by Carol Berg
As I set Eugenie’s shoes on the lavender-scented shelf, I spied a tangle of ribbons heaped in a basket. I snatched out a silken strip of scarlet. Love knots were tied of red ribbons.
Immediately, I threw it back. If using the signal put lives at risk, I’d best assess the threat first. Eugenie would sleep for two hours, time enough for me to find Simon de Bois’ office in Laurent Square and glean my prospects.
I notified Doorward Viggio to fetch Lady Eleanor if the queen rang for attendance before fifth hour, and stepped into the outer passage.
“Excuse me, please.”
Warmth flooded my skin when I heard the friendly greeting. My steps halted, and I responded with a vigor that must surely explode in his skull. My friend! I’m glad of a distraction. Head bowed, eyes closed, I listened . . . released my barriers a bit . . . but could not detect the familiar presence. Likely I was too agitated. Friend?
“Might I speak to you for a m-moment?” The inquiry came from behind me, not inside.
I spun in my tracks, heart thumping, head noisy with the unleashed voices inside it. “Physician Roussel!”
He loomed large in the shadowed doorway across the passage. His head tilted, concern creasing his square face. “Are you quite well, damoselle?”
“Just startled,” I said, half sick, half pleased, entirely fuddled. “You appear immensely improved, sonjeur.”
Indeed, fresh garments, a well-applied comb, and a more natural ruddy color in his complexion had restored his ever-meticulous appearance. His thick, perfectly trimmed mustache sheltered the beginnings of a smile. “While you look the same as always, d-damoselle, entirely without need for improvement.”
His eyes dropped quickly after this quiet compliment. Eugenie had spoken of him as wretchedly shy. My own cheeks could have heated a snow cave. He had been waiting for me.
“I thought . . . hearing of your new p-post . . .” He glanced to either end of the passage, quiet in this resting hour. “I mustn’t—I’m not allowed to c-come into the queen’s apartments without specific summoning. Her Majesty’s condition concerns me, and I hoped I might prevail upon you to encourage her to attend her health more c-carefully.”
“Lady Antonia encourages the various tonics in Her Majesty’s medicine box. I assumed those originated with you. She’s quite insistent. I doubt I can do more.”
Roussel stepped closer, stooping to whisper. “In truth, I’ve p-prescribed little but the shellblade root tisane. Most of the rest originate with the lady mother. The mage sends things along from time to time.”
The physician might as well have told me arsenic or adder’s venom filled the queen’s vials.
“What would you have me do?”
“Her Majesty eats far too little, and not enough of liver and other b-blood meats that might sustain her. And she should drink more ale, take more exercise, and retire earlier. Such good habits would help her sleep more soundly. She is so restless, p-plagued with nightmares.”
“That, at least, seems improved,” I said. “I understand some kind of a spelled device was found under her bed and removed.”
“If one b-believed in magic . . .” His glance darted up and down the corridor. “Even if such a thing were possible, who would afflict the queen, so gracious to everyone?”
Sensing a fellow skeptic, I felt more freedom to speak. “I’ve thought perhaps the thing harnessed some natural energies—like sounds that set one’s nerves on edge. As to who, there are deadly conspiracies afoot in the household. Your own illness tells you. The couchine . . .”
“Aye. I g-guessed it was intended for you. D-damoselle, you must take care.”
The quarter hour rang from the bell tower. “I’ll do what I can in both matters,” I said. “But you must excuse me now. I’ve an urgent errand in the city.”
“My duties take me to the academie this morning. P-perhaps I could escort you. Assist in whatever way you might need.”
My heart stuttered, then blossomed like a lily at sunrise. Was Roussel Duplais’ trustworthy advisor? An outsider, self-effacing. Duplais himself had recommended him for his post. “An escort would be most—”
Men’s voices blasted from the outer doorway of the queen’s salon, halfway down the passage. Roussel and I hurried to see what transpired.
Mage Dante had his left arm wrapped about Adept Jacard’s neck and was dragging him across the threshold from the courtyard, as if the young man were a sheep being hauled to slaughter. “Out of my way, peacock,” he bellowed at Lord Ilario, who scurried in retreat to cower beside the stalwart Doorward Viggio. Everyone else in the room shrank toward the walls.
Jacard’s feet scrabbled furiously to keep himself from being strangled in Dante’s grasp. “I’ve done nothing!” he croaked. “Madman! Someone, please . . .”
As the ladies of the household gasped and moaned, the few gentlemen shouted at Dante to release the poor fellow. From a sizable distance, to be sure.
“Master, please, if you’ve a grievance, let us speak in private.” Duplais, at his most officious, advanced from his corner.
“Step aside, librarian. I’ll have no schoolboy interpret my saying to the royal. This belch in the world’s hind gut is a sneak and a thief.”
But Dante had slowed, giving Jacard a chance to draw his legs under him. The adept’s head still poked from under the mage’s arm like a market pig’s. “Was only studying,” he croaked. “You ordered me—”
A jerk of the mage’s encircling arm strangled whatever the adept might have said. And a small, purposeful gesture from the black-gloved hand elicited a guttural moan that rose from Jacard’s viscera into a wailing terror that chilled my soul. Spittle poured from his mouth. His hands pawed weakly at the mage’s shirt, as his tongue swelled and blackened and his hair bristled like porcupine quills.
“Master Dante! Stop this!” Duplais’ shouts drowned out even the adept’s mewling. “The queen is not here! Tell him, damoselle!” He waved helplessly at me.
My stomach churned and my skin itched, as if scorpions swarmed me head to feet. Yet I could not fail to recall Dante’s calculating demeanor in the Bastionne, only a few hours since, and his cool responses to my challenge in the queen’s chambers. This brawl could be naught but show.
“Queen Eugenie is engaged with the Duc de Aubine for supper and cards,” I said. The half-truth spilled from my lips easily. But every discipline of mind and body was required to hold my ground when the quivering mage rounded on me.
Unreason blazed in the green eyes. The skin stretched tight over his gaunt cheeks had darkened to an unhealthy flush, and the muscles of his mouth and jaw twisted and twitched. The air thrummed with murder. This was no game.
“My lady will not return until late.” As with a rabid dog, I took care not to show my fear. “Shall I add an appointment to her engagement sheet for tomorrow?”
The world held its breath . . . as did I.
As if a guillotine had severed his fury at its root, Dante shoved Jacard aside. The adept crumpled into a shapeless, choking heap. The mage’s color cooled; his leather-clad hands steadied.
“As you will, damoselle-of-the-mysteries.” None but Duplais and I could have heard Dante’s clipped menace. “But you should beware. Friends are ever faithless.”
The mage’s smoldering gaze affixed to mine. The emerald heat of it pressed on my skull, my bones, my viscera until the room spun. Colored silk, alarmed faces, and sunlight smeared in a blossoming of agony.
But I clenched my will and did not crumble. And before I could blink in relief, the mage grabbed his staff from where it was tucked under his right arm and spun slowly, pointing it at each quailing observer in turn. “Tell the royal lady . . . each of you, so that none might distort my saying: This spying shitheel has violated the privacy of the queen’s First Counselor, attempting to steal the very work the lady’s hired from me. He is banished from this house by tenth hour of this evening’s watch, else I betake myself to fairer climes, leaving her to failed schoolboys and pe
acock soldiers who tremble at their own shadows.”
He poked the quivering Jacard with his stick. “Your womanish tongue may serve you again once you’re quit of these walls. Or it might not. Best behave yourself.”
Dante swept out of the salon.
A whimpering Jacard scuttled on all fours until he collided with a blue couch, then wrapped his arms about his head and vomited up a tenday’s meals. For a long moment, no one in the room twitched an eyebrow. I, too, stood numb.
Two men approached Jacard but, after some awkward shuffling, retreated and summoned cowering servants to clean up the mess. Wine was ordered all around.
“Spirits of Heaven and Earth. My chest is pounding like the Creator’s mighty hammer!” Lord Ilario sagged against the doorframe and slapped his hand to his ruffled chest—the same hand that, moments before, had been resting on the hilt of the sword he forever carried about like a child with a favorite toy. I had no doubt he would sincerely place himself in danger to succor his sister, but I wondered numbly if he had the least idea how to use the thing, especially against a man of Dante’s physical strength and magical prowess.
Duplais was left to offer Jacard a hand up . . . and to fetch a serviette from the sideboard to wipe the foulness from his hand when the adept stumbled out of the salon with no thanks, no glance, no word for anyone. All Jacard’s cocky assurance was left in that mess on the floor. All his eagerness to learn Dante’s magic and his determination to expose Dante’s “false power.” I felt sorry for the adept . . . and afraid for myself and Duplais and anyone else opposed to the mage’s works.
My neck yet tingled. What of this experience had been magic and what sheer lunacy?
“Are you q-quite well, damoselle?” Roussel’s breath riffled my hair. Close enough he could surely sense my trembling. “Such courage to face him down so c-calmly.”
Even had I not known his stammer was a natural affliction, I would not have gleaned anything but calm from him. A physician must see every variety of behavior in the course of his profession.
I turned and choked out a laugh. “In a year or so, I’ll be well,” I said. “Why in the name of Heaven does she keep him on? How can the king allow it?”
“Our lady is strong-willed. You’ve not been p-privy to the master’s daemonish works as yet?”
I shook my head. “Have you?”
“They do not invite me to the d-deadraising. I like to think he fears a man of science might point out the improbabilities in his mirror play. But I am required to attend other p-proceedings, as we are partnered to—” Scarlet bathed his deep-hued cheeks. “I should not speak. I’m sworn.”
The mention of deadraising and “other proceedings” did nothing to quell my shivers. Nor did the shivers dampen my curiosity. “The mage does not harm the queen? It would be wrong to keep confidence if so.”
Roussel’s wide brow knotted. He retreated into the passage, farther from the babbling denizens of the salon. “His mystical nonsense? Likely not. Raising her hopes that she might bear a healthy child? I know too little of noblewomen to say. Do you believe in sorcery, damoselle?”
So solemn was his question that I could not pass it off with nonsense as I ought. “For many years I would have said no. Nowadays, I’m not so certain as I once was.”
“I’d like—if you would grant me the privilege—to speak with you a little more about these matters. But it must not be here.”
“Yes. Certainly.” Even if he was not Duplais’ promised help, he might tell me a great deal. His manner lent me confidence that I could rely on his discretion.
“Stone and steel! What’s happened here?” Lady Antonia’s intonations, so like a clanging fire bell, resounded from the salon. “Where is Anne de Vernase?”
One might think me responsible for the ruined carpet and the frightened, unhappy household.
I had not retreated far enough to escape curious eyes, thus I could not ignore the lady’s queries. “But it seems our talk must be another day. Soon, though.”
LADY ANTONIA REQUIRED A PRIVATE recounting of the dreadful event. Once she had wrung me out, she summoned Duplais and forced him through it all again, as if I must have omitted some detail that would clarify the whole matter.
As we gave our accounts, she paced from one end of the small sitting room to the other, crossways and back again. Her small hands, glittering with rings, knotted and unknotted in front of her. Her stiff curls bobbed with her rapid gait.
His telling complete, Duplais added that he had already sent a report of the incident to Lord Baldwin, Philippe’s First Counselor.
“You what? ” She halted in front of us, her complexion already the hue of fuchsias.
Duplais remained unruffled. “With the incident of the kitchen maid and Physician Roussel so closely following upon Lady Cecile’s untimely death in the prime of healthy womanhood, Lord Baldwin asked to be kept informed of any further unusual incidents in the queen’s household. It is an unfortunate result of the events four years ago.”
“You incompetent, simpering, cowardly ass!” Antonia’s lashing tongue could have drawn blood. “Did you happen to consider how this reflects on your mistress? Does Baldwin insinuate that there is some connection between a ducessa’s weak heart, a disease-riddled imp, and a petty argument between two high-strung courtiers? These matters are the fodder of kitchen gossip, not serious attention. Philippe is just waiting for an excuse to take over this household.”
I had always supposed the genius of revelation must present itself in grandeur—the astronomer with his arms stretched to the heavens, or the alchemist shouting, “Gloriosa!” with colored fire spewing from his steaming potion. But mine came while standing on tired feet, with the stink of vomit exuding from poor Duplais’ hands, and the dowager Queen of Sabria shaking with fury and . . . terror.
The woman was near apoplectic. Not that her mad mage might have killed his assistant in the full light of day, or that her own villainy might be brought to light—I doubted there was any evidence left to convict her of either Cecile’s murder or Naina’s. It was the mention of Lord Baldwin had overturned her, the fear that another scandal might curtail Eugenie’s autonomy, thus her own autonomy.
For six months after her husband died, Antonia had ruled Sabria, only to be set aside in favor of men. And then she had seen her son—her remaining link to power—cut down early. But she still had Eugenie. Now Dante was charged with seeing that Eugenie produced a healthy child. Antonia herself smothered Eugenie, isolated her, lost no opportunity to belittle her husband and all men, encouraged her unhealthy yearnings for her dead children. What Antonia wanted was the sovereign power she had tasted and lost.
And this was the link between the Camarilla war and Antonia de Foucal and Eugenie de Sylvae. Antonia provided the Aspirant and his servants with a nursery for their magics: unlimited funds, access to materials and people of all kinds, a shield behind which they could experiment with illicit practices, spellwork that the tetrarchs of the Temple or others of their own kind would otherwise condemn as unholy. In return, the conspirators were going to provide Antonia a grandson to be King of Sabria . . . her own king to raise and nurture.
“Her Majesty herself insisted Lord Baldwin be notified of such incidents.” I heard myself speaking in the same even temper as Duplais. “Physician Roussel can attest to it.”
“Roussel!” Antonia’s astonishment quickly curled into a sneer. “Roussel is a cobbler’s son. His presence in this household is an offense.”
Of course, her favored mage was likely some coal miner’s son. Dante’s peculiar patois was heard nowhere but the grimy mountain villages of Coverge, Sabria’s poorest demesne major. That a son of illiterate Coverge had come to be a master mage was a mystery in itself.
“Neither of you shall speak more of this to anyone. I’ll present the case to Eugenie myself. She’ll send word of her decision to the mage and the adept, assuming the imbecile’s not crawled into a hole by now. Thieving from a man like Dante . . . Jacard has
n’t the sense of a pigeon.”
It was easy to see how matters would sort out. Poor Jacard would be discharged with no references. Dante’s work would continue without any assistant to threaten exposure.
Antonia dismissed Duplais and dispatched me to make sure Eugenie’s water pitchers were filled afresh. But I backtracked through a gardener’s room and caught up to Duplais just as he opened the door to the doorward’s chamber.
“You hired Physician Roussel, did you not, sonjeur? He came well recommended?”
“Yes. His references were impeccable.”
“So it was someone outside the queen’s household . . . and unattached to the magical community . . . who vouched for him?”
Duplais studied my face carefully. “I requested a reference from the man who sponsored Roussel’s studies at the Collegia Medica—Germond de Vouger, a man of science well-known to His Majesty. To you, too, perhaps? ”
“Impeccable, indeed. Yes. He’s been my fath—our family’s—longtime correspondent.” The most famous thinker in Sabria. It was all I could do to keep from embracing Duplais in relief and satisfaction. “Thank you, sonjeur. I wished only to understand how the good doctor came to the household. He is most concerned about Her Majesty’s health. Divine grace, sonjeur.”
His gaze heated my back as I followed the passage into Eugenie’s rooms.
THE BELLS RANG A QUARTER past fourth hour as I opened a window in the ladies’ retiring room off the queen’s bedchamber. The garden maze was awash in autumn colors, the sunlight golden, the shadows stretched long. No time remained to consult with Simon de Bois about guardianship agreements just yet. Eugenie would be waking soon, preparing to dine with Antonia’s nephew, the corpulent, bird-loving Dumont, Duc de Aubine. And when she returned, she would make her prayers, which Antonia did not wish me to attend.
I’d vow the event was more than praying. Eugenie did not pray with fanfare. She offered devotions at her private altar every time she walked past it, with a touch, a kiss passed from finger to tessila, or just a pause with her eyes closed. Her beloved dead never left her mind.
