s hardly necessary. They’re family, after a fashion.”

  “But begin as I mean to go on?” There was no trace of a smile when he said it, but Barbara could hear the same faintly ironic tone as when he’d stopped her outside the tavern the day before.

  She nodded. “I’m too used to being my own lookout. Don’t worry about whether something’s necessary; ask yourself if it’s proper.”

  “Marken said—” He paused, looking as if he were translating it into acceptable terms. “Marken said I wasn’t to let you do my job.”

  Marken had most likely said something pithier than that, but if he were already giving Tavit advice on how to handle her, that was a good sign. She nodded in dismissal.

  When he’d left she turned back to the inlaid casket. The lock would have been difficult if she’d cared about keeping it intact. Some trace of sentimentality prevented her from simply wrenching the box open, but a little work with a penknife destroyed the latch sufficiently to open it.

  The contents matched the clues she’d gained from shaking the box. Letters: some thick and folded together, some brief and lying flat. Her mother’s name stared at her from the direction on the top sheet: Elisebet Arpik, Countess Turinz. The hand was one she knew as familiarly as she knew her own. A letter from the baron—from her father—to her mother. She glanced at the date. June of 1798, half a year after her birth and only months before the Arpiks’ world would finally collapse. Her hand trembled and she folded the paper again. She leafed through more letters. Most had the same direction but older dates, and then halfway through the contents, the name changed. Elisebet Anzeld. And Marziel Lumbeirt without a title following. Had they been corresponding that far back? When her father had still been in training for a priest and her mother an unmarried girl?

  The letters held only one side of the correspondence. Whatever her mother had written in return lay elsewhere. Or, more likely, had been destroyed. The baron had been meticulous about concealing the affair, with the exception of that one last testament left in trust as her legacy. Did she figure at all in these missives? She unfolded those last pages again.

  My dearest Lissa,

  Had they been so unguarded? The rumors that had circulated later about the baron’s continued bachelorhood had never mentioned any name. Had they been so certain their correspondence would remain secret? Or had he ceased to care?

  My dearest Lissa,

  I will not pretend to understand your newfound loyalty. There is no need for it. No reason for it. And there will certainly be no reward for it. If Arpik could not stir a scrap of affection for you during all those years when you strove to be a dutiful wife, what do you expect now that he has the proof of your betrayal before him?

  The proof of your betrayal. That was me, Barbara thought. I was the proof.

  You paid your penance long before committing the sin. When I was willing to risk everything, you were all caution. What use is caution now? Through all those years, you feared what you might lose, when you had nothing. Now you have something worth fighting for: your child, if not your love for me. Let me take you to Saveze. Arpik cannot touch you there.

  Barbara leafed through the remainder of the text. More pleas. Plans upon plans. The desperation of a man at wit’s end. And nothing had come of it. That much she knew. Whatever Lissa’s written answer had been, her true answer had been to follow Arpik into debtors’ prison. She reached back in memory. The baron had never told her mother’s story plainly; it had always been hints and allusions. But none of those hints fit with this letter. The story she knew—the story she had taken in with every breath—was that Lissa’s family had abandoned her and Lissa had withdrawn in shame from all other contacts. She could swear that the baron had outright claimed that he knew nothing of her plight until the last, when she wrote to him from prison. The casket of letters gave the lie to that. Barbara might not have her mother’s letters in return, but their existence whispered from between the pages.

  The baron had lied. By implication, if not directly. Why should that be a surprise? She’d seen him at work in the court and in his business dealings. He’d lied to many people in his time. She’d known his story for a lie the moment she knew the secret of her birth and seen the proof of her true parentage. But she hadn’t before given thought to just where that story had gone astray from truth. Or how badly. Could she trust any of it?

  At a sudden thought, Barbara leafed back to the previous missive. This one was quite different in almost every way: a stiff, formal letter on a single sheet and one of the few not addressed to Lissa.

  The twentieth of March in the year 1798. To Maistir and Maisetra Sovitre, on the Molindrez, Greetings from Marziel Lumbeirt, Bar
on Saveze

  I feel deeply the honor that you do me in asking me to stand as godfather to your daughter. I will meet you at the church of Nes’ Donna Muralis at the time and day you name when arrangements have been made for the other child. Believe me to be your servant in Christ,

  Saveze

  The other child. Her? That would explain why she had failed in all her searches for her baptismal record back before she’d learned of her true father. Our Lady By the Wall was a tiny church out on the unfashionable western edge of the city. It must have been near to where the Sovitres were living at the time. A picture began to come clear: a small, private ceremony that would invite no notice and thus no comment. The cover of Margerit’s christening to explain his presence. A chance for the baron to lay some small claim on his daughter in the role of godfather. No doubt the two mothers had stood up for each other’s child, eliminating the risk of other witnesses.

  She returned the letters to the top of the stack and leafed down to the very first.

  The first of October, in the year 1787, From Marziel Lumbeirt at Saveze to Maisetra Elisebet Anzeld, greetings etc.

  Barbara glanced back at the date. No, that was well before Tarnzais, when he unexpectedly inherited the title. At Saveze, not of Saveze.

  I have sent this message enclosed with a letter to the most reverend mother who oversees your studies in the hopes that she will consider it suitable for you to receive. As I have written to her, in my father’s day it was the custom of the Barons Saveze to hold a festival in honor of Saint Orisul’s feast day. My brother has granted me permission to host the festival this year. In gratitude for the great kindness your family showed me in allowing me to travel with you here to Saveze for my convalescence, I would like to invite you and your charming namesake to attend as my special guests.

  It was light and impersonal. And yet she had preserved it. Had they meant anything to each other then? Had some spark been struck on that journey? Or had it grown gradually, nurtured by chance and opportunity? Lissa would have been just on the brink of her dancing season, spending her last year at the school. And the baron… He had been meant to be a priest. Had Lissa turned his head? Or had his vocation never been more than a bending to expectations? Each answer only brought more questions.