by Sean Russell
“As you will see, they are signed Pelier, but there seems to be some doubt as to the veracity of the claim.”
Kent set down his cup and moved closer to look. The first was a typically ambiguous piece: three figures gathered about a marble crypt. If it had meaning, it was impenetrable, as was the case with many of Pelier’s works. They were reinterpreted regularly to fit events. The second was even odder. A man, dressed unconventionally, his back to the viewer, crossed a bridge over a stream, but the bridge changed its form from one end to the other, as though two different designs flowed together in the center. On one bank of the river it was morning, the light pouring down upon the flowering trees of a spring day. The other bank was neither spring nor morning, but depicted a fall afternoon. In the background Kent could see the ruin of an ancient cathedral, and then he realized that there was an old-fashioned carriage drawn up in the shade of the trees. It seemed to be waiting.
“How very odd,” Kent said. “Do you see the way the river flows in two directions? As though the bridge were downstream from either side.” Kent shook his head and smiled: the wonderful ambiguity always made him do both of these things.
“Do you have a lens?” he asked.
The countess rang for a servant who quickly fetched a lens. Kent bent closer to the canvas, examining the signature, the technique, the brush strokes, the palette.
The inscription on the tomb was not in any script that Kent knew, he realized, making it likely a Moravian painting. Pelier had almost unquestionably been a member of this secret society. It might be a message for fellow Moravians. But there was something about this painting. . . .
“I believe, Lady Chilton, that this one, at least, is a very skilled forgery. I am sorry to say it. Was it sold to you as a Pelier?”
“It was a gift, Mr. Kent, and the kind soul who gave it me did not claim with certainty that it was genuine. What is it that makes you so certain that it is not a Pelier?”
Kent gestured with a hand. “Do you see the white in the marble of the tomb, and here in the gentleman’s shirt? It was not made from lead, I’m sure. Pelier used only white made from lead. And the brush strokes, though a very close imitation, are not quite as I would expect. Pelier had a very light touch that is particularly difficult to imitate. The signature is astonishing. I should have believed it to be real if not for these other things.” Finally Kent pointed to the area of sky. “But this is the true error in the painting. I have often thought that Pelier’s handling of cloud and light in the sky was unparalleled. This is only competent. No doubt about it, Lady Chilton. A wonderful forgery, but a forgery all the same.”
The countess shrugged and smiled. “Oh, well, it was a gift given in kindness and that is what matters. It is rather ironic that I have it at all. I pretended to admire these paintings at someone’s home—out of politeness, you see—and the next day they arrived at my door.” She stepped back and looked at the painting. “And they are forgeries, to boot.”
“Oh, no, Lady Chilton. This first is a forgery. But the man crossing the bridge. This is a Pelier. I’m quite sure of it. Look at this tremendous sky! If he had painted nothing but skies, I would have counted him a master all the same. No, this one is quite genuine, and more than that, I have never heard tell of it. It happens, now and then—a real Pelier is found. It will set the art world abuzz—not to mention those who spend their time interpreting and reinterpreting Pelier’s work.”
“How exciting for all concerned,” she said, looking at the painting and wrinkling up her nose.
“The countess is not an admirer, I collect?”
“Oh, I suppose there is nothing wrong with Pelier, but . . .” She made a face. “Do you believe Pelier was a seer, Mr. Kent? Or was it all a terrible ruse?”
Kent considered a moment. Somehow he felt his answer to this question was “the test.” His fate hung on his reply.
“Well, I will say without hesitation that Pelier was no charlatan, which is to say that he believed that his paintings were inspired and prophetic, though he did not claim to know what they meant. Whether he was a seer . . . ? It depends on whose interpretation you read. I think there is little doubt that he predicted the great earthquake of 1378. If you look at the two paintings that deal with this incident—Have you seen them, Lady Chilton?”
She shook her head.
“One shows the ruin of the city of Brasa, so much like the actual ruin after the disaster that it cannot be mistaken. Thirteen doves fly overhead against the perfect clouds and sky. The number 78 can be seen on a fallen house, and there is a cherry tree in blossom, which would make the scene February—exactly when the tragedy occurred. A young girl runs naked down the street, obviously a victim of burns, as so many were. And a team of gray horses still in harness can be seen running wildly across the distant hillside, their carriage lost.” Kent met the countess’ eyes, wondering if she thought him a fool. “I think it is clearly a case of prophesy. I cannot explain it any other way.”
“I see. And did Pelier really paint in a trance with his eyes closed?”
“I very much doubt that his eyes were closed, but he would not allow anyone in the room as he worked, so we will never know. Pelier did say that he did not know what the painting would be when he set brush to canvas and that he was ‘inspired’ as he liked to explain it. He made very few claims for himself, Lady Chilton, it was only those who gathered around him toward the end. They were responsible for his myth—these men and those who came after.”
“It is a fascinating story,” she said looking at the paintings again. “I am a little sorry that only one is genuine,” she said, but Kent was sure she did not mean it. She still stood back unnaturally far, and everything in her manner spoke of great discomfort. These paintings unsettled her in some way.
Kent looked back at the paintings. “But the other could easily be a copy—perhaps even a very faithful one. Many were made, and there is no precise catalogue of Pelier’s works. Once a canvas was complete, he did not much care what happened to it. He was simply driven to make the painting. I tend to agree with those who believe there were some forty paintings that were never recorded. Sold for near to nothing or given away. Lost now these many years. A genuine Pelier, like this, turns up every decade or so, and there are any number that might merely be imitations made for gain, or actual copies done by his various devotees.”
“You do not subscribe to the school that tries to find meaning in every element of his paintings, do you?”
Kent shook his head. “No, I tend to think that is a bit off the mark, nor do I believe that an event must be found for every painting. Some, however, I think were genuine acts of prophesy, and although this runs against my beliefs, I can’t think of any other explanation.” Kent shrugged, a bit embarrassed. He had told the truth when it might have been better to have lied. But it was done now.
“Well, Mr. Kent, I certainly agree that there is more to life than we perceive daily, that is certain. After all, there is still a mage alive in this very land, and one cannot deny all the acts of the mages, augury among them. That a man painted pictures that alluded to events in the future is not impossible, I think.”
“I agree entirely, Lady Chilton,” Kent said, his enthusiasm, and perhaps relief, obvious. “That is what I have long said. . . .”
“Lady Chilton?”
Kent and the countess turned to find a maid standing in the door. “Pardon me, ma’am. There is a letter. . . .”
There was an odd second of hesitation. Kent thought he saw a hint of annoyance flit across the countess’ face, and then her manner changed. “Oh,” she said, then turned to Kent. “Would you excuse me for a moment, Mr. Kent?”
“Certainly.”
The countess swept out, leaving Kent to watch her go, more graceful than a dancer, he thought. He could hear quiet voices outside, for the door had been left slightly ajar. Kent found himself gravitating toward the do
or, straining to hear, not really sure why. Perhaps the countess would say something about him, give him some hint as to how he had been judged.
But the whispering fell silent, making him wonder if he’d been heard. That would finish your chances, Kent thought. Sit down, man! But he stayed where he was, straining to hear.
A rustling of paper. “Castlebough,” the countess said. “Have things ready. I will leave today if it is possible. The morning at the latest.”
Kent stepped away from the door and pretended to examine another painting.
“Not another forgery, I hope,” the countess said, but Kent could see her manner had changed. The letter had erased the discomfort caused by the Peliers, though she did not seem utterly sure and joyful, as though she had heard from a lover. In fact she still seemed rather sad.
“No, not that I can tell,” Kent tried to smile but found the countess’ manner distressed him, as though he could hardly bear to see her unhappy—a complete stranger.
“More tea?” the countess asked, clearly prepared to continue their visit in all politeness.
“I think Lady Chilton has other matters more pressing. Please, don’t let me detain you.”
She stopped, looking at him, her manner very solemn. “You are very kind, Mr. Kent. Yes, I am called away. Perhaps we might try this again? I was so looking forward to getting to know you a little better.”
Kent was touched by the apparent sincerity in her voice. “Nothing would please me more. I will be away from Avonel briefly—a painting expedition—but when I return. . . .”
“Then we shall indeed meet again.” She seemed to have a thought. “Do you do portraits?”
“I’m afraid I don’t, Lady Chilton.”
“Unfortunate. But perhaps I could visit you in your studio? I would very much like to possess an Averil Kent and want to be certain not to get an imitation.”
“It would be an honor, Lady Chilton,” Kent said, bowing his head.
“Hardly,” she said, “but for some strange reason my influence in Avonel society is entirely out of proportion to my actual accomplishments. I might increase the demand for your work, Mr. Kent. Unless you are a man of independent means and disdain the making of money from your art?”
Kent met her eyes briefly, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
“Good. I despise dabblers. Real artists who must make their living by their own hand—these are the men and women who have made Farr art what it is. Not the Lord Dinseys and Sir Gerrard Bainbridges.” She paused and fixed him with a pensive look. “If we are to be friends, Mr. Kent,” she said, her rich voice dropping to a tone so intimate that Kent almost forgot himself. “I must tell you that I cannot bear to be treated like . . . Well, as though I am something other than human. Do you understand?” Her manner was most sincere, her last words almost a plea.
Kent nodded, feeling suddenly a deep sense of loneliness from this, the most desired woman in all of Farrland.
“Until we meet again, Mr. Kent,” she said, offering her hand.
Kent touched his lips to her perfect skin, and found himself out on the street, walking in the wrong direction. The tiny glimpse he had of the woman behind the persona of the Countess of Chilton had left him utterly confused. Was she lonely? Could a woman in her position have a life that was less than perfect? Did she have doubts? Or dream of life being other than it was? What was it that called her away on a moment’s notice?
He stopped on the street, looking around as though lost in a foreign city. After a second—as though recovering from a mental lapse—he realized where he was.
“What are you thinking?” he said quietly. “You would be seen as a fool, certainly.” But he went off down the street wondering how many days it would take to reach Castlebough, and whether they might meet along the way, so that he would not have to wait so long to hear that voice again.
Seven
To call it an uneasy alliance would be something of an understatement, but the compact between Moncrief and Admiral Sir Joseph Brookes had survived a decade and continued to totter along as precariously as could any alliance between two men whose ambitions were not entirely mutually exclusive.
Brookes was the older of the two by some fourteen or fifteen years, placing him in his middle sixties, though he appeared to be much older than that. Not that he was fragile or frail in any way, for he was a vital man, hale and strong yet, but he was gray and wrinkled from his years at sea as were few men who lived even to their eighth decade on the land.
Like most navy men, Brookes was highly conscious of his appearance and groomed and dressed himself with a kind of self-awareness that was usually the prerogative of a dandy—yet he was not in the least vain. It was merely a habit required by the service—a point of pride that had almost nothing to do with narcissism.
Despite its fragility, the alliance was founded on rather solid foundations. Sir Joseph Brookes had become Sea Lord largely, though not exclusively, through the efforts of Moncrief. Not that he lacked qualifications—that was certainly not the case. Brookes was an efficient and even somewhat imaginative leader. But one did not rise in the service of the King without well-placed patrons.
In return for Moncrief’s continuing support, Sir Joseph put at the disposal of the Kings’ Man the intelligence-gathering organ of the Admiralty. Of course the palace had agents of its own, but they were forced to operate under the scrutiny of the government—a situation that Moncrief found . . . inconvenient.
The Admiralty, however, was almost an independent principality—and the Sea Lord was the prince of this not so tiny nation within a nation. One of the reasons Sir Joseph had lasted as long as he had in the position was his political acumen. Like the sovereign of any small nation, he had developed an unparalleled deftness for balancing the needs of his own principality against those of his more powerful neighbor—in this case the King and government of Farrland. He was a master at disguising his own plans as actions for the benefit of Farrland—and sometimes they even were.
“We’ve found the woman,” was the first thing Brookes said as Moncrief entered.
The King’s Man had taken one of the leather chairs in the Sea Lord’s office. He leaned on his cane and stared at Brookes, making his displeasure known, and though he felt some relief at this news, he did not allow it to show. “So we know who it was put her up to this betrayal?”
“The hell of it is, we don’t.” Brookes was not a man to be easily intimidated. When one has faced both battles and storms at sea, even a King’s Man does not look so frightening—but all the same, he did not look comfortable. “She was discovered this morning floating in the harbor—drowned.”
Even Moncrief could not keep his face entirely impassive at the news. “Surely Skye would never have done such a thing,” Moncrief said. “Was she in the employ of the Entonne all along, then? The plans for the cannon are missing, I take it?”
Brookes nodded. “Yes, unfortunately, they are. Whether she was an Entonne agent . . .” He shrugged, maddeningly.
The plans for the cannon were missing! It had to have been the Entonne. Farrelle’s flames! Had he and Brookes given away Farrland’s military advantage in their attempt to bring down Skye? Moncrief felt a little ill, suddenly, and sat back in his chair leaning heavily on one arm.
“I suppose I should hear what happened,” he said at last, his mouth dry.
Brookes took a long breath. “It is a little difficult to be certain. Our people were in place in the house, just as we had arranged. The doorbell rang, and Mary went down to answer it, and that is all the officers can tell. They awoke some six hours later. Both Mary and the plans had disappeared. And that might have been the end of the story if we had not found Mary this morning, as I have said.”
“That is it? That’s all we know?”
Brookes shook his head. “Almost. All we know for certain, at least, but there are a few other sma
ll details. Two of the men present swear they had neither food nor drink while they were in the house, nor for several hours before, yet they all seem to have fallen unconscious at precisely the same time.”
Moncrief snorted. “Well, clearly, they’re lying. I’ll wager they were all drinking and are afraid to say it. Who admits dereliction of duty, after all?”
“So one would assume,” the Sea Lord said, “but I spoke with the men myself, and I tend to believe they were telling the truth—or at least most of it.”
Moncrief was surprised to hear that Brookes would actually speak with men involved in such an action. Best to keep oneself a step removed. That was always Moncrief’s policy.
“But they were obviously drugged. . . .”
“So one would think. But how do we explain the men who took no refreshment?”
“If they are not lying, then they must be mistaken,” Moncrief said. “Liars or fools—take your choice.”
Brookes did not look convinced of this.
“If you will indulge me for a moment, Lord Moncrief, I will bring in two witnesses to an event you might find edifying.”
Moncrief was a little shocked at the suggestion. He did not want to get too closely involved—as Brookes clearly had. “If you think it absolutely necessary,” he said, making sure his reluctance was clear.
Sir Joseph nodded, seemingly unaware or unconcerned. He tugged on a tasseled bellpull, and his secretary’s pockmarked, but rather dignified face appeared in the open door. “Sir?”
“Send them in, will you.”
The secretary made a motion that resembled a bow and disappeared. A moment later the door opened, and two individuals came reluctantly in with heads bowed and taking small, timid steps. One was a seaman, who held his straw hat in hand, and the other was a woman—a harlot, Moncrief was sure.
“This is Abel Ransom, purser on His Majesty’s Ship Prince Kori. And Miss Eliza Blount—seamstress,” Brookes said. “Would you be so kind, Mr. Ransom, as to tell us what you saw last night.”
