Morbid and unedifying, I said to myself sternly. Besides which, the Empyrean isn’t going to fold.
Jean-Soleil had assimilated the disaster and bounced back so quickly that I half guessed he had been expecting it. The open audition, as he said, was good publicity and easy to reshape as the Empyrean looking for fresh blood. “Not that anyone will entirely believe it, but if Edith comes off well—which it will— it will be clear that we are not pining for Madame Dravanya.”
“No,” I said, deliberately audible, and then did a double take, as if I hadn’t meant to say it. I felt the mood lighten, and Jean-Soleil gave me one of his twinkly little grins.
“The question is,” he said, looking around the circle, “what are we to do in the meantime? I’m afraid The Wrong Brother is, er, right out.”
We sat and thought. The six of us, with Bartholmew and Susan gone, were the core of the Empyrean troupe: Drin for the heroes and lovers, Jean-Soleil for kings and cuckolds and enraged fathers, me for heroines, Corinna for confidantes and nurses and mothers. Jabez Meridian, our principal comedian, played fools and clowns, and Levry Tannenhouse, a mild, cherubic little man with the shape and general demeanor of a small tame bear, seconded him when necessary and played servants and messengers when not.
“The Soldier of Ochimar,” Drin suggested.
Jean-Soleil shook his head. “We’re looking to replace the Trevisan, not Berinth the King. Comedy, Drin my boy. Something to make Edith look even more spectacular.”
Drin made a face at him, and we all thought some more.
Then Jabez said, “The Misadventures of Mardette.”
Corinna laughed—and it was the raucous bark from last night. “You must be out of your mind, Jabez. I’m too damn old.”
“No, you ain’t,” Jabez said.
“What are we talking about?” I said.
Jean-Soleil was eyeing Corinna speculatively. “It’s called a trouser-farce, Belle. They’re an old Mélusinien tradition.”
“That didn’t exactly help,” I said.
“Look,” Corinna said, half exasperated, half amused. “You get a young, pretty, abundantly stacked girl, and you get her in trousers, and a shirt she can spend the play half falling out of, and then you put her in the stupidest, silliest plot you can think of, and pretend that nobody can tell she’s a girl.”
“Lots of molly jokes,” Levry said.
“That’s what I started out doing,” Corinna said, “but I’m too old. I’ve hit my fifth septad, Jean-Soleil.”
“Couldn’t I do it?” I said. Not that I was all that much younger than Corinna, but I had not lived as hard as she had, and I could still pass for twenty-five.
They all looked shocked, and there was a confusing babble of negatives.
“It’s not for serious actresses, lovey,” Corinna said over the rest of them.
“No reputable tragedienne would dream of appearing in a trouser-farce,” Jean-Soleil said. “You’ll have to sit this one out, Belle.”
“We’re not going to do it?” Corinna said.
“Of course we are,” Jean-Soleil said. “It just takes you and Jabez and Levry, and it’s not like it needs complicated sets or anything.”
“And it won’t take us more’n a day to get up to speed, even with Levry learning his lines,” Jabez said. “When’s the last time we did Mardette?”
“’Bout a septad,” Corinna said, and as if that harder laugh had brought it, the Mélusinien drawl was back in her voice. “But, yeah, I could still do her in my sleep. All right, damn you. But they’re going to hiss me off the stage.”
“No they won’t,” Jean-Soleil said. “Wait and see.”
Drin had that look in his eye, the one that said he wanted to corner me, although whether it was to make a pass or just to whine I couldn’t tell and didn’t want to know. I went to ground in my dressing room and discovered I had escaped from wolves to be trampled by buffalo: Vulpes was waiting for me. I wished I could have pretended it was a surprise.
“Good afternoon, Cressida,” he said.
“Lieutenant Vulpes,” I said and dropped a curtsy. He was clearly wondering whether it was ironic or not, and that was fine with me.
I told him what I had learned from Peter and Antony. I hated being glad to please him, but there was no denying the rush of gratitude and relief when he nodded and said, “Very interesting. And yet—why is Lord Stephen’s marriage of such concern? He has an heir.” And when I didn’t answer immediately, he frowned at me. “Doesn’t he?”
“I . . . don’t know.”
“It is a simple yes or no question, maselle,” he said crossly, and I thought, If you believe such a thing exists, you don’t know anything about Marathine politics.
I said, “As I understand it, Lord Shannon’s position is ambiguous. ”
I was even more gratified by his obvious bafflement than I’d been by his approval. “He’s not . . . that is, I understood that Lord Gareth had been married twice.”
Prude, flinching from the word bastard. “Lord Shannon is perfectly legitimate,” I said, “but his mother is the only annemer in the history of Mélusine to be burned for treason.”
“Oh,” said Vulpes.
“I don’t understand the legalities of the situation—”
“Find out.”
“Beg pardon?”
“I imagine you heard me perfectly well. And I’m sure you know who to ask. And how.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, and didn’t let my voice twist. “But I thought you were interested in Gideon.”
“You don’t think this is an avenue worth pursuing?”
Insecurity is a terrible trait in a spy. “How should I know?” I said, and I did smirk at his suspicious glance.
“Find out about Shannon Teverius,” he said through his teeth and flung himself out the door.
“Have a pleasant day, lieutenant,” I said under my breath and prepared for my next move.
I was itchily aware that I had not treated Mildmay very well over the past few days. So tonight I really ought to go up to the Mirador and see Mildmay. And it would be easy to ask him about Lord Shannon, especially with the news of Lord Stephen’s plans as an excuse. And I didn’t have to worry that Mildmay might tell someone I’d been asking. He wouldn’t.
I took a hansom to Chevalgate and tipped a page a demigorgon to find out where Mildmay was. It was the better part of an hour before the boy came panting back to report that Lord Felix Harrowgate was in a meeting of the Sponsors’ Board and that the meeting should be done by four o’clock. I had him take me to Felix’s suite to wait. Mildmay would just have to cope if Felix and I got into it.
Gideon was there, an ink-smear across his forehead and his fingers knotted in his hair, wrestling with another of his thorny theoretical problems. Despite the Mirador’s refusal to admit him, he pursued his researches as fast as Felix brought him books from the Mirador’s myriad libraries or the bookshops which lined the side streets off the Road of Horn.
His delight at my arrival was patent; he shoved all his theorems and diagrams out of the way, and unearthed the wax tablet and stylus he used for conversations. What brings you here?
“Boredom,” I said with a vast mock-sigh and entertained him with a scurrilous and vindictive version of Bartholmew and Susan’s decampment, finishing by saying, “So, you see, I have nothing better to do for the next two days than bother my friends and interfere with their work.”
The benefit is all ours, Gideon wrote. Are you waiting for Mildmay?
“Will I annoy you?”
Not if you will talk to me, he said with a wide-eyed ingenue’s look.
“Yes, because obviously you’re dying of boredom.”
He grinned. No, but it does get a little lonely.
“With Felix gone all day, I imagine it must.”
Even when he’s here. He gave me a semidefiant glower.
“Are you fighting again?”
When are we not? He shrugged, although it was an uncomfortabl
e, twisted motion, as if he were trying to get out from under some invisible hand.
“Same old subject?”
It hardly matters. He would far rather fight with me than give me a single scrap of the truth.
“The truth about what?”
I don’t know. He stared at the sentence for a moment, then changed the period into an exclamation mark. Something is eating at him, but he obfuscates it endlessly.
“Maybe he doesn’t know himself?”
No, that’s Mildmay.
He caught me off guard. I should have turned the conversation, but I said, “What do you mean?”
He raised his head and looked at me. The things he claims he doesn’t remember.
“You think he’s lying?”
No. I don’t think it’s that simple. But I think if someone pushed him— But Felix won’t, and I see you won’t either.
I broke eye contact and didn’t answer. After a moment, the stylus started scratching again. Felix thinks he has destroyed Mildmay.
“Felix is prone to melodramatic nonsense,” I said, parrying desperately.
Is that what it is? Think of Mildmay as you first met him. Can you find that man in him now?
“You should have been a dissector for the Medical College in Aigisthos,” I said, still trying to turn the conversation, although it was plainly too late.
Answer my question. It is important.
“Important to whom? I didn’t think you cared.”
His head jerked back a little. I consider him a friend. Don’t you?
I couldn’t find an answer fast enough.
Why are you so surprised? Do you really care so little about him?
“You know that’s not true,” I said, but it was a weak defense. I was trying to find something better when Felix and Mildmay walked in.
Gideon had the presence of mind to close the tablet and drop it back into his pocket. I got my expression clear before I turned, but the way Gideon looked at Felix was like a man staring into some deeply desired hell. Mildmay gave us one swift, unreadable, green glance. Felix said, “Mehitabel! What are you doing here?” with every evidence of surprise and genuine delight. But he was a good actor, and I wouldn’t have liked to bet that he’d missed the signs.
Felix—tall, beautiful Felix, as molly as de Fidelio’s dormouse—wasn’t as difficult to read as Mildmay, but I’d found that his skew eyes made his face unpredictable. I even had a conceit, half fancy, half uneasiness, that his yellow eye and his blue eye governed different expressions.
I gave Felix and Mildmay the same version of events I had given Gideon, and when I had finished, Felix said, “Let me guess: this means you want to borrow Mildmay for the night?” The blue eye was gently teasing; the yellow eye had a spark of malice dancing in it.
“If it won’t inconvenience your lordship too greatly,” I said, giving him an ironic little curtsy—showing offense only made him worse.
“I think I can manage without him for tonight.” Felix was looking at Gideon, but he turned his head to say to Mildmay, “Go on. Have fun.”
Mildmay did that horrible thing he did sometimes to conversational gambits: let it drop to the floor and lie there twitching. After a very long pause, he said, “That an order?”
For a moment, I thought Felix was going to respond in kind, but then he quite visibly deflated and said, “No, only a wish. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you,” I said for both of us, and dragged Mildmay out the door.
Felix
:I am impressed,: Gideon said sardonically. :You passed up an opportunity for a fight. Does this mean you won’t argue with me tonight either?:
:Not if you keep that up,: I said, groping for the person I was supposed to be. :Arguing with Mildmay’s no fun, anyway. No challenge.:
:Am I meant to be flattered?:
:Only if you want to be. Gideon—:
He waited, eyebrows raised.
:There’s something wrong with him, isn’t there?:
:Yes,: Gideon said gently. :But you know that.:
:Yes,: I said, abruptly too weary to deny it. :Malkar.:
Gideon said nothing; I turned away to stare blindly at the bookcases. “Damn him. Even dead . . .”
:It is often said in Kekropia, to comfort the newly bereaved, that the dead person is not truly dead until the last person who remembers them dies.:
“Oh.” I pressed my fingers to my mouth to try to stem a tide of lunatic giggles. “What a . . . what a horrible thought.” It was no use; the laughter would not be stopped, and it was nearly a full minute before I could calm myself again.
When I turned back to face him, Gideon said, at his driest, :It is not a theory I subscribe to,: and that nearly set me off again.
But there was a question I wanted to ask, a serious one. :What do you believe? About the fate of the dead?:
:You want to talk about theology,: he said slowly, clearly wondering if my interest was genuine.
“I want to talk about the dead. And why they . . . haunt us.”
:Literally or figuratively?:
“Sorry?”
:You understood me. Do you want to talk about ghosts or do you want to talk about why Malkar Gennadion continues to plague your brother—and you—nearly two years after his death?:
Gideon’s eyes were too damnably sharp. :I suppose I want to be certain they are not the same question.:
:Do you believe you are being haunted by the ghost of Malkar Gennadion?:
His tone was neutral, but the question still stung. “No, of course not!” I said, pacing across the room to stare into the fire.
Into the silence, Gideon said, :But you are afraid.:
“I’ve been afraid of Malkar half my life. It’s a hard habit to break.”
Gideon crossed the room to stand beside me. :Mildmay is not being haunted by any but the specters in his own mind. I know the signs of haunting.:
:But he doesn’t remember what Malkar did to him. He says so.:
:And how much effort is it costing him to keep Malkar safely forgotten?:
I said nothing.
:Felix—: He touched my arm lightly, as if he was afraid I would only move away from him. :Have you talked to him? About Malkar?:
I didn’t move away. I couldn’t. I couldn’t even raise my head. :I kept expecting him to shake it off. To be himself again. And when I realized that wasn’t going to happen . . . I don’t know what to say! I don’t know how to reach him, or even if it’s possible. Frankly, I don’t know if I have any right to try.:
Because it was my fault. But Gideon didn’t need me to tell him that.
He said, :You are the only one who does.: I started to protest, but he cut me off. :Because you are to blame—and because you are his brother. Because you were . . . what you were to Malkar Gennadion. You’re the only person who can understand.:
:Simon—:
:Mildmay won’t talk to him. Do you think Simon hasn’t tried?:
“I know,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper. “But I’m afraid . . .”
Gideon waited.
“What if he won’t talk to me?”
Gideon started laughing.
I wrenched away from him. He said, :You must be the only person in the Mirador who hasn’t realized Mildmay would walk on knives for you.:
:Yes, but he’d find that much less unpleasant.: I took a deep breath, raked my fingers through my hair. :What do you want, Gideon? Shall I promise to try?:
I could feel his gaze on me, although I refused to look at him. :This is not about what I want, although I realize it would be much easier for you if it were.:
“Stop it,” I said and was horrified to hear my voice shaking. “Just . . . stop.”
He sighed and after a moment moved away from me, back to the table and its piles of books. :What would you prefer to discuss? The weather?:
I struck back viciously. :Why don’t we talk about the Bastion?:
:And her refugees in the Mirador? Yes. Le
t’s.:
:Do you think Gemma Parsifal’s offer of amnesty is sincere? : I asked, before he could say anything about Isaac, and it stopped him.
:No,: he said bleakly. :The Bastion does not—cannot— forgive. It relies too greatly on loyalty.:
:So does the Mirador.: Anything to keep him away from the subject of Isaac Garamond and where I went when I left the suite at night.
:No, not . . . I misspoke. It isn’t loyalty at stake. It’s obedience . And if the disobedient are not punished, then how can the obedience of the rest be commanded?:
I shivered at his tone, dull, flat, as if he was too weary to be horrified at what he knew.
:Once you have run,: he said, grimly pursuing the question, :you cannot be welcomed back. There is no abasement great enough to erase your sin. I don’t know if Gemma knows she’s lying, but she’s lying all the same.:
:Then why make the offer?:
:To get us back,: Gideon said and bared his teeth in something that was not a smile. :And to wring every last scrap of information about the Mirador out of us that they can.:
He cut off my protest before it was even fully formed. :Don’t think anything has changed. Gemma is far more politically astute than old Jules Mercator, but that doesn’t mean that if you scratch her, she’ll bleed a different color.:
:You sound as if you speak from personal knowledge.:
:I do.: He gave me no chance to ask further, but said, :The Bastion wants to see the Cabalines fall. They want the Mirador for themselves. And Lord Stephen having been such a great disappointment to them after the disasters of Jane’s and Gareth’s reigns, they are becoming less and less choosy about the means they employ. I am only afraid that some of the younger wizards may be foolish enough to trust Gemma’s pretty words.:
:You could speak to them.:
:What need? Thaddeus and Eric between them will say all that can be said.:
:I am given to understand that Thaddeus tore up his letter of amnesty on the spot and threatened to feed it to Aias Perrault.:
:That’s Thaddeus,: Gideon agreed. :Subtlety is ever his watchword.:
:He’s probably already urging Stephen to declare war.:
The Mirador Page 9
